Alligator Playground by Alan Sillitoe Read Free Book Online Page A

with a married man, not realising till too late that whoever said never would sooner or later be inveigled into doing whatever they’d said they would never do never about. In the first place, the hole and corner complications would drive her spare, and in the second, if the otherwoman found out, she might be miserable, which Diana was too humane, or too loyal to her own sex, to gloat over. In the third place she didn’t want to get close enough to another woman to the extent of sharing her through her husband.
    And now here was Tom phoning to say that his wife had pulled the big whistle from her bloomers and blown it long and loud after their time in Rome. He wouldn’t be seeing her for a while, he said, though there was nothing he wanted more in the world. He could be lying, of course, because what more appropriate time was there to end an affair than after a wonderful few days on the Mainland? His tone was so adoring that she had to believe his spiel, though her faith in his abilities went down a notch or two at his wife finding out. Had he done it deliberately? Shit-headed Norman Bakewell said that people only let their opposite know of their entanglements when they wanted a bit more excitement; and that sort she could well live without.
    She opened a half-bottle of Beaujolais and threw the cork in the bin. Such a sexy weekend made her want to see him next day, tonight, this minute, instead of waiting the fortnight he implied she might have to. She tore off the plastic and put a steak under the grill. His pleading tone was something new. He was afraid of his wife. It was worth a laugh, because most men were. A programme arranged in Sheffield would keep her away for a week, and if her craving didn’t diminish she would see who might be possible among the camera crew. Tom was sleeping with his wife, so she had a right to a diversion as well.
    The first message on the ansaphone was from who else? ‘All I know is I’m in love with you,’ he said, and it felt as if a hand were already reaching across her breasts, ‘totally, passionately, irreversibly. Can I see you on Wednesday evening?’
    ‘You certainly can,’ she said, phoning his office.
    Then came six calls from the same heavy breathing person who,not finding her home, wouldn’t commit a voice to tape, but was trying to get her with eerie persistence. Well, you got all sorts in the world, meaning London, so it wasn’t worth thinking about. After the usual hellos from parents and friends she went to the twenty-four-hour shop and stocked up the larder. Supper done, she would stand with brush and palette in the spare room, finishing her notion of a female nude.
    Instead of his usual month at a time Tom came every few days, as if the new situation fired his libido. Diana kept the interpretation to herself, but was glad at his visits, couldn’t have enough of them, because a higher intensity came into their affair for her as well. Some evenings the phone sounded several times while they were in the bedroom, most of the callers – or caller, she was sure – did not go on to talk.
    ‘Someone’s phoning me,’ she said. ‘And I don’t know who.’
    He sloped in the best armchair, blowing rings from his long thin cigar. ‘Probably wrong number.’
    ‘It happens too often.’
    ‘Any theories?’ He sounded uninterested.
    She had picked up the phone once and, expecting a call about work, had stupidly given her name. ‘No, have you?’
    ‘Could be an old boyfriend trying to get in touch.’
    ‘I never went with slobs like that.’
    ‘People do funny things,’ he said.
    ‘They say them, as well.’
    Ash showered onto her carpet. ‘It won’t do any harm. Could be Angela, I suppose.’
    ‘I wondered that.’
    ‘Hard to find out without giving us away. I told her we weren’t seeing each other anymore.’
    ‘Was that wise?’
    ‘It was easy. You don’t know Angela,’ he said, at the contempt on her lips. ‘Oh, hell, I wonder how she got the