Chapter 7:a

In which we momentarily divert to Malcolm

Malcolm is again mildly irritated that the regular pattern of news bulletins is disrupted on Sundays. He resignedly flicks through teletext.

Hardly worth the eye-power. Yawn stuff. Boring politicians still prognosticating: do they really think people are that gullible? Further insistence by industry chiefs that inflated salaries attract men of calibre (they should get out into the offices and do a spot of observation, he growls). The usual foreign problems (can’t tell one from another these days). A prostitute murdered. A lone walker mugged and robbed.

Instantly Malcolm remembers Helen and wonders what she’ll be doing now. Is she safe? Probably so – she never does anything silly like some of these impetuous twenty-somethings he has to deal with. She knows how to look after herself. Never gets unwittingly involved with people – not until this last escapade. What was she thinking of? 

His watch beeps seven. What a waste of his free time. 

There really hadn’t been a need to row about the invitation. He hadn’t even wanted to. But Helen doesn’t understand how busy he is, how impossible it is to get his mind around anything else these days; it’s not that there wasn’t time to go, he just couldn’t clear his head enough to circumvent his initial antipathy. Damned work – it buys your soul, saps your energy, and makes you too weary to think further ahead than the next business meeting.

He picks up an antique 3D sliding puzzle from the shelf and fiddles with its colours. He is unsettled, he knows, by Helen’s departure from her normal behaviour.

At least he knows she’s not wandering around that area alone, so the chances are she won’t be mugged. And the car: that should be some kind of safeguard. Anyway, she’s wearing jeans, not some mini contraption to show off those rather nice legs she’s kept over the years. Yes, it’s not likely anything will happen to her.

The years… That must be the problem. Something’s made her peculiar of late. Change of life, or whatever. Stifled, was it she’d said? Stifled, in this place? She’s gone crackers. Ample room and time to do whatever she likes. Yes, she must be getting to that age.

Malcolm stops, his finger on the blue tile. The menopause… 

As a couple, they never mention anything like that. Nor their health, their age, even their lack of children. What if she’s been wanting to discuss that? Children have never figured in his plans, though if it had happened he’d have managed – or rather, Helen would have. Not a problem for the man, really.

What if the menopause were to change their sex life? Would she go off him, find it awkward? Dry, don’t they say in the ads? … Can’t be that. She never complains. She’d surely say if he was hurting her?

He remembers hurting her the first time. She’d seemed embarrassed at their nakedness, frigid even. Not wanting him to see her body. He smiles at the memory – her body is very attractive, no cause for concern. He’d hated hurting her more than she’d hated undressing. 

Oh yes. He was too gentle in those days, afraid of harming anyone, always ready to put himself aside for others. Luckily, he’d learnt fast how to push himself forward and ignore the later self-rebuke. He’d managed to squash his sense of guilt at becoming pushy; started to quite enjoy it. That way he’d got rises and promotions others only dreamt of. 

Malcolm finishes the puzzle and puts it down with a smile. This latest promotion has removed him from the north at last. Next stop, Surrey.

Only he really must do something about a holiday this year. Their previous holidays have been happy, but it’s two years since they took one. This year they can afford to go anywhere. 

He flicks over to channel 3 and spends a few moments idly reviewing the exotic destinations… Bahamas?… Philippines?… Mongolia?

Then a faint annoyance. If Helen were here now they could be discussing actual plans; this is just a further waste of time. There are reports awaiting his attention in the study. She should be here when he has a minute to spare.

They have drifted apart a little recently. Doing separate things, meeting different people. 

He never could understand her decision to do charity work… Should he have let her continue to work in the library all those years ago? But that’s ridiculous. Why have both of them earning when his salary alone was, and is, enough? Much more streamlined to have different roles in life. And she has always kept their various houses beautifully, just as he likes them. She really has been good for him.

Malcolm gets up from the sofa. The problems are only recent, they won’t last long, especially with the move in a few weeks. By September, they will be together on the next leg of life’s journey. And they always say that like sticks to like in the end, and they’re not the sort of couple to split up. But he should have been less stubborn with Helen. It’s definitely the change of life. She probably can’t help herself. Better bear that in mind from now on.

He goes to the cellar and puts a bottle of wine to chill; then swiftly up to the bedroom where he closes the blinds but leaves the curtains tied back, turning the room into a cavern streaked with rogue light from the slits. He moves both lamp-switches to red setting. There can’t be much to keep her at Carla’s: when she comes in he will make it up to her.

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