by Alam, Donna
These feelings—or non-feelings—aside, what I can’t stand right now is listening to Ivy. Yesterday she was all for forcing me back into the real world, dragging me kicking and screaming, if she had to. But now it looks like that has all taken a back seat.
I’m back to being the basket case again. She’s expecting me to bow under the weight of this added bullshit. To crumble a little more.
And I’m not down for that.
Swinging my feet onto the floor, I pull myself upright and make my way into my bedroom, rummaging through the solitary set of drawers until I find what I’m looking for. Ah, there.
‘I’m not going to suggest—’ Ivy stops speaking, eyeing me like I’m a cause for concern. Probably the result of my abrupt appearance in the kitchen while carrying sharp, pointy implements. ‘Hey, Fin,’ she says carefully. ‘What have you got there?’
I smile at her tone and the fact she’s looking at me as though I’m a nut, but it feels weird, this smile. Sort of forced, so I cut it short. Yes, I’m numb, but I also have something to accomplish as I set a pair of large shearing scissors on the table.
‘If I was gonna off myself—or you two—it wouldn’t be with a pair of scissors,’ I say, pulling my elastic hair tie part way down my ponytail. My hair mushrooms at shoulder length. I pick up the shears again. ‘Murder?’ I ponder. ‘I’d probably go for poison. Or maybe a nasty accident. Oh, I know! I’d rewire your vibrators!’
‘So we can go out with a bang?’ adds a delighted Natasha.
‘Why are you—’
‘You know what? I feel fiiine.’ A slight overstatement, but what the hell. ‘But I look kinda Stepford-Wife-Beige, right?’ The pair don’t exactly join in with my nodding head. ‘So, I was thinking, you could help me. Both of you.’ Grasping the end of my ponytail in one hand, I use the other to slice the blades clean through the pale strands. The room is silent but for the sound of their sharp gasps.
‘So, this is what’s gonna happen.’ I place the length of my ponytail on the table. ‘You’re going to give me a totally new look,’ I say, pointing the scissors at Ivy. ‘And you’re gonna make it fabulous. ‘And you,’ I demand of Nat, pointing the scissors again. ‘Are going to get me a large glass of something alcoholic, because at some point tonight, I’m going to get so fucking drunk.’ As I put the scissors down, I’m not sure what I’d expected as a reaction, but it wasn’t this. ‘You look like a couple of guppies. Come on, chop-chop!’ At the sound of my clapping hands, the pair jump. ‘I thought we were going out tonight?’
Ivy did a great job, even if she did look kinda scared as she cut and styled. I don’t recall the last time I had short hair, and I love that my sophisticated highlights have mostly gone. I move my head from side to side loving the swish of hair against my jaw and run my hands through it, adoring the length and the bluntness of the cut, absolutely digging my Betty Paige bangs. It’s a fun haircut, but still grown-up. Sexy and kinda kick-ass. It’s a cut that demands the same standard of clothing, so while we may just be heading to one of the village pubs, I pull out the works—I even shave my legs and some other stuff—a black super tight silk jersey skirt that looks almost like it’s been spray painted on, teamed with a one off silk blouse. I’d picked this up in Paris last year; I love the pussy-bow front and diaphanous sleeves. Plus, according to Ivy, the green brings out the same tones in my eyes. Nice underwear, pulled from the back of the tiny drawers, heavy denier jet black hose and sky-high heels.
‘Sophisticated and flirty and on the right side of thirty.’
‘Is that for your Snatch dot com profile?’ Natasha plonks down a shot glass of something dark looking and sweet smelling in front of me, raising a matching one to her lips.
‘My what?’
Drawing in a breath through her teeth, she does a liquor induced whole body shake. ‘You know, the dating site.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start. Especially after the whole marriage thing.’
‘Committed?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Anyone who wants to get married should be committed,’ she says. ‘To a psychiatric ward.’ My head turns sharply to hers, but then I remember; Natasha’s mum died young and her dad was never on the scene much. That’s how she came to live with June. ‘Like my mother used to say, anyone can make a mistake. It’s when a person insists on repeating the same mistake that you’ve got to worry for their sanity.’
