The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

17

I never expected to be single at the age of forty-eight. But now that it had happened, and now that it was obvious that Caroline had no intention of coming back to me, I realized that I was faced with a very specific problem. Sooner or later, if I didn’t want to end up a lonely old man, I was going to have to find myself another partner. The trouble was, younger women (such as Poppy) were apparently not going to look at me, and I didn’t find older women attractive.

Perhaps I should define ‘older women’, at this stage. I’ve been thinking about this, and I reckon that an ‘older woman’ is any woman who is older than your mother was when you were a teenager. Say that you start getting really sexually preoccupied – to the point of not being able to think about anything else – at the age of sixteen. (I know it’s younger than that for kids nowadays, by all accounts. The Western world is so sexualized that most boys are probably all at it by the time they’re fourteen or so. And I read in the paper the other day about a woman who was a grandmother at the age of twenty-six. But my generation was different. We were the last of the late developers.) OK then, when I was sixteen, my mother was thirty-seven, and I can tell you now that she appeared ancient. It would never have occurred to me that she might have had a romantic life, or an internal life, let alone a sex life (except with my father: and I wasn’t even sure about that, if Alison’s essay was anything to go by). Sexually and emotionally, she was a non-person, as far as I was concerned. She was there to provide for me, for my physical and emotional needs. I know it sounds shocking, put like that, but teenagers are selfish and self-absorbed, and that was how I saw her. And even now, at the age of forty-eight, I find it hard to come round to the idea that women of my mother’s age – OK then, women of my age, if you want to put it that way – can be regarded as sexual beings. Of course this is illogical. Of course this is wrong. But I can’t help it, and I’m only trying to be honest about it. This, after all, was why I was so mortified on the night of Poppy’s dinner party, when I realized that she had only invited me along to meet her mother.

All of which, I suppose, is by way of explaining my feelings when I pressed the electronic security buzzer at Alison’s house, and she opened the door to me. The last time I had seen her was more than fifteen years ago. The time that was burned most strongly in my memory was almost twenty years before that, when she was seventeen, and my pervy father had taken that photograph of her wearing a tiny orange bikini. And now here she was, standing before me again: as stylish, as confident, as good-looking, as elegant as ever. And fifty years of age. Quite a bit older than my mother had been when I was sixteen and we all went to the Lake District together. Older, for that matter, than my mother had been when she died.

‘Max!’ she said. ‘How gorgeous to see you.’

She offered me her cheek, and I kissed it. The skin was soft and powdery. I breathed in a distinct but not unpleasant scent, somewhere between honey and rosewater.

‘It’s lovely to see you too,’ I said. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’ (Isn’t this what people are supposed to say, whether it’s true or not?)

‘What a bit of luck that you should be passing by. And Mum said you were on your way to Shetland, is that true?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘How thrilling! Well, come on in!’

She led me through the hallway and into what I took to be one of two or three downstairs sitting rooms. Somehow it managed to combine minimalism and opulence at the same time. There were modern paintings on the walls, thick velvet curtains drawn against the unfriendly night, and different areas of the room were subtly illuminated by hidden spotlights. A large L-shaped sofa with deep, comfortable cushions was arranged around a glass coffee table tastefully strewn with books and magazines. In the hearth, a cheerful fire was burning. I assumed it was a real fire, until Alison said, ‘Is it too hot for you? I’ll turn it down if you like.’

‘No, no. It’s perfect. I love a good fire.’

I regretted those words as soon as they came out of my mouth. Did she remember? Did she remember the fiasco of the fire in Coniston? Or was I only even thinking of it because of the essay I’d read two days ago? Impossible to tell. Her expression gave nothing away.

‘Well then, get yourself good and warm. It’s pretty nasty out there, isn’t it? They say it might snow later tonight. Can I get you a drink? I’m going to have a G&T.’

‘Sounds great. Same for me, please,’ I said, forgetting that I was supposed to be driving us both to the restaurant in a minute.

When Alison returned with the drinks, we sat down on different sides of the L-shaped sofa.

