Deity

and still the cow waited him out, enveloped in her grey shroud of a dressing-gown.

Watson was caught between two stools. Should he wake her up and push her off to bed half-asleep or leave her be, and hope she’d sleep through? Through what? A half-smile of anticipation creased his mouth but died at once, as his wife turned slightly on the cushions. The grubby towelling robe she insisted on wearing of a night threatened to mimic her mouth by falling open at the breast to reveal the flesh that once had enflamed, but now so disgusted him.

James Henry Watson was forty years old and this was his life. He turned away, repulsed. His aging wife had let herself go so completely, so wilfully, that just to look at her sickened him. And yet his disgust at her couldn’t hold a candle to the loathing he inflicted on himself for hitching his life to hers. His harridan of a wife was an old woman at thirty-eight, and to make matters worse, he was still hard and handsome. When he scrubbed up for a night on the town, he could feel female eyes on him, assessing him, suppressing their desire as well as their bewilderment at the shrivelled hag on his arm.

In his building clothes he looked even better. In his check shirt, arse-clenching, slashed-knee jeans and scuffed Timberland boots, slightly weathered like his rugged features, he was a sight for sore housewives. Well toned and tanned from outdoor work with just a slash of grey in his curly blond hair, he was the recipient of open flirting and innuendo over endless cups of tea, while his five-pound-an-hour labourers nodded and winked at him behind the women’s backs.

Bored thirty-somethings with a bit of money were the most persistent. Often they were lonely and frustrated and aware of time slipping through their fingers, their allure dimming with every passing month, and only so much shopping and daytime TV could defray the monotony of their lives.

Many a time, while demonstrating his mastery of the finer points of conservatory bases to their baffled but adoring faces, he could feel their eyes wandering over his hard body, wanting him, daring him to undo his shirt so they could pull their expensively manicured nails across his bare chest.

But did he stoop to such betrayal despite the temptation, despite the many offers, despite the provocations from his acidic wife? Never. Jim Watson swelled with righteous indignation. He had taken an oath before God that he would never stray from the path of unswerving loyalty to his wedding vows. And he never had. But that only made it all the more galling to endure the daily servings of spite and suspicion from his wife’s poisonous lips.

I know what these rich bitches are like, sitting around the house all day, dolling themselves up and looking for a cheap thrill. Think I don’t see the way they look at you. I better not catch you. .

Watson drew in another deep breath. God knew how he suffered. God knew Jim Watson was owed.

Finally he heard the noise he’d been expecting outside the house but, instead of his daughter’s footfall, Watson heard a car glide to a halt. The engine sounded powerful as it idled, as though it were trying not to be noticed. Watson waited, ears pricked. He eased himself from his armchair and tiptoed to the curtain to pull it aside, and caught a raised voice followed by muffled wailing. Then he saw his daughter slam the door of a sleek sports car before turning to run to the house, while the sports car — a Porsche — roared away with a squeal of burning tyres.

Watson crept to the door as quietly as he could manage, all the while eying the snoring harpy on the sofa. He snuck out of the living room and gently pulled the door closed behind him, waiting in the blackness at the foot of the stairs.

A key turned in the latch and Adele stepped through the door and, after closing it, leaned her slim languid body against it as though holding back intruders. She looked to the heavens and released an intense sigh. Watson fancied he saw a tear wiped as he watched from the shadows. Her breathing was harsh and snatched as she fought for control but, after a few moments of puffing and panting, equilibrium returned and finally she was able to pull her frame upright from the door.

Still Watson watched from the gloom of the hall as his daughter ran a hand to her forehead, pushing it through her soft dark hair and down past the perfect curve of her neck. She took a final deep breath and straightened herself as though a decision had been taken, a course of action defined.

‘Goodbye,’ she breathed.

‘Was that him?’ said Watson, emerging from the dark.

Adele Watson started when she heard him and fumbled for a switch. A striplight flickered into life, unforgiving in its illumination.

‘Dad. What are you doing up this late?’ Adele attempted a smile to imply normality, though she couldn’t hold his eyes.

‘I should say the same to you, love.’ Watson stepped into the harsh kitchen glare and closed a second door on his wife. ‘Was that him — your guilty secret?’

‘Guilty? What do you mean?’

‘Well, he’s got a car, hasn’t he? A Porsche, if I’m not mistaken. You didn’t mention that before. He hasn’t driven up to the house either or I’d have known it.’ Adele looked away. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, young lady?’

‘I’m eighteen, Dad. It’s none of your business.’

‘You’re in sixth form, girl — for a while yet. You live in my house and you have no income. That makes it my business.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she retorted, with an attempt at haughtiness.

‘Well, I do think so, and I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me.’

Adele’s expression betrayed the preparation of further defiance but she side-stepped it. ‘This is silly,’ she said and made for the door. Watson moved to block her way.

‘Answer me.’

‘Answer you what?’

‘He’s got an expensive car.’

‘Is that a question?’

Watson sneered at his beautiful daughter. ‘Don’t take that high hand or you’ll know my wrath. Who is he?’

‘He’s a friend,’ she answered coyly, after a few seconds.

‘A friend?’ he snorted back. ‘You have a friend who drives an expensive car and you haven’t mentioned him to us.’

Adele sighed, her eyes searching for a way to the stairs. ‘Dad, I’m tired.’

‘With a car like that, he must be a lot older than you, Ade.’

‘Dad . .’

‘And I know what that means. You think I don’t? Men like him — I know what he wants. I know what he expects . .’ He tailed off, unable to say the words.

‘And what’s that?’ Adele flashed back, her dark eyes now smouldering into his.

Watson flinched as the blackest thoughts in his mind sought the right words. Eventually, sanitised, they emerged. ‘Older men with money want certain things from beautiful girls. Am I right?’

Adele hesitated. She knew the information he was seeking but also knew it was better to withhold it. ‘He’s not that much older,’ she lied. She saw him take a crumb of comfort but was sickened by her own weakness. Tell him you’re in love. Tell him about the sex. Tell him you’re no longer a virgin. She looked hard at her father, almost enjoying his anguish suddenly. ‘Besides, I’m a woman now. I can make my own choices.’

Watson clenched a fist as his face contorted and Adele took a step back. ‘Tell me who he is,’ he seethed, but still with the presence of mind to keep the volume down.

‘No.’ Adele made to move around him but he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

‘Tell me,’ he repeated, this time with a half-turn to the door behind him to ensure continued privacy.

Adele looked angrily at her father. ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Tell me who he is.’

She wriggled from his grasp and backed away but Watson followed her and trapped her against the kitchen sink. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, grabbing her wrists and looking down at her full figure pushing against the fabric of her low-cut T-shirt.

‘Please, Dad.’

Watson moved his body against her and forced her back against the cold steel of the drainer. ‘Then tell me.