A Practical Arrangement: A life less ordinary. Unfulfilled ambition, adultery and descent into crime

By Verity Trevethan

A Practical Arrangement is a life-affirming, bitter-sweet tale of an ordinary family life uncontrollably descending into despair, crime and impossible choices. A sobering narrative for our times of unrealistic and unattainable life expectations.

He is approaching forty but sometimes Andy feels closer to fifty. His career, home and family life are rapidly going downhill, and he is approaching a self-induced crisis. A dramatic tipping point in his life.

When a nurturing and championing boss leaves the biotech company Andy works for, he is left struggling with his jealous peers and the fear of onrushing redundancy. With finances stretched and a growing family to support, Andy is pushed to breaking point.

Sneaking some samples of an untested depression medication into his bag one evening after work, Andy hopes the drug will help him to turn his life around. It does but not in the way he expected. Instead, the drug and his deception, throws Andy into an abusive and life-changing affair with the headstrong paradox that is Janey Robins who trades her body for Andy’s intoxicating drug. A practical arrangement riven with self-interest and mutual deceit. But it is not only Janey who is interested in the drug as the police close in on the source of a life-threatening, and frightening new drug which has suddenly appeared on the streets. Will Andy be able to turn things around, or has the drug and the choices he has made ruin his family life and career beyond redemption?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803134116

Book preview

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Copyright © 2022 Verity Trevethan

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781803134116

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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Contents

Part One   An Ordinary Life

The First Time

Drinking

Suburbanites

Janey

Part Two   A Life Less Ordinary

Falling

The Second Time

Holidays!

Work

Death

Saying Goodbye

Who’s a Happy Camper?!

Part Three   A Better Life Through Chemistry

Piano

The Third Time

Coffee, Tea and Cake, Part 1

And Life Goes On

Hotel

Stolen Car

Part Four   The Reckoning

Next Steps

The Next Time

Meanwhile, Back at the Station

It’s Gone!

Difficult Conversations

My Little Brother

Coffee, Tea and Cake, Part 2

Part Five   A New Life

Christmas by the Sea

The Last Time

Part One

An Ordinary Life

The First Time

The fruity acidity of the soft drink he had gently warmed between his hands helped the off-white powder dissolve. The citrus flavour just about blunted the drug’s metallic taste, although there was no mistaking that his drink was not just the sugar- and taste-free lemonade his wife insisted on buying. But after nearly half an hour of looking at, if not exactly watching, a sadistic fitness trainer thrashing an obviously overweight man to within an inch of his televised life, he felt no different after drinking his new blend. The armchair still felt uncomfortable and still needed reupholstering. The only remaining unmodified molar on the left of his lower set of teeth still throbbed gently as it had for the past few weeks. Outside, what had been a bleak and colourless winter’s day was almost coming to an end, although it was barely five o’clock. And his mood. His black dog. That familiar animal – who typically arrived at the most inconvenient of moments – was still staring at him from the sofa across the room, and the dark angel was still hovering near the door. Two faithful but uninvited and unwelcome companions. When would the ‘up’ arrive? Perhaps it never would with this compound, and it would all turn out to be just another failed experiment. That this untested drug hadn’t killed him yet was, at least, of some consolation to him.

A second dose was contemplated. Perhaps he had been too cautious in extrapolating the dose that worked so well in rats at his company’s laboratories to calculate that needed to work on the brain of a middle-aged Englishman running to fat. He considered returning to the attic hideaway where he had stashed a handful of vials of the experimental drug that he had ‘borrowed’ from the company, to pick out a second dose. But just before he could climb out of his armchair – and just after the fitness trainer man-hugged his newly slimmed, if not entirely slim, protégé – it happened. At first it was a barely noticeable tingling, trickling down his spine like a lover’s gentle touch. This soothing sensation was then joined by a gradual release of tension, starting from his neck and shoulders and then moving to his head, bathing it in a vague, fuzzy warmth. This was what Andy had anticipated from the data they had collected in the lab: a gradual easing of anxiety.

This compound was not supposed to provide an acute up; an immediate buzz. But then that particular train did arrive. The euphoric sense of confidence cascaded through him as if powered by one of the more convincing evangelical preachers. It was truly bewildering. Enthralling. A feeling of calm and complete control over what he was and what he could do, bereft of the cynicism he typically experienced on encountering such absurdities of thought. An overwhelming, unsurmountable optimism had replaced his weary, default setting of barely justified pessimism. It was as if someone had corrupted the hard drive that was his brain. The lines of code that had for a long time made him the rational, conservative, responsible man he was had been overwritten in a language so very unfamiliar to him; one resplendent in words of emotion, possibility, hope and freedom. Words and feelings that he had for so long forgotten.

