THIRTY-THREE
At a different airport, Pamela made her slow way towards Terminal Four. She thought of the three of them. It was too weird to contemplate. But maybe they would not go through with it? Dean would go home, of course. But Peter and Douglas could just as easily cancel the trip and stay in London. She decided that they would go home. At best, if she saw them in her mind’s eye getting on the plane together, she saw them sitting miles apart. What she refused to see was them sitting in a chummy row and discussing her. They would not, of course. Margie – to whom she had finally confided – said, ‘Best test of all. Ask yourself: if the plane blew up, which one would you want to be saved?’
‘Daniel’s father, of course,’ she said. But inside she thought, And Douglas and Dean, for they were all important parts of the jigsaw that was her.
What was an easy choice for her mother at Brighton came at the beginning of her life, and in another part of history. You had to be a particular kind of person, from a particular piece of time, to settle arbitrarily like that. It was probably just as brave to do it her mother’s way as to do what she was doing now: embracing the void. She shivered and hurried towards the desk, anxious to be gone.
*
If it was not enough, the young Irishman with the upgrade was the third member in their row of seats. He gave Peter a broad smile and Peter thought, Just don’t speak to me, don’t. . .
He was still feeling irritated. By Pamela, by his knee, by the niggling thought that he was going to have to talk all the way. He sat down. You could hardly feel alone in this particular situation, he thought, as Douglas shifted a little to acknowledge his arrival.
Douglas gave Dean a tight little smile that was more designed to freeze him out than be friendly. Little fucker, he thought. Pushing his way in like that. An oik. He gave Peter a look that made his view clear.
‘Bloody ridiculous,’ said Douglas.
‘Bloody ridiculous,’ agreed Peter.
Dean said, ‘Bloody ridiculous,’ too, thinking they were talking about the delay.
They eyed him. He smiled back.
For some reason the oik had got the window.
Peter stared ahead.
Douglas stared ahead.
Dean stared ahead, but he was staring ahead smugly. You could get anything if you used your charm.
Once airborne, Douglas immediately ordered a large whisky. Peter followed suit. God knew what it would do to his knee, but it could not be worse after all that stuff with Pamela. Dean joined in, realizing, suddenly, that the drinks were free.
Irish bloody upgrade, thought Douglas, taking the whisky gratefully. And the Irish upgrade smiled. Peter took his and rolled his eyes at the presumption. Then, since it was Christmas, or nearly, and because they were stuck with each other, Peter and Douglas raised their glasses very slightly to indicate bonhomie. Dean did too. The other two continued to look ahead, so Dean said, ‘You should always look in the other person’s eyes when you do that.’
They both turned their heads and looked at him as if he had arrived on the sole of their shoe. He leaned across, chinked both their glasses and said, ‘Cheers.’
They sat there, motionless, both knowing that there was no way out. ‘Cheers,’ they said faintly. And knocked it back.
‘Deirdre told me that,’ said Dean.
Silence.
He peered at them both. They looked totally uptight.
‘You have family in Dublin?’ he said, suddenly, out of nowhere.
Both men said no. And clamped their mouths shut, opening them only to consume their drinks, which were finished very quickly, Dean noted. He signalled the passing stewardess and, with a gesture of flamboyant generosity, ordered three more. ‘Might as well get stinking,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s free.’
‘Thank you,’ said Peter.
‘Yes,’ said Douglas.
The drinks appeared and were taken and were begun.
Peter closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back. He did not want to communicate any more. He just wanted to relax.
Douglas caught Dean’s eye, which was a mistake.
‘Have you been to Ireland before?’ Dean asked.
‘Yes,’ said Douglas shortly. ‘But not for some time.’ He also closed his eyes, but it was too late.
The voice beside him said, ‘I wanted to bring my girlfriend, but she wouldn’t come.’
Peter kept his eyes closed very tightly and muttered, ‘Not another one.’
‘Pardon?’ said Dean, leaning across.
Douglas felt obliged to open his eyes. ‘Ah,’ he said. And then he felt a welling of something – maybe the warmth of the drink on his empty stomach, maybe an innate need to communicate, maybe a slow spreading self-pity – who could say. But he found himself giving a slight chuckle. ‘We’re all in the same boat,’ he said. ‘Or plane.’
‘Oh?’ said Dean.
‘My girlfriend wouldn’t come.’ He jerked a thumb at Peter. ‘And neither would his.’
Peter opened his eyes wearily.
‘What can it be about Dublin?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
Dean looked at him with interest.
