‘Anyway, having stocked up, I thought I’d better make sure that my personal grooming was up to scratch, you know, downstairs. So I went to a male grooming parlour and had a ‘back, sack and crack’. It was a terrifying experience. When you’re as hirsute as I am in that department, hair removal becomes nothing less than a form of surgery. Anyway, the deed was done. It took a while and I felt OK at first. I got a taxi to the party.’
As Fergal told his story, Imogen glanced again at Al sitting on a bar stool next to Krystina. Like Fergal, he seemed more hesitant, less joyful than he had been the last time they’d seen each other a couple of years before. He was watching Francois sitting next to her. It looked as though he was scrutinising her boyfriend, appraising him. Al wasn’t the staring type – or at least she had never thought of him as being so.
‘When I arrived, it was sort of like an over friendly cocktail party. Everyone was drinking a little bit too much and being very – what’s the word? – tactile. Anyway, so I gave the hostess my bag of goodies and she smiled, gave me a drink and introduced me to a lady called Helen – of whom more in a moment. The thing was that in the taxi on the way over I had begun to feel a little bald down there in the nether regions after the vicious topiary and it had all started to get a bit itchy. Well by now this itchiness had morphed into a raging, stinging arse and bollock ache and it was all I could manage to do to keep talking to this poor woman without suddenly crying out in agony. It felt like someone was holding a steam iron against my shnutter.’
‘What’s a shnutter?’ interrupted Al, now fully absorbed in Fergal’s story as were various other members of the bar, including the barman who watched, rapt, as the tale unfolded.
Fergal spread his legs wide as though attempting to illustrate the exact location of the body party and said: ‘It’s that bit of skin between the arse and the bollocks. On a woman I guess it’s the bit between the arse and the vaj. Anyway, it’s on fire down there.’
‘Thanks for that Fergal,’ giggled George.
‘Anyway, it’s raging. I once slammed my finger in a car door. It was more painful than that. Much. I thought I was going to cry. I was also slightly worried – not ever having gone to one of these parties before – that they employed a variation on the rules of pass the parcel so when someone decided it was time – like maybe they stopped the music or something – that you had to shtupp whoever you were talking to. It was clear from both mine and Helen’s point of view that this would not have been a good thing. I didn’t have anything against her, we just weren’t right together. It was clear that we both felt the same. You know how you just know. Anyway, things are getting worse and worse down south so I decide that I’d better go to the bathroom and take a look. What I needed, of course, was a mirror that I could stand astride but failing that, I dropped my kecks, bent down and took a look in the mirror above the sink. Well, let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty. Instead of having the smooth hairless finish that I’d hoped for, there were these weeping sores. Christ knows what was going on. It was as though I’d become acutely allergic to something. So being in a bathroom, I looked around for some cream or unguent or other, anything that might ease my pain. Of course, when I see some talcum powder and start wafting it around in great clouds, it’s only then that I realise that I’m actually using athlete’s foot powder. So that just makes the whole thing so much fucking worse.’
Even though Al was now immersed in Fergal’s mishaps, he still glanced across at Francois from time to time. Francois was doing his best ‘I’m fascinated’ shtick, something that Imogen had found so irksome of late.
‘So by the time I arrive back at the party, things have started to hot up. Buttons are being undone, there’s some snogging and groping going on and my nether regions are in fucking purgatory. There I am just about to fulfil one of my lifelong ambitions to go to an orgy and right at the moment of truth, I’ve got scrotal leprosy.’
On one of the occasions when Al glanced across at Francois, Imogen caught his eye and smiled. Al smiled back and rolled his eyes at Fergal: ‘What’s he like?’
‘So things are getting a little fruity, there’s one couple who are almost bone naked by this stage and it’s turning the others on and most people have paired off. I’m feeling doubly nervous at this point cos my arsehole’s on fire, I’m worried about whether I’ll be able to do the deed and there doesn’t appear to be anyone to do the deed with – except of course Helen who clearly found me about as attractive as a septic toenail.’