It might also explain how she is with men.
‘What makes you think I’m looking to get involved with anyone again?’ Ever. My gaze returns to my reflection as I swipe dark eyeliner across my eyelid. ‘Nothing has changed today.’ I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to convince more.
‘Here, sit down. Let me do it,’ she says, almost manhandling me onto the bed, moments later handing me the compact from my make-up bag. ‘There.’ The mirror is so small I have to examine each eye in turn, but she’s given me a pair of perfect winged lines.
‘That looks great, Nat.’ And it really does—all I need now is a bright lipstick to finish my retro look. ‘My eyeliner game’s pretty weak.’
‘Your whole make-up game is pish, you mean. You need to start putting in a bit of effort. Your face hasn’t so much as seen a lick of moisturiser in weeks. I’d give you the sunscreen lecture, only you never leave this place.’
‘The sun only shines in Scotland, what, maybe twice a year? I look like an anaemic vampire, more like.’
‘Shut it. You still look sun kissed compared to the rest of us.’
‘Not the ones who worship at the spray booth.’ She doesn’t smile, just peers at me as though waiting for some sincerity.
‘Look, I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve just . . . ’
‘Stopped caring,’ she says softly. ‘Well, it’s time to start again.’ She touches the edges of my eyes with her thumbs; it could be to straighten my eyeliner or to wipe away the sudden appearance of a tear. ‘This suits you. Your peepers look even more like cat’s eyes now.’
My return smile is still watery, though I’m pretty sure there was a compliment lurking somewhere there. It’s nice of her to say so, though I think my eyes are pretty unspectacular. I suppose by cats, she could mean I’ve that greeny-blue common-or-garden moggy look.
Still standing in front of me, she folds her arms. It could be a defensive stance but for the expression on her face.
‘Come on. Spit it out.’
‘You’ll tell me to shut it, but I think dating might be a good idea.’
‘Dating?’ I repeat, bewildered. ‘Nothing’s changed for me, Nat.’
‘You keep saying that, but it’s not true. He might still be dead, but he cheated on you. Cheated you.’
‘I’m aware.’ At least I am now. ‘And dating’s not going to solve that.’
‘Well, it’s not going to bring him back so you can kill him again, but I think you need, I don’t know, training wheels?’ Nat is sometimes off the wall, but she’s usually coherent. ‘Stabilisers. Like what little kids have on bikes.’
‘I know what they are, I’m just wondering what drug you’re on right now.’ I stare up at her, perplexed and sort of shaking my head. ‘You’ve got to be on something.’ I begin to stand from the bed when she holds out a forestalling hand.
‘Just hear me out. Getting back to dating sites—’
‘We were talking about dating sites?’
‘Look, men sign up to dating sites for a reason, right?’
‘Sure. Hoping for a string of regular but casual blow jobs, maybe?’
‘I’m not talking about Sinder.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s like a hook-up app. On your phone? A sort of digital meat market. Fast food for sex?’
‘Nope.’
‘Forget it. Look—if you sign up to a proper dating agency, the men there, they’re like, committed to looking for a partner, right?’
‘Sure . . .’ I say unconvinced and not at all certain where she’s going with this.
&n
bsp; ‘So, it’ll be a safe slide in,’ she says, again with the obvious tone.
‘Slide.’
‘Yeah. A slide into the dating pool. Via the shallow end.’
‘I really don’t know what to say.’ Because I barely understand what she’s said.
‘It’s just, you’re the kind of woman who needs a man—now hang on—don’t take that arseways,’ she says as I begin to stutter my rebuttal. ‘Maybe need is too strong a term, but I’m not with Ivy on this one. Some people just need other people, don’t they? I know I don’t know you as well as she does, but I think you’re one of those people. One half of a pair. And well, you’re gorgeous, right?’ My lips are still moving, but not a great deal of sound comes out beyond little puffs of air. ‘You are. And men are going to be all over you. You’ve got that vulnerable sort of air.’
