The Right Man by Nigel Planer Read Free Book Online

Smiling girls with clean hair
talk to him on those mini-microphone headset telephones about how his shares
are doing. And when his washing machine breaks down, the service company not only
answer the phone, they actually specify a time when they can turn up, so that
his au pair can know when to be in. But of course, he would have one of those
German washing machines that never break down, made by a company who got big
using slave labour from the concentration camps during the Second World War.
But that thought would not trouble him, would not occur to him. Men like Bob
have in-built opposite magnetism to suffering. Suffering’s southern pole is
repelled by his unrelenting northness. Robert Henderson. Old Hendo. Our Bob. A
man blessed because the day he was born, God had run out of consciences.
    Grace
was playing on a pebbly beach. I’d taken her there. The sound of receding surf
sucking at the shingle was irritating, nauseating. She was laughing and
enjoying jumping over the little incoming waves as they sauntered in,
mockingly. At each new ankle-deep incursion she was further from the shore, and
looked back to me for reassurance, which I gave her. Go on, my daughter! Grow!
Learn! Swim! Then came a moment when she was frightened. The water was up to
her waist now and the noise of it dragging on the stones beneath our feet was
overwhelming. I had brought us here, I had encouraged this expedition into the
treacherous tide. As usual, at the last minute, I put myself between her and
the vengeance of the pulling water, waded in up to my chest, letting the sea
claim me instead, leaving her on the land. Luckily I was saved from the moment
of watery lungs by waking up.
    Liz was
snoring like a lorry. Three a.m. She farted and rolled on to her side. After
ensuring that she was still asleep, I farted in sympathy. The thing now was to
fight the temptation to creep out of bed into Grace’s room to check if she was
alright. It was only a dream, my problem. My rational resolve didn’t last long.
After a minute or so of monitoring Liz’s breathing, I slipped out from under
the duvet and went silently to stand in Grace’s doorway for a few moments. I
couldn’t hear anything so I went in a few feet, then a few feet more until I
was right over the safety bar of her bed. Very quietly, and from what seemed a
long way off, I heard the gentle lapping of her breath. I went back into the
bedroom where Liz had rolled again, cocooning herself in the duvet. I lay on my
side of the bed with no cover for a few minutes, until, realizing I was cold, I
quietly reached for my T-shirt on the chair and slipped it on.
    Later
in the night, I must have managed to reclaim some of the duvet, because I woke
in the morning with a corner of it over my shoulders. I got up and dressed
quietly, making Liz a cup of tea. I had to go to work. As I prepared to leave,
Grace woke and started bawling at me. She wouldn’t let me go. I ended up
bunging her in with her mum — much to Liz’s annoyance — plucking her off me
like an unwanted burr.

 
     
     
    TWO
     
     
     
    IN HINDSIGHT — SOMETHING
we don’t usually have time for in this business — it was probably a mistake to
let Neil James meet Marc Linsey at all. Neil had changed more than I had
appreciated since Every Other Weekend had gone off air. EOW was a
situation comedy about two divorced fathers and their children, quite big a
couple of years ago, completely forgotten now. Neil was somewhat type-cast as
the soppy one, remember? No, I’m not surprised, it wasn’t earth—shattering
stuff, but it was a good little earner and an easy gig for Neil which looked
like going on for at least a couple more seasons. But then came the franchise
débâcle and all the ministers of television had a cabinet reshuffle. Every
Other Weekend was dropped as being too ‘blokey’ and Neil was left with a
rather small commission from the publishers and 100,000 words to write. It was
my fault really. I just don’t get the