‘Maurice, I just cannot believe it. They’re behaving like animals.’
Her husband was beaming. ‘Just like you and I used to.’
‘Hmmph.’
He looked at her with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Why don’t we – you know – pop upstairs?’
‘What? It’s only six o’clock in the evening.’
‘So, my love? The time of day never bothered you, once.’ He put his arms, clumsily, around her and tried to nuzzle her ear, but all he got was a faceful of stiff, lacquered hair, before she shoved him away.
‘Stop it! I have to watch Strictly Come Dancing on catch-up. What’s got into you?’
‘You can watch it later, or another time.’
‘Why would I want to do that? Just so you can have your wicked way?’
‘I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought it might be nice,’ he said, meekly.
‘Did you? Well, I think Strictly would be a lot nicer.’ She waddled into the kitchen in her pink pom-pom slippers, opened a cupboard and removed an extra-large Christmas-special tub of Quality Street chocolates. She carried it into the lounge, settled into the massive sofa, put her feet up on a pouffe, and called out, ‘Television, BBC iPlayer!’ then she added, ‘Please.’
Even after weeks of living here, she hadn’t fully got her head around giving voice commands to operate just about everything in the house, from the bedroom curtains to all the kitchen appliances.
The wall-mounted television was disguised as a mirror in a gilded frame, either side of which were two marble columns topped with busts of gold angels. She repeated the instruction, starting with the word ‘command’. As the show appeared, she popped off the lid of the tub and rustled through the contents until, with a happy smile, she found a red and black Strawberry Delight. Her favourite! She unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth and chewed happily as the show started. So happily, that a minute later she was foraging for another. A shadow passed the door to the hall.
‘Maurice!’ she called out, sharply.
‘Yes, dear?’ he peered in, dressed in an overcoat and woolly hat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just popping out for my constitutional.’
‘I hope you’re not going to have a sneaky cigarette?’
‘Of course not. Just some fresh air.’ His voice rose a few octaves and he avoided eye contact. She had learned many years ago these were both signs that he was fibbing.
‘I won’t kiss you if you’ve got smoky breath,’ she said sternly, through a chocolatey mouthful.
‘I’ll be back in a while.’
‘That’s what Scott said.’
‘Scott?’
‘Scott of the Antarctic, who do you think I meant?’
There was a burst of applause and music from the television as a couple in tight sequined clothes pirouetted across the dance floor. The dark background was dazzlingly illuminated by darting blue laser searchlights.
‘My dear, that wasn’t Scott – it was one of his team, Oates, and I think what he actually said was, “I am just going outside and may be some time.”’
‘Yes, well, don’t be as long as him.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Have you wrapped up warm enough?’
‘It’s not that cold.’
‘Have you got your gloves?’
‘In my pocket.’
‘Make sure Elizabeth doesn’t follow you out.’
Checking the cat wasn’t behind him, Maurice let himself out of the front door, closing it with a sense of relief that he had a few minutes of escape and freedom. He walked a short distance in the dry, early evening air, careful to keep well out of sight of the lounge window, and lurked in the shadows of Santa’s grotto as he pulled out his cigarettes. Then he lit one, inhaling deeply and gratefully. One of his few little pleasures these days, he rued.
As he smoked, he stared at the lights behind the curtain-less windows of the house of the new arrivals. And in particular at the window below which the couple, frantically undressing each other, had sunk. He was feeling both intensely curious and a stirring in his trousers.
And finally, reluctant but unable to stop himself, as if propelled by an unseen hand, he stepped forward, across the lawn, towards number forty-seven, just getting a little closer. Then a little closer still.