Free The Man Who Forgot His Wife by John O'Farrell Page B

want your thingamajig back, don’t you?’
    ‘My thingamajig?’
    ‘Yes, you know – God, what do they call those things?’
    ‘Um …’
    ‘God, I’ve gone completely blank. Umm …’
    ‘Yes, what are they called?’
    ‘I meant to bring it back ages ago – very remiss of me. Anyway, help yourself – it’s in the shed.’
    I obediently opened the shed door and stared at the chaotic arrangement of garden furniture, abandoned lawnmowers, rusting barbecues and plant pots piled up before me. I wondered about making a guess; maybe I should just grab the old bicycle wheel and say, ‘Ah, there it is! Well, if you ever need to borrow it again, you know where we are …’
    ‘How’s Madeleine?’ he enquired, as I pretended to scan the space in front of me.
    ‘She’s, er, fine. Oh, actually, she’s just been out in the car!’ I blurted, perhaps slightly too proud that I did have one genuine snippet of information to share.
    ‘Oh. Anywhere special?’
    ‘Er, not sure. Collecting some big pictures?’
    ‘She never stops working, does she?’
    ‘Doesn’t she? No, I mean, she doesn’t, does she?’
    ‘Well, you two must come round for dinner soon.’
    ‘Thank you. That’s very nice of you.’
    ‘Really?’
    I seemed to have given a reply that surprised him. In that moment I understood that previous offers must always have been rebuffed.
    ‘Great, well, what about this weekend? Arabella was just saying we hadn’t seen much of you and we’re not doing anything on Saturday.’
    ‘Ah no, Saturday … Saturday evening’s not good …’
    ‘Lunch then?’
    Without even knowing him or his wife, I could already sense that the bitterness of my marital break-up would not be ameliorated by committing Maddy and myself to a dinner party with these neighbours.
    ‘Er, it’s a bit difficult at the moment, actually. Maddy and I are getting … erm, well, I think we’re going to be a bit preoccupied for a while …’ His silence demanded more details. ‘Well – we’re having a trial separation.’
    ‘A trial separation?’
    ‘Yeah, you know … and a trial divorce. Just to see how that goes for a while …’
    At least this embarrassing news cut the conversation short. The neighbour put down his drink and came into the shed himself, where it turned out the thing I had come round to collect was right under my nose all the time. ‘Silly me!’ I tutted.
    Ten minutes later I was standing on a busy underground train, noticing that people were giving me more space than might usually be expected. Perhaps it was the three-foot-long serrated blade of the electric hedge trimmer I was clutching. It was too heavy to carry back to Gary and Linda’s, so I had made the brave decision to take public transport. I attempted a faint smile at a nervous-looking mother, who then moved her children further down the carriage. I affected to carry the unwieldy weapon as if I was barely even aware that I was holding it, as if I often travelled on the tube during rush hour with a yard of sharpened steel teeth in my right hand. A couple of hoodies were eyeing me warily. ‘Respect!’ muttered one, as he got off at the next stop.

Chapter 7
    I FELT AS if I had stared at my bedroom clock for an entire night. Lying there, in the half-light of the nursery, everything was quiet and completely still except for the manic pendulum on the wall opposite. It featured a happy clown clinging on to a rainbow, swinging back and forth, for ever. His situation still seemed to make more sense than my own. By about half past three it became clear that the clown was not going to take a rest, so I got up and tiptoed into the kitchen for a glass of water.
    When dawn came it would be the day of my court case. I sat at the pine table for a while, listening to the rhythmical dripping of the tap. I looked at the cooker. Did people still kill themselves by putting their heads in ovens, I wondered, or would that not work with an electric fan oven? There were little