by Kate Russo
He closes the sketchbook.
“What have you got going on over here, then?”
“Just taking some notes,” he replies, unconvincingly.
She fills his glass up to the line and looks at what’s left in the bottle. Deciding it’s not enough to bother with, she pours out the rest, all the way up to the brim of his glass.
“I thought maybe you were drawing,” she suggests, shaking out the last drops. “You know, you’re in Soho?” she adds, with a wry smile that accentuates the laugh lines around her mouth. “There’s plenty of strippers around. Why bother sketching a dumpy old barmaid?” She lets the empty bottle drop to her side.
Bennett never knows what the hell to say in these moments. She’s probably fishing for a compliment. Why else would she call herself “dumpy” to a stranger? But then, is it a good idea for him to comment, even flatteringly, on the figure of a woman he doesn’t know? The truth is she doesn’t look dumpy at all. In fact, compared to the drunken pensioners in her bar, she looks damn good. Her tits are fantastic.
“You have a lovely smile,” he says.
Well done.
“Are you going to show me?” she asks, leaning over the sketchbook.
She reaches out and touches the cover, but she’s polite enough not to open it. Her hands look older than her breasts would suggest, but she’s a bartender—she uses them. Her short red-painted nails rest on the sketchbook, her fingers stroking it. Red hair, red sweater, red fingernails. She looks like a life-size strawberry lollipop; he’d like to lick her.
“It’s not finished,” he says.
“I don’t mind. I’ve never seen a drawing of myself.” Her fingers curl around the edge of the cover to open it, but she steps back, as though something frightening has just occurred to her. “Oh God, it’s not like one of these caricatures, is it?” She points up to a cartoon of writer John Mortimer, with an enormous head and powdered wig.
“No,” he says, warmly. “No giant head.”
Is this flirting?
“Thank God for that,” she says with her hand on her chest. “I’d have to ban you from the bar.” She lingers above him with a defeated smile, swaying slightly like a child asking, Pretty please? “Well, I can tell you don’t want to show me. It’s alright.”
He can tell it isn’t really alright.
“Want me to go away so you can finish it?”
You’re a moron, Bennett.
“Maybe once I’ve finished this glass of wine, I’ll be drunk enough to show you,” he says, pulling the full glass toward him slowly, careful not to spill.
“I’ll keep plying you with more until you do.” She taps the table a couple times with her bright red nails. “Maybe I’ll do a drawing of you on a napkin. See how you like it.” She squints at him with a smile that suggests mocking disapproval.
“No giant head,” he says. “That’s the rule.”
“You’re on.” She points to him, then struts back to the bar like she’s on a catwalk.
He spends another hour in the pub finishing his drawing and making a few other quick sketches of the crowd that’s forming. When he finally reaches the bottom of his enormous glass of wine, he knows it’s time to leave. He’s probably drunk close to a bottle by himself and now he really needs a piss. After putting his sketchbook and pencils back in his shoulder bag, he shifts out of his chair and pushes the table forward. It scratches along the wooden floor, announcing his departure.
He looks over at the barmaid, but she’s busy serving a group of young women, one of whom shouts, “Quick! Grab it!” when she sees Bennett exiting his table.
“I can’t move that fast in these heels!” another woman bellows back to her friend, through fuchsia lipstick.
Could have fooled Bennett. Heels and all, she’s moving at a jaguar’s pace down the aisle of the pub. He braces himself, thinking that he’ll have to catch her when she reaches the table and falls, giant handbag first, into his arms. It would be his first real physical contact in days.
“You’re leaving?” she asks, out of breath, when she gets to the table.
“All yours,” he says, shifting places with her in the aisle.
“Don’t think you’re leaving without showing me that drawing!” the bartender shouts to him from behind the bar, calling him forward with her index finger. The loos are upstairs and he’s bursting. He approaches the bar like a kid summoned to his teacher’s desk for punishment. “Alright, let’s see it,” she says.
He wonders why she wants to see it so badly. If someone had done a sketch of him, he definitely wouldn’t want to see it. Nevertheless, he pulls the sketchbook out of his bag and pushes it toward her, which he immediately regrets when he realizes how sticky and damp the bar is.
She shoots him playful dagger eyes before she opens the book.
You’re torturing me. Also, don’t stop.
She flips slowly through pages of fabric drawings, taking in each.
“These are beautiful,” she says, looking up, with an element of surprise in her voice. She hasn’t gotten to the one of herself yet.
“Thank you,” he replies, a slight lump in his throat.
She turns the page and there she is, caught mid-laughter. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at it.
Bennett shifts from leg to leg trying not to piss himself.
“Wow,” she says, finally. “Hey, Nigel!” she shouts down to the end of the bar at a flat-capped man she’d been laughing with earlier. He is deep in conversation with an older woman in a low-cut top, her cleavage wrinkly. “Nige!”
Nigel looks over at her. “Bloody hell, Claire, what?”
“Look!” She holds up the sketchbook, opened wide for all to see. “This is it!” She starts down to the other end of the bar.
Bennett reaches out for the book in a weak attempt to control the situation, but leaning against the bar presses on his already suffering bladder.