Like all Fergal stories, it didn’t so much build to a climax as collapse under the weight of its own absurdity.
‘It all worked out in the end, I suppose, because my weeping sores took a turn for the worse and Helen ran me to A&E. She seemed quite relieved when I told her the reason why I was walking like I’d got a red hot poker up my jacksy.’
Imogen caught Al’s eye again. Another smile. She felt like a fifteen year old. But this time, when she looked away from him, she saw that Krystina was looking straight at her. It wasn’t an admonishing stare – why are you smiling at my boyfriend? – or even a stare of appraisal – so you’re the ex – but one of clear attraction. Krystina held Imogen’s stare and Imogen looked away first, unnerved by the sexual intensity implicit in Krystina’s expression.
A young Chinese waitress arrived at the table to take orders for some more drinks. Imogen ordered another glass of Pinot Grigio and watched Fergal as he ordered another Guinness. Something was missing; he had been robbed of his usual happy-go-lucky spirit. His story about the swingers’ party was all for the benefit of his guests. He was going through the motions like a comedian who has been on tour too long and tells jokes by rote, feeling nothing in them, feeling dead inside.
It wasn’t only Fergal, though, who appeared troubled. On the flight over, she and Francois had sat with Georgina and Rob, and Rob had been talking about his problems at work, at Bank of the South. Whilst on paper, he was doing very well for himself – his bonus for the previous year had been massive – he was also feeling trapped. He used the word over and over again; he was trapped in a gilded cage. In the end, Georgina had told him to change the subject – he was putting everyone on a downer – and they had had words. But George and Rob’s problems seemed pretty tame in comparison to the problems that she and Francois were experiencing. Like Rob, his career appeared to be going very well. He was as busy as ever and his star within the fashion firmament was rising higher with every season. But he was feeling trapped too and she suspected that she was part of the problem. They had spoken about the future but whenever they had it felt as though he was the one trying to change the subject. She wondered about all the beautiful women with whom he spent his days. His was the perfect job for a man who might want to cheat on his girlfriend. She had her suspicions but nothing concrete.
What worried her more was the increasing ferocity of his anger. Their rows had become more frequent and during a particularly ferocious argument a couple of weeks before, he had hit her. She might have suspected him of being many things but being violent wasn’t one of them. All that changed in an instant as he responded to the suggestion that he was taking on more and more work in an attempt to spend even less time with her than he normally did. It was a point that never failed to arouse a reaction from him but she never thought for one moment that he would slap her across the face. The blow was much harder than he had intended and he was immediately remorseful, weeping, begging for forgiveness and she found herself consoling him. It was as though he was a little child all over again, lost in an adult world of which he had no comprehension. It was unnerving and since that night, she had avoided any form of confrontation for fear of a repeat performance. She had told no one about what had happened apart from Georgina. She told Georgina everything. The slight bruising and swelling that had been visible for a couple of days had faded. No one need ever know and Francois had promised, vowed, sworn that it would never happen again. As much as she was horrified by what he had done she had actually believed that it might, i
n the long run, turn out to be something positive. In the past two weeks, he had been more attentive and loving than he had been since they had first met.
She knew that he hadn’t wanted to come to Hong Kong. As much as he liked Fergal, he had nothing in common with Al and Rob believing that their line of work was, at best, a necessary evil and, at worst, parasitic and morally bankrupt. And yet, strangely, the one person who most embodied the capitalist ethic – Miles – was the one person who he claimed to feel some bond with and he was disappointed to hear that he wouldn’t be making the trip. Imogen didn’t share his disappointment. She found any social interaction with Miles awkward since their relationship had fallen apart after his squalid betrayal.
