It was a Saturday in early June as Freddy once again made his way towards the Portomaso complex and Shirley’s apartment. He and Shirley had spent the previous day in the capital, Valletta. She had insisted they take a dgħajsa across the Grand Harbour and visit the war museum in Vittoriosa. Do the tour. Freddy had not objected. It made a change from the long afternoons on hot restaurant terraces, when both became stultified with rich food and too much wine. A strange form of hell for Freddy, one that anyone else would consider a most enviable existence, but which he saw as a frustrating lacuna in his life that would soon – God willing – be over.
He and Shirley tended to keep their conversation general, talking about all things Maltese: the food, new hotel developments, wines, government, local gangsters and tourist sights. Or American politics: Shirley was fiercely Republican but loathed both main contenders for the following year’s presidential election alike. They had no friends in common to gossip about – in fact Freddy had no friends at all except for Shirley, unless you counted the various bar and café staff he chatted to on a daily basis. They had no work or family to distract them. The days were very long, or so it seemed to Freddy.
But when they were on the traditional water taxi, the chatty Maltese boatman rowing them across the harbour in the sunshine, tanned forehead beading with sweat, began telling them at length about his five children and sick mother, about how hard it was to make ends meet. A transparent attempt, thought Freddy cynically, to extort a larger tip.
‘You have big family?’ the boatman asked.
Shirley had smiled benignly as she replied from beneath her broad-brimmed straw hat, ‘Oh, yes. We have four children and eleven grandchildren.’
The boatman seemed thrilled with this news, his face breaking into a huge grin.
‘Ah, you are very blessed, Sinjura.’
‘We are indeed,’ Shirley said, taking Freddy’s hand as they sat on the narrow wooden bench and gazing lovingly into his face.
Freddy found the smile frozen on his lips. It was a joke, he got that, but the look Shirley gave him brought him up short.
The boatman handed them out, Shirley having obliged with a very generous tip that brought blessings raining down upon her head long after they’d walked away along the quay. Neither spoke for a while, just took in the beautiful butter-coloured stone of the ancient, elegant buildings of the Grand Harbour glowing in the sunlight.
‘So how do you like being a grandfather of eleven?’ Shirley said eventually, with a teasing purse of her lips. But the look she gave him implied she wasn’t sure if she’d offended him.
Freddy laughed it off. ‘I always think it odd that it’s seen as such an achievement to have lots of children who subsequently have lots more.’
‘Did you never want any yourself?’ she asked, her expression suddenly serious. They had reached the small entrance to the museum above the harbour, but they hesitated on the step.
Freddy hated this question, so often asked. He couldn’t tell people the real answer. He never had, not even Lily. But the very thought of having a child in his care filled him with dread. Suppose the brutal instincts of his father manifested themselves in him? A malign genetic inheritance that made him subconsciously ape his father’s sadism. Wasn’t it a fact that often the abused abuse, even without meaning to?
Uninvited images, accompanied by the old blood-draining fear, invaded his thoughts. Coming home from school and seeing the furniture in the sitting room above the pub pushed ominously to the side, a wooden chair placed in the centre, knowing what was to come. He never had any idea what he’d done to deserve punishment, but it was pointless to ask, because the more he asked, the heavier the beating. Freddy’s main goal, after a couple of terrible humiliations, was not to wet himself. It helped, somehow, to focus on this, to shut his young body down, screw it tight until his father had had his pleasure.
There had never been a single second in his life when he could imagine himself needing – because it did seem like a need his father had – to do this to a child, a person, even an animal. But he wasn’t going to put any child’s safety at risk, just in case he was wrong. That was why Lily’s family was so perfect. His past relationships with women had foundered on his unshakeable resolve never to have children. But with Lily, he could be a stepfather to two adults over whom he had absolutely no control.
At the thought of Dillon, his heart contracted. He’d blown that relationship now. Even if Lily decided to trust him again, Dillon – and therefore Sara – certainly would not. And this might be the straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to them getting back together. No mother wanted to choose between her children and the man she loved.
‘I think I’d be a hopeless father,’ he’d said to Shirley. ‘Don’t have the patience.’
And they both laughed and left it at that.
The dusty, drab militaria in the museum depressed Freddy and left him cold. The underground shelter – raked stone, chilly, dark, confined, airless – made him want to scrabble for breath. But Shirley was lapping it up, chatting for hours with the young Maltese student from whom they bought their tickets. Freddy’s mood remained uneasy. He never voluntarily remembered: it was only if his thoughts were triggered, as had happened earlier, that the images escaped the locked box of childhood. But on the rare occasions when they did, it always took him a while to recover, to fully assimilate the fact in his adult brain that the room, the chair, the smell of the old wooden seat . . . that first hot slice of pain and the agonizing wait for the second – and, of course, his father – no longer existed for him.