She holds open the book for Nigel, who leans back on his barstool to get the drawing in focus. “Hold on,” he says, fishing around in his coat pocket, “I need my glasses.”
Bennett lightly raps the counter. This is the reason he doesn’t draw in public. His dick is going to explode.
“Very nice,” Nigel chimes in after holding the sketchbook at a full arm’s length.
“My tits look amazing, don’t they?”
Nigel nods, yes, they do. “Is he going to let you keep it?”
Claire looks back at Bennett, expectantly.
“The pages don’t come out of that book, I’m afraid,” he says in a tone that suggests he won’t be ripping it out.
She frowns at this. “Maybe you can come back sometime with a book where the pages do come out?” It comes out a like a veiled threat, like, Come back with a different sketchbook or else.
You won’t want me back if I piss on your floor.
“I can probably do that.”
This pleases her so much she does a little jump, then, “Oh! You have to see my drawing of you!”
Shit.
She’s cute, but she’s really irritating him now. Surely, she knows how much wine he’s drunk. Surely, she noticed he didn’t leave his table to go to the loo at any point, but most of all, SURELY, she can see the extreme discomfort in his beet-red face.
“Here it is!” She hands him the napkin, triumphantly.
He glances at it, nervously, but not too nervously; he doesn’t want to appear insulting. But he instantly sees there’s no need to worry. He smiles wide at the sketch of a smiley stick figure holding a giant glass of wine.
“Well played,” he says.
“Be sure to look on the back . . . later,” she says provocatively.
After I’ve had a piss. “I owe you for that final glass.” Bennett fishes for his wallet.
“On me, love.” She winks at him. “Go
on. You must be bursting for the loo.”
He leaps up the pub stairs two by two. He hasn’t shown this much athleticism in years. Even his knees know how badly he needs a piss; they offer no objection. The napkin Claire gave him crumples in his hand as he fights with his zipper. He reaches the urinal in the nick of time and unloads with a mighty groan. Out of breath, he props himself up on the wall with his fist, the balled-up napkin inside it. When the stream is finally finished, he gives his dick a shake and stands up straighter, leaning backward at the waist to stretch out his lower back. Only then does he loosen his grip on the napkin and unfold it. The stupid little stick figure makes him grin again, and when he flips it over there is Claire’s name written, followed by her phone number, and two Xs for kisses.
Well, fuck me.
Careful with the napkin now, he folds it twice and tucks it into his jeans pocket. He taps the pocket twice to ensure its safety, only then stuffing his dick back in his pants.
* * *
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It’s rush hour on the Tube. Bennett holds on to the top rail in the central aisle of the heaving train. He’s jammed between two heavyset businessmen, both of whom insist upon reading the newspaper, despite the carriage being packed to capacity. Bennett’s face is up against the soaked-through armpit of one of them. He doesn’t care, though, because he just got a woman’s phone number. Without even having to ask. When was the last time that happened to any of these Evening Standard–reading tossers? He looks around the train for a man more attractive than himself, but he doesn’t see anyone particularly good-looking. He pokes himself in the abdomen: not rock-hard, but not bloated, either. He applauds himself for having dry armpits and wonders how many of these twats bothered to change their underwear this morning. He did. He runs his hand through his hair, not because of nerves this time, but because he has hair.
Fishing his earbuds out of his coat, he turns on his iPod. He doesn’t need to look at it. He can make it work just by rolling the dial in his pocket—a skill impressive to no one but himself. There’s only five albums on it, anyway. He’s removed all the music that reminded him of Eliza, which it turned out was everything. Everything but Roots Manuva, that is. After some shuffling, he finds the song he wants:
More vibe, more vibe, more pressure, more vibe.
More vibe, more pressure, more pressure, more vibe.
The men on both sides of Bennett turn to give him a dirty look, but he just smiles back. He has a phone number.
Beat that, you fat fucks.
He can’t decide whether to call Claire tomorrow or to return to the bar first. The phone isn’t exactly his strength. The only person he talks to on the phone these days is Mia, and even that can feel strained. He could text, but that feels like a cop-out. Returning to the bar is probably best. Is tomorrow too soon? He’ll need to get a sketchbook where the pages tear out, which means another trip to Boss Art. Does he ask her out on a date or see if she wants to come to the studio and model for him? She seems to enjoy being the subject of his drawings. No, they should go on a date first, then he’ll ask her to model. If she says yes to modeling then odds are she’ll be into sex, too. If he’s right, then he’ll have a model and sex, and he won’t have to pay for either. He couldn’t have asked for a better outcome to this day. He needs more wine.
* * *
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When he enters the shop, the Khoury daughter is still behind the till. She looks up but doesn’t acknowledge him. Recalling that the wine was by the tea, he walks confidently to the back of the store. He looks over the reds, trying to discern the least offensive one. His wine knowledge will need some improving if he’s going to date Claire, an expert. He picks up and examines the labels of a couple different bottles, thinking this will somehow improve his insight. He settles on a Malbec because it sounds more manly than Merlot and he’s feeling manly. Remembering his previous conversation with the Khoury girl, he grabs a bag of Doritos and a jar of salsa (salad cream is disgusting) on his way to the till. With a big, boastful smile, he sets his three items on the counter.