‘You really must be high.’ I scoff. ‘I’m sarcastic and cold—’
‘And you’ve got a right to be, but I don’t think you see yourself clearly.’
‘How many of those have you had?’ I gesture to the empty shot glass behind her.
‘Not as many as you’ll have had by the time you crawl into bed tonight. Look, you need a man because you’re that kind of woman—a good woman. You deserve to be loved and cherished and all that sort of stuff.’ She begins to speak faster, determined to get out everything she feels ought to be said as I begin to stand. ‘This isn’t about one night stands. I just worry that you’ll be taken advantage of. Join a dating site for fuck’s sakes. Go on a dozen dates—go on a tonne of them.’
‘Yes, well, thanks for your input and the appraisal on the dating world, but nothing’s changed.’ I need a Mr. Right like I need a hole in the right side of my head.
‘So you’re going to continue to give yourself to the man who deserves nothing from you—not your mourning, not your regard and certainly not your love.’
I begin to gather the contents of my make-up bag when her words strike me like a knife to the chest. But I don’t have the chance to answer as I discover the reason for hurried words.
‘Why, Fin, don’t you look like a Bobby dazzler!’ June’s exclamation pulls my gaze to the doorway where she and a sheepish looking Ivy stand. ‘You look lovely, hen. Like a film star.’
‘She’d’ve looked like Morticia Adams left to her own make-up devices,’ mumbles Nat.
‘Thank you, June. Are you coming out for a glass of sherry with us?’ I wouldn’t mind. It might help these two keep their thoughts to themselves. June is good people; sometimes she’s the voice of reason and other times she’s just a bit mad.
‘Ocht, no. Ivy just asked me to pop in. She had her knickers in a knot about you cutting your hair. To be honest, I thought you must’ve gone off like that singer, Britney what’s her face, and cut your hair wi’ a carving knife. What’s her name again? My memory these days . . . Ah—Brittany Spikes!’ I don’t bother correcting her; just raise an eyebrow in Ivy’s direction as June grips her elbow. ‘From what you said, I was expecting the girl to be an unholy mess. You did a beautiful job, Ivy. I might get you to do mine like that next time,’ she says, patting her white curls. ‘Do away with the perm. What do you think?’
‘I think you were supposed to tell Fin she should be resting after her shock.’
‘What? Not a bit of it. She’s beginning to see the man she married wasn’t who she thought he was. She’ll be fine. And you’re only young once, I say. A hair-do like that deserves to be out there painting the town red, but not you,’ she adds, immediately pointing a finger at her granddaughter. ‘Natasha, if I find you’ve rubbed lipstick all over my front windows, I’m getting you out of bed in time for mass in the morning, you hear?’
‘It was only the once. And it was a year ago. And, I only wrote to say why I wasn’t home.’
‘And left your knickers on the front step, foreby!’
‘Aye, there was that,’ she agrees.
‘Just you keep them on tonight, missy, for I’ll be keeping in my hearing aid.’ The smile slides off Natasha’s face just like melted ice-cream. ‘That means no bringing home any strange men, hmm?’
‘But I like them strange.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Seriously, June.’ Natasha huffs. ‘You spoil all my bloody fun.’
Nine
Fin
‘Stop grumbling and move your bony arse.’ The three of us—Nat, Ivy and me—are walking along Park Road. Well, two of us are; I think Ivy must be crawling, lagging behind at a snail’s pace. ‘I thought you said you weren’t coming, anyway.’ Nat’s tone is taunting.
‘Someone has to keep an eye on you.’
‘We’re only going local. How much trouble can we get into?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the kind of trouble that has you taking off your knickers on the garden path,’ she retorts
During the pair’s snarky exchange, I keep quiet, huddled into the collar of my suede jacket. The pointed heels of my boots click against the damp sidewalks of streets that are familiar, and yet not. My insides bubble with a mixture of excitement and trepidation; it’s an age since I’ve been out socially. Being out in the cold evening feels strange. The air is damp and the streets are shadowy as the night sets in. Streetlamps intermittently spring to life as we walk, the hum of TV’s and domesticity sounding from beyond front doors of terraced homes.
