The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson

and the silence became too heavy. The unseen curse of the days after.
    Unfortunately, we were spending less and less time with each other. She had a 9-to-5 job, and then would often spend the time with workmates (and Thomas?) having drinks together when their stint
at the office ended, by which time I had already left for my work at the theatre. By when I would get home, she was all too often asleep and even though she still instinctively cuddled up to me in
bed when I slipped between the covers, it was more of a heat-seeking reaction, a habit rather than an overture to sex. When sex between us did occur, it was tepid and, on her side, unenthusiastic,
as if she was discharging an obligation or merely being kind to me and her heart was no longer in it. Under me, over me, in embrace, Iris grew ever more passive and quieter. While I kept on being
held hostage by tendrils of want.
    Our weekend opportunities together were also limited to snatched hours as the Princess Empire was currently featuring matinée performances on each day due to a strong demand for the show,
curtailing my free time with Iris.
    I invariably awoke to an empty bedsit, my sleep barely disturbed by her movements rising and dressing earlier, while she ventured as discreetly as she could to the kitchen area so that I
wouldn’t be disturbed by her breakfasting sounds or the swish of the front door closing as she left for work. All this faintly registered with me in the periphery of my dreams as I
sleepwalked towards day.
    Knowing I was alone and there was no reason to actually get up, I unconsciously prolonged my time in bed, basking in the heat retained between the bedcovers, stretching endlessly in a vain bid
to settle the turmoil dominating my body and thoughts, tossing and turning until the light seeping through the washed-out grey net curtains won its battle against my laziness. Which left me with
too many free hours until I had to present myself at the theatre again.
    Increasingly unsettled in our tiny rental when I was alone and a dangerous prey to my unexpressed fears, to fill the time I would often take public transport at random, catch a bus on a whim and
just explore new parts of London, wandering aimlessly through the city’s immensities and quirky corners, uncovering secret parts, hidden parks, miraculous waterways and low-slung bridges,
empty estates and industrial zones. And when autumn began in earnest and the weather started to limit my urban travels, I would sit idly at the kitchen table trying to make my coffee and toast last
longer, or attempt to read a book and wake up from an aimless reverie an hour or so later still focused on the same page and with no memory of anything that had occurred earlier in the story in
question.
    That morning saw me again prey to inactivity.
    The phone rang.
    ‘Moana Irving?’
    ‘Yes, speaking.’
    ‘Wonderful. It’s taken me ages to trace you . . .’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    A man with a youthful voice and a pronounced self-satisfied Oxbridge tone. Somehow the wrong sort of voice for a nuisance or unwanted sales call.
    My mental cobwebs still lingered.
    ‘And you are?’ I ventured.
    ‘Your cousin.’
    ‘You must have called the wrong number. I don’t have any cousins . . .’
    ‘Oh yes you do . . . I’m Gwillam.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Gwillam Irving. I realise it’s a bit of an uncommon first name, but it’s the one I was given at birth. Never had much of a choice in the matter, I fear.’
    I felt inclined to like him after that. People were forever getting my name wrong too.
    I took another sip of coffee from the mug. It was cold and useless.
    ‘So how exactly are we related?’ I asked him.
    ‘Ah, it’s a long story,’ he replied.
    ‘I’m all ears.’ I still found the whole thing dubious.
    ‘Not actually a first cousin. The connection is more remote. Your dad had a step-brother. He married my mother.’
    It was the first time in ages I’d had to even think of the father I had