Futh began to say to Angela, ‘This is Kenny,’ but he was interrupted.
‘They’ve already met,’ said Gloria. ‘They met last night.’
Futh said, ‘They met before last night,’ and Angela looked surprised. ‘You met at the university open day,’ he added.
Kenny, forking a piece of black pudding, wiping it in the spreading yolk of his egg, said, ‘Do you remember that, Angela?’
She nodded, but gingerly, as if it hurt.
Futh said to Angela, ‘I’ve known Kenny since infant school.’
‘We were neighbours,’ said Kenny. ‘He pissed himself in my bed.’
Futh broke open his croissant and looked with annoyance at the way it fell apart, at the brittle, greasy flakes covering his fingers and his plate.
Angela seemed dazed. She pushed her black coffee away without drinking it, putting her forehead in the palm of her hand.
Futh looked up and said, ‘You should have come to bed when I did.’
Angela, without taking her head out of her hand, said, ‘Yes.’
When everyone had finished, Kenny took out his cigarettes and offered them around the table. When Angela declined, Futh, thinking that smoking was something she had learnt to do in secret, said, ‘Have one.’ He was more than happy for her to have the occasional cigarette. It would be months before he came to dislike the smell of it on her.
Looking confused, she said, ‘I don’t smoke.’
Kenny lit up and Futh excused himself, wanting to call the taxi company to make sure that the taxi was not going to be late.
When the taxi came, late after all, it was raining again. Futh held his coat over Angela’s head as they hurried from the pub to the waiting taxi. They got in the back and Futh opened his window to smell the rain. After a few minutes of riding along like that, Angela leaned over and closed it and Futh caught a whiff of Kenny’s cigarette smoke on her. He sat there in his damp coat looking out at all the rain and it was, he thought, a bit like the night he and Angela met at the motorway service station.
The honeymoon was dreadful — they had delayed flights and lost luggage, twin beds and upset stomachs, bad weather and arguments about Angela having to do all the driving, and then the hire car broke down.
‘It was bad,’ Angela told people afterwards. ‘I’m not sure you could have a worse holiday.’
With the exception of their honeymoon, for which Futh was responsible, Angela took care of all their holidays. Even at Christmas, it was Angela who arranged for them to visit her mother, her father, his father, and Futh just went with her. Last Christmas, though, for the first time, they made separate arrangements and Futh went alone to his father’s flat, which was really Gloria’s flat, chosen for its proximity to Kenny and his family.
Futh drove over on Christmas morning. He had only been driving for a few months, had only ever driven to and from work, and never in the snow, which had fallen unexpectedly overnight. Angela had been picked up by her brother after breakfast and taken over to her father’s house. Futh, leaving soon afterwards, found that his car refused to start in the cold weather, so he took Angela’s. Searching for a scraper with which to clear the windscreen, looking in the glove compartment, he found a small towel. He took it out and found it all crusted up. He sniffed it and put it back, clearing the windscreen with a credit card.
He could not see how to change the heater settings and a fierce jet of initially ice-cold and then increasingly hot air blew directly onto his toes as he drove up the empty motorway.
Gloria let him in with a smile. ‘Come in out of the cold,’ she said, taking the hat from his head before he was even through the door, slipping his coat off his shoulders, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. When the front door shut behind him, the hallway seemed very narrow; the space in which he stood, between the closed door and Gloria, seemed rather small. He felt naked without his outerwear on.
Gloria turned and led the way upstairs, her scent trailing behind her, and Futh followed.
In the living room, Gloria guided him past the dining table — already set with place mats, cutlery, wine glasses and crackers — to a seat on the sofa beside the roaring log fire. She filled a tumbler from a jug of mulled wine on the coffee table and pressed it into his hand. He took a few medicinal gulps of the piping hot wine and then leaned forward and put the glass down. Gloria topped up her own glass and sat down beside him, slipping off her mules and crossing her legs towards him, poking playfully at his leg with her big toe. He looked down at her bare foot, her hot-pink nail varnish.
‘Your father’s in a bad mood,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Futh. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in the kitchen.’
‘I should go and say hello.’ Futh leaned forward again, preparing to stand.
Gloria, putting her hand, her honeysuckle-pink fingernails, on his thigh, said, ‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Futh, after a pause, during which he picked up his glass again and took another scalding swig, settled back into his seat. Gloria’s fingers plucked at his trouser leg, tugging at a loose thread. ‘You’ve nobody looking after you,’ she said.
Futh glanced at her. Firelight glinted off her oversized earrings. He looked away. Already he was feeling sedated by the mulled wine and the heat, pickled and roasted like his father’s pork hocks. Once more he went to stand up, got to his feet and went to the window.
Outside, everything was buried under inches of snow. Futh leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane and watched a boy building an igloo in a back garden, the boy’s breath visible in the cold air.
‘Come back over here,’ said Gloria. ‘It’s lovely and warm by the fire.’
Futh stayed where he was for a moment, gazing out, as if he had not heard her. Then, lifting his head and turning away from the window, he walked back to the sofa. He sat down where he had been and Gloria returned her painted fingertips to his thigh. She moved her face a fraction closer to his and said, ‘You look so much like your father.’
‘I’m not like him at all,’ said Futh.
‘You’re more like your mother,’ said Gloria.
Futh watched the fire blazing in the hearth.
‘She left very suddenly, didn’t she?’ said Gloria. ‘She just disappeared.’
‘Yes,’ said Futh, ‘she did.’
There was a thud behind them and Futh looked up to see his father standing there with oven gloves on his hands, a roasted chicken on the dining table.
Gloria lifted her hand from Futh’s leg and wrapped it around her glass. Standing, slipping her feet into her mules, she went to stand beside Futh’s father, saying, ‘That looks lovely,’ but he was already walking away again.
He returned with a dish of vegetables and two bottles of wine. One bottle was almost empty and he poured the last inch into his glass, drinking half of it before raising the dregs to nobody in particular. ‘To family,’ he said.
Gloria sat herself down, straightening her cutlery and laying her napkin over her lap. Futh came over from the fire and took his place at the table. His father uncorked the other bottle of wine and emptied it into the three large glasses. He carved the chicken while Gloria dished out vegetables.
Futh took his plate and his father said, ‘So Angela’s leaving you.’
‘We’re separating,’ said Futh, lifting his cutlery, ‘yes.’
‘What did you do?’ asked his father.
‘What?’
‘Why’s she leaving you?’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Futh.
‘She got bored,’ said his father.
Gloria reached over and gave Futh’s leg a consolatory pat and a squeeze.
Futh put down his cutlery and stood up. He was closer to the window but went to the fire, crouching down in front of it and picking up the poker.