*
Later, Shirley insisted on making him supper. Freddy was relieved not to have to go out again. How he missed those evenings with Lily when he had made her a spicy fish soup or a rich bolognese, then sat in their elegant white kitchen with the view over London, laughed together about the day, listened to blues – maybe Robert Johnson or Howlin’ Wolf – on his Bose and sipped a delicious red. Their life had been magic. He gave a sigh of disappointment, as he drank his second gin and tonic, that Shirley was not his wife.
Shirley, by her own admission, was not a great cook. The chicken breast was overdone, the olive oil and rosemary potatoes undercooked, the salad dressing sharp with too much vinegar. But she’d prepared it with care and Freddy wasn’t complaining one bit.
‘There’s going to be a storm,’ Shirley said, looking towards the windows as they cleared away the dishes.
The night sky was rumbling ominously, a cold wind blowing through the still-open doors onto the balcony. Shirley lit two fat pink candles on the coffee table and brought through a tray upon which stood a pot of fresh mint tea, pale-green china cups and saucers, two small brandy balloons and a box of champagne truffles she said she’d got in Duty Free the last time she’d flown.
It felt odd sitting inside on the pale, squashy sofas. Normally they sailed through to the balcony and the loungers, even at night. Freddy gazed at the numerous photos of Chase dotted about the room and had the uneasy sense that Shirley’s husband was watching him. I should slow down, he told himself, glancing at his drink. But what had he got to lose? There was no one to care whether he lived or died except this American widow, with her honeycomb hair and bold gold jewellery.
Shirley sat down next to him, brandy glass cradled in her palms, a faraway look in her eye. ‘This is what I thought I’d be doing with dear Chase,’ she said softly.
There seemed nothing to say to this, so Freddy just gave her a sympathetic glance. The storm was gathering force outside, the rain now pounding on the tiles of the balcony. ‘I’d better close the windows,’ he said, getting up.
He stood for a moment in the blast of wind and rain, hands clutching the glass doors, assailed by a feeling of such dull emptiness that it elicited a groan. Closing them quickly, he took a steadying breath before turning back to Shirley. ‘Quite a night.’
She raised her eyebrows, patting the cushion beside her. ‘Hey, what’s the matter? You look stricken.’
He tried to laugh. ‘Oh, you know. My life’s a wreck . . .’
‘Stop that. I won’t have you sinking. It’s just a glitch, hon. We all have them.’ She smiled encouragingly, reached for his hand as he sat down. ‘Chase always said, “If you have despair you might as well put your head in the oven.”’
Very cheering, thought Freddy. You’re such a wag, Chase. To Shirley, he said, ‘Your Chase knew a thing or two.’
They both listened to the storm.
‘Are you thinking of going back to the UK?’ she asked, not relinquishing his hand, her voice nonchalant.
‘Not sure.’ Shirley still had no real idea why he was hiding out in Malta and he obviously wasn’t going to tell her. ‘I don’t have a job, now the business has gone bust.’
‘Couldn’t you find work here? I know the government has just announced a movie fund, and there’s always lots of movies being shot here, because of the weather.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure what exactly you do, Freddy. How would you describe your work?’
He forced a laugh. ‘Good question. I used to be a sound engineer, but I haven’t done that in years, not since I got my own studio, and no one would employ me as one now. I suppose you could call me a businessman or entrepreneur. I set stuff up, raise money . . . network. I’m good at networking, Lily always says.’
Shirley’s face lightened. ‘Well, that’s a marvellous skill. I’ve got this friend, Julian, a British producer, TV shows mostly, I think. He’s lived here for years, on and off. He’ll know who to talk to. I could introduce you.’
‘Thanks.’ Maybe that’s the way forward, he mused drunkenly. Find a job here, where no one knows me, make some money . . . For a moment he envisaged Lily living there with him, pictured them doing up Nanna Pina’s flat, making it properly habitable. He had done little beyond a cursory clean of the place and still slept on the sofa – the bed was rock hard and reminded him too much of his grandmother – with a duvet, pillows and the cheap scratchy cotton covers he’d bought in the local discount store. It wasn’t home, just a staging post, but could it be?
Shirley had got the bit between her teeth now and was banging on about location work and Valletta being the European Capital of Culture in 2018. Freddy tried to look enthusiastic, but his brain was befuddled and he was barely managing to keep up.