There was something about the youngster’s clear expression and unlined brow that offended him. ‘Oh, let’s have another,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.
Douglas said, surprised at how funny he found it, ‘Perhaps it’s the second coming? Any stars out there?’
Dean peered, taking it literally, and Douglas and Peter exchanged amused glances that implied youth was wasted on the young.
‘Don’t know what it is about Dublin,’ said Dean thoughtfully. ‘Hard to say when you live in a place. My girlfriend liked it when she went with her dickhead husband years ago. I thought she’d want to come again. . .’ He took another swig of his drink, feeling a warmth and fondness suffuse him. ‘My girlfriend is a woman,’ said Dean proudly.
Douglas, well into his third glass, snorted. ‘Well, what else would she be? A kangaroo?’ Which he found even more funny than the stars. And surprising, since he had no idea that he had kangaroos on his mind. But Peter snorted, too, so that was all right.
‘I mean,’ said Dean with dignity, ‘an older woman.’ He leaned round to eyeball Peter. ‘Hence the book.’
‘Ah,’ said Peter. ‘I had a very young girlfriend once.’
‘Did you?’ said Dean excitedly, nearly spilling Douglas’ drink as he leaned forward. ‘How was it?’
‘Bloody nightmare,’ said Peter. ‘Bloody nightmare. They’re all a bloody nightmare.’
‘This one was grand.’
‘Till she dumped you.’
‘They’re all grand – until they dump you,’ said Douglas.
‘She was sexy,’ said Dean. ‘I think older women are sexier than young ones.’
Peter said, ‘My ex-wife was an older woman and she wasn’t sexy. Too busy getting herself fulfilled, or whatever it was she called it. Looking after our son and doing her own thing. Talk about having her cake and eating it. If she’d been a bit more of a support to me, we’d have been very comfortable together now. She’s a romantic. There’s no meddling with a romantic.’
‘Mine wasn’t. I organized something very romantic and she just turned her back on it,’ said Douglas glumly.
‘This is slipping down,’ said Peter, looking at his depleted glass in surprise.
‘I’ve gone off intelligent women,’ said Douglas. ‘They’re always trouble. If they’re young, they want to settle down; if they are older, they won’t. And if they are older and they do want to settle down, they get boring. You can’t win.’
‘Say that again,’ said Peter. ‘That’s definite. And goodbye sex life.’
‘I never had that problem,’ said Douglas, giving a little smile as though remembering. ‘We had great sex. All the time. Everywhere. Had her in a field by moonlight last time. . .’
‘Dumped you, though, didn’t she?’ said Peter, quite maliciously.
‘We’ve all been dumped,’ said Douglas, indicating that more drinks were required. ‘All I said was that I wanted her to myself. I’d have thought she’d have been flattered. But no. She said it was selfish. What the hell is love if it’s not selfish? You find someone and you want to possess them. You don’t want to share them, for God’s sake. In that respect it has to be selfish.’
‘I’d have shared. Love is a compromise. She told me that,’ said Dean.
They ignored him.
‘My ex-wife is a terrible woman,’ said Peter. ‘An interior designer of very dubious quality.’ He took the new drink from the anxious-looking stewardess. ‘Whereas I am a designer in the broadest possible sense. I deal with issues.’
‘She dumped me,’ said Dean, ‘because she was afraid of what my friends would say about her age. Being mature.’
‘How old was she?’ asked Douglas.
‘Forty-eight.’
‘Same age as mine.’
‘And mine,’ said Peter calculating. ‘I think.’
‘The trouble with mine was she had an old fart of a husband,’ said Douglas, ‘who let her down badly. Damaged her for life. That’s what my sister said.’ He attempted the word ‘remarkable’, failed and substituted ‘intelligent’: ‘Intelligent woman, my sister. Never catch her with a rug over her eyes.’
Douglas was not quite sure what he meant by this, and neither were the others, but they accepted it.
‘And now she’s at the wrong end of forty. . .’
‘Who, your sister?’ said Peter, a little lost.
‘No,’ said Douglas. ‘Her. Her with the son and no ambition.’
‘They don’t like getting old,’ said Peter. ‘It affects them.’
‘Mine didn’t mind being old,’ said Dean. ‘She quite liked it – so she said anyway. She was great. . .’
They nodded at him impatiently.
Peter said, ‘The trouble with mine was she was jealous of my success. And she never managed to get another man after me. Well, not one that did much for her – if you know what I mean. I think that turned her, really.’
