by Roberta Kray
I can’t resist a grin, his words conjuring up a picture that is not only bizarre but completely at odds with what I know about Jim. Somehow I just can’t see him as an ageing Lothario or a lascivious lech. I’ve always had the impression that it’s money rather than sex that rocks Jim’s boat. But then I’m hardly the best judge of character.
‘Is that what the row was about this afternoon?’
He nods. ‘I didn’t say a word to anyone, but Melanie knows the girl. I mean, they work together, don’t they? Aimee must have talked to her, and she’s told Carl, and now he’s gone off at the deep end accusing Dad of . . . well, of having some kind of relationship.’
I didn’t realize that Melanie worked in the club but then that’s probably nobody’s fault but my own. I haven’t exactly taken an interest in her.
‘And of course he’s denying it,’ Marc continues, ‘but then he would, wouldn’t he?’
I make an effort to keep my eyebrows in place, sensing that now is neither the time nor the place to air my own grievances in that department. ‘Have you any idea what Aimee actually said? Maybe Melanie got it wrong or Carl’s exaggerating. You know what he’s like, any excuse to have a go at your dad. They don’t exactly get on, do they?’
‘Okay, that’s possible – but I’ve still seen what I’ve seen.’
‘That’s hardly evidence. And surely he talks to all the girls. It doesn’t have to mean there’s anything going on. In fact, if there was, wouldn’t he be more likely to avoid her when you were there?’ I’m not sure why I’m defending him so hard. Maybe it’s partly down to Carl being such a stirrer but I suspect it’s mainly because if good old steady Jim is being unfaithful then it doesn’t hold out much hope for the fidelity of the rest of the male population.
‘I guess.’ He gives an elegant shrug of his shoulders. ‘But what’s that saying – no smoke without fire? And Mum’s really upset. This has knocked her for six.’
I wonder sometimes at the gross hypocrisy of my husband. If she’s been knocked for six then I’m definitely into the thirties. But clearly in his mind there is no correlation between his father’s far-from-proven adultery and his own frequent and damaging affairs.
‘Surely Dee doesn’t believe it? She can’t. She knows your dad better than anyone. I mean, God, he wouldn’t dare – and especially not in public.’
Sighing, Marc replies: ‘And two months ago he wouldn’t have dared invite Johnny Frank to stay.’
Which is incontrovertibly true. And which, for the first time, plants a tiny seed of doubt in my mind. Jim has never been renowned for his backbone but it’s certainly the case that Dee has been losing more battles than she’s been winning over recent weeks. But still I retort: ‘I heard he rather invited himself.’
‘Dad didn’t have to agree. He could have said no.’
‘I thought you didn’t mind about Johnny being here?’
‘I don’t,’ he snaps back, ‘that’s not the point.’ Then, just as Dee had done less than a week ago, he quickly places a hand on my arm and says, ‘Sorry.’ He raises his worried blue eyes and looks at me. The corners of his mouth have turned down, his forehead creasing again into a series of deep and anxious furrows. For the first time since we walked in, he has forgotten about his audience. ‘I’m sorry, Sims. You’re right. There’s probably nothing going on but . . .’
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
He doesn’t answer straight away. Retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he takes one out, rolls it between his fingers and lifts it slowly to his mouth. Then he flicks open his silver lighter and puts a flame to it. Even this simple act is perfectly choreographed, a work of art in itself. Eventually he says: ‘There’s a problem with The Palace. It’s losing money and Dad doesn’t seem to care. I’ve shown him the books but he’s not interested. He just keeps on saying not to worry, he’s got it sorted – but he hasn’t got a damn thing sorted.’
Now it’s my turn to look bewildered. ‘But I thought the club made a good profit.’
‘It used to. Not any more. There’s too much competition, other clubs opening every five minutes, and it’s not exactly the classiest joint in the world, is it? It needs an overhaul, new decor, new ideas, a bit of investment, but he won’t even discuss it.’
I’m not sure if any lap-dancing establishment could be described as classy but then I’ve always presumed that the sleazy aspect was part of their appeal. Then again, I guess there’s sleazy and there’s downright squalid and The Palace doesn’t have to work too hard to fit comfortably into the latter category.
