The Gazebo

By Guy Portman

Lust can be a curse.

The Gazebo: Thomas has as an unusual fetish that he will do anything to keep a secret. But his wife is on to him. And if she discovers what he’s been up to, their carefully cultivated life will be in ruins.
The Curse: They warned him to steer clear of the Transylvanian temptress, but Theo couldn’t resist her charms. Now the lothario is up to his neck in trouble. Could it be the death of him?

These turbulent romps masterfully merge domestic disaster with caustic comedy. If you like dark psychological fiction and black humour, you’ll relish this quick and engaging read.

Grab your copy.

‘Bawdily brilliant black comedy’ – Adam Riley, comedian

'Very witty, very elegant, and completely and totally twisted' - Goodreads Reviewer

'Darkly amusing and reads quickly' - Goodreads Reviewer

'I highly recommend Gazebo to anyone who loves transgressive fiction, extremely dark contemporary fiction, and/or is a fan of Bret Easton Ellis or Hubert Selby, Jr.' - Goodreads Reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guy Portman
• Release date: Aug 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9798673202432

Guy Portman

As far back as anyone can remember Guy has been an introverted creature, with an insatiable appetite for knowledge, and a sardonic sense of humour.Throughout a childhood in London spent watching cold war propaganda gems such as He Man, an adolescence confined in various institutions, and a career that has encompassed stints in academic research and the sports industry, Guy has been a keen if somewhat cynical social observer.Humour of the sardonic variety is a recurring theme in Guy’s writing. His first novel, Charles Middleworth, is an insightful tale of the unexpected. Like the author, the protagonist in Necropolis and Sepultura is a darkly humorous individual – though, unlike the author, he is a sociopath. His latest effort, Tomorrow’s World, is a satirical book of vignettes about the future.

Book preview

Contents

THE GAZEBO

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

THE CURSE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

THE GAZEBO

Guy Portman

Published by Guy Portman

Copyright Guy Portman 2020

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The Gazebo

I

The developer and his manager are ambling through their new development. They pass a fountain with a stone cherub spouting water from its mouth. Up ahead is a pavilion gazebo party tent swarming with potential buyers. The developer says to his number two, ‘My idea of the gazebo was a nice touch … Talking of gazebos, is yours up yet?’

‘Yes. Thanks for clearing it with the council.’

‘Anytime. The wife must be happy. Have the neighbours taken it okay?’

‘No complaints, but it’s only been a few days. No doubt some nosey bugger will kick up a fuss.’

‘If they do, I’ll get retrospective planning permission. I have the council wrapped around my little finger.’

He strides off, the shorter manager scurrying to keep up. Inside the gazebo, the developer greets the potential buyers. Meanwhile his manager standing dutifully at his side.

‘Thank you for coming … We’ve spoken half a dozen times on the phone … This is my number two.’ The sidekick shakes the person’s hand meekly. The schmoozing continues. ‘Love the tie … Nice suntan … Oh, you’ve been in Antigua.’ The developer leans into his subordinate and says, ‘Couple more minutes and I’ll get things underway. You ready?’

‘Yeah,’ he responds in a weak voice.

The manager’s hands start trembling. He places one on his small paunch before removing it and putting it in his trouser pocket. A girl appears bearing a tray of drinks. The manager takes a sparkling wine with a shaky hand. After several gulps, his hands stop shaking. He helps himself to a second glass.

His boss is ushering him to the front of the gazebo, where he is stationed on a podium. The underling scampers over. The developer holds his champagne flute up and taps it with a teaspoon. The congregation’s chattering reduces in volume, then extinguishes altogether.