It was this quite remarkable sense of overwhelming confidence and well-being that stayed with Andy over the next few hours as he waited for his family to return home. An ease with all around him and the future that faced him. Not even the thought of a house soon to be filled with noise and children could perturb him. Not even the dread of the forced jollity of a New Year’s Eve ‘celebration’ soon to be spent with his in-laws (and which had led to him taking this concoction in the first place) could force its way into his consciousness. Was this nirvana? Maybe. Huxley’s soma? Possibly. The complete, life-affirming medication that was supposed not to exist? So it seemed. But surely not. Life is not like that. At least, not Andy’s life.

That night he made love with his wife with an urgency, relentlessness and passion that startled them both. It was an echo of a time before the children had arrived; before the energy-sapping sleepless nights. When money was to be spent rather than watched and worried about. When work was aspirational with unbounded opportunities stretching into the future, rather than a worrisome chore. When time was limitless.

How had it all come down to this?

Drinking

The dying echoes of the slammed door resonated through the plasterboard walls of the cramped, over-bright hotel room. This was not an expensive hotel. His mood was such that he wished to leave little doubt in the mind of the woman standing in front of the full-length mirror as to why he felt as he did and who was to blame for that. As if in sympathy with his demeanour, the slamming of the substantial fire door encouraged a small lamp on the bedside table to wobble briefly before settling, somewhat precariously, near the edge. It was saved from extinction by the close proximity of the ubiquitous hotel alarm radio and an unread Bible taken from the lowest of a flimsy set of bedside drawers; a book which, only hours before, had been the subject of warm and shared humour between the one-time passionate lovers.

The evening had clearly not been kind to him. Although the cut of his well-tailored white shirt and navy trousers, and obsessively polished black shoes, implied that no little effort had been made in his pre-entertainment preparations, a crooked and unravelling tie and a stained, rolled-up shirt suggested an evening of excess. A damp patch of sweat was starting to break through the back of his shirt. She, as always, had weathered the evening far better. Wearing a simple, knee-length black dress, tasteful and modest jewellery, and black suede court shoes, she was experienced in concealing the effects of time on a not unattractive face and figure. Her youthful experimentations had taught her well the lessons of overconsumption, and these days she knew better than to indulge to excess. She was now carefully removing what little make-up she had applied earlier in the evening.

He took two steps further into the room, slowly moving his right hand over his face and through his thick, curly black hair in a theatrical display of exasperation. "How many times do we have to go through this? Even you must see that this is completely unreasonable behaviour. We agreed. We’ve talked it through. Jesus, we’ve even talked about counselling. It’s not fair on me, it’s not fair on the kids. He paused, both for breath and for dramatic effect. I just don’t know what to do. Another pause, and a change in posture. His head was now fixed downwards, his chin tucked into his chest. Perhaps leaving you is the only way you are going to change."

Her eyes focused on an imagined object near her partner’s feet. Make-up free, she moved smoothly over to the telephone, coffee maker and TV remote cluttered table, brushing past a cheap, brightly flower-patterned duvet folded crisply at the top. No cost-cutting measure had been considered too trivial by this national hotel chain’s management and owners. She then became interested in a framed photo of a Cotswold village scene hanging above the bed. Anything to avoid looking directly at him. Seemingly unmoved by his argument, she picked up a packet of cigarettes, took one out and placed it in the corner of her mouth, and in doing so stained the filter from a small patch of pale pink lipstick which she had seemingly failed to remove. Then, finally turning to face him, she pushed away the thin strands of bottle-blonde hair covering her face and removed the cigarette. "Come on! Have you lost your sense of humour completely now? I appreciate that there was precious little of it left by the time we married, but everyone could see that it was just harmless fun, flirting with Don. He’s been our friend for years. Everybody could see I was just playing around – except you, of course. Lighten up for once in your life. Chill out. Get a life. Do us all a favour. She was taking a calculated gamble, but this approach had worked before and seemed, at this moment, to be the best way to defuse his obvious anger. She had enjoyed the night and now just wanted to get into bed and go to sleep. It was nothing. It’s what good friends do on a night out. People know what I’m like." The cigarette was replaced, lit, and, in the same movement, she walked around the bed towards the darkened bay window. In doing so, she passed in front of him.