‘Besides, I’m not worried about you,’ Ivy adds quietly, the implication hanging in the cold air. Of course it’s me she’s trailing. I don’t exactly blame her. The way she sees it, in the space of a few hours, I’ve gone from grieving hermit to hair hacker to someone who wants to party. My explanation that I need a break from four walls hasn’t cut it with her. Maybe I should’ve just told her I need a break from myself.
‘Which pub are we heading for?’ There are three to choose from in the village and in the direction we’re heading, two pubs out of that not so grand choice. I’m not exactly thrilled to be spending the evening in any of the local haunts; haunts being the operative term, given that some of the regulars are only a few years away from being ghosts themselves. I might also be a little overdressed, but it beats sitting around watching Ivy watching me . . . waiting for fall-out.
Time passes. Time heals. Time sucks. I’m weary of being told all I need is time, when in actual fact what I need is time out. Time out from being the grieving widow. Time out from being the cheated wife.
‘Are we going to The County?’ It’d be my choice of the two, but Nat answers not, repeating the name of the pub, while dropping the 0 and twisting the name into something far less pleasant.
‘That place is full of old twats,’ she adds, stopping at a door. ‘We’re in here.’
My heart sinks; the old pool hall. A place I’d happily avoid for the rest of eternity. I spent enough time here as a teenager, all clumpy mascara, hairspray and raging hormones.
‘Ah, don’t pull that face. It’ll be a laugh.’
‘I know the village has slim pickings, but at least in a pub we’ll be able to get something to eat as well as a drink,’ I protest.
The door opens before Natasha can answer, warm lighting, soft music, and a young couple spilling out of the space. I step aside to let the pair pass as Nat begins to laugh.
‘You didn’t think this was still the pool hall, did you? Haven’t I been saying the village has gone upscale while you’ve been away? We’ve even got a couple of half decent restaurants—and the chipper is now posh.’
I turn to Ivy behind me. ‘They got rid of the pool hall?’
Ivy shrugs noncommittally. ‘It’s nice inside.’
‘This is exactly what I mean about it being like living in a state of constant Movember.’
Ivy’s face could turn milk sour as we step inside, a waitress quickly asking us our booking status, which strikes me as odd—we’re hardly in New York—but as I take in my surroundings, I better understand.
What was once a dingy pool hall, is now a stylish and busy restaurant. Like the po
ol hall before it, the space is divided into two levels, the lower level now housing a thriving bar that runs the length of one wall; standing room only, by the look of things. There’s also a pool table, maybe in homage to the building’s previous use, only this one looks like it belongs in another era, maybe in a gentleman’s club.
The mezzanine beyond is filled with stripped wooden tables and metal chairs; a sort of industrial chic, contradicted by the massive glass chandeliers and bronzed mirrors scattered through the space. Beyond the seating area, a large window into a busy kitchen is the central focus, black clad culinary staff flitting about inside like goldfish. And the customers? They’re a well pulled together bunch—not a lick of waxed canvas or a muddied welly in sight.
The lower space seems heavily biased towards men, probably because of the number of micro brewed beers on tap I notice, as we follow the waitress to our table. And this is where Ivy’s complaint lies; these men seem drawn to the hipster life. Skinny jeans that don’t quite touch the tops of their shoes, retro specs, beards and ironic grandad cardigans.
‘Knock it off. You’ve used that line once already this week,’ complains Nat. ‘Facial fascist.’
‘I just don’t get the fascination with all this . . .’ Ivy makes a circling motion in front of her chin, plonking herself into a seat at the table we’ve been taken to. ‘Facial fuzz.’
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve had a man with bristles all up in your lady business,’ Nat replies.
‘Shush!’ I glance worriedly at the server’s retreating back. ‘Not everyone needs to hear you like it hairy.’
‘I do not!’ returns an indignant Nat. ‘I like them to have taken care of the downstairs.’ My eyes flick automatically to the restaurant’s lower floor. ‘Not there, numpty. I mean, I like their general dick area to be low on fuzz. The face is something else.’