‘Nice room,’ I said, stupidly. ‘Nice house, actually.’

‘It is nice,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s far too big. I’ve been rattling around in it by myself all week. It’s ridiculous, really.’

‘Aren’t the boys here?’

‘Both at school. Boarding.’

‘What about Philip?’

‘Away in Malaysia. Possibly back tonight. Possibly not.’ She took a breath. ‘Goodness, Max, you’re looking … What’s the word?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What is the word?’

‘Well … troubled, I suppose. You look a bit troubled.’

‘I’m quite tired,’ I said. ‘I’ve been on the road for three days.’

‘Yes,’ said Alison. ‘Yes, that must be it.’

‘It’s been a funny old year,’ I added. ‘Did your mother tell you that Caroline had left me?’

‘Yes, she did.’ Alison reached out and laid a hand on my knee. ‘Poor Max. You can tell me all about it over dinner.’

While Alison was upstairs making some last-minute adjustments to her appearance, I went outside to get her box full of papers. It was fiercely cold, now, and tiny snowflakes were beginning to spiral ominously in the night air. When I went back into the hallway with the cardboard box she looked at me incredulously.

‘What on earth’s that?’

‘These are yours. Your mum and dad asked me to bring them up.’

‘I don’t want them.’

‘Neither do they.’

‘Well, what are they?’

‘University stuff, I think. Where shall I put the box?’

‘Oh, just leave it there.’ She tutted. ‘They are dreadful. Fancy making you bring it all the way up here.’

She swaddled herself in a fake fur coat and entered a four-digit security code on some gizmo on the wall before stepping outside and closing the door behind us. The ground underfoot was a little slippery already, so she took my arm as we walked to the car. It was nice having her lean against me in this way. The texture of her fur coat was strangely comforting.

‘Ooh, lovely – a Prius,’ she said. ‘Philip and I have been thinking of getting one of these.’

I was about to tell her that it was actually the company’s, but I thought better of it. For some reason I liked the idea of her thinking that I owned it.

The car glided in its usual silent manner through these quiet, dark, secretive streets. The houses seemed massive and imposing, and there were few lights on in any of the windows. We had only been driving for a minute or two and already we had passed two police cars – one of them patrolling the streets slowly, the other parked at a kerbside. I mentioned this to Alison and she explained: ‘There are a lot of concerns about crime round here. You know, this area is full of millionaires – bankers, mostly – and there’s a lot of anger directed at these people at the moment. Just along the road there …’

She began telling me about some multi-millionaire financial wizard who lived in this street and had been brought in to run one of the major banks but had somehow managed to reduce its assets to nothing while simultaneously walking off with a fortune in personal bonuses and pension payments, but I wasn’t listening very carefully. I had already programmed tomorrow’s destination into the SatNav, so Emma now seemed to think that I was already on my way to Aberdeen, and was giving me directions accordingly:

– In two hundred yards, left turn, she said.

‘Hold your horses,’ I told her. ‘That’s where we’re going tomorrow.’

‘Pardon?’ said Alison.

To my embarrassment, I realized that I’d interrupted Alison in mid-flow while she was telling me about this recent financial scandal. In fact for a moment, while Emma was talking to me, I’d almost forgotten that Alison was there.

‘Who were you talking to just then?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It just didn’t sound as though you were talking to me, that’s all.’

‘Of course I was talking to you. Who else would I be talking to?’

‘I don’t know.’ She gave me a slightly worried, suspicious glance. ‘Your SatNav?’

‘My SatNav? Why would I be talking to my SatNav? That would be a crazy thing to do.’

‘Yes, it would.’

We dropped the subject and drove on to the restaurant.