Don’t you turn your fucking back on me.

With that, he stepped forward and brought down his clenched right fist on the back of her neck. The blow was certainly not delivered with his full force and had not really been meant to hurt. It was a result of his pent-up frustration at not being in control. But it caught her off balance and, almost comically, she fell forward, her forehead striking the knee-high white windowsill of the bay window; her hands desperately attempting, but failing, to grip the long curtains.

It quickly became obvious to him, from the way that her head snapped backwards and from the unnatural posture of her body on the bedroom floor, that this was serious. Very serious. Breathing quickly, his first thoughts were entirely selfish. Just an accident. She fell over my foot. A few drinks. Could happen to anyone. Moving slowly towards her, he crouched down, trying to see her face but irrationally anxious not to touch any part of her. Her eyes were open but without emotion; her mouth too was open and lifeless. Blood trickled from one ear.

He could feel the perspiration cooling on the back of his neck as he rose to look out through the window to the sparsely lit car park three floors below. Cars queued patiently to leave the hotel grounds. The party was over. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, almost all without an obvious conclusion. Must phone reception straight away – otherwise it sounds suspicious. He quickly moved over to the table, picked up the telephone receiver and dialled 100 for the hotel reception. Then he slammed down the receiver almost immediately. Don’t rush, take your time; have to get the story right first time. No second chances with this one. Pacing nervously around the room, he studiously avoided looking at the motionless body and willed himself to think of the most believable story. It just didn’t seem real. He almost felt like an actor in some cheap American murder mystery TV show, waiting patiently for the detective hero to get his man. But wait! There’s something going on outside the door. He froze almost in mid-stride, afraid to breathe, his heart pounding out of his chest. Friendly, happy-sounding voices. Yes, voices – still distant and incoherent, but getting louder. Perhaps the partygoers who had chosen to stay the night were retiring to their bedrooms. The police? But how would they know what had just happened in the room? Then a bright light of almost biblical proportions washed, suddenly and dramatically, through the room.

Consciousness is a funny old thing, isn’t it? What is it? How can you tell if you have it? Does it matter? All I know is that it should be avoided at all costs, although unconsciousness rarely comes cheap at today’s prices, whichever road of substance abuse you take.

But let me introduce you to someone who needs no such props to tumble into the depths of the unconscious – for him, middle age and a working life suffice. He’s someone I was soon to get to know very well indeed: Andy Jones.

Wake up. Gently, Graham shook Andy’s left shoulder.

Come on, Andy, drink up. I can see Geoff getting tense, and we wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened last month, would we? added Ian, half in humour, half in fear. An amorous French kiss. That’ll wake the lazy bugger up.

Jesus, spluttered a newly conscious Andy. Not surprisingly, he had been jolted back to life by his friends’ persistence, and found himself sitting bolt upright at a small, round table, facing Ian, Graham and an almost full pint of the very flattest of ‘traditional’ real ale. His transition to full consciousness was aided by the recognition of the familiar surroundings of the pub. What helped him to determine a more precise bearing was the presence of the dangerously overweight, glass-wiping landlord behind the bar. A balding head, an inappropriate and gratuitous moustache, and an air of exaggerated indifference – he could only be Geoff. Andy was, once again, drinking in The Royal Oak. How long have I been asleep?

How long have we been here? answered Ian, again mustering his laconic brand of exaggerated sarcasm.

Sorry about that, fellas. I’ve had a real pig of a week, lied Andy, rubbing his eyes.

"Happens to the best of us when we reach that age. That and a prostate the size of a horse," commented Graham, wondering just how much more tired Andy would be had he seen the number of middle-aged, worried-well patients Graham had had to soothe that week.

Ian fidgeted with his coat in an ill-conceived gesture aimed at bringing the evening’s proceedings to an end. It was too late to get another round in, and he had to get back to his own fridge in order to crack open and enjoy his next drink.

Incredible dream. Full-on colour; close-up action, insisted Andy in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

The usual, I suspect? Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll? quipped Graham, but with little enthusiasm to hear more detail, as there are few things more boring to hear than monologues of other people’s dreams.

