Free A Special Relationship by Douglas Kennedy Page A

initially seem to be impeding his ability to amuse, especially when it came to telling tales about his experiences under fire in assorted Third World hell holes. And he also kept everyone entertained with his own wry, damning comments on Englishness. In fact, he’d won Margaret over – until the conversation turned political and, shazam, he went into an anti-American rant which sent her husband Alexander on the defensive, and ended up alienating everyone. On the way home, he turned to me and said, ‘Well, I think that went awfully well, don’t you?’
    ‘Why the hell did you do that?’ I asked.
    Silence. Followed by one of his languid shrugs. Followed by twenty additional minutes of silence as the taxi headed east to Wapping. Followed by more silence as we prepared for bed. Followed by the arrival of breakfast in bed courtesy of Tony the next morning, and a kiss on the head.
    ‘Drafted a little thank you card to Margaret,’ he said. ‘Left it on the kitchen table … post it if you like it … okay?’
    Then he left for the office.
    The card was written in Tony’s illegible hieroglyphics but after the second go, I was able to crack the code.
Dear Margaret:
Wonderful meeting you. Splendid food. Splendid chat. And tell your husband I did so enjoy our head-to-head on matters political. I do hope it didn’t get too heated for all concerned. I plead ‘in vino stupidus’. But what is life without a spirited argument?
Hope to repay the hospitality soon.
Yrs …
    Naturally, I posted it. Naturally, Margaret rang me the next morning when it arrived and said, ‘May I speak my mind?’
    ‘Go on …’
    ‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, his note gives new meaning to the expression “charming bastard”. But I’m sure I’ve spoken out of turn.’
    It didn’t bother me. Because Margaret had articulated another emerging truth about Tony – he had a cantankerous underside … one which he largely kept hidden from view, but which could make a sudden, unexpected appearance, only to vanish from view again. It might just be a fast, angry comment about a colleague on the paper, or a long exasperated silence if I started going on a little too much about house hunting matters. Then, a few minutes later, he’d act as if nothing had happened.
    ‘Hey, everyone gets a little moody, right?’ Sandy said when I told her about my husband’s periodic dark moments. ‘And when you think of the changes you guys are having to deal with …’
    ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ I said.
    ‘I mean, it’s not like you’ve discovered he’s bi-polar.’
    ‘Hardly.’
    ‘And you’re not exactly fighting all the time.’
    ‘We rarely fight.’
    ‘And he doesn’t have fangs or sleep in a coffin?’
    ‘No – but I am keeping a clove of garlic and a crucifix handy under the bed.’
    ‘Good marital practice. But hey, from where I sit, it sounds like you’re basically not doing too badly for the first couple of months of marriage … which is usually the time when you think you’ve made the worst mistake of your life.’
    I certainly didn’t feel that. I just wished Tony could be a little more articulate about what he was really feeling.
    Only I suddenly didn’t have enough time on my hands to consider my feelings about our new-fangled life together. Because two days after the dinner with Margaret, our offer on the house was accepted. After we paid the deposit, it was I who organized the housing survey, and arranged the mortgage, and found a contractor for the loft and the extensive decorative work, and chose fabrics and colours, and did time at IKEA and Habitat and Heals, and also haggled with plumbers and painters. In between all these nest-building endeavours, I also happened to be dealing with my ever-expanding pregnancy – which, now that the morning sickness was long over, had turned into less of a discomfort than I had expected.
    Once again, Margaret had been brilliant when it came to answering my constant spate of