Free Hot Water Man by Deborah Moggach

now. He doubted whether she had told anyone about this. It was his secret with her, though they seldom mentioned it and were as shy about it as newly-weds.
    She had fixed the paper crookedly, with one strip of Sellotape; it flapped when the wardrobe door was opened. The margins were wavy, the writing as usual loopy and careless. It appeared so casual but this fooled neither of them. They must pretend not to adjust their embraces, like a clock, to the ticking of Christine’s internal rhythm. They did, of course. Twice a day Donald opened the wardrobe to get his clothes, once in the morning and once after work when he had showered. As he foraged amongst the hangers, out of the corner of his eye he saw the paper shift. Her womb was part of the business of dressing. Below the hanging space a drawer held his rolled-up socks. He had grown superstitious about which he chose: black today, or the dark ones with the wavy red thread down the side?
    Some time ago, when they had cleared their throats and admitted that there might be a problem, they had both been to the clinic. Medical expertise had informed them that nothing seemed to be the matter with either of them. This had been a relief, of course. It had been preceded by his own sperm-count, itself preceded by a solitary exercise so flushed and stubborn that he had only been able to describe it to Christine in joke form, papering the cubicle with Playboy centrefolds and introducing topless nursing staff. So luridly had he coloured it that later he could almost believe it himself.
    When he arrived home Mohammed had already retired to his quarters. Christine was standing in the kitchen, the
Guardian Weekly
spread out on the working surface. The ceiling fan spun; the
Guardian
lifted and rustled like tissue paper. They had been away from England three weeks now; already the news items, though read by them with the quickening pulse of exiles, seemed quaint and distant. Lacking the bearer the kitchen seemed larger; it belonged to them now.
    â€˜Hungry?’ He stood behind her, resting his head on her shoulder. She had washed her hair; the frizz, fragrant today, tickled his cheek.
    â€˜Too hot.’
    â€˜Let’s not bother with lunch,’ he said boldly. A record-breaking heatwave was forecast in Britain, he read.
    He remained behind her, his chin supported. Today had a pencilled cross against it. Did she know he remembered? Mohammed’s grey cloth was folded on the draining board; the cups were stacked. Everything was ready.
    Neither of them moved. Due to her sunburn, he did not rest the full weight on her shoulder. He looked at the photograph of deck chairs in St James’s Park. She appeared to be reading too. Donald felt as if he hardly knew her. Tilting his head he could see his watch: 2 o’clock. Mohammed would not come back indoors until five.
    â€˜And they call
that
hot,’ said Christine.
    They stayed rigid. A fly crawled up the window screen. Donald cleared his throat.
    â€˜Let’s mosey along,’ he said in poor American, ‘and have ourselves a little siesta.’
    In the bedroom he drew the curtains, yawning loudly. He stretched. Christine yawned too and lay down on the bed. He took off his clothes and closed the door. He walked around the room, delaying things. In the gloom his wife was a pale blur. He heard her yawn again. Perhaps she was actually going to sleep. Five asterisks already; that meant that tomorrow, Sunday, the operative period would be over. He climbed on to the bed.
    â€˜Ouch!’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜It’s my sunburn. Sorry.’
    â€˜You were mad to go out in the middle of the day. That bazaar place.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜At least you bought a shawl thing.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜To protect you from the sun.’
    â€˜Ah. Yes. That’s right.’
    â€˜I’d better not touch you.’
    â€˜Oh please do. Just not here, and here.’
    â€˜That all right?