No, no. This was murder – at least, I think so. Very believable and very real. It was as if I was committing the crime myself; at least, I think it was me. Not the first time I’ve had that sort of dream, I can tell you. Wonder if they mean anything? What do you think, Dr Robins? Or even you, Ian? The last phrase was delivered with emphasis, almost demanding a response. These recurring dreams, perhaps even nightmares, had been troubling Andy for the past few months, and were of sufficient concern for him to share them openly and canvass reassuring opinions from his new friends, despite him having to confront in the process the taboo of revealing emotions in male company. However, he would never disclose the more disturbing, borderline psychotic episodes encountered in some of his dreams; nor his recurrent headaches. After all, he was a middle-aged Englishman and, worse still, a fully paid-up, anally retentive Yorkshireman.

Hastily, he recounted the details of his most recent dream, dwelling only on the somewhat ghoulish and grotesquely configured body in an attempt to maintain the dwindling interest of his audience. He thought it best not to mention that the victim in his dream had borne a striking resemblance to Graham’s wife.

Well, you’re the professional, Graham. Put the man out of his misery. What does it all mean? interjected Ian with barely concealed impatience.

Graham felt compelled to answer, although he too had quickly become indifferent to Andy’s tale. Don’t ask me; I’m only a lowly GP. I just patch people up or send them on to someone who actually knows what they are talking about. But why don’t you ask Janey? She’s really into all that sort of stuff, and she’s bound to have a viewpoint. Got all the books. Sort of does my head in, but there you go.

Andy always felt a guilty unease at the mention of Graham’s wife’s name, and this occasion was no exception, especially given that he had just murdered her. He had always considered that this particular hang-up – a long-term, embarrassing awkwardness when among attractive, self-assured women like Janey – was most likely due to his single-sex public-school education. Not his fault, of course, though in his case that awkwardness was aided and abetted by his leering attraction to his friend’s wife. His teenage years had been blighted by girls being seemingly from a different planet, although an actual alien might have been easier to get to know, as at least the unfamiliarity and incomprehension would have been mutual. Yeah, sure. Why not? he replied, without any great conviction and in a voice trailing off into a mumble. Really, he’d known all along that his gamble at being open would not pay off, but at least, contrary to more typical male behaviour and his worst expectations, he had not been mocked. Yet.

"Time, gentlemen, pleeease," announced Geoff to no one in particular, whilst fighting back an incoming coughing episode. Three minutes early, as tradition demanded. The not unusual scarcity of custom barely warranted this evening’s laboured bell-ringing routine, but nonetheless he felt it to be both necessary and appropriate.

Andy bolted down his only drink of the night with indecent haste, failing guiltily to match the empty glasses of Ian and Graham. Almost inaudibly, he muttered something about not being able to drink as much as he did as a lad to his friends’ unlistening backs as they made their way to the bar. The three friends thoughtfully deposited their glasses at the bar and headed for the rear door. Not untypically, no word of acknowledgement, thanks or even recognition was forthcoming from Geoff as they passed through the door and into the dangerously under-illuminated car park. At least they had been spared one of his rants on whichever population had offended him most over the preceding week; a category which ranged from mask wearers to anyone who was not clearly a middle-aged white Englishman.

Andy fumbled for his car keys in the claustrophobic darkness of the moonless countryside night.

Miserable bastard! ventured Ian. Little wonder he has fuck-all custom.

You’re right, added Andy resignedly, not for the first time feeling rather alarmed at the forthright language of the geography department deputy head at Ulstown High School, of whom he expected better. Moreover, Andy’s aspirational upbringing led him to believe that this level of obscenity was rather presumptuous of their still relatively new friendship. He made a mental note to redouble his efforts to look for alternative schools for his eldest, although there were still some years to go before Joshua would be leaving primary school. Can’t understand why we still come here. There must be somewhere better than this – I mean, it’s not as if it’s even local. It takes us twenty minutes to drive here.

"Ulstown is the ultimate drinking gentleman’s desert. We’ve been through this before," with the emphasis on a long, drawn-out ‘before’, was Graham’s truthful, although uneagerly anticipated retort. The Royal Oak was the only pub in the locality that sold real ales. Not that any of them had any particular interest in real ale, but each thought that the other two did. Such are Englishmen.

Andy eventually managed to aim the electronic key in the appropriate direction, and, with the central locking mechanism released, all three could retreat from the cooling night air.

Cold again tonight, observed Ian with a reassuringly English obviousness, although it had been no colder in the previous few weeks and correlated perfectly with the unremarkable weather rather typical of this very fortunate part of the world.

Frost by morning according to the forecast. May be the last of the winter, I hope. Can’t wait to get started on the garden, was Graham’s hopelessly optimistic meteorological opinion.

