by Kate Russo
“You don’t smoke,” he says, stunned.
“I do, sometimes. When I’m in a bad mood.”
“You’re still mad.”
“You’re a genius.”
He can hear her taking a drag from her cigarette and blowing out the smoke. He’s completely forgotten the message he intended to leave.
“Want me to hang up,” she asks, “so you can call back and leave the breakup message you intended?”
“I wasn’t going to do that.” He knows that much, at least.
“Are you still a Super Host?”
“For now,” he replies, embarrassed. It sounds so stupid when she says it like that. “I decided to let the house to this woman on a monthly basis.” He pauses, but Claire gives no reaction. “She’s looking for a house to buy. Once she has that, then maybe I’ll put my house up for sale.”
“Right.”
“She said she didn’t mind me being in the studio and she’s happy to share the laundry room with me—”
“Sounds like you have it all worked out,” she interrupts.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Well, it means you and I don’t have to make any big decisions. Maybe just keep things as they are for now.”
“Right.”
“I thought that would be a good thing, no pressure.”
“Well, if that’s what you think . . .”
Christ. He stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk; he can’t walk and compute this passive-aggressive assault at the same time.
“I should get back to work,” she adds.
“Okay. Listen, I decided to go to the gig with Carl tonight. Want to meet up after?”
Silence.
“I saw Mia earlier. I told her about you. She wants to meet you.”
“Then send her in for a glass of wine. You know my schedule.”
He runs his hand over his hair, but stops halfway to make a fist. “Claire. I’m trying here.”
She laughs. “Enjoy your concert.”
* * *
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“Alright, Benji?” Carl asks Bennett as he approaches, setting a half pint of flat brown ale on the table in front of him. Bennett’s found him scrunched into a corner table at the packed pub. At the other end of the table that’s not meant to be communal, a young couple sits, huddled together. “I’ve been fighting off geezers right and left to save you this chair,” he adds, kicking it out to Bennett.
“Thanks, mate. Can I get you another drink?” Bennett asks, pointing to the bar.
“No, thank you,” Carl lifts his half. “Drinking mindfully these days.” He takes a sip, pinky extended, like a little girl drinking tea. His T-shirt says, “Life Is Gucci.”
Fuck sake.
The bar has thirty taps. All the beers are listed on a chalkboard above the bar, but Bennett doesn’t recognize any of them. “Something light?” he asks the young woman serving him, who studies Bennett curiously, while he reads the chalkboard like he’s looking for train times at Waterloo Station.
“What do you like?” she asks. “Bitter? IPA? Pilsner?”
“Just regular beer,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “What’s that? Lager, right?”
“You’d probably like the pilsner,” she says, pointing to a tap. “This is a good one. It’s light, but with a full flavor.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t even bother looking at the tap.
“Pint or half?”
“Pint, please,” he says, thinking he’d like to make as few trips to the bar as possible. He pulls a five-pound note out of his pocket.
“That’s six-quid-eighty.”
Christ. Seriously?
He fishes in his pocket for a two-pound coin.
“Seven quid for a pint!” he gripes, setting the beer down when he returns to the table. Carl is twirling his glass in his hand, looking at the reflections.
“That’s quality shit you’ve got there, mate. Some Belgian monk probably spunked in that.”
Bennett looks at the yellow liquid skeptically, afraid to taste it now. He takes his first sip, as Carl awaits his reaction. “It’s just beer.”
“You gotta loosen up, Benji. Open your senses to the subtleties of life and all that, nuhtamean?”
No fucking clue.
“What are you working on, anyway?” Carl asks, shifting effortlessly from moron to art critic.
“Oh. Um, I’m kind of getting back into nudes, actually.”
Carl slaps the table hard. “Yes, mate!”
The couple with whom they’d been sharing a table rise, leaving a good third in each of their pint glasses. The young man puts his arm around his partner and escorts her from the table, after shooting them a dirty look. Carl doesn’t notice.
“Yeah, it feels good,” Bennett says quietly, though he wonders what Carl would make of the first Claire painting. Would he, too, find it classical, aka dated?
“When you started painting fruit, I was like, ‘What the fuck’s he on about?’”
Oh, right. I’m the confusing one.
“I don’t know. I needed a break, I guess.”
“Fifteen years?”
“Yeah, well, I had a little girl,” he says defensively, taking another swig from his beer. “I didn’t want her to think her dad was some perv that looked at naked women all day.”
Carl’s expression says, So what? “Nah. Daddy would be rich if he’d kept painting the ladies. Your girl would be nipping around London in a little pink Roadster and summering in the South of France. She wouldn’t give a fuck how you made the money.”
Every last word of that makes Bennett’s skin crawl. Though it’s true that Mia probably wouldn’t have cared if he’d continued to paint nudes. It’s not like she doesn’t know about his past with the genre. It’s never bothered her, that he can tell. And she’s no stranger to painting the female anatomy herself. Case in point: that recent five-foot vagina painting.
“I didn’t want to do it anymore,” Bennett explains. “The fabrics and the still lifes were more interesting to me.”