‘They do get neurotic,’ agreed Douglas.
‘She was definitely strange. I took her out to dinner recently and she wore something orange and cried a lot.’
‘Well, you would if you were wearing orange,’ said Douglas.
The two of them laughed.
‘Mine did everything brilliantly,’ said Dean. ‘She was a great cook, great in bed, a good mother, did up people’s houses, knew all about films and things – great. . .’
They looked at him sourly. ‘Those sort of women don’t exist,’ said Douglas. Peter nodded.
‘She did. She said, Somebody has to stay at home and keep the fire stoked, Dean. Her husband could only concentrate on one thing at a time. Great designer, she said, lousy husband.’ He looked at Peter. ‘He was a designer too –’
Peter said, ‘Really?’ politely. Anyone this oik knew could not be in the same league.
‘And she said the one before me was a lot less mature than I was. She said he was jealous of her son. Can you imagine that? I mean –I didn’t like it, but I’d have got on with him if she’d let me. He wanted to send the son to boarding school. Selfish bastard. So she left him.’
Douglas said miserably, ‘She was right. I went to boarding school. Loathed it.’
Dean gave them another sublime smile and said, ‘We are having a good time, aren’t we?’
They said no word.
‘Here’s to Pamela Pryor, then,’ said Dean. ‘Wherever she is.’
If he had expected a response, it was not the colossal response he received. The man in the glasses went rigid in his seat, staring straight ahead. ‘Pamela Pryor?’ he said faintly.
And then his voice went right up high.
‘My wife was called Pamela Pryor.’
‘Really?’ said Dean politely. ‘Helluva coincidence.’
Dickhead, Peter was thinking, dickhead . . .
But it was the other man who let off a real rocket.
‘What name did you say?’ he roared. ‘WHAT NAME?’
And Dean, mellowed by love and not caring a fig for anyone, repeated it.
‘Pamela Pryor,’ he said. ‘My lover. My older woman.’
The roaring man now went a very bright colour. In Dean’s opinion he was over-reacting. They both were. Each of them was staring at him as if he had grown at least two heads. Fuck them, thought Dean cheerfully, he had done nothing wrong.
‘Say it once more,’ said the man with glasses.
‘Pamela Pryor,’ he said very loudly, considering them drunk, unlike himself. ‘PAMELA PRYOR. . .’
They neither of them looked too happy.
A tiny sliver of clarity peeped into Dean’s mind. ‘Why?’ he said cautiously. ‘Do you think you know her?’
The bright-faced man was nodding very slowly.
The other one had gone very pale. He was nodding, too.
‘What,’ they both began, ‘was her son’s name?’
‘Daniel,’ said Dean easily. ‘Danny Pryor. Not much younger than me. He nearly caught us on the job once.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose it was quite funny, really, though I didn’t think it was then. She was great in bed, just great. . .’
‘Christ Almighty,’ said Douglas.
Peter Pryor continued to sit rigid in his seat, staring straight ahead, giving a slight acknowledgement by bending his neck towards Dean. He said faintly, ‘Pam?’
Pinch me, he thought, for I must be dreaming. The whisky, the air pressure – something. And he thought that for a man who only knew the woman in question slightly, and in the matter of sisters and soft furnishings, the other man was reacting very strangely. ‘It’s my ex-wife he’s talking about. Think about that.’
Douglas gave a very defined picture of a man thinking very hard about that.
‘You are Peter?’ said Dean. ‘The dickhead?’
Peter had never considered hitting anyone before, but he came close, he came very close.
The moment was engulfed by a cry of singing disrapture from Douglas.
‘She?’ he said, looking at Dean. ‘And you?’
Dean nodded. ‘Yes, she and me. Why not?’ He bridled a little.
Then Peter also had a sudden and very dreadful prick point of clarity.
He stared at Douglas and he said, hoping not for the expected answer, ‘Can I ask . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Can I ask – what is your name?’
‘Douglas Brown,’ said Douglas quite mechanically. ‘Your ex-wife and I were. . .’
‘I bloody know what you were,’ said Peter.
‘Seat-belts on,’ reminded the stewardess, scooping up their glasses thankfully. They were lost, quite suddenly, in their own private hell of whisky and bad dreams.
‘Excuse me,’ said Dean, trying to point not very successfully, ‘are you telling me that you are her . . .’ He indicated Peter.
‘Old fart?’ he said acidly. ‘Yes, that’s right. . .’
Dean’s finger wobbled slightly. He aimed it at Douglas. ‘And are you saying you are the. . .’
