Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘You’re having an abortion, yes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re old! What? You had IBF?’

  ‘You mean IVF, you moron. And no. I conceived naturally.’

  ‘What’s natural about it?’

  ‘Don’t you dare be disgusted by me! What’s natural about you thinking you can have it away with that waitress? I saw you. She’s what? Eighteen and you’re nearly forty-six!’

  Daniel still looked disgusted.

  ‘It’s different. It’s biological that guys go for younger women. It means they’re more likely to have a good baby.’

  ‘A good baby. You are such a dick Daniel.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘Yeah really jealous. You look like you’ve got it all sorted…’

  We stared at each other for a few minutes.

  ‘So. When are you having it?’ he asked.

  ‘August.’

  He carried on staring.

  ‘You could say congratulations!’ I said.

  ‘What is it? Attention seeking?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You need a gimmick to promote your next book?’

  ‘It wasn’t planned and I conceived naturally. What’s gimmicky about that?’

  ‘So you’re just doing it to piss me off?’

  ‘Yes. Adam and I decided to conceive a child which we’ll be responsible for for the rest of our lives, just to annoy you.’

  ‘So you’re saying you and Adam are serious?’

  I started to laugh.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me. You’re making a big mistake, I’m telling you. That baby won’t be happy.’

  I stopped laughing.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  He nodded. I was really angry now.

  ‘Is that the same jacket you had at University?’

  ‘Yeah, still fits,’ he said.

  ‘And the same guitar?’

  ‘Yeah. I was going to busk later.’

  ‘So a forty-six-year-old busker is giving me tips on how to live my life?’

  ‘What’s wrong with busking outside the Royal Opera House? It’s bloody good money.’

  ‘With your talent you should be inside the Royal Opera House conducting an opera you’ve written!’

  ‘I haven’t written an opera.’ he sniffled.

  ‘I know. How can you have let this happen?’

  ‘What?

  ‘You’re frozen in time. Still a bloody eighteen year old.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘You’ve jumped from one woman to the next and let them take care of you. You went from your mother, to me, back to your mother via a few skanks, and now Jennifer with her house in Hampstead and trust fund.’

  ‘Leave it out Coco.’

  ‘No. You tell me this baby won’t be happy, but I’ve already cared for two children, Rosencrantz and YOU.’

  We sat in silence eyeballing each other. Then Daniel said he was going for another drink. I watched him walk off to the bar. I remember Chris constantly telling me that I was the enabler in Daniel’s and my relationship. I thought it was fancy chat from his therapist. It was a revelation to finally understand.

  ‘Have you got two quid?’ asked Daniel popping his head back from the bar. I gave him a look. ‘What? I’ve only got fifty six pence on me…’

  ‘Daniel,’ I said. ‘You need to realise something. We are divorced. You cheated on me and left me. Things aren’t the same anymore.’

  He stared at me. ‘Okay. But have you got the two quid? Come on you can afford it.’ he looked back at the waitress decorating the top of his Guinness with a four leaf clover, she grinned at him.

  ‘I can, but I’m not giving it to you.’

  ‘Come on Cokes,’ he said doing his cheeky little smile.

  ‘I’m not your enabler.’

  ‘Oh enabler. Did Chris pull that out of his arse again?’

  ‘Let me put it another way. This whole cheeky little Peter Pan act was fun in your twenties, you even got away with it in the early part of your thirties.’

  I watched the waitress waiting for Daniel, and she looked like she wanted to give him more than a pint. He nodded at her and pulled a face.

  ‘I’d say you’ve got a couple of years left of being the sexy older man before you’re in Roger Moore territory with no chance of a James Bond pickup.’

  Daniel looked shocked.

  ‘Now I say this with love. Get a life.’ I picked up my handbag and left him owing two quid to the horny waitress.

  Friday 3rd February

  We ordered in pizza tonight, to celebrate having told everyone that I was pregnant. I was just thinking that everything would be perfect if Rosencrantz was here, when the doorbell rang. He was standing outside in the snow with Oscar.

