Don't Marry Thomas Clark (17 page)

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.

And jump out of the wardrobe screaming, ‘I've exposed you, you filthy traitor! And now you'll pay in blood for every single crumb of hazelnut wafer strewn in my bed!'

If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.

The more I read, the more I start to believe that
The Art of War
was in fact written by a woman. Doesn't it all sound a bit bloody familiar? I skim each sentence quickly until I reach the end of the page, where I find the few remaining lines:

These military devices, leading to victory, must not be divulged beforehand.

Now the general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple where the battle is fought. The general who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! It is by attention to this point that I can foresee who is likely to win or lose.

To be honest, I was expecting something a bit more startling, but it was extremely edifying anyway. It's provided me with the necessary inspiration. I know what to do now.

I slam the book shut, put down my sandwich and pick up my phone.

‘Good morning,' I greet the operator. ‘I need a number. Yes, I have a pen and paper.'

*

At about seven in the evening, Thomas finally returns from London. And I'm lying in wait for him at the door. I have a surprise in store that will leave him speechless.

He slams the door furiously behind him – something must have really got on his nerves, and I think he partly considers me to blame, because he crosses the hall towards me like a runaway bull. But I smile sweetly and wait for him to reach me.

‘Darling, you're back?' I greet him in saccharine tones.

‘Oh, spare me!'

‘Why are you so upset? Did something happen in the office?'

‘No, my only problem is you. I come home after twelve hours at work and I find my garden devastated by diggers. Do you happen to know anything about it?'

‘Actually, yes,' I admit, showing a hint of apprehension. ‘It's really funny,‘' I laugh. ‘I was reversing the BMW and…'

‘You drove my car?'

‘Well, yes, otherwise how could I have done the shopping? I took my rental car back not long after I got here.'

‘Couldn't you have taken the bus?'

‘Yes, but I'd missed one and I didn't want to be late.'

‘I still don't understand why there is a bloody huge hole in front of the garage,' he exclaims angrily.

‘I was just getting to that. Give me time! So anyway, I was reversing the BMW when Rudy crossed the driveway.'

‘Who's Rudy?'

‘You haven't met Rudy yet?'

‘Evidently not.'

‘We'll sort that out later. I'm sure you'll fall in love with him right away.'

‘I highly doubt that,' he mutters, deciding to postpone the problem. ‘I'm still waiting for a plausible explanation.'

‘Right. So, Rudy was behind me and in order to avoid running him over, I swerved and bumped into the tap. You know, the one that Joe uses to water the roses?'

‘You had an accident in my car?' he turns white. I think I might have overdone it.

‘Oh, nothing serious,' I say, playing it down. ‘Just a little dent in the bumper. The real problem is the fountain. A pipe broke and so much water started pouring out that I was scared it would flood the garage.'

‘You had an accident in my car…' he repeats with a blank stare.

‘I was very lucky that Joe was around. He called one of his friends and they spent all afternoon digging up the ground to get to the pipes. They've just finished for the day, but they're coming back tomorrow morning to close up the hole, so don't worry.'

‘I really don't know what to say. What else do you have in mind? Demolishing the house?' he yells.

‘But it's only a little dent. And in a few days everything will be just the way it was before,' I say, in an attempt to calm him down.

‘I don't care how many days it takes. It shouldn't have happened at all! How the hell did you get it into your head to drive my BMW?'

‘All right, calm down, please… You know what? I'll call Joe now and ask if he knows a good mechanic.'

‘That's the least you could do!'

I've never seen him turn this colour before. Completely out of control, he stomps off down the hall, gesticulating hysterically and shouting out a surprisingly comprehensive list of swear words and insults seemingly randomly selected from the cauldron that he has in store for the select few who manage to make him lose his temper.

And we're only just getting warmed up!

‘Darling, I realize that this isn't exactly perfect timing, but there is one more thing…' I interrupt him, as I follow him, acting frightened.

He hunches his shoulders in annoyance, but all he manages to mutter is, ‘Could you at least stop calling me that? I find it unnecessarily irritating.'

As you would assume, I decide to ignore him.

‘Whatever you say, sweetheart. So, as I was trying to tell you…'

‘I don't want you to call me sweetheart either. Sandy, what the hell is going on?'

‘I know you're angry, baby, but don't you think you're going a bit too far?'

‘Baby? Oh, come off it –
baby
?! Sandy, my name's
Thomas
.'

‘All right, Tommy dear. From today, I'll never call you baby again. Is that better?' I ask with a sigh.

‘Look,' he interrupts me wearily, ‘I'd like to discuss the will. The situation is more complex than I thought, we really should… What's the matter with you now?'

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you.'

‘…Nothing.'

‘Yes there is. You went all stiff.'

‘Nothing, really!'

He doesn't look convinced, but finally decides to pick up where he left off.

‘What it is,' I interrupt him just as he opens his mouth, ‘is that I don't think it's appropriate to discuss the matter of the will at this time.'

‘Well, I think it's fundamental. I'd like us to concentrate on the issue of marriage. I spoke to Frank today,' he starts.

‘Really?' I say, looking alarmed.

‘We have every intention of reaching an agreement,' he continues, while I take the opportunity to casually peek into the next room, cutting myself off from the conversation.

‘Are you listening?'

‘Of course,' I confirm.

‘I was saying that at the moment we need to…'

‘Darling, I'm sorry, but, again, I really think we should put it off. Interesting though it is, I think you have a distorted view of your priorities,' I say. ‘As I mentioned before…'

‘Sandy, please!'

‘You look agitated. Why don't you come in and sit down for a minute?'

