The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia: A Black-Hearted Soap Opera. Sarah May

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Oh, right.’

      Daphne handed her coat to Joe and they all watched as he tried to get it onto the hallstand, which was already full.

      As Daphne’s coat fell onto the floor for a third time, Linda said, ‘Upstairs maybe, Joe?’

      ‘Upstairs, where?’

      ‘The bed,’ she said awkwardly.

      ‘Nice coat,’ Joe said as he took Winke’s from him.

      ‘Thank you. Wait a moment, please.’ He pulled a spectacle case out of his coat pocket, waving it briefly in the air. ‘I might need these. My reading glasses.’

      Linda tried not to panic. What had Winke anticipated doing that would require his reading glasses?

      Joe disappeared upstairs with the coats while Linda stood smiling enthusiastically at Daphne and Winke, unable to believe that Littlehaven’s renowned entrepreneur was here in her hallway. She tried not to stare at Daphne’s grey knitted dress, which reached nearly to her ankles and looked like it was made of cashmere. Her jewellery was large, tribal; the sort of jewellery Linda would never have conceived of buying.

      ‘You have a nice hallway,’ Winke said, leaning towards her.

      She was immediately suspicious. Was he laughing at her? ‘Well, I suppose they’re all the same. The hallways. In these houses, I mean.’

      Daphne shook her head. ‘No, actually.’

      ‘So,’ Joe said, coming back downstairs, ‘what can I get you people to drink?’

      ‘I’ll just take a mineral water, please,’ Daphne said.

      ‘Do you have whisky?’ Winke asked.

      Joe nodded.

      ‘Let me help you,’ Daphne said, sliding into the kitchen after him.

      ‘Would you like to come through?’ Linda led Winke into the lounge.

      In spite of viewing No. 8 Pollards Close three times before buying it, it wasn’t until they moved in that Linda realised the lounge wasn’t wide enough to fit two sofas in facing each other, which meant that they had to go side by side, with the armchair near the patio doors. The effect, when both sofas were occupied, wasn’t unlike a row of seating at the theatre. Only there was no stage. Opposite the sofas there was a coffee table with a fish tank on top, and a TV cabinet. Winke and Linda sat on the sofa opposite the fish tank.

      Linda had been preoccupied by thoughts of the Niemans for as long as she could remember. She had watched their comings and goings from behind the lounge blinds for so long, and the virtual Niemans had become so familiar, that it struck her now as odd – how unfamiliar the real ones were. Total strangers, in fact.

      They heard laughter from the kitchen.

      ‘Your fish is dead,’ Winke said.

      Linda sprang up and went over to the tank, peering through Perspex and algae to see if anything was moving in there. She could just make out bubbles coming from the statue of a diver standing over an open treasure chest. Maybe that was the fish. Maybe? What else was it going to be – the diver?

      ‘I think it’s breathing,’ she said, tapping on the side of the tank.

      ‘Fish don’t breathe.’

      ‘Yes, I read that somewhere,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level.

      The reflection of Winke on the side of the tank didn’t look convinced.

      ‘Maybe you should clean the tank.’ He folded his hands on his lap. ‘Or buy a filter.’

      ‘I know, I know,’ Linda said, keeping it light. ‘I’m terrible. Jessica’s always telling me to clean out the tank, but I just get so busy the day runs away with me, then it’s time for that first glass of wine and everything just goes down the chute.’

      Winke didn’t react to this, he just sat there with his hands in his lap.

      Linda was thinking, simultaneously, fuck the fish and thank God for the fish. If it wasn’t for the dead or dying fish they’d both be sat there listening to Daphne and Joe laughing in the kitchen. And how long did it take Joe to ask Daphne if she minded tap water because they didn’t have Perrier, and to pour Winke a whisky? Did he realise that she was alone in here with Winke trying to find some common ground.

      ‘Is the fish your daughter’s?’ he said, after what seemed like ages.

      ‘Sort of.’ She tapped the Perspex again, smiling vaguely. Her tapping produced small shockwaves across the surface of the water; waves that pulled the fish out from behind the diver, on its side. There were clumps of white stuff that looked like cotton wool bulging from its body, and she might have cared more if the creature wasn’t so genderless. She hoped Winke couldn’t see as she started tapping on the other side of the tank, trying to send out waves that would pull the fish back behind the diver. She didn’t have the stamina to face the fish’s death right then, and once Winke knew it was definitely dead he might expect some kind of reaction on her part: like grief or resuscitation or burial even, and she hadn’t prepared gazpacho and salmon with Hollandaise sauce just so that the Niemans and the Saunders (if they ever stopped fucking in order to show up) could stand out in a blizzard and bury a fish.

      The fish had a spasm.

      ‘Do fish dream?’ she asked Winke hopefully.

      Winke didn’t answer. A sudden thought occurred to her – maybe Winke was vegetarian. Did vegetarians eat fish?

      Then, after a while he said, ‘It’s a terrible thing when a child’s pet dies. When anybody’s pet dies, but especially a child’s. They have a connection to animals we just don’t understand, don’t you think?’

      ‘Jessica’s fifteen.’

      ‘I hope, for Jessica’s sake, the fish lives.’

      ‘So do I.’ Linda wondered how much longer she was expected to carry on kneeling in front of the tank waiting for the fish to either live or die.

      ‘What’s its name?’

      That was enough. Linda couldn’t do the fish any longer – she’d done the fish. After dinner they’d either stay in the dining room for coffee or make sure, if they did come in here, that Winke was put on the sofa opposite the TV cabinet.

      ‘Valerie,’ she said off the top of her head, because she’d been thinking how like Mrs Kline Winke was. In fact, they could almost be related. She could see quite clearly, without making her mind stretch at all, Winke dressed as Mrs Kline and Mrs Kline dressed as Winke.

      ‘So,’ Winke said, nodding, ‘the fish is a she.’

      ‘What?’ Linda was by the door, trying to exit so that she could get Winke his whisky. She needed Winke to drink his whisky.

      ‘The fish – Valerie. Valerie’s a she.’

      Linda looked at him closely, suddenly suspicious again. Was he laughing at her?

      ‘Unless СКАЧАТЬ