The developer says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. It was fifteen years ago that I first saw this place. That day is ingrained in my memory. I was driving past in my Range Rover with my wife and two toddlers. So astounded was I by the area’s potential that I promptly parked and got out to take a closer look. This despite the protestations from my then wife and toddlers.’ There is muted laughter. ‘The more I saw, the more I liked … Pristine environment and only five minutes from a fabulous town, boasting a Michelin Star restaurant, two antique shops and …’

He finally stops talking and hands over to his subordinate who, while pointing at the site’s plan on the screen beside him, says, ‘There are ninety-nine properties. We expect them to be snapped up.’ After two glasses of sparkling wine, there is no sign of his earlier nervousness. ‘Let me tell you about the properties …’ From somewhere inside his mind, the man hears a m-m-meee. Ignoring it, he focuses on his task.

The last of the potential buyers are leaving.

‘That’s us done,’ says the developer.

‘Um,’ says the manager, ‘if on the off chance anyone asks when I finished up here, could you please say I was done about five, five-fifteenish.’

‘Got it.’ His boss taps his nose. ‘You’re worried that your wife might speak to my wife and get a different answer to what you gave her.’ And then, ‘You’re off for a tryst with your piece on the side, aren’t you?’

The man blushes, says, ‘Um, I’ve just got an appointment that I should attend to.’

‘Who is she anyway …?’ His underling’s Adam’s apple moves up and down. He says nothing. ‘Fine, don’t tell me. Let’s catch up tomorrow.’

M-m-meee …

II

The neighbour ventures out to the suntrap in the corner of his garden every weekend morning. The only thing that stops him is rain. Today is a Saturday and it is not raining. Still in his dressing gown, he traverses the paving stones, an espresso clasped in one hand, a newspaper in the other. On reaching the corner of the garden, he places the items down on a wooden table. He is poised to pull out a chair when he notices that the area is shaded. This he considers surprising, for the sun is shining brightly in a resplendent blue sky.

And that is when he sees the roof to his left, looming above the neighbouring garden, blocking out the sunlight. It was not here last time. The neighbour grips the trellised wooden fence separating the two gardens. Having hoisted himself up, he inspects the imposing new white-painted hexagonal structure. It is far too decorative to be a shed, he considers. Through clenched teeth, he fumes, ‘Gazebo.’

*

Next door – Three-and-a-half hours later – The man sips coffee while peering out through the glass door at the recently erected enclosed gazebo in his back garden. Behind him, in the depths of the open-plan kitchen, his wife is talking with a ‘friend’ as she prepares lunch.

‘What are your plans for the gazebo, Domitia?’ asks the ‘friend’.

‘It’ll be used for yoga and entertaining guests.’

The man glances at his watch, says, ‘How long until lunch, darling?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘In that case I’ll get a bit of work done in my study.’

When he has gone, the ‘friend’ says, ‘Oh, I forgot to say. Yesterday afternoon I saw your husband’s car in town. I was surprised to see it parked in that grotty bit behind Iceland supermarket.’

Domitia stops cutting organic cucumber. Her steely blue eyes fix on her ‘friend’. She says, ‘What time was that?’

‘Ten to four.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re certain it was his car?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it hundreds of times. White Lexus. Registration starts BP19.’

Domitia brings the knife crashing down onto the organic cucumber. When the man reappears in the kitchen, he finds his wife throwing olives into a salad bowl. Leering over the bowl, he says, ‘Looks good. What type of salad is it, darling?’

His wife does not answer, and it is her ‘friend’ who says, ‘An organic Greek salad.’

While his wife severs baby tomatoes, the ‘friend’ lists the salad’s ingredients.

‘Sliced cucumber, feta cheese, olives, tomatoes, olive oil, salt, and … there’s something else. Um, Domitia, what have I forgotten?’

She spits out, ‘Oregano,’ before hurling pieces of tomato into the salad bowl.

During lunch, Domitia ignores her husband and communicates solely with her luncheon companion. Periodically the man looks out at the imposing structure at the end of the garden, pondering as he does so why his sour-faced wife seems to be in such a foul mood when she has just had the gazebo of her dreams built. A gazebo that cost him the entirety of his half-yearly bonus. A gazebo that had shrunk his garden considerably. A gazebo he didn’t want but his wife had insisted upon. A gazebo that didn’t have planning permission.