  ‘Peace offering?’ he said holding up a present wrapped in a bow. They came through to the kitchen, and Adam grabbed some extra plates and glasses from the cupboard.

  ‘I want to say sorry to you both,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘I was just a bit shocked. You’re gonna be the most amazing parents.’

  He gave me a big hug.

  ‘And I get to have a baby sister… or a brother?’

  ‘We won’t know for a while,’ said Adam hugging him.

  ‘Congratulations Mrs P, and Mr R,’ said Oscar hugging me and shaking Adam’s hand. ‘Or are you now Mrs R ?’

  ‘Um, bone of contention Oscar,’ said Adam pouring us all some wine.

  ‘Well, my professional name is Coco Pinchard,’ I said. ‘I think it would cause complications…’

  ‘You can have both, Mum,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘Or you could go double-barrelled! If Oscar and I get married, we could be Pinchard-North or North-Pinchard.’

  There was silence. Oscar cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘Although I think Oscar wants to keep his name,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘He’s getting far more acting work than I am. He’ll probably be hugely famous before the end of the year.’

  ‘You’ll get work,’ said Oscar kindly.

  ‘Well my agent seems to think I should shape up,’ said Rosencrantz pouring himself some more wine.

  ‘He just suggested you go to the gym and bulk up a bit,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I’m naturally slim,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘We can’t all be muscle men like you.’

  ‘Well you’re not going to get fit pouring another glass of wine, and I’m not dealing with you sloshed again,’ said Oscar.

  There was another awkward silence.

  ‘Well, look, congratulations to you both,’ I said hugging Rosencrantz. ‘On being a couple.’ Oscar grinned back. He has the cutest dimples.

  ‘I propose a toast,’ said Oscar. ‘To a beautiful healthy baby.’ We all clinked glasses.

  ‘Come on, open your present,’ said Rosencrantz. I tore off the paper. It was a lovely bottle of champagne, and an envelope.

  ‘We got you a voucher for a his and hers spa day,’ said Oscar.

  ‘And the champagne is to have after you’ve given birth,’ added Rosencrantz. ‘We couldn’t think of any other time a woman is more deserving of a lovely glass of champagne.’

  I got quite emotional as we thanked the boys.

  ‘And don’t worry about being an older mum, Mum,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘You guys are in a great position to have a baby. You’ve done it before, you’re more established. You own this house, and Adam’s flat round the corner. It’s perfect.’

  ‘Cool, you’re in property?’ asked Oscar. ‘My mother is too.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t say we’re ‘in property’,’ said Adam. ‘Renting out the flat pays the mortgage and gives us a little extra to live on.’

  ‘Isn’t the Tenancy Deposit Scheme a bureaucratic nightmare!’ said Oscar.

  ‘The what?’ asked Adam.

  ‘The Tenancy Deposit Scheme, I had to help my mother transfer all our tenants’ deposits over when the scheme launched. Nightmare.’

  Adam looked blank.

 
‘Did you do this tenancy deposit thing?’ I said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Adam shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘Don’t worry, your letting agent must have done it for you,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I didn’t use a letting agent,’ said Adam. ‘I put a card up in the caff on Baker Street.’

  ‘You should have used an agent. Running credit checks on all the people you interviewed must have been so pricey,’ said Oscar.

  Adam looked blank again.

  ‘You did run a credit check on our tenant? What’s her name?’ I said.

  ‘She showed me her savings booklet…’ said Adam. There was a scandalised silence.

  ‘So what job do you do?’ asked Oscar changing the subject.

  ‘Nothing at the moment. I’m looking for work in the public sector,’ said Adam.

  There was yet another awkward silence. Rosencrantz changed the subject to safer ground, and they chatted on about their acting auditions and trip to Ibiza, but the happy atmosphere between me and Adam had evaporated.

  ‘Can I see the tenancy agreement for the woman who rents your flat?’ I asked, when the boys had left.