Starting the engine on his first attempt, Andy carefully manoeuvred his new company car through the pub gates, past the grass-bordered road sign posted to Ulstown, and onwards to home. It had all been too easy for the salesman. No need for the hard sell. Commission-eroding discounts could be kept in hand for more demanding customers since, before even entering the showroom, Andy had convinced himself of the good taste and status his pre-chosen car – a nearly top-of-the-range Volkswagen saloon – reflected on its owner. ‘Full leather interior and surround sound entertainment system,’ shouted the brochure. It remained for the grateful salesman only to sell the colour to the proud new owner, and to make knowledgeable and encouraging noises while Andy considered the merits of air conditioning versus a tinted sunroof. The sunroof option had eventually been selected on the basis that its electronic operation added still further cachet to his choice. Who could possibly justify the fitting of air conditioning in a car driven only over the highways and byways of Great Britain? Climate change could wait.

Graham was right, of course. Ulstown was a drinking man’s desert, and they had indeed been through this before. Several times. The search for a decent drink was now very much part of a Friday evening’s entertainment (nominally exercise night) for the three friends.

The mutual need for regular vigorous exercise was a New Year’s resolution agreed by all on a cold December morning outside Andy’s house. That occasion had been the first time the neighbours had talked together for any appreciable amount of time, and had become the beginning of their gentle friendship. Their families shared a small cul-de-sac and had moved into their new-build, ‘individually designed executive houses’ within a month of each other. Although a thinly veiled (but universally accepted) excuse for a night’s drinking, Andy, Ian and Graham tried almost their hardest on the exercise course laid out for them at the local recreation centre. Indeed, their initial sessions had been quite competitive, but within a few months this had settled down to mutual false modesties.

First up in their search for an acceptable post-exercise drinking house had been Ulstown Recreation Centre’s very own sports bar, which was tried once and only once, being a soulless room sharing all the worst features with airport departure lounges. Inexplicably worn, uncomfortable chairs surrounded plastic tables of insufficient strength and balance to be trusted with any meaningful volume of drink. The noise from a ferocious air-conditioning unit competed with the Eurosport feed from a large monitor which was not quite loud enough to hear but sufficiently loud to prevent easy conversation among the patrons. But the coup de grâce was provided by the bar staff who, in keeping with their obvious inability to run a sports centre, demonstrated only the most tenuous grasp of basic communication skills, barkeeping and attendance. Not an experience worth repeating, all agreed.

Having unanimously rejected the plastic, happy-hour-obsessed pub chains in the town centre frequented by the lager-drinking eighteen-to-thirty community, and thus avoiding the embarrassment of leering at the acres of young women’s flesh on view, their second visit had been to the newly built pub designed to cater for the needs of their still-growing housing estate. The traditionally (and thus, in the view of the three men, promisingly) named Green Man sought to justify its moniker by attempting to capture the perceived essence of a typical English country pub. De rigueur horse brasses competed for the customers’ attention with reproduction woodwork, generic grey-and-white pictures of bygone days, and a bookcase of never-read (and never-to-be-read) distressed books. All this manufactured antiquity might very well have been tolerated by the friends had it not been for the shocking choice and quality of real ales offered, and the presence of slot machines and loud music, neither of which one would expect to find in a real country pub. Strike two.

Their third attempt in their search for Shangri-La had been the result of some inside information from one of the older receptionists at Graham’s surgery. Delsie had insisted that The Royal Oak was well worth the drive out from Ulstown, although she and Lionel had not been there for many years. "But those traditional English country pubs are timeless, aren’t they? Lionel always enjoyed the beer there before his… you know… problem. You’ll have a great time. Just what you’re looking for."

It happened to be Graham’s turn to drive on their first visit to The Royal Oak. The pleasant surprise of the relative brevity of the twenty-minute car journey (originally advertised by Delsie as being over half an hour – Lionel’s driving was almost glacial in speed) was somewhat dissipated by an alarming sideways skid on the rapidly frosting road as Graham belatedly glimpsed the pub’s entrance in the gathering gloom. His quick and fulsome apology was insufficient to prevent Ian from once again questioning the need for the childless Graham to drive around in such an unwieldy off-road four-by-four monster. Janey gets what Janey wants was, of course, the unspoken answer. Ian and Andy would have looked knowingly at each other had they been able to do so without Graham noticing.

The pub’s facade was unremarkable but not unappealing. On the outskirts of the smallest of villages and some fifty yards away from a