‘I'm better off without your kindness,' he replies abruptly. ‘And I'd be better off without your presence, but unfortunately I can't send you back to London. Now, as I'm sure you can't wait to go home, I'd like you to take into account the enormous efforts that I am making to give both of us back our old lives. I've been to at least four different lawyers. I've consulted judges, private investigators, police officers…'

‘Serial killers?'

‘Serial…' he starts, before realizing what he's saying and rubbing his forehead with a sigh, exhausted.

‘No, because they might know a quick and painless solution.'

‘If I were you, I'd avoid making inappropriate suggestions,' he growls, his face grim.

‘Have you finished?' I ask impatiently.

‘No, I absolutely have not!' he shouts angrily. ‘I've thrown away a day's work because of you, and not for the first time, but I might have managed to find a solution, so I'd be grateful if you'd stop wasting my time and listen to me. Frank was very thorough, we discussed everything at length, and both of us believe that… Sandy, I'm talking to you!' he shouts into my ear, before realizing that my eyes are directed at the living room again.

‘I see! You met Frank and now you want to talk about the will – but that would really be in bad taste, given the situation. Wouldn't you prefer a cup of tea?' and in the meantime I try to drag him out of the hall by his arm. ‘That way I can finally tell you something I think is really interesting.'

‘I don't want a cup of tea!' he snaps, pulling his arm out of my grasp.

‘All right, we'll have coffee – but let the record state that I totally disapprove.'

‘What do I care whether or not you approve?'

‘Well I just hope you remember those words when you're admitted to hospital with your blood pressure through the roof!'

‘Sandy, the will!'

‘Yes, yes I get it: the will! We can talk about that too, I promise,' and I close the door of the living room behind him, pushing him back into the hallway with some insistence.

‘OK, but… Hang on a moment, will you? What are you doing? Where are we going?'

‘Into the kitchen.'

‘Sandy, what's going on?'

‘What do you mean?' I say, guiltily.

‘Why are you trying to get me away from there?'

‘Because I'm actually a Russian spy charged with kidnapping representatives of the British upper classes for genetic experiments to explain your pointless, masochistic addiction to puddings, the Queen and Harry Potter!'

‘Sandy, this isn't funny. Who is in that room?' he says, growing suspicious.

‘Your aunt. I didn't have anything to do so I said to myself, why not inaugurate the living room with a couple of cakes and a chat over a nice, steaming cup of tea?'

‘Sandy, stop this immediately. Who have you brought here?' he repeats, looking increasingly frenzied.

‘Shhhh, don't scream,‘ I whisper. ‘You see, as I was about to explain to you before,' but this time I don't manage to say anything else because he pushes me aside and rushes in shouting, ‘What the hell are you up to?'

I can tell from his face that he's certain he's uncovered my plans, but all there is awaiting him in the living room is a very petite elderly lady with a lively expression and washed-out, backcombed blonde hair. She sits stiffly by the table, her cup between her fingers.

‘Aunt Polly,' he mutters, trying to conceal his surprise. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I told you it was your aunt!' I burst out indignantly.

She looks furious, and when he opens his mouth to justify himself, her glare silences him instantly.

‘Thomas Edison Albert Clark, finesse and good manners have always been the pride of our ancient lineage. I am horrified to discover for myself the results of the dissolute life you have been leading in recent years,' she reprimands him icily.

‘But I… Aunt.'

‘…I was saying that I called your Aunt Polly today to ask her if she wanted to come and visit us,‘ I say, flashing a toothy grin. ‘She was kind enough to offer her help in organizing the wedding and so we started looking through a couple of magazines. Why don't you sit down?' I suggest, as he lets himself be swept onto the couch like an automaton. ‘I'm sure you must have
lots
to tell each other. How long has it been since you last saw one another?'

No one answers.

‘Longer than I thought, I suppose. But… am I wrong or was that the timer on the oven pinging? I'd better check – wouldn't want to burn the turkey.'

I don't wait for an answer – not out of rudeness, just to stop anyone from finding a way to keep me there any longer.

‘Thomas, is this any way to treat that poor girl?' I hear his aunt shouting in the living room, but I'm almost in the kitchen now and it is difficult to make out what they're saying.

Ah, good old Aunt Polly! It's been at least ten years since I last saw her. She hasn't changed at all. It must be the country air. Aunt Polly, a woman capable of silencing an entire table of army top brass by raising a single eyebrow. I almost feel sorry for him, poor thing – but then I think about the will and the feeling goes away.

There's no guessing how long the telling-off will go on, so I help myself to a little of the roast and turn on the TV. I'm on the verge of dozing off when I hear a voice behind me ask, ‘Did you enjoy that?'

I turn around in my chair and see him standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. I would have expected shouting and anger, but he seems to have fully recovered his self-control.

‘I've only just started.'

No reply. He just stands there staring at me, and it makes me terribly uncomfortable.

‘Has she gone already?'

‘Less than a minute ago.'

‘Without even saying goodbye?'

‘We called you twice, but you didn't answer. We gathered you were too busy.'

I pull a sulky face.

‘Do you want me to call her back?' he proposes.

‘There's no need. I'll call her tomorrow to apologise.'

Trying to distract myself, I collect the dishes from the table and walk over to the sink to wash them. I don't notice that he has soundlessly joined me until he puts both hands on the edges of the top, blocking me between his arms. The sudden contact startles me and a glass slips out of my hand, sinking into the foam.

‘OK, let's do it this way,' he whispers in my ear. ‘Today's your lucky day: I want to be sympathetic. I'll pretend I haven't risked breaking my neck by falling into a two-metre wide hole. I'll overlook the story about the car and forget that I've spent the last hour trying to convince my aunt that I'm not the cruel, insensitive beast she now believes me to be.
You
will do your best to prove yourself collaborative. You'll come with me into the study, you'll sit down, and we'll try and reach a sensible agreement. I'm feeling particularly generous, something which doesn't happen every day.'