Georgina’s reaction to her news of Francois’s violent outburst had surprised Imogen. It wasn’t so much her sister’s assertion that if he ever laid a finger on her again she should leave him instantly – she had told him that much herself – it was George’s kneejerk confession that she and Rob had ‘never liked the look of him’. Imogen had found herself defending him and the severity of George’s warnings had softened. But she had still insisted on making Imogen promise that if there was any reoccurrence of Francois’s violence, she was to end the relationship for good.
Imogen could tell that George had told Rob about what Francois had done. It was clear to see when the four of them had met up at Heathrow the day before. Rob was never good at hiding his true feelings. When Rob and Francois had shaken hands in greeting, Imogen had noticed Rob’s expression which betrayed a reappraisal of her boyfriend’s character. Rob was less smiling and gracious towards Francois, less willing to engage him in conversation. And now, in Hong Kong, she could see the same sort of behaviour apparent in Al’s demeanour. News had travelled down the line. She was sorry about that; she loved Francois and she didn’t want his one aberrant moment to sour his relationships with her friends. George shouldn’t have told Rob about what had happened but there was nothing she could do about it now and she couldn’t help but enjoy the attention that Al bestowed on her and even the glances that he made to Francois suffused as they were with poorly concealed antagonism. His protective feelings towards her had been aroused. She liked that. It reminded her of those times at Trenchart Colville, all those years before, when he had tried to protect her from the slings and arrows of the banking industry. Then as now, the protection that he could offer her was minimal but she liked the fact that he felt the need to try. What did that mean? Probably nothing more than nostalgia. Whatever it was, it was good to see him. She had forgotten how much she liked his scent – always clean with just a hint of summer holidays. So much more fragrant than Francois who smelled like a sophisticate, a heavy aftershave with a slight background of cooking absorbed from the vast array of expensive restaurants in which he spent so much of his life. She relished Al’s aroma as he sat down next to her that evening after an afternoon at the Hong Kong rugby sevens, an event of which she had known nothing but had found surprisingly engrossing none the less. So much more interesting than all those matches that her father had taken the family to at Twickenham when she and George were too young to complain.
‘So how’s it going with Francois?’ asked Al and even though she hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, she knew him well enough to know when his nonchalance masked a hidden agenda.
‘Rob told you didn’t he?’
‘About what?’ ‘Come on, Al, this is me, he told you about Francois.’
‘Hitting you?’
‘It wasn’t exactly a hit, he slapped me.’
‘That’s a hit in my book but you’ve decided to hang in there?’
‘It’s complicated, Al. What about you and Krystina?’
Al sighed. Imogen had asked the question as a means of deflecting attention from her and Francois. She expected a ‘yeah, we’re good’ or somesuch, instead of which she could see the reality of what she had seen a hint of all day. He was worried.
‘What is it?’ There was a moment – it looked as though his eyes had become glassy, tearful even – but then it was gone, blinked away.
‘Oh it’s just I’ve broken one of my golden rules and mixed business and family. Shouldn’t have done it and now it’s all gone tits up.’ Al turned to look at Imogen. She raised her eyebrows, nodded: ‘Go on.’
‘It’s Krystina’s family. As you can see, she’s a pretty free-thinking, fun-loving person, just like her mother. But just like her mother, she is attracted to men who are high achievers, money makers, players. Not saying that I am of course—’
‘Come on,’ she nudged him playfully. ‘Don’t be modest.’
He exhaled and rolled his eyes. ‘She likes it that I’m in the same line of business as her father. He’s quite old, in his mid-eighties and retired a long time ago but he still likes to keep his hand in. So, to cut a long story short, he asked my advice on some stock investments which, although not my gig, I had some opinions about which I was happy to share with him. I tried to keep him at arm’s length but he just kept calling. After all, it was my potential father-in-law ...’
Imogen knew she should have stopped him at this point and asked him about his marriage plans – the first she’d heard of them – but she let it go, pondering on why his mention of them had stung her so much.
‘So anyway, he was insistent that I help him with his personal investments. It wasn’t much at first but then we started to do well with the dot coms ...’
‘Oh God.’