I find myself pondering on that money again, on that wad of cash stashed carelessly on the shelf, and wonder if I should mention it. The problem is that if I do then I’ll also have to explain what I was doing rooting around his parents’ kitchen in the middle of the night – and I doubt if my natural curiosity will serve as any kind of adequate defence.
Instead I ask: ‘What about Dee? Surely she’s not going to let things fall apart? Have you discussed it with her?’
‘She’s got enough on her mind. I can’t stress her out with this on top of everything else. I will have to tell her but I’m going to wait until after Christmas. Perhaps he’ll have come to his senses by then.’ He blows out a thin stream of smoke. ‘Do you see what I mean though, Sims? I’m worried. He’s not behaving normally. He’s not behaving like . . . well, like Dad.’
Now I’m starting to worry too. Jim has always been, if nothing else, a good husband and provider. It’s inconceivable that he’d just stand back and watch his livelihood disappear. But then five minutes ago it would have seemed inconceivable that he’d have the hots for an amply bosomed redhead called Aimee. That’s if it’s true. And I’m also fretting, in a purely selfish way, about another aspect of this possible decline and fall – if The Palace goes under Marc will lose his job, and if he does that then how will he ever get back on his feet again? And if he doesn’t get back on his feet, get his life back together, then how can I possibly think about leaving?
I can almost hear Katie’s voice saying: He’s not your responsibility.
Marc peers at me, frowning, and asks, ‘Sims? What do you think?’
I shake my brain back to the subject under discussion. ‘He has been drinking a lot,’ I comment. ‘In fact, now I come to think of it, he’s been a bit moody too, quieter than usual. Well, apart from this afternoon. Perhaps he is worried about the club but just can’t face up to it – I mean, he’s been running that place for years. Maybe he’s in some sort of denial.’ I shift a straying lock of hair back behind my ear. ‘I still don’t believe he’s having a fling though.’
‘That’s what Johnny says.’
I look up, startled. ‘What? You’ve talked to Johnny about this?’ When it comes to Buckley business I’m used to being the last to know about anything but now it appears I’m even lower in the pecking order than our houseguest. ‘Why on earth did you—’
‘Not me,’ he interrupts. ‘Mum.’
I’m even more astounded. ‘Your mother? But why would she . . . she can’t stand him . . . she didn’t even want him to stay.’
Marc gives one of those dismissive waves of his hand as if he’s swatting a fly. ‘Oh, you know what she’s like. She never was very good at holding grudges.’
Try telling that to Gena, I think. ‘So, what, they’re suddenly the best of friends now?’
He pulls a face as if I’m accusing Dee of some nefarious activity. ‘They’ve always been friends. They just had a sort of . . . misunderstanding.’
I look at him and shake my head. Yes, some sort of no-good, low-life, murdering bastard misunderstanding. Not the kind of thing you usually manage to overcome in a few days. But then the mysteries of the Buckleys are many and profound and it’s doubtful that even a ten-year scrutiny, never mind my meagre five, could begin to scrape the surface. I want to find out more about this new and unexpected alliance but decide to leave it until later. The contents of a bottle of
wine will do more to loosen his tongue than any blatant interrogation.
‘Well, I guess that’s good,’ I state in a conciliatory tone.
He looks faintly surprised at this sudden reversal, my attitude towards Johnny having previously being made quite clear to him, but rewards me with a heart-warming smile. ‘Sure,’ he agrees, ‘it’s better that we all get on.’
Before I can be tempted to stray back on to the fascinating subject of Mr Frank and Mrs Buckley, I quickly change the subject. ‘Do you want to stay for another or shall we make a move?’
He looks at his watch. ‘Yeah, let’s go. I don’t think much of this place, do you? They must have bribed the reviewer.’
