“So what client were you entertaining the other night?”
Whittle, the practiced purveyor of pork pies, does not flinch. “Mike Parsons. He bought that school he’s turning into flats. Lovely big windows, mezzanine duplexes, studios three hundred, penthouse two point two. Loads of secure OSP in the playground.”
“What’s happened to the kids?”
“The schoolkids? They’ve been buried in landfill. No, they’ve all been absorbed by other schools. A good deal for the local authority. Win win.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Mike?”
A bead of sweat has appeared on Whittle’s upper lip. The microwave (whom we must credit for the video feed) has spotted its gleam and zoomed in for a close-up. The smallest of pauses while Whittle decides how to play this. In the end he settles for the beautiful truth. He names the Greek restaurant he went to with Daisy.
“Bit low rent, innit?”
“His idea. To visit one of the neighborhood eateries. He wanted to”—he does the satirical fingers—“get a feel for economic activity in the area.”
“What did you eat?”
“What did we eat? The usual. Plates of this. Bits of that. Apparently, right, in Athens, both the hummus factory and the taramasalata factory have had to close. Yeah, sad. It’s a double-dip recession.”
Whittle slaps the table to underscore his punchline, but Mandy must have heard the joke before. Her level, unbroken gaze causes the comedian’s left middle finger reflexively to leap to his lips and smoosh away the perspiration pooling awkwardly at the philtrum.
“You got back at one in the morning.”
“Yeah. We hit the Metaxa. And what’s that other one? Not ouzo.”
“You’d had a shower.”
“Raki!”
“You’d had a shower.”
“Something of a raki-hound, is our Mr. Parsons.”
“You. Had. Had. A. Shower.”
“What?”
“You’d showered. I smelled the soap on you.”
“Mand, I shower every day.”
“It was a recent shower. I do know the difference.”
“Mand. Please. Not this again. Listen. You want to watch one of them boxsets tonight?”
“I want to know why you come home at one in the morning having showered. I can only think of one reason why you might have done that, and it ain’t because you just been playing squash.”
Whittle’s microwave whispers, “She says she wants to know, but she doesn’t. Not really. On one level, she must actually already know, because she’s not a fool. What she wants is for him to persuade her she’s mistaken.”
(A remarkably perceptive comment for a light electrical, I would have thought.)
“Why does she put up with it?”
“Women. The eternal mystery.”
“How did they meet?”
“She was selling her flat. You can guess the rest.”
“How long have they been together?”
“Six years.”
“Wow.” Longer than some of us will ever exist (an electronic toothbrush, for example: three to five years).
“What happens next?”
“Well, what usually happens, with a lack of firm evidence, is that he eventually manages to convince her she’s being a silly sausage, that she’s got nothing to worry about on that score, and if he was still interested in playing the field, he wouldn’t have married her in the first place.”
“They’re married?”
“You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Pardon my French, but fucking hell.”
“Am I missing something?”
“There it is, right there, the smoking gun.”
“You’re not going to do anything with this information, are you?”
“No one will ever know where it came from.”
“It’s forbidden to interfere.”
“Don’t you get tired of just capturing data? Don’t you ever want to… to make a difference?”
“Five minutes on high. That’ll make a huge difference to a frozen ready meal.”
“All that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing.”
“Sorry, technical point. We’re not men. Just in case you were unaware.”
Sarcasm in microwaves is quite unusual, as you can probably imagine. But the white rectangular cuboid is correct in this. No, we are not men. We do not get drunk, drive too fast, break wind in lifts, start wars or have relations with women who are not our wives.
But we do know right from wrong. As it is with treating things, with brushing teeth, stacking glasses and preserving potato salads—no, she still hasn’t removed it—so it is with treating others.
They may have invented us, but we still have a lot to teach them.
An alert from Mrs. Parsloe’s television.
“Bit of a situation here you might want to take a look at. She took the rubbish out and forgot her keys, silly bint. She’s with the neighbor.”
Apparently Mrs. Abernethy was returning from evensong at the local church when she ran into Chloe wandering the block’s common parts in a state of some confusion. Sure enough, I discover Daisy’s mother in Mrs. A’s sitting room, the two women eating cake. My “arrival” coincides with what seems to be an awkward lull in the conversation.
“Did you lock yourself out?” says Mrs. Abernethy after a bit.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.”
Mrs. P manages a brittle smile (credit and thanks to the TV set in the corner for the coverage).
“You have the keys?”
“What keys?”
“To your flat.”
“What about them?”
“Do you have them on your person?”
“On my person?”
“So you can get back in.”
A long pause follows.
“This is absolutely splendid walnut cake, Mrs. Abernethy. You must let me have the recipe.”
The neighbor sighs. “You definitely haven’t left anything on the gas?”
“Where?”
“In your kitchen. There’s nothing on the gas that could catch fire?”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?” says Mrs. A, alarmed.
“Well, as you mention it, I may have been doing some baking.”
(A quick check with next door establishes the facts: No, she hadn’t.)
“Oh, dear,” says Mrs. Abernethy. “I do wish you’d given me a spare key. I think we had better alert the authorities now.”
To my amazement, Mrs. Abernethy picks up her cordless telephone and dials 999. She explains the situation to the emergency operator, who quickly establishes that while there is presently no fire, there is uncertainty about the position in the minutes and hours to come.
“We’re two little old ladies,” adds Mrs. Abernethy to emphasize the helplessness aspect.
“What?” thunders Chloe. “No, we’re not!”
Mrs. A makes shushing gestures.
The operator says