‘Yeah, it’s as bad as it sounds. I didn’t just put money in the Nasdaq index but bought some single stocks too. We made a killing at first but as you know ...’ Imogen knew only too well. ‘Many of the single stocks are struggling and some have already gone bust.’
‘How much is he down?’
‘About five million quid which would be bad in itself but it turns out that it was his last five million quid.’
‘Oh Al.’
‘Stupid old fucker.’ It was the first time that Al had displayed his anger and frustration. ‘He told me that he had other investments, money all over the place. Turns out he’d bet the farm. If things don’t pick up soon, he’s going to be in some serious shit. And it’s all my fault.’
‘No it isn’t, he took a calculated risk. If he was in the business then he knows the score.’
‘Imogen, he’s eighty-five years old. Sure he took a calculated risk but can’t you see how it looks? It looks like I tucked him up.’
It was an automatic reaction; she just did it without thinking. She took hold of his hand and squeezed it. She guessed that his response was automatic too when he reciprocated. They disengaged simultaneously, suddenly aware of the others sitting at the table – Rob and Georgina chatting conspiratorially at one corner of the table and Fergal, Krystina and Francois laughing about something at the other.
‘But other than that, things are OK?’ asked Imogen.
‘Other than that?’
She hadn’t meant to pry, just wanted to change the subject from the painful issue of Krystina’s father’s dive on the Nasdaq.
‘Well, you and Krystina. You seem happy.’
‘We are. Deep down we’re fine but it makes things difficult, you know, with her dad ...’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
Al smiled, his demeanour softening. ‘She’s quite wild in many ways.’
Imogen had heard mention of Krystina’s wild ways from Fergal and Rob but she feigned ignorance.
‘She told me she’d like to make love to you and me at the same time. She said she’d had a dream about it and now that she’s finally met you, it turns her on to think of the dream becoming reality.’
They both laughed, nervously, embarrassed, sharing eye contact momentarily before looking away.
‘Maybe she should find out about the swingers that Fergal was talking about.’
‘I have a feeling that she’s got previous on that score. She’s pretty open about that sort of thing.’
‘Can’t keep up, eh, Al?�
� Imogen giggled.
‘Something like that.’
It should have felt weird talking about Al’s sex life. It should have been off the conversational menu, a subject far too sensitive for former lovers. But the fact that they could allude to it, as friends, was something that Imogen felt glad about. It was good to spend some time with Al. Their relationship was so much more than that of exes. They were soul mates, brother and sister. The warmth that she felt from him was something she cherished. She never wanted to lose that and it was a shame that they saw each other so infrequently. These moments were precious and she couldn’t help but feel disappointed when Francois joined them and said that he was going to take a look at the view of the harbour: ‘You guys want to join me?’ He extended the invitation to both of them but it was clear that he wanted to speak to Imogen alone. Al picked up on this and said, ‘No, it’s OK, I’m going to get another drink.’
‘It’s good to see Al again, hey?’ She stood next to Francois on the wide wooden decking of the balcony overlooking Victoria harbour, the Star ferry surging through the waves as the junks and cargo boats skittered all around it. She could tell he was in a bad mood about something. He wasn’t jealous about her talking to Al. Francois wasn’t the jealous type. He was far too confident of his own gorgeousness for that. But the way that he said, ‘Hey?’ at the end of his question was a give away that he was angling for a row and he needed something with which to start it. With nothing else to hand, he would use the fact that she was laughing with her ex-boyfriend as an excuse. She didn’t want a row. Not now. Not here, with her friends. She could see exactly what he was going to do. He would create friction between them and then tell her that he was going back to the hotel and he’d see her later. It was something that he had done a couple of times recently; it was developing into something of a pattern.
‘It is good to see Al again. I’m glad we can be good friends.’
‘I’m glad too. You’re very close.’
She was meant to rise to that but she didn’t want to so she thought she’d steer the conversation elsewhere.
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