A Spot Of Bother

143

Jean paused halfway up the stairs and held on to the banisters. She felt woozy, like she did at the top of tall buildings sometimes.

Everything was suddenly very clear.

Her relationship with David was over. When George hit him, it was George she was worried about. That he had gone mad. That he was making a fool of himself in front of everyone they knew.

She didn’t even know if David was still in the house.

If only she’d come to the realization yesterday, or last week, or last month. She could have told David. He wouldn’t have come to the wedding and none of this would have happened.

How long had George known? Was it knowing that made him depressed? That dreadful thing he did to himself in the shower. Was it her fault?

Perhaps her marriage was over, too.

She walked along the landing and knocked on the bedroom door. There was a grunt from the far side.

“George?”

There was another grunt.

She opened the door and stepped into the room. He was lying on the bed, half asleep.

He said, “Oh, it’s you,” and levered himself slowly into a sitting position.

She perched on the armchair. “George, look-”

“I’m sorry,” said George. He was slurring his words slightly. “That was unforgivable. What I did in the marquee. To your…to your friend. To David. I really shouldn’t have done it.”

“No,” said Jean, “I’m the one who…” She was finding it hard to talk.

“I was frightened.” George didn’t seem to be listening. “Frightened of…To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I was frightened of. Getting old. Dying. Dying of cancer. Dying in general. Making the speech. Things became a little hazy. I rather forgot that everyone else was there.”

“How long have you known?” asked Jean.

“About what?”

“About…” She couldn’t say it.

“Oh, I see what you mean,” said George. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“I need to know.”

George thought about this for some time. “The day I was meant to go to Cornwall.” He was swaying a little.

“How?” asked Jean, puzzled.

“I came back here. And saw you. In here. On the bed. Rather burned onto my retina. As they say.”

Jean felt sick.

“I really should have said something at the time. You know, got it off my chest.”

“I’m sorry, George. I’m so sorry.”

He put his hands on his knees to steady himself.

She said, “What’s going to happen now?”

“What do you mean?”

“To us.”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said George. “It’s not a situation I’ve been in very often.”

Jean was not sure whether George meant this to be funny.

They sat silently for a while.

He had seen them naked.

Making love.

Having sex.

It was like a hot coal inside her head, and it burned and scalded and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it because she couldn’t tell anyone. Not Katie. Not Ursula. She was simply going to have to live with it.

Jamie knocked on the door. They had a short conversation with him and he went away again.

She felt bad for not saying thank you. She could see now how good he had been, making that speech. She would have to tell him later.

She looked at George. It was very hard to tell what he was thinking. Or whether he was thinking at all. He was still swaying slightly. He did not seem terribly well.

“Perhaps I should get you a coffee,” said Jean. “Perhaps I should get us both a coffee.”

“Yes, that sounds like a very good idea,” said George.

She went and got two cups of coffee from a mercifully deserted kitchen.

George emptied his cup in one long gulp.

She needed to talk about David. She needed to explain that it was all over. She needed to explain why it had happened. But she was fairly sure that George didn’t want to talk about the subject.

After a few minutes, he said, “The salmon was good, I thought.”

“Yes,” said Jean, though she had trouble remembering what the salmon was like.

“And Katie’s friends seemed like a nice bunch. I suspect I’ve met a few of them before, but I’m not terribly good at faces.”

“They did seem nice,” said Jean.

“Sad to see that young lady in the wheelchair,” said George. “She seemed very pretty. Dreadful shame.”

“Yes,” said Jean.

“Anyway,” said George. He got to his feet.

Jean helped him.

“Better get downstairs,” said George. “Can’t help. Us sitting up here. Probably creating a bit of an atmosphere.”

“OK,” said Jean.

“Thanks for the coffee,” said George. “Feeling a bit steadier now.” He paused at the door. “Why don’t you go down first. I need to visit the little boys’ room.” And he was gone.

So Jean headed downstairs and went out to the marquee and George was right about the atmosphere because everyone seemed to have been waiting for her, which made her feel very uncomfortable. But Ursula came up and hugged her and Douglas and Maureen took her to a table and gave her a second coffee and more wine and a few minutes later George came down and sat at another table and Jean tried to concentrate on what Ursula and Douglas and Maureen were saying but it was quite hard. Because she felt as if she had just walked away from a burning building.

She watched Jamie and Tony and all she could think was how much the world had changed. Her own father had slept with the woman next door for twenty years. Now her son was dancing with another man and she was the one whose life was falling apart.

She felt like the man in that ghost story on the television, the one who didn’t realize he was dead.

She went over and apologized to Katie and Ray. She thanked Jamie for his speech. She apologized to Jacob, who didn’t really understand why she was apologizing. She danced with Douglas. And she managed a quiet talk with Ursula on her own.

The pain subsided as the evening wore on and the alcohol did its work and shortly after midnight, as the guests were thinning out, she realized that George had disappeared. So she said her various good nights and made her way upstairs and found George fast asleep in bed.

She tried to talk to him but he was dead to the world. She wondered whether she was allowed to sleep in the same bed. But there was nowhere else to sleep. So she undressed and put on her nightie and cleaned her teeth and slipped into bed beside him.

She stared at the ceiling and cried a little, quietly so as not to wake George.

She lost track of time. The disco stopped. The voices died away. She heard footsteps coming and going on the stairs. Then silence.

She looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was half past one.

She got up, put on her slippers and dressing gown and went downstairs. The house was empty. It smelled of cigarette smoke and stale wine and beer and cooked fish. She unlocked the kitchen door and walked into the garden, thinking she would stand under the night sky and clear her head a little. But it was colder than she’d expected. It was starting to rain again and there were no stars.

She came back inside, went upstairs and got into bed and lay there until sleep finally found her.