The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia: A Black-Hearted Soap Opera. Sarah May
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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 you mean Valéry, which is a masculine name in both France and Russia.’
What was he doing bringing France and Russia into her lounge?
There was the doorbell.
‘Excuse me.’ She went into the hallway. ‘Joe! Winke needs his whisky. Joe?’
She opened the front door. Mick kissed her first, then Dominique.
‘Where d’you want us?’ Mick asked, tripping up over the step.
The hallway smelt suddenly of alcohol.
‘In there.’ She tried to guide them into the lounge, but Daphne was waving at them from a bar stool in the kitchen, food in her mouth.
Linda moved over to the breakfast bar. What was Daphne eating? How could Daphne be eating when nothing had been served yet?
Joe and Mick nodded at each other.
There were about five canapés left on the serving dish and a pile of pineapple on the paper napkin she’d lined the plate with. She watched Daphne take the fifth remaining canapé, pick the pineapple off and push the cracker into her mouth.
‘So – you found the canapés,’ Linda said.
‘You know Joe,’ Mick said, ‘you’ve got to lock him up.’ He stretched past Daphne and grabbed remaining canapés numbers four and three. There were two left. Linda tried to laugh, but couldn’t.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m allergic to pineapple,’ Daphne said.
‘Maybe somebody wants to offer Dominique a canapé,’ Linda said, looking at Joe. ‘And Winke’s still waiting for his whisky.’
‘Poor Winke,’ Daphne said, smiling and watching Joe pour the whisky.
‘What can I get you two?’ Joe asked the Saunders.
‘No more wine,’ Dominique said.
‘Two glasses of red wine it is then,’ Mick said, pulling the other bar stool up next to Daphne.
‘We’ve been talking about beer,’ Joe told them.
‘Belgian beer,’ Daphne said proudly. ‘I’m going to send Winke home to fetch some Belgian beer.’
‘Please. Don’t. Really. You don’t have to,’ Linda pleaded.
‘Joe must taste some Belgian beer,’ Daphne said, banging her hand down on the breakfast bar with each word.
Linda handed Mick and Dominique their wine then went to take Winke his whisky.
Winke was kneeling in front of the fish tank with his reading glasses on and his face pressed up against the Perspex.
‘Your whisky.’
‘It is very strange, but I smell something like vomit here – and your fish is definitely dead,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Maybe,’ Linda conceded.
‘Maybe? Definitely.’
‘Winke,’ Daphne said from the doorway. ‘Winke, I want you to go home and fetch some Belgian beer.’
Winke got slowly to his feet, his eyes still on the tank.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Linda, ‘we’ll sort this out when I get back.’
Linda, who was still holding his whisky, tried to nod as mournfully as she could, and sighed.