Escape Read Free

I? Clara didn't inherit her father's dark good
looks – his olive skin, his liqueur chocolate eyes, his tall, slender build.
I wish she had. Instead she is all her mother, both of us red-haired,
pale and soft as pears.
    To me it is laughable, the idea that I would want Clara to be like
me. Well, laughable in a mirthless, tragic way. If only he knew, if only
they both knew how much I'd wanted the very opposite! Christ, who
would want to be me? When I was talking on the phone to Doreen the
other day, I'd mentioned how I felt about our 'Last Supper' with Clara.
I was trying to make a joke of it but my voice wobbled. When Guido
heard me he yelled at me to settle , stop it! He is very superstitious. I
know he is just as anxious about her as I am, although he would never
admit it, because that might mean a conversation.
    I open the red wine and add a generous slurp to the baking dish.
Perhaps I'll pour a glass for me too. 'And what about Simmo,' I say, 'did
he come?'
    'Seemmo? What kind of name is that?'
    'You know, the pool man, Simon, the one who's been coming here
for the last three years when something goes wrong. The pool filter's
not working.'
    'Can't you fix it?'
    'No, I've tried. I'm not Wonder Woman.'
    There is a snicker of agreement from behind the desk. It's probably
the only thing we've agreed on for the last ten years.
    'We never use the pool, anyway,' says Guido. 'Why do we need to
spend all this money?'
    'Because it will go green and slimy with algae if it's left to itself.
Mosquitoes will breed and it'll be a health hazard.' I shove another
garlic clove into the soft flesh of the veal. 'Heavens, listen to us, how
self-indulgent are we, complaining about the cost of our swimming
pool when two-thirds of the people in the world have never even had
the chance to use a telephone?'
    'Well, now I remember. That man Seemmo just suddenly appeared
at the window this afternoon. I wish you would tell me when 'e is
coming. Nearly gave me an infarto . . .'
    Guido goes on to say something else but I'm thinking about
Simmo. Simon Mason. I like his hands, big square fingers, his nails
cut short, skin roughened at the tips by pool chemicals, weather and
work. How peaceful it is when he explains the balance of things, the
need for equal parts of acid and alkali, strategies to reduce chlorine
consumption and algae growth. You can't afford any compassion for
algae, he said once. But his face looked sorry.
    'The plumber said the flush is fixed but 'e doesn't like the way the
water is filling up the bowl. Is still not at a good level. But 'e could not
stay, 'e was sorry, there was the funeral of his sister's wife.'
    'Husband.'
    'Yes. So 'e said 'e would come back tomorrow to finish the job,
which is not at all convenient for me, but that man Seemmo said he
could take a look at it while 'e was 'ere, if I wanted. Said it would be
free of charge, so I told 'im yes, why not?'
    I can't help smiling. That's typical of Simon. So helpful, and at the
end of the afternoon when all he probably wanted to do was go home
and put his feet up. Sometimes we've sat out on the porch after he's
fixed the filter or cleared a hose and I've made a cool drink. I feel more
relaxed just thinking about it.
    Guido comes into the kitchen. 'Did you buy anything for me to
snack on before dinner? I ham so 'angry. That Seemmo knows a lot
about us – 'e knew Clara was going to Italy tomorrow. Do you tell the
garbage men all our business, too?'
    I don't bother replying, handing him some cheese and crackers
from the fridge. He wrinkles his nose in a bewildered way as the fridge
door opens and closes. I take a deep breath and hold it, then open the
fridge for the butter. Propped right next to it is my hairbrush. God!
Quickly, in a sleight-of-hand move, I whip out the butter tub, flourishing
it in front of Guido's face while I slip the brush into my apron pocket.
There! I feel pleased for a moment at my expert misdirection, but
really, this kind of thing is happening far too