It was a welcoming, intimate sort of place, located not far from the castle. The snow had more or less petered out when we arrived, but we were still glad to hurry out of the cold into that cosy interior, with its vaulted ceilings and bare stone walls. There were lots of little alcoves where pairs of diners could eat and talk to each other in relative privacy, and our table was in one of these. The waiter seemed to know Alison and was notably attentive and courteous while seating us. After scanning the list of intriguing, locally sourced dishes on the menu, Alison chose a goat’s cheese salad, while I went for smoked duck. To accompany these, she ordered a French Chardonnay priced at £42.50. Luckily Alison had already offered to pay for the meal. I knew that I would have been pushing my luck too far if I’d tried to claim it on expenses.

‘So your husband’s in the Far East?’ I prompted, as we sipped the wine, which tasted to me much like the sort you can buy for five pounds at Tesco or Morrisons. ‘What’s he doing out there?’

‘Oh, visiting suppliers, I think,’ said Alison, vaguely. ‘He has to travel more and more these days. Actually he’s on his way back from Australia.’

‘I’ve just got back from Australia.’

‘Really? What were you doing there?’

‘Visiting my father.’

‘Oh, of course. I’d forgotten that was where he ended up. How did you find him?’

‘He’s … fine. In good shape.’

‘No, I mean – how did you get on with him this time? Because my memory is – and my memory may be wrong – that you were never that close to your father.’

I didn’t really want to talk about this, to be honest. What I really wanted to do was to get everything out in the open, and to blurt out something along the lines of how sorry I was that thirty years ago she’d caught my father having a wank over a picture of her that she’d never wanted him to take in the first place. But somehow, it was difficult to find the right words. Perhaps fortuitously, I was rescued at that moment by the ringing of my mobile phone. I looked at the screen and saw that the caller was Lindsay Ashworth.

‘I’d better take this,’ I said.

‘Of course.’

Alison began to pour us both some more wine. I pressed the answer button on my telephone.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Ahoy there!’ said Lindsay – loudly and somewhat unexpectedly. ‘Avast, me hearties! Splice the mainbrace and hoist the topsail! How are you coping with life on the jolly old ocean waves, you salty old seadog, you?’

‘Excuse me?’

There was a pause. ‘Max, is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, what’s it like on the boat, then? What’s your cabin like?’

‘I’m not on the boat. I’m in Edinburgh.’

There was a longer, more shocked silence. Also, a noticeable change in Lindsay’s tone of voice. ‘You’re where?’

‘I’m still in Edinburgh.’

‘What are you doing in Edinburgh?’

‘I’m having dinner with an old friend.’

‘Max,’ said Lindsay – and now I could definitely hear an edge of anger – ‘what are you playing at? You’re supposed to be going to the bloody Shetland Isles!’

‘I know that. I’m going tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? Trevor and David got to their destinations yesterday. Tony went there and came back in one day!’

‘I know that, but you told me there was no hurry.’

‘Not hurrying is one thing, Max. That doesn’t mean you have to treat this journey as an excuse to wander through the country at the firm’s expense visiting everybody you know on Facebook.’

There was something strange going on here. Why was she suddenly giving me such a hard time? Two days ago she had been supportive and affectionate. Had something changed in the meantime?

‘Lindsay, are you OK? Is everything OK? Because I think you’re being a bit … well, I think you’re overreacting a bit.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then she sighed. ‘Everything’s fine, Max. Everything’s fine. Just make sure you get there, and do what you have to do, and then get back. OK? Just get on with it.’

‘Of course. I’ll be on the ferry at five o’clock tomorrow. No question.’

‘Good. That’s what I want to hear.’ She seemed to be on the point of saying goodbye, but asked me one more question: ‘How’s the video diary coming along?’

I hadn’t shot anything, needless to say, apart from that footage of my father’s block of flats in Lichfield, and the service station at Abington.

‘Fantastic. Well, of course, I’ve mainly been saving it for the boat journey, and the islands themselves. But what I’ve got so far is pretty good as well.’

‘Great. I knew I could rely on you, Max.’

‘Where are you?’ I asked. For some reason I had the sense that she wasn’t calling from home.

‘I’m in the office. Just having a bit of a conference with Alan. Yeah, working late. We’ve got a few things to … iron out.’

