Chapter 7: Drained

      James came home next day exhausted: some kind of party had developed at Howard’s and he had hardly had a wink’s sleep all night.

      I refrained from comment with some effort (apart from suggesting he go for a shower, since Howard usually lives in some squalid squat fermenting germs), but later I wished I’d let rip when he looked up from the paper and sneered, ‘I see your boyfriend’s band are going on a farewell tour of seven countries – he must be getting a bit old for all that touring!’

      ‘He’s quite a bit younger than you,’ I pointed out. (‘Your boyfriend’ indeed!) ‘And age doesn’t seem to hinder the Rolling Stones much, does it?’

      ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t have your musical interests.’

      He doesn’t have any musical interests, but that doesn’t excuse the cheap gibe.

      ‘Never mind, James,’ I said sweetly, ‘at least being tone-deaf makes you able to appreciate that busty blonde country singer with the nasal whine.’

      He let the subject drop then, but I wish he’d forget it altogether. I’m getting very tired of all these snide little remarks.

      Later I had a sneaky look at the paper, and there was Fergal at an airport, looking jetlagged, unshaven and mildly dangerous. I hope the photographer didn’t get too close.

      I debated whether to cut the article out in case it set James off again, then thought that perhaps a hole where it had been might be even worse, since he’d think I’d cut it out to keep. Besides, why should I pander to his warped imaginings?

      Speaking of warped imaginings, I had a dream last night about Fergal: one of those blush-making ones. I know a wholesome drink of water is what I need, but once you’ve had champagne, part of you still thirsts for it, even if you know it doesn’t agree with you. (And I’m not even getting the water lately!)

      Usually I feel guilty the morning after, but this time I was still miffed with James and decided he didn’t deserve it. I gave him a kiss of the tight-lipped variety and, after he’d gone, retired to the bathroom with the crossword, where, enthroned and mid-clue, I was startled by the sound of men’s voices from the garden right beneath the window.

      Hastily flushing the loo I went out only to discover, to my complete embarrassment, three men in fluorescent orange waistcoats staring down into the swirling sewage trap from which they had just removed the lid.

      I wanted to curl up and die, but they’d seen me, so I brazened it out with a cheery ‘Good morning!’

      You could have roasted chestnuts on my cheeks (all of them).

      The men wore uniformly blank expressions and after an answering chorus of ‘Good morning’ resumed their absorbed study.

      ‘Blockage isn’t here, then?’ said one, after some ten minutes of silent scrutiny.

      ‘No, must be further along,’ said Second Workman.

      ‘Yes. Must be somewhere else,’ said Third Workman.

      ‘Perhaps it’s further along,’ said the first. ‘Funny – I thought it was sure to be this one.’

      ‘Never mind, Dan – it’ll be further along.’

      And so on until, after another ten or fifteen minutes of this tediously Beckett-like dialogue, they dropped the manhole cover and went off into Mrs Peach’s garden to try their luck.

      It took copious amounts of coffee to soothe my shattered nerves, and even then I still wanted to cringe. I kept remembering the workmen’s blank faces as they peered into the manhole.

      Later, the most stupendous thunderstorm broke over the cottage and the Wrath of God in the form of a bolt of lightning flashed down the telephone cable and blasted the answerphone into little melted pieces.

      I don’t know what I did to deserve that.

      Nothing like this ever happened when we lived in the flat.