Private Lives

8



‘Home sweet home,’ called Larry, opening the door of his Cheyne Walk townhouse. He put his bag on the marble floor and breathed in the familiar smell – flowers, polish, coffee. Home. He’d never noticed how particular and comforting his house smelled until he’d spent five days in hospital. Five days? Had it only been five days? It had felt much longer. But then he couldn’t remember a time when he’d actually stopped and thought about things for more than a few minutes. Sometimes, he’d discovered to his surprise, it was good to slow down and smell the roses every now and then.

Loralee bustled in behind him, taking his arm and leading him up the stairs to the master bedroom, handling him as if he was an infirm geriatric.

‘Now you sit there on the bed and I’ll get Irina to cook some lunch,’ she said.

‘Great idea, I couldn’t stand all that tasteless muck in hospital. What about a nice steak?’

Loralee shook her head, her honey-blond hair swaying.

‘No steak. The doctor said you’ve got to cut down on your cholesterol; we’re switching to steamed vegetables and pulses until you’re stronger.’

Larry groaned. ‘How do they expect me to get stronger on that hippy swill? Well, what about a quick stiffener before lunch?’

‘Oh no,’ said Loralee, frowning. ‘There will be no more booze either. One glass of red wine a day, that’s good for the heart apparently. But strictly no spirits.’

‘What is this, the bloody Gulag?’ he spluttered.

She walked over and stroked his hair back.

‘Come on now,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve got to look after you. We came so close to losing you, isn’t it worth making a few little sacrifices?’

Sacrifices, he thought, it’s all right for you to say, you’re not the one making them. But instead he gave her a weak smile.

‘Whatever you say, old girl.’

‘Good.’ She smiled, turning towards the dressing room. ‘I’ve got to get out of these clothes, I smell of hospital.’

The dressing room was an indulgence Loralee had insisted on when she’d moved into the house eighteen months earlier. Larry had spent £100,000 knocking the master bedroom through into the second bedroom on this floor to create a giant climate-controlled space that his new wife soon spent an equivalent amount filling with shoes, dresses and bags.

‘Oh, I forgot to mention,’ she called from inside, ‘Matt rang you this morning. He wanted to pop round once you were home.’

Larry felt a wave of happiness.

‘Oh good,’ he said, trying not to sound too pleased. He was well aware that Loralee wasn’t overly fond of his son. ‘When’s he coming?’

‘Well I told him today probably wasn’t a good day.’

‘Why not?’

‘I said you’d be busy.’

‘Busy?’ he spat. ‘I’ve retired, remember? The day is yawning ahead of me like a bloody unfilled tooth.’

Cheeky cow, he had a good mind to call Matthew up right now. He was sure he could feel his blood pressure rising again.

Okay, breathe, he told himself, massaging his chest as he stared out of the window towards the Thames and the tethered spikes of the Albert Bridge. He’d been bullish about the booze, but the truth was he really didn’t want to go through anything like the last week again. After forty years in the fast lane, he’d managed to convince himself that he was pretty indestructible. Well, you got that wrong, didn’t you, old son? Despite the balminess of the late afternoon he shivered. He knew that after such a close brush with death, people were often reinvigorated and liberated, grateful for a second chance. But instead he just felt hollow and lonely.

Loralee was humming to herself in the next room, just a little girl playing dressing up. Larry was under no illusions about his new wife, but he knew she cared about him. Was that enough to sustain him in his retirement? And the bigger question: what the hell was he going to do now?

The last few months had gone past in a blur of snap decisions: marriage, giving up the firm, reaching out to Matthew. They had all seemed like good ideas at the time, but they had left him with an aching hole to fill. The thought of there being no work to do, no meetings to go to, no phone calls to take, it all made his stomach churn.

What did people do when they were retired? Play golf? You might as well go down to the funeral parlour and pick out a headstone now.

In truth, it had been the death of his first wife Katherine that had made Larry reconsider his position. It had been more of a jolt than he’d liked to admit. In his mind, Katherine was still the young, vivacious girl he’d fallen in love with over forty years before. People as energetic and vital as Katherine Donovan didn’t just keel over, did they? He looked down at the bruise on his arm where the nurses had attached his drip, and had to reflect that perhaps they did.

That was why he had given up work, that was why he had handed the firm over to Matty. He simply wanted to make amends for the way he had treated his first wife and his son. The two things had dovetailed together to make the perfect solution. Well, almost perfect. Loralee had been furious, despite the fact that they had more money than they could spend. But then how much would ever be enough for an ambitious young woman like Loralee? He looked up in surprise as he heard his wife’s voice.

‘This was why I said you’d be busy,’ she purred. She was standing at the entrance to the dressing room, one arm draped on the door frame. She was naked except for stilettos, stockings and suspenders, plus a tiny white apron that skimmed her breasts and thighs and a nurse’s hat perched at a jaunty angle, like a drunken sailor. ‘I thought you might need some TLC.’

She walked slowly, seductively over to the bottom of the bed and crawled up towards him, as lithe as a panther.

‘The consultant said you had to start taking regular exercise,’ she growled, pushing him back on to the pillows and beginning to undo his shirt buttons. ‘I think I’ve got just what the doctor ordered.’

He reached up, feeling the soft, smooth curve of her buttocks.

‘Ooh, Mr Donovan, you mustn’t,’ she giggled.

Larry was grateful to feel his cock stiffen. Not bad for a sixty-five-year-old just out of hospital and on beta blockers, he smiled to himself. And all thoughts of calling his son drifted away.