He’d cheated death. He was ecstatic, bursting with excitement at the thought of seeing Rita, giving her the perfume and explaining everything to her over a decent bottle of wine. He’d bought a good bottle of Chardonnay. Champagne would have been more fitting but that seemed a bit over the top. He wanted her to know how grateful he’d been to her. He had to warn her about that horrible landlord too. She could do much better. He loved Imogen; he would tell Rita that. They were going to try again. Henry had to take his share of the blame, after all. It took two to make or break a marriage. They would try for a baby. Henry only hoped he was up to it. He’d be fifty next birthday. Still, it would make him feel young again. Of course, he’d have to cope with the mess. That would be difficult at first. Imogen had suggested counselling. He’d scoffed at that. Counselling was for weak people. Imogen would stay home, they’d agreed. It would be tiring for her too.
He’d been trying to think of a way to tell Imogen about Rita when he was saved by Cynthia popping round.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he’d said, pulling on his coat. ‘I know how you two love to chat.’
‘Where are you going?’ Imogen had asked, her face anxious.
‘I’m just meeting a mate for a drink,’ he’d said, telling himself it wasn’t far from the truth. Rita was a mate and he was going to her bedsit for a drink. You can’t talk your way out of it that easily, whispered a voice. But Henry felt justified. He’d been betrayed. He needed a friendly face. He needed Rita’s face, just one last time.
He’d sauntered down the road like someone reborn. Life was worth living again. He’d never felt so good. Even his dyspepsia was better. There had been one hairy moment on their return from town when the bus had crawled past the park. Henry had barely been able to look at it from the window. He’d forced himself to read the newspaper he’d bought, his breath held, in case Imogen suggested getting off and walking along the river. Instead, she sat and read her TV magazine, highlighting programmes with a red pen. Then, he’d realised they had passed it. The river and park were behind them and Henry’s racing heart had slowed and by the time they reached Mayberry Terrace his dyspepsia had eased and the sun had come out. The sun shines on the righteous his father would say.
*
They stepped into the hallway. The house was silent. It was Saturday night. Everyone was out.
‘I’ve got a good whisky,’ said Billy, swaying towards the living room. ‘It was a gift from a grateful punter.’
Rita started toward the stairs, her hand already curled around her room key. Her mouth opened to protest when Billy suddenly yanked her by the arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. She’d only made it to the second step.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked harshly. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘I’m a bit tired,’ she said, her heart dancing wildly in her chest. ‘Thanks for a nice evening, Billy.’
‘It’s early,’ he scoffed, and she felt herself being dragged into the living room and pushed onto the couch; the couch with its memories and sordidness. It all seemed so repugnant now. The room stank of stale beer and Rita spotted several empty cans lying on the floor.
‘You’ve got to try this whisky,’ Billy said eagerly, opening a cabinet and crashing glasses. He sloshed the whisky into them and handed her one, before falling onto the couch beside her.
‘Here’s to good times,’ he said, lifting his glass and hitting hers with a clink.
Good times, thought Rita. Were those things that happened on the couch, good times?
His pickled onion breath wafted over and Rita felt afraid. He was sitting too close. She didn’t want to move away in case he got more agitated.
‘We had a bit of bad luck tonight, but we’ll go again next week,’ he said. ‘We must win then. Go on, try your whisky.’
‘I …’
Billy tipped the glass up to her lips and Rita obediently opened her mouth. The whisky burnt her throat and she spluttered.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ he laughed, taking the glass. ‘You need to chill out.’
‘I’m …’
‘Let’s have a bit of kiss, shall we?’
He leaned towards her. Rita pushed her hands against Billy’s chest.
‘Billy, do you mind if we don’t tonight? I’m feeling very tired.’ She said nervously.
He pulled back, his smiling mouth transforming into an ugly sneer.
‘It’s Saturday night, how can you be tired?’
Rita wanted to say that just because it was a Saturday night it didn’t mean people couldn’t get tired.
‘I’ve been at work all day,’ she said, hoping he would understand.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said angrily. ‘I took you out for a good evening, didn’t I? You used to like a cuddle.’