At the conclusion of the meal, the guest departs. The man is in the process of loading the dishwasher when his wife says, ‘How did everything go at the development yesterday? Was there much interest?’

‘It went well, darling – lots of interest. Potential buyers came in their droves and the sales reps, I’m told, have taken a ton of bookings for viewings. So, fingers crossed it looks promising …’

The man talks for quite some time. When he finishes, his wife says, ‘Well you must have been busy. You didn’t finish there until around five, didn’t you say yesterday?’

‘Yes. Around five, five-fifteen.’

Shortly thereafter the man announces that he has work to do and goes to his study, watched by his wife whose arms are folded across her chest. Barely has he sat down at his desk when the doorbell rings. He is poised to get up and see who it is, but on hearing his wife’s footsteps out in the hallway, he remains where he is. The study door opens and she comes in.

‘It’s that man from next door,’ she seethes.

‘Oh no,’ he murmurs. ‘The gazebo.’

‘Well, get out there and find out what he wants.’

‘Please tell him I’ll be there in a second.’

She marches out of the room. He hears her say through the door, ‘My husband will be with you in a second.’

She then stomps off upstairs. Inside the study, the man wipes his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He reaches into a desk drawer, extracts a silver hip flask and takes a gulp of whisky, followed by another. After inserting a mint into his mouth, he goes out to the hallway and peeks through the front door’s peephole. On the other side is his neighbour. The man takes a deep breath and fractionally opens the door.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘how can I help you?’

‘Went in my garden this morning. It was strange ’cos it was sunny yet there wasn’t any in the suntrap at the bottom of my garden. You know why, don’t you?’ The gazebo owner looks down at the ground. He says nothing. ‘’Cos of that new building in your garden. A gazebo of all things. Temporary, it must be. Put up for a party or something?’

While continuing to look down, the man paws at the greying hair on the side of his balding head with one hand. He murmurs, ‘Um, w-well, it …’

‘Remove it, or move it.’

The neighbour storms off.

On returning to the study, the man takes several sips from his hip flask. He then sends a text to his boss, seeking advice over the neighbour’s complaint. Moments later, his wife’s long-blonde-haired head appears in the doorway.

‘It was to do with the gazebo. I could hear him from upstairs.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Unbelievable, don’t people have anything better to do than complain?’

‘Don’t worry darling, it’s under control.’

Her blue eyes roll upwards; she walks off. The doorbell rings.

‘Bollocks.’ The man rises from his chair and goes through to the hallway, where he finds his wife looking through the front door’s peephole. ‘It’s not him, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Phew.’

She opens the door, revealing a youth holding a bucket, broom and power hose. He is wearing a lime green top with the words Gardening & Patio Solutions emblazoned across its front. He says, ‘Awight.’

The man goes back to his study, and Domitia says, ‘The paving stones are to be spotless. No dirt is to be sprayed with that power hose of yours onto my new gazebo.’

‘Awight. Mind if I use your toilet? Dyin’ for a slash.’

‘No, you’re dirty, I don’t want you inside.’ As she shuts the door, she adds, ‘The gate’s open.’

‘Charmin’,’ mutters the youth as he makes his way to the side of the house, where the gate leading to the rear garden is located.

Meanwhile, Domitia storms off upstairs. From the study, her husband calls after her in a meek voice, ‘Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?’

‘Speak up, I can’t hear you,’ she says, while sneering over the stairwell.

‘Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?’

‘Yoga.’

‘In town?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘While you’re there, is there any chance you could drop off a couple of my suits at the dry cleaners?’

‘Fine,’ she spits.

‘Thanks. Oh, and one more thing. Please could you get some cash out for me? Two-hundred quid. It’s to pay some cleaners up at the development.’

‘I suppose so.’

He passes his bank card up to her.

‘The pin’s 7132.’

III

Three days later – On awakening in the super king size bed, Domitia yawns and rubs her eyes with her palms. Lying on her back, her blonde head enveloped in the eiderdown pillow, she gazes out at the shards of light visible around the edges of the silk alabaster curtains. From