On that slightly enigmatic note, she hung up. As I put my phone away, I noticed that a little warning sign had come up on the screen to tell me that the battery was almost empty. Better recharge it tonight. Meanwhile, Alison gave me a questioning look as she delicately placed a sliver of beetroot between her teeth.

‘That was Lindsay,’ I explained. ‘From Head Office. Keeping tabs on my progress.’

‘Or lack of it,’ said Alison.

I smiled. ‘Well, there’ve been quite a few delays so far,’ I admitted. ‘Yesterday I saw Caroline again. For the first time since she … walked out.’

‘And how was that?’

For once the right word came easily. ‘Painful.’

For the second time that evening, Alison reached out and touched me, this time laying her hand gently on mine.

‘Poor Max. Shall we talk about it? I mean, talk about why she left. I’d heard a few things, but I don’t know if they’re true.’

‘What have you heard? Who from?’

‘From Chris, mainly. He said that when they went on holiday with you a few years ago, things were … well, a bit tense.’

‘That’s true. It wasn’t a very successful holiday. In fact all sorts of things went wrong. Joe had this nasty accident, and …’

‘I know. Chris told me all about it.’

‘I think he blamed me for it, in a way. At any rate, we haven’t spoken to each other since.’

‘I know. He told me.’ Her voice became lower, more earnest. ‘Look, Max, can’t you and Caroline patch things up? Everyone goes through difficult times.’

‘Do they?’

‘Of course they do. Philip and I are going through one now.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘Oh, he’s always travelling. He barely talks to me when he’s here. Can’t stop thinking about work. But business is everything with him, I knew that when I married him. That was part of the deal, and I suppose that, looking at things from a purely material point of view, I’ve done very nicely out of it. You know, you have to make compromises. You have to … settle for things, sometimes. Everybody does it. Couldn’t you and Caroline see that? I mean – it’s not as if either of you was unfaithful or anything, is it?’

‘No, that’s true. If that’s all it had been about, things would probably have been easier.’

‘So what was it about?’

I took a sip of wine – actually, more of a gulp – while I wondered how to put this.

‘There was one thing she said to me, before she left. She told me that the problem was me. My own attitude, towards myself. She said that I didn’t like myself enough. And that if I didn’t like myself, other people found it difficult to like me as well. She said it created a negative energy.’

Before Alison had a chance to reply, our main courses arrived. Her fillet of John Dory looked pale and delicate next to my slab of blood-red venison. We ordered another bottle of wine.

‘I won’t be able to drive after this,’ I said.

‘Take a taxi,’ said Alison. ‘You could probably do with a break from driving, after the last couple of days.’

‘True.’

‘Why exactly are you driving to Shetland, anyway?’ she asked.

And so I began telling her about Trevor, and Guest Toothbrushes, and Lindsay Ashworth. I told her about Lindsay’s ‘We Reach Furthest’ campaign, about the four salesmen all setting off in different directions for the extreme points of the United Kingdom, and the two prizes we were supposed to be competing for. And then I got sidetracked and told her about my detour to Lichfield to see my father’s flat, how eerie and desolate it had felt; about Miss Erith, and her facinating stories, and her sadness at the passing of the old ways of life; her weird, solemn, almost inexpressible gratitude when I had made her a gift of one of my toothbrushes. I told Alison, too, about the bin liner full of postcards from my father’s mysterious friend Roger, which was now in the boot of my car, and the blue ring binder full of my father’s poems and other bits of writing. Then I told her about driving on from Lichfield and stopping in Kendal to see Lucy and Caroline, and how I’d planned to get the ferry from Aberdeen the next day, but Mr and Mrs Byrne had persuaded me to come to Edinburgh instead.

‘Well, Max,’ she said, holding my gaze for a few moments. ‘I’m glad you came, whatever the reason. It’s been too long since we saw each other – even if it’s only happened because my parents steamrollered us into it.’