I’ve been so involved in the conversation I haven’t really taken a proper look round. Marc, on the other hand, without ever having appeared to give it a second glance, has clearly made a detailed examination. I do a quick survey; it’s all violet walls and chrome fittings, a bright and shiny retro creation that I might have found mildly amusing a decade ago but which only gives me a creeping sense of déjà vu now. The music, a relentless hip-hop, has been turned up a notch since we came in and the clientele have a highly strung anticipatory air about them, maybe because it’s Christmas Eve but more likely thanks to an excess of hormones and cocaine.
‘Mm,’ I murmur. ‘I see what you mean.’
He grins. ‘We must be getting old, Sims.’
‘Speak for yourself, buster.’ I grab my coat and bag and we head outside.
It’s started to drizzle again but as the restaurant is less than a couple of blocks away we decide to brave the elements and walk. It’s not cold enough for snow, all hopes of a white Christmas remaining only in the hearts of eternal optimists. There is some small consolation, however, in the illuminations strung across the High Street; as the rain falls the drops catch briefly in the light, sparkling like a thousand tiny diamonds.
Marc takes my hand as we negotiate the road, dodging the cars and zigzagging through the last-minute shoppers and early celebrants. Much as I try, it’s impossible to be unmoved by the festive atmosphere, by that curious childlike thrill that seeps uninvited into my bones. A shiver of delight wriggles down my spine. And although I shouldn’t, although it’s certainly a mistake, I like the warm safe feeling of his fingers wrapped around mine. I like that feeling of belonging. It’ll all end in tears, my head whispers, but my mouth ignores the threat and curls rebelliously into a smile.
As the rain starts thrashing down against the pavement, we run the last two hundred yards and arrive slightly breathless at our destination. Laughing, we dash inside and grin at each other like a pair of kids. Luigi’s is busy as ever, filled with its usual supply of well-heeled appreciative diners. A buzz of conversation fills the room whilst in the background some vaguely classical piece of music struggles to be recognized. Marc provides our name and we’re efficiently propelled between the potted palms to a table by the window. The marble floor, white walls and gilt accessories remind me of a rather too exuberant bathroom but hey, I’m not complaining; the surroundings may be sterile but the food is always excellent.
We order two dry martinis and settle down to examine the menu.
I’ve barely begun to scan its delights when Marc leans forward as if I’ve asked a question and says: ‘Actually, I was just thinking about what I was doing this time last year.’ He puts his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, and expels a long and weary sigh. ‘It feels like a lifetime ago.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that. It’s behind you now.’
He shakes his head. ‘I really fucked up.’
‘It’s over,’ I respond softly. ‘There’s no point dwelling on it. It’s the future that . . .’
But as he raises those beautiful if doleful cobalt eyes, I get the disturbing impression that the future doesn’t hold any more promise for him than the past. It’s a sad but incontrovertible fact that our closeness is in inverse proportion to the happiness of our circumstances. When everything is going well, Marc inevitably withdraws, and it’s only when the coin is flipped, when trouble looms, that we’re able to form any kind of bond again, to temporarily re-establish a close connection.
If he only needs me when he’s in trouble, does that make me a bad-time girl?
Before I can think of an answer to this Sex and the City-type conundrum the waiter has arrived. He’s small and dark with a slim waist and pencil-thin moustache. Although probably in his mid-forties, he seems almost ageless, exuding the practised civility of a man who has learned to balance the trials and tribulations of his job with the benefits of its tips. Suavely he delivers our drinks, smiles courteously and produces his notepad.
‘Good evening, sir, madam. Welcome to Luigi’s. May I take your order?’ His accent, although ostensibly Mediterranean, has a distinctly Cockney twang.
I plump for the tarragon chicken, a simple but delicious speciality of the house. Marc orders a steak, studies the wine list and eventually opts for a bottle of champagne.
As I glance up at the extravagance, he grins and says: ‘Why not? It’s Christmas after all.’
The waiter scribbles his instructions, nods and glides professionally away. I’m still following his progress through the room, wondering at his effortless speed and agility as he negotiates the tables, palms and assorted members of the public and staff, when Marc starts speaking again.
‘You know, he’s not as bad as you think.’
I look at him, confused, my thoughts still focused on the disappearing figure. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Johnny,’ he elucidates. ‘Will you stop watching that man’s butt and concentrate for a moment.’