She wasn’t kidding before: she doesn’t give a fuck. “Tenner, mate.” She flicks something, God knows what, out from under her fingernail.
He pulls a ten-pound note out of his wallet. “I came in for the wine, but I saw the crisps and thought, ‘I fancy those, actually.’”
Not impressed, she peels a small blue plastic bag from a stack next to the register, licking her middle finger and thumb to pinch it open.
Recoiling, he lifts up his shoulder bag. “No need!” He loads the items into the bag with his tea and sketchbook. “Cheers.”
“Enjoy your crisps, mate.”
“Thank you, I will.” He knows she’s being sarcastic, but his smile only grows. Phone. Number. Bitch.
* * *
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Going back through the garden gate, Bennett triggers the security light and Mrs. Easton looks up from the kitchen sink, sullen. He smiles and waves but doesn’t break stride to the door of the studio. She waves back but offers no smile.
Honestly, what is her problem?
The Eastons’ presence is the main snag in planning a romantic night with Claire. Suppose he does have her over to the studio. Suppose she even poses naked for him. Will Mrs. Easton be glaring disapprovingly out the kitchen window the whole time? How can he be expected to romance Claire knowing that the woman is a hundred feet away, giving him her blood curdling death stare? And he can’t just wait for the Eastons to leave. They’re booked for another three weeks.
“Just fuck off back home,” he mumbles to himself, twisting the key into the lock.
Back in the studio, he takes his iPod from his jacket and puts it back on the dock:
More vibe, more vibe, more pressure, more vibe.
More vibe, more pressure, more pressure, more vibe.
He turns up the volume just a little too high and twists the screw cap off his bottle of wine, bobbing his head to the music. He glances back at the main house to see if Mrs. Easton is still watching him. She’s acting like she’s not, but she is. While she’s still in view, he can’t drink out of the bottle. He pours the wine into his tea mug instead.
Fucking Mrs. Easton.
He’d rather invite Claire to the main house. He doesn’t want to have her over to this stupid little studio. If things get heavy, she’ll have to wait for him to pull out the futon, which will allow her enough time to change her mind. He can’t give her wine in a goddamn tea mug, either. There are fancy glasses in the main house. Back when Eliza purchased them, he had no idea what Riedel glasses were, but she assured him it was the only way to drink wine. Now he wants to use those wineglasses to woo another woman, So fuck you, too, Eliza.
He chugs the wine in his mug and then pours more, before twisting open the jar of salsa and squeezing the air out of the Doritos bag. Standing over the sink, he dips a chip into the salsa, coating it completely. Starving, he shoves the whole thing in his mouth. He takes his dinner over to the futon, where he nestles the jar of salsa into the corner so it doesn’t spill. He sits down, slouching into the hard cushion, crisps in one hand, mug of wine in the other. It’s the kind of habit that would drive both his mum and Eliza insane. His bad quirks are getting worse, he realizes, catching himself chewing to the beat of the music.
What kind of music does Claire listen to? he wonders. If she comes around, he’ll need something smoother, something with more ambience. Something feminine.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and goes into recent calls to tap Mia’s name.
“Hi, Dad.” She sounds busy.
“Hello, my darling Mia.”
“You sound perky. Why are you perky?”
“I like hearing your voice.” He makes a mental note to try and tone it down.
“I spoke to you yesterday and you didn’t sound like that.”
“What music are you listening to these days?”
“I don’t know.” Mia always sounds angry when she’s confused. “Why?” Her confusion is quickly replaced by worry. “You’ve never asked me this before.” She believes her father’s mental breakdown is imminent and has not been quiet about it.
“I’d like to get some new stuff.” He stuffs a crisp in his mouth while he’s talking. He can sense her recoiling on the other end of the phone. “I was in Soho today. I was going past the record shops and I thought I should expand my collection.” Not a total lie. He did go past the record shops. He just didn’t have that thought.
“You were in Soho? Did you go visit Richard at the coffee shop?”
No, I didn’t buy a coffee from your gay best friend who wants to jump me.
“Is his coffee shop near there? I guess I forgot that.” He didn’t forget.
“You’re the one who listens to rap. I haven’t got a clue what music you should buy.” She pauses. “You alright, Dad?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m fine.” He hears the pitch in his voice get higher.
“It’s a little early to be drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” Well, not that drunk. “I was doing some sketching at a pub.” He knows it’s much easier to be up-front with Mia. She’s too smart. “It was nice to be out of the studio.”
There’s a moment of silence before she speaks. He knows what she’s going to say, but he’s also learned over the years just to let her say it.
“I understand. Just remember Granddad.”
She says she understands, but she can’t. Not when she says things like that. She can’t comprehend that forgetting her granddad, his dad, isn’t an option for him. Fucking hell, he’d love to. He wants to tell her how much it hurts him that she would ever compare him to his father. Instead, he says, “I know, love. You don’t need to worry about that.” She’s totally killed his buzz. “Wanna have dinner next week?”