A Spot Of Bother

9

Jamie dunked his jacket onto the back of the chair, loosened his tie and, because no one was watching, did a little pirouette across the floor of the kitchen, ending up in front of the fridge. “Oh yes.”

He took out a bottle of Corona, closed the fridge, removed the Silk Cut from the drawer under the toaster, went through the French windows, sat on the bench and lit up.

It had been a good day. Contracts exchanged on the Miller house. And the Owens were going to bite. You could see it in their eyes. Well, you could see it in hers. And she quite clearly wore the trousers. Plus, Carl was still off work on account of his broken ankle, so Jamie had been dealing with the Cohens and very publicly not screwing it up. Unlike Carl.

The garden was looking great. No cat shit for starters. Maybe the lion dung pellets were working. It’d rained on the way home so the big pebbles were clean and dark and shiny. The chunky railway sleepers round the raised beds. Forsythia, bay, hosta. God knows why people planted grass. Wasn’t the point of having a garden to sit in it and do nothing?

He could hear the faint strains of reggae from a few gardens away. Loud enough for that lazy summer feeling. Not so loud you wanted them to turn it down.

He took a swig of lager.

A weird orange blister appeared on the gable of the house opposite. It turned slowly into a hot-air balloon and floated westward behind the branches of the cherry. A second balloon appeared, red this time, in the shape of a giant fire extinguisher. One by one the sky filled with balloons.

He blew out a little cloud of cigarette smoke and watched it drift sideways, keeping its shape until it spilled over the top of the barbecue.

Life was pretty much perfect. He had the house. He had the garden. Elderly lady in rude health to the left. Christians to the right (you could say what you liked about Christians, but they didn’t yodel during sex like the Germans who’d lived there before). Gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tony round three nights a week.

He took another drag on the cigarette.

There was birdsong, too, along with the reggae. He’d have recognized the species at ten. He had no idea now. Not that it mattered. It was a good noise. Natural. Soothing.

Tony would be here in half an hour. They’d go down to the Carpenters’ for something to eat. Pick up a DVD from Blockbuster on the way back. If Tony wasn’t too knackered, he might get a shag.

In a nearby garden a child kicked a football against a wall. Doink. Doink. Doink.

Everything seemed suspended in some kind of balance. Obviously someone would come along and fuck it up, because that’s what other people did. But for now…

He felt a little peckish and wondered whether there were any Pringles left. He stood up and went inside.