I smiled back, uncertain where this was leading. Rather than responding to everything I had just told her about my journey, it felt as though Alison was getting ready to move the conversation into a different gear altogether; but then she seemed to think better of it. She arranged her knife and fork neatly on her plate and said:

‘We’re a strange generation, aren’t we?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that we’ve never really grown up. We’re still tied to our parents in a way that would have seemed inconceivable to people born in the 1930s or 1940s. I’m fifty, now, for God’s sake, and I still feel that I have to ask my mother’s … permission, half the time, just to live my life the way that I want to. Somehow I still haven’t managed to get out from under my parents’ shadow. Do you feel the same?’

I nodded, and Alison went on:

‘Just the other day I was listening to a programme on the radio. It was about the Young British Artists. They’d got three or four of them together and they were all reminiscing about the first shows they’d done together – those first shows at the Saatchi Gallery, back in the late nineties. And not only did none of them have anything interesting to say about their own work, but the main thing they talked about – apart from the fact that they’d all been shagging each other – was how “shocking” it had been, and how worried they were about what their parents were going to say when they saw it. “What did your mum say when she saw that painting?” one of them kept being asked. And I thought, you know, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m sure that when Picasso painted Guernica, with its graphic depictions of the horrors of modern warfare, the main thing going through his mind wasn’t what his mum was going to say when she saw it. I kind of suspect that he’d gone beyond that some time ago.’

‘Yes – I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ I said, eagerly. ‘Take Donald Crowhurst: he already had four kids when he set out to sail around the world, even though he was only thirty-six. You’re right, people were so … so grown-up in those days.’

‘What days?’ Alison asked; and I realized, of course, that she had no idea who Donald Crowhurst was.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to start telling her the story. Or rather, it would have been a good idea to tell her the story of Donald Crowhurst, if I could have stuck to it. But before long, I was no longer telling her about his doomed round-the-world voyage, but explaining all the parallels I had started to see between his situation and mine, and how strongly I was coming to identify with him. And although she didn’t seem to understand more than about half of what I was saying, I did notice that she was starting to look even more worried than before.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘This man Crowhurst,’ said Alison. ‘He set out to sail around the world even though he was totally unequipped for it; he realized he couldn’t manage it so he decided to fake the whole thing; and then he realized he couldn’t go through with that either, so he went mad and committed suicide – is that right?’

‘More or less.’

‘And now you’re starting to identify with this person, are you?’

‘A bit, yes.’ All at once I had the distinct feeling that I was stretched out on a psychiatrist’s couch. ‘Look, I’m not going mad, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that you’re clearly tired, you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ve even started talking to your SatNav and tomorrow you’re heading off to one of the remotest areas in the country. Can you blame me for hearing a few alarm bells?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘It may have been a long time ago, Max, but I did once qualify as a psychotherapist.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware of that.’

‘So I know something about what you’re going through. I know about depression.’

‘Well – thank you for your concern.’

‘Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I don’t know. I was going to find the nearest Travelodge.’

‘No way. Absolutely not. Come back home with me. You can sleep in one of the spare rooms.’

‘So what are you doing, exactly – putting me on suicide watch?’

Alison sighed. ‘I just think you need a good night’s sleep, and a late start in the morning, and maybe a few home comforts along the way.’

I tried vainly to think of objections, but all I could come up with was: ‘My suitcase is in the car.’

‘Fine. We’ll go to the car, get your suitcase, and take a cab back to my place. Nothing could be simpler.’

And put like that, it did sound the most sensible thing to do.

In the cab, an unexpected thing happened. We were sitting side by side in the back, a decent number of inches between us, when Alison edged up closer to me, leaned against me, and rested her head on my shoulder.

‘Hold me, Max,’ she whispered.

I put my arm around her. The cab rattled its way over North Bridge, past the railway station.

‘I can still see what you’re doing here,’ I said.

‘Mmm?’

‘This is some technique you were taught, isn’t it, as part of your training? You’ve wounded my ego, by making me feel as though I need help. Now you’re trying to build it up again, by making me feel strong and protective.’

She looked up at me. Her eyes glinted teasingly in the dark. Her slightly dishevelled auburn hair would have been close enough to stroke, had I wanted to.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’m really pleased to see you, and I don’t see anything wrong with two old friends, who’ve known each other since they were kids, giving each other a friendly hug.’