‘I was not—’ I begin indignantly.
But he’s laughing again. ‘Jeez, I can’t take you anywhere, woman. As I was saying, Johnny’s actually okay. And you know, I feel pretty sorry for him; it can’t be easy coming out after all these years, trying to start again, trying to pick up the pieces. I met a few guys like him, lifers coming to the end of their sentence and they were all . . .’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘. . . kind of empty somehow.’
It seems a shame to have to talk about Johnny when the evening, especially since we left the bar, has been on such an upward curve. I feel as though Marc has brought our brief escapist interlude to an end. Which is crazy as I was the one who intended to press him for more information – and here it is, being handed to me on a plate.
‘It’s not that I dislike him, exactly,’ I reply disingenuously. ‘I mean, we don’t really know him, do we? We’ve barely seen him since he arrived and it’s pretty hard to form an opinion on a couple of hours’ acquaintance.’ It’s a fact that since our initial meeting I’ve only passed him once or twice on the stairs and we’ve exchanged no more than half a dozen words – but a sneaking suspicion is creeping into my mind: I might not have spent any time with him but as for Marc . . .
He doesn’t answer immediately. Then, as if anticipating the logical progression of my thoughts, he downs the last of his martini and explains: ‘I’ve probably seen a bit more of him than that. It didn’t seem right to leave him on his own. And with you and Mum out all day, and with Dad behaving like he is . . . well, we’ve had a few chats and he’s okay, Sims, he really is. It’s tough for him. You should give him a chance.’
A chance to do what, I wonder? I don’t trust Johnny Frank, not an inch. Since his name was first mentioned there’s been nothing but grief in the house. Not that it was ever exactly the Garden of Eden, more like Regent’s Park zoo, but the strife has increased five-fold since he arrived.
‘I can’t believe he survived it,’ Marc continues, ‘all those years. Can you imagine what that’s like?’
I’m about to retort: No, I can’t – but he did kill someone, when a shadow passes over his face and I suddenly realize this conversation is maybe as much about him as it is about Johnny, a reminder of where his own life has gone so terribly wrong. And I wonder if I’ve taken Marc’s insouciance too much at face value, whe
ther his imprisonment was ever as painless as he affected.
Anyway, whatever the ins and outs, it seems wrong to spoil a perfectly good dinner with bad feeling so I keep my suspicions to myself. ‘Okay, I’ll be nice to him.’
Marc smiles. ‘Oh, and Sims, if you could . . . well, not mention it to anyone that Johnny’s staying with us, I’m sure he’d appreciate it. He wants a bit of time to himself, you know, to get readjusted, to get used to being on the out again.’
‘Who would I tell?’ I reply lightly. ‘I can’t think of anyone who’d be interested.’
But my levity hides a greater concern. This desire to remain hidden bothers me, along with all those cosy little chats everyone seems to be having. First Dee, now Marc, and I’m certain Carl hasn’t wasted a single opportunity to bask in the glow of his gangster hero. Come to think of it, I even saw Jim walking in the garden with him the other evening. For a man who claims to want some space, some time to think, he’s been keeping pretty busy. There must be a small queue forming outside his door.
Perhaps I should make an appointment.
Another issue pops suddenly into my mind. I recall what Carl said earlier, his goading little comment as I came in from work. I balance my chin on my elbow and ask casually: ‘Marc, has Johnny said anything to you about me?’
‘About you?’ he replies. ‘Why on earth should he say anything about you?’
There’s an irritating incredulity to his tone as if my existence could barely hope to register on the Richter scale of Johnny Frank’s consciousness. Or maybe I’m just being oversensitive.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I shake my head. ‘Just something Carl mentioned. He said Johnny had . . . it doesn’t matter. Forget it.’
Marc ponders for a moment and then, just as I think the subject is closed, he says: ‘God, yeah, I remember. Sorry. He must have meant about his wife.’
‘Gena?’
‘No, Johnny’s wife.’
I look at him, surprised. ‘I didn’t know he had one. Why isn’t she . . .’