‘Selfish bastard?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Dean with spirit.
‘Good God,’ said Peter, putting his hands over his eyes and rubbing them into a roseate blur. ‘Did she do this?’
‘Fuck knows,’ said Douglas. ‘But I wouldn’t put anything past her.’
‘Fuck,’ said Peter Pryor in wonder. And his knee began to throb like the beating of a drum.
The anxious stewardess returning gave them each a look. Possibly there was going to be trouble. ‘Sssh, gentlemen, language,’ she said, pointing at a Japanese couple across the way.
Peter looked up at them and said, ‘Ying Tong Iddle I Po,’ before smiling graciously at the stewardess.
Douglas, despite himself, laughed.
They both relaxed. What the hell. That’s life. Lucky escape.
Only Dean was left to muse on how Pamela Pryor could have got involved with either of them.
‘Six – eight years?’ said Douglas. ‘And we never met.’
‘Nearly thirty and, no, we didn’t.’
‘Douglas Brown,’ said Peter Pryor. ‘I heard all about you. Mr Super Stud. . .’
‘Is that what she called me?’ Douglas looked down at his hands to conceal his smile.
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘I did.’
Still Douglas smiled.
‘Well, how about Mr Small Dick?’ said Dean aggressively. But neither paid him any attention.
The three of them sat in spectacular silence. The plane seemed to be going around and around.
‘Just like us,’ said Douglas after a while.
Eventually the stewardess fussed up to them and said that the security alert was over. They had clearance to land. ‘No bombs,’ she said brightly, ‘after all.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Peter Pryor.
‘Imagine how she’d miss us if we were blown away,’ said Douglas with a touch of pathos.
Even Dean was bound to admit it was a thought.
Douglas said, ‘Just think, we’re all sitting here and we all knew the same woman.’ He did not sound entirely convinced.
‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘We did.’ He did not sound entirely convinced either.
Dean Close said, with complete conviction, ‘I don’t think either of you knew her at all. . .’
Little upgraded oik, they both thought. What does he know?
The silence sat heavily as they waited to land.
Peter Pryor, in all the waiting, felt a sudden expansion in his heart. After all, they had all been through quite a lot together. Douglas Brown was looking pale now, his jaw set rigid like a cockle-shell. Dean Close was scowling at the view from the window and tearing bits off his sick bag.
Bonhomie among fellow men, thought Peter Pryor, and he leaned back in his seat.
‘Helluva journey coming down,’ he said to Douglas. ‘Bloody M25 as usual. I really think they should do something . . .’
Douglas unbent a little. ‘Damn silly,’ he said. ‘Build a road and then you can’t use it.’
‘Quite,’ said Peter.
Dean went on picking at his bag. They ignored him.
Peter Pryor relaxed more. He was comfortable with this.
‘What do you drive?’ he asked.
‘Saab for out of town and long journeys. Otherwise a TX 70.’
In the seat beside him there was a sudden lurch. Dean Close sat forward excitedly. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Is that the GTI?’
‘No,’ said Douglas. ‘The GTI is only in the LX range. I’ve got the Turbo.’
‘Wow,’ said Dean again.
‘But not the automatic. I like to feel the gears.’
‘I want a car like that,’ said Dean.
‘Well, they keep their value.’
‘I’m just changing to an automatic,’ said Peter Pryor. He did not say his knee made it necessary. ‘Smoother.’
‘Sure,’ said Douglas, taking it very seriously. ‘Horses for courses.’
They each nodded at the wisdom.
‘Pam drove a little Citroën. Not new,’ said Dean.
‘She was a bit odd that way,’ said Douglas.
‘Funny woman,’ agreed Peter. ‘Odd sense of style. Probably why she never made it to the top like me.’
‘Yes,’ said Douglas.
Dean’s thoughts were roaming free. One day he would have a beautiful car. He suddenly had quite a hunger for it. You are the future, she said, and she was wise. He had so much to come. So much pleasure. He suddenly realized that. A great life. And she was right about his mother. She would have been terribly upset if he had brought Pamela home. He said softly, ‘She’s best left to get on with it.’
Which was more or less what the other two were thinking.
‘Great cars,’ said Dean softly. ‘Both of them.’
‘Easy to handle,’ said Peter and Douglas.
The inference being that not everything was.
At the airport they went their separate ways.
‘Merry Christmas,’ they said in turn. Each one thinking that he never wanted to see the other again. ‘And a happy New Year.’
And out they went into the cold, dark night.