Bill waited for Sal to come back. He paced the blue carpet beside the bed – the source of the mushroom smell, he deduced – had a nap to sleep off the whisky he’d had earlier, had a cold shower in the mermaid-themed bathroom down the hall to wash off whatever had rubbed onto him from the sheets (just as well it was a sweltering day, because there was no hot water between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m.), then considered taking another shower to wash off whatever had rubbed onto him from the towel. As time dragged on, and Sal didn’t reappear or Anthony answer his text, he began to concede that he might end up having to spend a night here. He reluctantly unpacked, stacking everything in narrow piles as high as possible beside his bag, in order to have minimum contact with the floor – there was nothing as sophisticated as a chest of drawers to put his belongings into. He was intrigued by what Thandie had chosen to pack. Several of his favourite novels – that was surprisingly thoughtful under the circumstances. A somewhat hairy soap. Some jeans and T-shirts, nondescript. Underwear. This gave him pause. It was of a type that he didn’t wear. Had Thandie bought him new underpants? They certainly didn’t look new. Did these underpants belong to somebody else – and if so, to whom?
Stranger yet were the notebooks at the bottom of the bag. They were definitely in his handwriting but he didn’t recognise the books, nor did he remember having written any of the contents. And he usually made very few corrections as he wrote. These fragments – you couldn’t really call them anything else – were heavily crossed out and revised and scrawled over to the point where you could barely read them. Still, there were some original thoughts in there, thoughts he didn’t think he’d ever had. He supposed he couldn’t remember everything he’d ever thought, what would be the point of having notebooks otherwise? Still, it was uncanny.
Was it possible that he was losing his mind? The memory lapses, that confusion with Sal over when they’d last seen Thandie (perhaps his fault, after all, not hers); these notebooks written, presumably, during manic episodes; the underpants – but no, they definitely weren’t his: he couldn’t imagine being that insane. It wasn’t an entirely unwelcome idea, every writer should experience a bit of madness in his life, and so far it didn’t seem that bad; more Hamlet’s antic disposition than the full King Lear. (A controversial point amongst scholars, Bill’s view being that while Hamlet is certainly faking madness, he begins to lose his grip on the boundary between sanity and insanity, performance and reality. Similar to his own character Herbert, in the play of the same name. King Lear, on the other hand, was plain batshit.)
Still, mad or not, his actions had consequences. Here he was, in a malodorous B&B, contemplating the very real possibility of having to wear another man’s underpants. This had all happened very fast. Although in another way, it had been a long time coming. He’d been attracted to Thandie, at first anyway, and he’d loved her, or he’d convinced himself that he did, but deep down what he’d thought was that being in a stable relationship would help support his writing. And then he’d met Anthony – sweet, devoted Anthony – and discovered what love, that is to say love for another human being, really was. Maybe they could get a place together now? Was that rushing things? In any case, though, he owed it to his wife to resolve matters with her first. There was no point phoning her, not the way she’d reacted when he’d tried that this morning, so he decided to go over in person. Maybe he could take a proper shower while he was at it.
He texted Sal quickly to let her know that he was going home to talk to Thandie, and that he’d shout her an ice cream later on the beach. Then he went downstairs, was sent back upstairs by the landlady because he’d left a window open, went downstairs again, tiptoed past reception and then headed across town to his little stone cottage overlooking the sea.
Thandie didn’t seem to be home when he let himself in. Both the living room and the kitchen were empty, though on the kitchen counter were the leftovers of the roast lunch she’d cooked for them. He noticed, in the sink, two dirty plates, two sets of cutlery, two glasses with red wine dregs in them. Who had Thandie been having lunch with? The half-empty wine bottle was on the windowsill, and he noticed with some irritation that it was one that his father had given him for a special occasion. Thandie had no business opening it without him.
He grabbed a plastic bag from Thandie’s unfathomably huge collection under the kitchen sink and went upstairs with the intention of picking up some of his own blessed underwear. As he approached the bedroom, though, he began to hear the familiar sound of Thandie making love. Or at least, the once-familiar sound. He stopped at the top of the stairs, his mouth dry. He knew that it would be hypocritical of him to be jealous, even though that’s exactly what he was. He knew that the best thing he could possibly do right now would be to turn around and leave. He could decide later whether to pretend that he had no idea about it, or to use it against Thandie if she had the gall to complain to him about Anthony. And yet. His wife was just down the hall, making love to another man. How often did an opportunity like this present itself? Not to join in, though to his surprise the image did briefly and, not unpleasantly, pop into his mind. But to witness it, to truly experience the full horror of it, so that he could write about it later.