It felt like more than a friendly hug to me, but I didn’t say so.

‘I wonder if Philip will be back,’ she murmured.

‘Are you expecting him tonight?’

‘If he sticks to his schedule, yes.’

‘Will he mind that I’m here?’

‘No. Why should he?’

‘Do you miss him when he’s away?’

‘I get very lonely. I’m not sure that’s the same as missing him.’

Suddenly, and rather to my own surprise, it occurred to me that it would be nice if Alison’s husband didn’t come home tonight. I held her a little closer than before, and she nestled comfortably against me. I let my lips brush against her hair and breathed in its warm, inviting scent.

Was it actually going to happen, more than thirty years after it should have happened? Was I going to sleep with Alison at last? Was I being offered one, final, redeeming chance? Part of me yearned for this resolution; another part of me started to panic, to look around for excuses. And it wasn’t necessary to look very far.

Of course – Alison was married. Married with children. If I wasn’t careful, I was about to play the most contemptible role of all: the role of homebreaker. For all I knew, this bloke Philip might be the nicest, gentlest, most decent man on earth. Utterly devoted to his wife. He would be crushed, devastated, if anyone were to come between them. So what if he spent too much time at work? That didn’t make him a bad husband, or a bad father. In fact it made him a good husband, and a good father, because his motivation, obviously, was to provide the best possible standard of living for his beloved family, now and in the future. And here I was, planning to turn this paragon of fatherly pride and marital loyalty into a cuckold!

I withdrew my arm from Alison’s shoulder, and sat up straight. She looked across at me curiously, then sat up as well, tidying her hair and re-establishing those decent inches of space between us. We were almost home, in any case.

Once inside, she took off her coat and led me into the kitchen.

‘Do you want a coffee?’ she said. ‘Or something stronger?’ When I hesitated, she informed me: ‘I’m having a Scotch.’

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘I’ll have one too.’

As she fetched the bottle of Laphroaig and poured the golden liquid into two glasses, I kept glancing across at her and noticing that she really was in good shape, for a woman of fifty. She and Caroline made me feel ashamed of myself. When I got home, I would have to start going to the gym. And improving my diet. At the moment I seemed to live off nothing but crisps, biscuits, chocolate and, of course, panini. No wonder I had no muscle tone and a spare tyre. I was a disgrace.

‘Cheers,’ she said, coming towards me with the drinks. We clinked glasses, and drank, and then there was a long moment of expectancy, both of us standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for something to happen. It was my first opportunity to make a decisive move. I missed it.

Sensing this, Alison turned away, with an air of mild disappointment, and noticed that the wall-mounted telephone was blinking at her.

‘One message,’ she said. ‘I wonder if that’s Philip.’

Of course it would be Philip! It would be Philip calling from the airport, to say that his flight had landed fifteen minutes ago, he was just waiting for his luggage to come round on the carousel, and he would be home within the half hour. Phoning to say that he had missed her like crazy and was counting the minutes.

She pressed the button and we both listened to the message.

‘Hello, darling,’ said her husband’s voice. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this, but the chaps in Thailand are playing silly buggers and now I’m going to have to hop across to Bangkok to see them. With any luck I can get a direct flight from there and it should only set me back a couple of days so I should be back with you on Friday. Does that sound OK? Really sorry, sweetheart. I’ll bring you back something nice and try to make it up to you. All right? Take care, darling. See you Friday.’

After that, the message ran on for a few seconds. Philip wasn’t speaking any more, though. In fact, it was hard to know why he hadn’t hung up more promptly, unless he was particularly anxious that there should be no chance of his wife failing to notice the ambient noise of the airport in the background, and the sing-song voice of the announcer over the PA system, saying: ‘Welcome to Singapore. Passengers in transit are respectfully reminded that it is forbidden to smoke anywhere inside the terminal building. We thank you for your cooperation and wish you a pleasant onward journey.’