“Why didn’t you say so?”
She said, “God give me strength.” Then, “Perhaps you should end this call and we could start again?”
“If you like,” Gavin said. “Okay.” His line went dead. She waited. Her phone buzzed. “Gavin? Hello?”
“Colette? It’s me,” he said.
“What a nice surprise.”
“Is it okay to talk to you now?”
“Yes.”
“Were you busy, or something?”
“Let’s just forget you called me before. Let’s just have another go, and I won’t mention where I last saw you.”
“If that’s what you want,” Gavin said airily. His tone showed he thought her capricious in the extreme. “But why couldn’t you talk, was it because
“If you mean Alison, she’s out. She’s gone for a walk.”
Even as Colette said it, it sounded unlikely to her, but that was what Alison had said she was doing.
“So you can talk?”
“Look, Gavin, what do you want?”
“Just checking up on you. Seeing how you’re doing.”
“Fine. I’m fine. And how are you doing?” Really, she thought, I’m losing patience with this.
He said, “I’m seeing somebody. I thought you should know.”
“It’s no concern of mine, Gavin.”
But she thought, how odd of him to get it right for once. I may not need to know, but I want to know, of course I want to know. I want her CV, her salary details, and a recent full-length photograph with her body measurements written on the back, so that I can work out what she’s got that’s so much better than me.
“What’s her name?”
“Zoe.”
“That won’t last. Far too classy for you. Is it serious?” It must be, she thought, or he wouldn’t be telling me. “Where did you meet her? Is she in IT?” She must be, of course. Who else did he meet?
“Actually,” he said, “she’s a model.”
“Really?” Colette’s voice was cold. She almost said, a model what? She stood up. “Look, I can see Alison coming back. I have to go.”
She cut off the call. Alison was lumbering up the hill. Colette stood watching her, the phone still in her hand. Why’s she wearing that big coat? Her temperature control must be shot again. She says it’s spirits but I bet it’s just an early menopause. Look at her! The size of her! Fat Girl!
When Al came in Colette was standing in the hall waiting for her. Her face was savage. “I suppose it’s something, that you’re taking a bit of exercise!”
Alison nodded. She was out of breath.
“You were practically on your knees, by the time you got halfway up the hill—you should have seen yourself! How far have you waddled, about a mile? You’ll have to be sprinting that distance, with weights attached to you, before you see any improvement. Look at you, puffing and sweating!”
Obedient, Al glanced at herself in the hall mirror. There was a flicker of movement; that’s Mart, she thought, scooting out of the side gate.
Alison went into the kitchen and out of the back door. She unbuttoned her coat, and—listening out all the time for Colette—disentangled herself from the two supermarket carrier bags that were swinging like saddlebags at her sides. She placed her surreptitious groceries behind the wheelie bin, came in, and shrugged off the coat.
It’s like being a reverse shoplifter, she thought. You get to the checkout with your cart and you pay for everything; then, when you get outside, you open your coat and start concealing the bags about your person. People stare at you, but you stare back. If they asked you why you were doing it, what would you say? You can’t think of a single good reason, except that you want to do a good action.
It had come to this: either she ate, or Mart did. I’ll have to explain to him, she thought. How Colette checks up on me all the time. How she controls the groceries. How she shouted, the day you came, when she finally stock- taked the fridge and realized two eggs were missing. How she accused me of eating them boiled and made me ashamed, even though I never ate them, you did. How she supervises every minute of my day. How I can’t just go freelance shopping. How, if I took the car, she’d want to know where. And if I drove off by myself, she’d want to know why.
She thought, on Friday at Sainsbury’s they have twenty-four-hour opening. So I could sneak out when she was asleep. Not ordinary asleep, that wouldn’t do. I’d have to get her drunk. She imagined herself wedging a plastic funnel into Colette’s open throat, and pouring chardonnay through it. I could take the car, she thought, if backing it out of the drive wouldn’t wake her. Probably that would only work if I drugged her. Beat her into insensibility. Come here, she thought: would you like a slap with this shovel?
But really, he must be gone by weekend. I’ll tell him. Even if she doesn’t form the ambition to rehone the forks and the hoes, those water-feature people will be around again early next week.
She locked the back door. She crossed the kitchen, stood at the sink and downed a glass of water. All quiet on the shed front; the door was closed, the ground undisturbed. She refilled her glass. Quick, quick, she thought, before she comes in and says tap-water can kill you, quick, before she says drinking too fast is a notorious cause of death in the obese.
