My English Wife

my english wife

The rain was falling hard. London was paralyzed. The whole city was standing still and I was stuck in the back of a black cab, halfway down the Kings Road, twenty-five minutes late to a concert, right on track to ruin my wife's birthday for the third year in a row.  

The cars rumbled on and on, engines steaming, their outlines slanted in the summer rain. I watched it all pass with a restlessness that was impossible to control. I was always ruining plans when Julia was involved. But this time it was different. Even before this evening the fitness of our marriage had long been in doubt. For the last year we'd pendulumed between patches of love and hate, like a boat tossed around on choppy waves. Tonight was supposed to be the test. I was late. 

Out on the sidewalks, men and women huddled together under the great pastel awnings of the steakhouses and the cocktail bars like survivors of a flood. Strings of bare electric lightbulbs dangled above the restaurant tops. Clean jawed waiters in red bowties scrambled to pick up delicate, leather bound theater menus. Drops of rain pattered into the hollows of frail champagne flutes left in the rain.  

"This traffic is bullshit," I told the driver in response to something he'd said. "Way, way worse than it is in LA. Traffic is never this bad on surface streets in California. No fucking way."  

"Well, I've never been to Los Angeles," he responded calmly. "All I know is that we aren't going anywhere anytime soon mate. It's the Chelsea match that's caused this."  

Outside my window there was a group of mounted policemen in neon raincoats and domed helmets. Their horses scraped their hooves on the asphalt, snorted and blew clouds of saliva from their steaming lips.  

"I'll tell you what, the traffic is so bad here because the roads in your city are too goddamn small." 

"Too small?" 

"Yeah. They're way too small. There just isn't any room for these fucking cars," I said.  

"And what exactly do you want me to do about it?"  

"I'll tell you what you need to do - you've got to expand these roads. Knock down a few of these old buildings if you have to." 

"These builings?" he said waving his hand towards the iconic Victorian structures towering above the road. "These are listed historical buildings mate." 

"Yeah? Listed or not, you won't miss those for a second when you are bombing down these streets like it's a bloody freeway." 

"Not gonna happen mate." 

"Are you serious?" I looked at him in the rear view mirror. "Listen, I hate to do this to you bud," I explained, "but I gotta to leave. I need to go on foot or else I'll miss this thing I'm supposed to be at."  

The driver grunted and jerked the car to the side of the road.  

I paid up and took off running through the downpour at full speed. Within seconds my suit was soaked through and clung so tight to my arms and legs that every groove of my body was visible. 

Down the alleys of Chelsea, pink chimneys jutted from the rooftops of mansions. Ribbons of smoke rolled from their mouths and the fine scent of burning wood wafted through the streets like incense. I turned a corner and went crashing through a chain of deep puddles. As I splashed through Sloane Square a crowd of well-dressed people clutching umbrellas turned to look at me with mockery and amusement flashing in their cold blue eyes.  

I cut down a side street and saw Cadogan Hall, all bathed in yellow lamplight that came slobbering down its sides. In the glow of lights, framed by an arched doorway, Julia stood in front of the building, tall and beautiful in a low cut cocktail dress. Hunched beside her was a bald usher who cheerlessly acknowledged my presence with a nod.