A deafening clap of thunder overhead roused him from his torpor, making them both jump. It was followed, almost immediately, by a violent electric-blue flash that lit up the sky, then another booming clap.
‘Heavens!’ Shirley exclaimed. ‘You won’t be able to go home in this.’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ he assured her, not relishing the prospect at all.
‘Nonsense. You’ll be soaked through. You can stay in the spare room . . . I insist.’
More brandy and maybe an hour of desultory chat later – Freddy had no idea of the time – Shirley led him through to the back of the condo and opened the door to his bedroom. Like the rest of the place, it was decorated in neutral cream and immaculately tidy, with built-in wardrobes, nondescript seascape prints on the wall and a double bed, already made up with smooth cream linen, a blue and cream striped quilt folded across the foot, an assortment of blue and yellow cushions at the head, as if she were expecting company.
‘There’s water on the nightstand and I have a spare toothbrush,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the buff, unless you want a pair of Chase’s pyjamas?’
Freddy did not.
*
He slept like the dead, the wide divan mattress and cool sheets a very pleasant change from the cramped leather sofa in his grandmother’s apartment. It was still dark outside and his head was banging painfully when he surfaced to the disorienting touch of a hand stroking its way down his naked hip and over his thigh. He was immediately awake.
‘Hey,’ he heard Shirley’s voice, soft in the darkness.
Rolling onto his back, he felt the silk of her nightdress against his arm.
‘Thought you needed a bit of cheering up,’ he heard her whisper.
‘Umm . . . Listen, Shirley . . .’ He stopped, gently pushing her arm away. ‘Not sure this is a good idea.’
Silent and clearly undeterred, Shirley drew closer, her hand sliding deliberately across him till it found what it was searching for. He heard her sharp intake of breath and then her body was pressed to his, the silk gliding seductively across his skin. With shame he felt himself harden quickly as her fingers began to move rhythmically – and expertly. It had been a long time.
Without a word, her breathing now fast and jagged, she pushed back the duvet and brought her mouth down on his erection, her lips soft, tongue flicking against the tip. Freddy no longer thought, no longer cared. He just gave in to the pleasure. After a few minutes he took her silk-clad body and raised her up till she was astride him, her thighs surprisingly strong as she held him between her legs. He lifted her gently until he was inside her and she cried out, dropping to his chest, her nipples hard through the silk. He could smell the faint scent of coconut on her hair, taste himself on her mouth. It lasted only a few minutes before both of them came, letting out loud, animal groans.
*
When Freddy woke next it was morning and he had his bed to himself. There was the pungent scent of coffee on the air as he poked his head out of his room and slipped into the bathroom to brush his teeth. His head was still banging and he saw in the bathroom mirror his chin stubbly dark, great bags beneath his eyes. He was sure Chase’s razor was somewhere in the cupboard under the cream-painted basin unit, but that might be a step too far, given the goings-on of the previous night. Although he wasn’t sure at this juncture if Shirley’s visit had even been real. He sincerely hoped it had not, prayed it was just a fevered dream brought on by anxiety and too much brandy.
He washed his face vigorously with cold water, picked up the pink brush that lay on the shelf and attempted to tame his tangled hair. Frowning as he regarded his reflection for the last time, he took a deep breath and prepared to face his hostess. Thoughts of Lily he pushed far to the back of his mind.
Shirley was sitting on the balcony, a cup of coffee on the small bamboo table, reading the Times of Malta. She was dressed in a pair of navy linen shorts and a sleeveless coral T-shirt, her hair sleek, her makeup tastefully minimal to suit the time of day.
She jumped when Freddy materialized beside her, but that was the only sign that she might be embarrassed by the events of the previous night. Folding the paper, she swung her feet off the lounger and stood up, a perky smile playing around her mouth. ‘Freddy! Did you sleep okay?’
Sleep? he thought. Cheeky cow, but he said, ‘Like a log. Your bed is way more comfortable than the one at the flat.’
He had not explained to Shirley the true extent of dilapidation in his grandmother’s home, and certainly not invited her there, although she had hinted a number of times that she would like to visit.
Shirley laughed and flung her arms wide, her head thrown back, indicating the vista beyond the balcony. ‘Isn’t it just marvellous this morning? All glittery from the rain and so clean and fresh. We should have a storm more often.’
She was right: the air sparkled, the Mediterranean light crystal clear as it bounced off the aquamarine sea. Freddy breathed in, wishing himself a million miles away. Should I say something? Wait for her?
‘I could murder a cup of coffee,’ he said.