“And only you, geez.”
“Yeah. Alright. I get it.” He chugs the rest of his six-quid-eighty pint. The only thing he’s “mindful” of is how much he wants to punch Carl in the face. Nuhtamean?
Carl drains his own half pint and turns the glass over on the table. The remaining beer drips down the inside of the glass, creating a ring on the surface.
“C’mon, Benji. You think I want to paint massive biblical altarpieces?”
Yes?
“I’d rather fuck off to Margate and paint seascapes, but nobody is going to buy those, not from Carl Willis. I got a reputation to uphold.” He leans across, propping both elbows up on the table. “You’re Bennett Fucking Driscoll, mate. Act like it.”
Bennett swallows hard and nods. Carl is right; he didn’t have to give up the nudes. He could have continued to paint them while developing other work. Maybe it was stubborn and stupid of him to just abandon them altogether. If he’d continued with them, he probably wouldn’t have to worry about letting his house on AirBed. He’d probably still have his gallery, or a gallery, at least. Maybe he would have been able to afford that house on the edge of the Thames, the one he loved since he was a kid, the one Eliza kept tabs on for years. And maybe Eliza wouldn’t have left him at all. Maybe he’s the only man in the world who could have saved his marriage by looking at more naked women.
Wait.
“If you know my name is Bennett, why do you call me Benji?”
“I prefer it,” Carl says, pointing at Bennett’s empty pint glass. “Looks like you could use another.”
* * *
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Before they even get to the venue, Bennett’s consumed twenty-eight quid’s worth of pilsner. It take
s him a little while to add it up, his math skills severely impaired by the four pints. Even after two hours of drinking, they’re still early to the small, dark venue. A crowd of die-hard fans is starting to form around the stage. To Bennett’s surprise, most of them are white men in their forties dressed, ridiculously, in hip-hop themed T-shirts from Tupac to Dizzee Rascal.
“I need a leak,” Carl says.
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You just want to get a look at my cock?” Carl asks, somewhere between joking and serious.
No. No. No. No. No.
“I just thought maybe your missus left you because you’re . . . nuhtamean?”
“I do know what you mean, Carl, and I’m not gay.”
“Alright. If you say so. Men’s loo is a good place to meet other blokes.” They’re making their way to the back of the club over floors so sticky their shoes actually cling. “No judgment, mate, if you meet a fella. We don’t have to end the night together.”
That, at least, is reassuring.
In the toilets, all the urinals, but one, are mercifully in use. Bennett makes a beeline for the empty stall and shuts the door behind him. Releasing his urine he closes his eyes, enjoying every second away from Carl—his voice, his gaze, his stupid fucking T-shirt. When he opens his eyes, he sees there’s a message on the back wall: DAVE. SAD. BIG COCK. CALL ME. 07700987868
“Oi, Benji! You taking a shit or taking down phone numbers?” Carl snorts at his own joke.
Fuck you, Carl.
He hovers, dick over the toilet for an extra second, uncomfortable knowing Carl is waiting on the other side of the door. This whole thing was a mistake. He should be at home, painting. He should be spending the night at Claire’s, not in this club with a racist, homophobic twat. It’s bad enough that Carl is more successful than he is. It’s even worse listening to the dickhead explain why that is, over extortionately priced pilsner. Bennett is zipping his fly when his phone vibrates. Text from Eliza. Fuck, really?
Mia says you’re dating. Good for you.
He flings open the door of the stall, startling Carl and everyone at the urinals.
“Alright, Benji! I was just making a joke.”
“What?” Bennett heads for the exit.
“About the phone numbers, mate. Just a lil’ banter and all that.”
“Whatever. I’ll be right back. I need to make a call.”
Outside he paces, wondering why Mia betrayed him by telling her mother about Claire. Surely, his daughter had to know that Eliza was the last person he wants to know about his personal life.
Good for you? The phrase has him reeling. If she really wanted good things for him she wouldn’t have left him in the first place, right? You don’t pledge to spend your whole life with someone and then fuck off just because you got bored. You don’t get to pretend you know what’s good for a person after you bail on them. You don’t get to pretend you know them at all.
He presses Call, pacing like a leopard on the dark, crowded sidewalk, waiting for her to answer.
“Hi,” she says, in a tentative, slightly defensive voice.
“‘Good for you’? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Alright, Bennett . . . I was trying to be nice.” The resignation in her voice suggests she suspected his reaction.
“I don’t know why Mia told you that, but you don’t get to know anything about my personal life.”
“I asked her, Bennett. She didn’t want to tell me at first. She’s very loyal to you, you know?”
His heart swells for a moment, causing him to momentarily forget his anger. He thinks about Mia and how much he knows she worries about him.
“When was it over between us? Before or after you met Jeff?”
“Bennett . . .”
“I deserve an answer to that. Did you know it was over before you met him?
“Yes,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I think so.”
“Good. I hate thinking you left me because of that smug little twat.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“I’m at a gig.”
“A gig?” she asks, chuckling.