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s been there for over a year now and we’ve had no problems.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that our main source of income depends on a word-of-mouth agreement with a dotty old spinster?’

  ‘She’s not dotty!’

  ‘What job does she do?’

  ‘I think she’s on disability allowance…’

  ‘I don’t believe this. We have no savings Adam! We’re screwed.’

  ‘Coco. Why have you never brought this up before?’

  ‘It didn’t seem as urgent,’ I said. ‘But we’re having a bloody baby. The most expensive thing you can have!’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Adam, but I could see from his face he didn’t believe it either.

  Saturday 4th February

  Adam phoned our tenant this morning. I perched beside him on the sofa when he made the call.

  ‘Hi Tabitha? It’s Adam. How are you?’ he said. There was a long pause as he listened, an indulgent smile on his face.

  ‘Yeah, this damp weather will do that to your knees… No, thank you, I don’t want any of your Victoria sponge… Yes it is delicious, but I’m on a new workout regime… Thank you. I do look after myself… No, I’ve never tried modelling.’

  I rolled my eyes and nudged him to get on with it.

  ‘Listen, Tabitha. I need to talk to you about the flat…’ he said. ‘No, there’s no problem… I wanted to see what you thought about getting yourself on a tenancy agreement…? Yes, signing one. Ok… well have a think… ok, bye.’ Adam put the phone down.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ I said.

  ‘She said she’d think about it.’

  ‘We need to make her sign one… it’s madness not to have anything in writing. We might as well have a squatter.’

  ‘You are being ridiculous Coco. Let me handle this,’ said Adam firmly.

  ‘She just wound you round her little finger.’

  ‘Coco you’ve taken zero interest in Tabitha. She’s paid the rent, on time, for nearly a year and a half.’

  Sunday 5th February

  I spent last night online, looking at websites on how to be a Landlord. They all say that you would be mad to rent a place out to someone and have nothing in writing. It also didn’t help that I discovered a baby calculator on the BBC website. Not for counting babies, of course, but counting the cost of them, which was eye watering. I think this persuaded Adam we need to act, and we found a site which had downloadable tenancy agreements and printed some off.

  This afternoon we filled two of them out, then walked round to Adam’s flat on Baker Street. I haven’t been there in yonks. I noticed the panel with the six buttons on it for the flats. The bell for Adam’s flat on the ground floor had a tiny image where the name should be. A little cluster of hearts. I pointed this out to Adam, who shrugged and said that Tabitha was a bit arty.

  I went to ring the bell when the main door opened. A bald middle aged man in glasses emerged. He was dressed smartly, and carrying a big hold-all. Tabitha was behind him. She must be in her late sixties, a buxom woman with very long grey hair parted in the centre, and wearing piles of red lipstick and eyeshadow. Her enormous bosom was bra-less, and barely battened down under a silk Kimono.

  ‘See you soon Dougie,’ she said wiggling her red painted nails at the bald man. Dougie blushed and scooted off down the road, looking furtively back at us.

  ‘Hello Adam,’ she said, gazing up at him with an appraising smile. As an afterthought she looked at me, ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Hello, I’m Coco. Mrs Rickard. Adam’s wife.’ Adam gave me a look as if to say, now you decide to be Mrs Rickard.

  I had met Tabitha before. I’d mistakenly barged in when Adam first rented the flat out. We’d just split up, and I was hurt, angry and looking for a confrontation. Luckily she didn’t seem to remember me, and we followed her inside.

  When Adam lived in the flat, it was very clean and modern. Tabitha’s style was more Miss Havisham, a sort of sweet smelling decay. Loads of overgrown dusty plants, wicker chairs, coloured beads in the doorways. There were joss sticks on the go everywhere, leaving little trails of ash on her mismatched furniture.

  ‘Would you like some tea? Oolong? Lapsang Souchong?’ she said sashaying into the kitchen half of the open-plan living room. A cat was snoozing on top of a big old computer monitor, and there was a single bed under the window. The curtains were drawn, and the sheets were crumpled. Adam and I said yes and no at the same time.

  ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘We’re just here to see if you could sign this?’

  Tabitha lit the gas with a flourish, placed the kettle on the stove and sashayed back towards me taking the Tenancy Agreement.

  ‘Oh we don’t need this,’ she said flicking through. I looked at Adam.

  ‘Yes. We do, um Mrs?’

  ‘It’s Laycock. And I’m a Miss. I did toy with Ms. but I’ve met a lot of Mses and they always seem so uptight… What’s wrong with being available?’ she asked, admiring Adam’s backside in his tight jeans.

  ‘Miss Laycock,’ I said tartly, as if I were in an Oscar Wilde play. ‘We need an agreement to make this – you being here – legally binding.’

  ‘But it is legally binding,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said unsure.

  ‘But yes Ms Rickard. I have a verbal agreement with Adam.’

  ‘You do?’ I asked, looking at Adam.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He invited me to be his tenant. I said yes. I paid a deposit, he gave me a receipt. Voila we have a verbal tenancy agreement. Sure it’s not as watertight as if it were in writing, but I’m protected by all the same laws, you are too.’

  I was lost for words. I looked at Adam.

  ‘Do you want me to move out?’ she asked all wide eyed. Her nipples had now decided to join in the discussion too. They were straining against the material of her kimono like football studs.

  ‘No! No Tabitha. You are very welcome,’ said Adam to her nipples. I went to say something but the door buzzer went.

  ‘Ah. I’m afraid our time is up. That’s my next client,’ she said.

  ‘Client?’ I said.

  ‘I’m a healer,’ she said. I looked from the bed, to Tabitha in her kimono with obviously nothing on underneath.

  ‘What do you heal?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, everything,’ she said vaguely. The buzzer went again and she ushered us out.

  ‘Let me leave it here so you can think about it,’ I said putting the tenancy agreement down on the hall table. She opened the door to a shifty looking lad of Rosencrantz’s age. His eyes lit up when he saw her bosom.

  ‘Do go through Dean. I’m just finishing up with this couple.’

  ‘Couple?’ he chuckled and nipped past us.

  ‘
I promise to think about this,’ she said picking up the tenancy agreement. The door closed behind us. We walked down the steps and onto the street.

  ‘Interesting. So there is such thing as a verbal tenancy agreement.’ said Adam as we walked back.

  ‘That’s what’s interesting?’

  I stopped on the pavement by the crossing and pressed the button. Cars whizzed past. Adam looked at me.

  ‘Adam! She’s a prostitute!’

  ‘She’s a healer.’

  ‘Come off it. Did you see that young lad? There was nothing wrong with him. The only thing her healing hands are doing is unzipping his trousers…’

  ‘No. Not Tabitha,’ said Adam as we crossed the road. Why is it that men have this blank when it comes to women? I don’t know if Tabitha ticks some mother/goddess button for him, but he seemed to think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But I think it would, and very quickly too.

  When we got home I had the horrible realisation that our whole life is being funded from the spoils of prostitution.

  ‘Ok. If she is a prostitute, so what?’ said Adam.

  ‘So what? The food we eat, the bills we pay are all because she does… I don’t want to think what she does.’

  ‘If you look at the world like that, then everything is tainted,’ said Adam. ‘Our banks lend money to fund wars, our phones and computers are made by workers in terrible conditions, that shampoo you use is tested on fluffy animals. Consenting sex, in comparison, is pretty harmless.’

  I went to put a latte capsule in the coffee machine, then dropped it back in the box.

  ‘Coco,’ he said putting his arms round me. ‘Why are you being so prudish?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’re bringing a baby into the world… and I know there are bad things out there… I just don’t want us to be so close to them.’

  ‘Okay let’s spin it another way. If she is a prostitute, which we don’t know for certain, isn’t it a good thing? It’s recession proof.’

  ‘It’s also illegal.’

  ‘So is taping shows of the telly and keeping them… How many illegal episodes of ‘Eastenders’ are you hoarding in those packing boxes?’

  Despite everything I smiled.