Another Man's Shoes

Friday 17th July

My name is Andrew Jackson and I have been dead for eleven days.

I am on the balcony of Matthew Campbell’s bedroom gazing down upon his expansive garden. Two gnarled cypress trees, tall and slender, could be pointing at a Mediterranean sky, and perfectly manicured lawns, bordered by a riot of mature shrubs, drift towards undulating country fields beyond the distant boundary hedge. It is difficult to comprehend that this is merely twelve miles from Central London.

Helen cooked my breakfast this morning: she thinks I am her husband. Burnt toast and curling, black rashers of bacon accompanying solid egg yolks suggest the kitchen as a place of endeavour may not be her spiritual home.

Since I returned from the hospital ten days ago she has left me to fend for myself most of the time. I have been grateful because this ageing body is pumped with sexual libido. I struggle to control the urges as I must, for it is inconceivable that I should ever cheat on my wife. If I did, this would be a betrayal of our love and family, all we have built over the last twenty-two years.

Fortunately, there has been no embarrassment, no strong test to resist temptation. Helen and Matthew appear to lead entirely independent lives. They have separate bedrooms within this palatial house, near the golf club in Hadley Wood, a wealthy North London suburb adjoining the Metropolitan Green Belt. By coincidence, it is only a few miles from my own home in Enfield, but the contrast between that modest Victorian semi with its small, neglected garden and this opulent, detached mansion could not be more stark. It is exemplified by the old, grey BMW 520 saloon, no doubt still languishing on the small drive at the front of my house, and the new Bentley Continental Flying Spur, a gleaming metallic blue, parked outside on Matthew’s sweeping carriage drive, in perfect harmony to compliment the massive stone pillars at the grand entrance porch.

In the cavernous dressing room which adjoins one side of this bedroom, adjacent to the en suite and whirlpool bathtub, I have found a fine black suit boasting smooth, red silk lining. The tailor’s name and address is sewn within, Savile Row, and there is a silk black tie and designer, black brogues. This afternoon I will go to my own funeral service before I watch them bury me under six feet of London clay.