He stops pacing. “Yes. Is that so unbelievable?”
“Kinda,” she says, laughing harder now.
“You don’t know me anymore.”
“Rubbish, Bennett. You may have gone to a gig, but you’re outside on the phone talking to me.”
He wants to hang up on her, but he can’t. It’s too good hearing her voice.
“Mia says her name is Claire?”
“Yeah.”
He lets silence fall over the conversation, like a petulant teenager.
“How did you meet her?”
“I’m painting her,” he says. Not the full truth, but close enough. After all, when you paint someone, it’s like meeting for the first time. He remembers how he and Claire stared at each other for five hours, both vulnerable, her naked and him with his heart on his sleeve and a perpetual lump in his throat.
“Right,” she says, after a moment.
“Any more questions?”
“No.”
“You’re holding back. What?”
“You never painted me,” she says.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“You’re a fool, Bennett.”
His heart ceases to beat, just for a second, the way it does when the simple solution to a problem presents itself far too late.
“Good night,” she says, then hangs up.
* * *
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When he walks back into the venue, Roots Manuva has started. The crowd around the stage has swelled and Carl is in the center of it, jumping up and down like a six-year-old in a bouncy castle.
Mind to motion. Know the notion.
Bennett pushes through the crowd, giving Carl a shove when he finally reaches the center of the mosh pit. Carl has a giant grin on his face. “Fuck, mate. I thought you bailed!” Carl shakes him, excited. “This bruv is mint, geez!”
Bennett smiles as Carl continues to gyrate manically, off beat.
Roots Manuva jaunts from one side of the stage to the other in a coat with tails and a top hat.
Hither to . . . Bear Witness.
To the Birth . . .
Of the Brute . . . !
Bennett stuffs his hands in his pockets, swaying as he surveys the crowd that packs in around him—sweaty middle-aged men jumping up and down with their hands in the air and their beer guts wobbling like bowls of jelly. This is what it looks like to live in the moment, Bennett thinks. These guys aren’t giving any fucks about how ridiculous they look. They’re not thinking about their ex-wives or current girlfriends or the staggering price of a pint. They’re just listening and misguidedly shaking out their suffering in the belief that the music was written especially for them. Mindfulness, Bennett thinks, is a truly disturbing sight.
Roots Manuva squats down at the front of the stage and points into the crowd. Right at Bennett, he could swear it. Bennett swallows, paying attention.
“Hither to!” the rapper shouts, and the hairs on Bennett’s neck stand to attention.
Bennett removes his hands from his pockets and cups them around his mouth and shouts, “Bear Witness!” in time with the rapper. “And furthermore. The Brute . . . shall stay . . . Brutish!”
Sinking Stone
When he opens the door, Bennett is smiling, broadly. Kirstie is used to the goofy man grin, usually accompanied by a gaze that’s directed right at her cleavage. It doesn’t bother her that men stare at her larger than average breasts. After all, it’s a compliment. Most women don’t know the difference between a compliment and an insult anymore.
“Good to see you again, Bennett,” she says, placing a hand on his arm and kissing both cheeks. “I’m so happy this work
ed out.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Can I help with your bags?”
“Yes, please! I’m afraid I’ve brought way too much stuff!” She looks back at her Mercedes, crammed to the gills with suitcases and tote bags.
“You do know the place comes furnished?” he kids, looking through the window of the packed car. He opens the trunk and pulls out a large, zebra-print suitcase. It drops with a resounding thud onto the driveway. He groans a little, pulling it along. “What is this, your rock collection?”
She just smiles, too embarrassed to tell him the truth—yes.
“I can’t really judge,” he offers, lifting the suitcase into the house. “I haven’t gotten rid of a single thing since my divorce.”
“Except the wife,” Kirstie says, laughing. She removes several tote bags from the back seat. She looks over at him, expecting a shared laugh, but he’s already disappeared into the house. Her kids are always telling her that her sense of humor is completely devoid of tact. She’s been wondering recently if maybe the little shits are right. With two tote bags full of shoes in each hand, she struggles to the front door, teetering on a pair of high-wedge espadrilles. A stiletto heel pokes through the tote bag and digs into her thigh.
“Give ’em here,” Bennett says, appearing in the doorway.
“Sorry about the wife gag,” she says, embarrassed. “My kids say my jokes aren’t funny.”
“She got rid of me, actually.”
She looks at him sympathetically, even though she doesn’t quite believe him. “I won’t pry. My kids say I pry too much, as well.”
He smiles, not the goofy grin from before, but a kind of half-smile that suggests he’d like to change the subject. She can take a hint. Don’t bring up Bennett’s ex-wife. Got it. They unload the rest of the car in silence, with only the occasional sideways glance and polite curls of the lip.
“Can I take any of these bags upstairs to the master bedroom?” he asks once everything is out of the car.
She looks around at all her stuff. The answer is that it can all go upstairs, but she feels wrong asking him to do that, even though she’d like him to stick around. She’s not looking forward to that first moment of being alone in this house.