Love Doesn't Work Read Free Page A

Linda’s relationship.
    When they set off for work in the mornings, they rarely stopped off at the café to have a cappuccino together like they used to. It was a relief to perform only a cursory muzzling of their lips, then murmur a quick goodbye and walk on in blessed solitude.
    In spite of always trying to do what one should, Harold was not a popular person. Many of their friends actually disliked him, and had made it clear to Linda that she should leave him before it was too late. Harold couldn’t understand why people didn’t like him. Old ladies smiled at him pleasantly enough as he walked down the pavement, but men and women of his own age frowned and looked away.
    Was there anything wrong with being a well manicured, carefully presented clean-shaven young banker with fur-lined kidskin gloves, a leather briefcase and a cashmere overcoat? Was there anything contemptible about listening to what people said, agreeing affably whenever it was possible to do so?
     
    II
    The day after Linda’s birthday, as he was making his way to the office, Harold experienced something very unsettling. At first he put it down to too many whisky sours the night before, but there it was: the world was moving, very slightly, all round him. To be specific, it wasn’t so much the world as a section of the pavement on the corner of Nytorgsgatan. When he tried his foot against the paving stones they were springy like the mossy surface of a bog.
    He stood, irresolute for a while, watching as other hurried walkers crossed the flexing section of the pavement. None of them noticed. In fact, several of them were more concerned about the spectacle of Harold standing there glaring at the ground, and occasionally kicking it with his highly polished brogues.
    The bells of St. Maria struck eight-thirty and Harold moved on.
    In the evening when Harold returned he’d bought a steel-tipped umbrella, which he dug into the tarmac by a lamp post. Soon enough he’d made a little hole, knelt down and poked his finger through. He got down on his knees and peered into the hole. Nothing. Just black. An odd smell came up through the hole. Was it sulphur? Or some sort of natural gas? He straightened up. What was needed here was a torch and a plumb line.
    Back home, Linda was curled up in the sofa watching a DVD on how to improve your diet and fitness for pregnancy, while at the same time lacquering her toenails, as if intentionally ignoring the fact that Harold was slightly phobic about lacquered toenails, which made him wince.
    Harold had the uncomfortable feeling that he was not a man at all and felt himself retreating through puberty into boyhood. His voice grew high-pitched in his throat, and his limbs lost their hair, once again acquired a chubby softness.
    “Darling,” he squeaked.
    “What?”
    “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?”
    “Harold. You have done nothing. You have never done anything.” She turned her face to him, and he was astonished that she had also receded into childhood. Her hair hung down in damp ringlets. She wore a soft yellow towelling robe which scarcely reached down to her knees and she’d tucked her favorite doll under her arm. “By the way, I just had a shower,” she said. “I am very clean.”
    “I can see that.”
    “If you want a shower too, that might be nice. There’s nothing worse than a dirty man.”
    “You used to say you loved my smell,” said Harold.
    “Yes but that was just after I met you. I was still at the stage of trying to brainwash myself that you were perfect. Now I know you’re not.”
    Harold put down his briefcase, relieved that she was talking to him at least. “How can you say I’ve never done anything?”
    “Because you haven’t. When I think of your life, I think of a big yawning emptiness.”
    Harold closed the front door and went into the kitchen without another word. He put on the coffee and sat in the window seat to read the newspaper. It was full of a repetitious