He crept over to the bedroom door, which had been left ajar. Keeping his breathing as silent as he could, he leaned against the wall, turned and peered through the crack. His wife was on all fours on the bed, facing away from the door, gasping and moaning with every thrust of the interloper, standing behind her. Bill watched the back and forth motion of the man’s buttocks, his wife’s ecstasy. This is amazing, he thought. So real, so visceral! This is going to make incredible drama! He stood, mesmerised, for what felt like a long time – probably only a few seconds – considered interrupting them, decided against it in case things got violent, then quietly made his way down the corridor again and out of the house, into the sweltering street.
Not knowing what else to do, he headed to the beach. As he walked away from the house, his excitement began to fade, and he became angrier and more self-righteous with every step.
His wife was sleeping with someone else. He’d seen it with his own eyes. Not just sleeping with someone else but very clearly enjoying it. How long had this affair been going on? Was his whole marriage a sham? More of a sham than he thought it was before? Had she even embarked on the affair before he’d started sleeping with Anthony, therefore making the whole thing her fault? Somehow this thought was both appealing and made everything worse.
Reaching the seafront, he pulled off his trainers, let his feet sink into the hot sand, trying to feel something simple and real and good, but it didn’t help, and now the sand would get everywhere, like the indignation he was feeling, which was actually a simile that worked much better the other way around, damn it! He gazed out over the waves, picturing, for a moment, walking out into the sea, just walking and walking until he was completely submerged, letting the water fill his lungs, surrendering – full fathom five thy father lies – but he dismissed this thought as woefully melodramatic and unworthy of him. Instead, he began to conceptualise a play about an adulterous woman, and the husband who murders her. Not something he’d dream of doing in real life, but there was much to be said for working through your feelings in your writing. The wife accuses the man of infidelity when she’s the one at fault? Or maybe it’s more interesting if he only thinks that she’s been unfaithful … He, of course, did not have the luxury of having merely imagined it.
Who was the man who was sleeping with his wife? That’s who he should be fantasising about killing, not Thandie, who, he had to admit, had some grounds for the deception. He wished that he’d had the presence of mind to examine the man’s discarded underpants, see if they matched the underwear in the suitcase Thandie had packed for him.
Underpants. At a time like this, he’s thinking of underpants? What kind of a poet was he?
‘Hey, Bill!’ called a voice.
It was Sal, coming over the beach towards him – she must have got his message. She waved, and he waved back, faking a smile.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ she said, as she reached his side.
‘Not much.’
‘And did you see Thandie?’
Bill was tempted to tell Sal exactly what he’d seen – to enjoy the heat of what would no doubt be her righteous rage on his behalf. At the same time, it would be a humiliating thing to admit. And besides, Sal loved Thandie, and hearing about this would be certain to destroy their relationship. He didn’t want to do that to Sal. If he was truly honest with himself, he didn’t want to do that to Thandie either. So he just said, ‘We didn’t talk.’
‘I got the tickets,’ said Sal.
‘What tickets?’
‘Out of town.’
‘Oh, are you going on a trip?’
‘We both are. Aren’t we?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Sal’s forehead wrinkled as she stared at him, and he could feel his own forehead wrinkling in mirroring confusion.
‘You told me to get them,’ said Sal.
Bill shook his head slowly, wondering if he could still tell a hawk from a handsaw.
‘You did,’ said Sal. ‘You said, because of the other Shakespeare.’
‘What other Shakespeare?’
‘I don’t know. You said, there’s another Shakespeare and we need to leave.’
Try as he might, Bill couldn’t remember this conversation or imagine what on earth he might have meant by this.
‘You’re acting weird again,’ said Sal.
‘No,’ said Bill. The last thing he wanted to do was panic Sal. ‘I’m totally fine. There’s a completely normal explanation for this. Maybe I wanted you to get tickets for a play? Another Shakespeare play?’
‘Oh, yeah, maybe. That would explain why you didn’t want me to say goodbye to anybody first.’ Sal looked relieved. ‘Sorry, I got train tickets. I thought that’s what you wanted.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Bill kept his tone light. For all he knew, maybe he had asked her to get train tickets. Maybe he had suggested that she get them first-class flights to Bermuda. ‘Well, hopefully they’ll take them back. Right, then. Do you want an ice cream?’
‘No thanks, I had one earlier. Remember?’
Bill didn’t remember. Apparently Bill could no longer remember anything. He needed to talk to someone about this. His dad? But the idea of telling his dad everything that had been going on today chilled him. He’d be so understanding about it, which would only make Bill feel worse. He should probably go to a doctor, even though he hated going to the doctor. First, though, he needed to see Anthony. At least there was no barrier now to the two of them being together. That was one positive thing to come from this whole sordid mess.
‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘I have to, um …’ Sal didn’t know about Anthony, and he didn’t want to disappoint her. ‘… go and unpack at the B&B. I’ll see you later, yeah?’
‘Sure,’ said Sal. She was thinking: What B&B?