‘It’s in the drawer, here.’
‘…outside Henry Moore some lad, lager can and roll up shouts “Oi, you’re boss of council aren’t you, you’re always on box ’bout how great Leeds is, what the fuck do you do? What do you do for me, the real Leeds eh?”’ Helen does a thing with her mouth that is both crying and looking for how to cry. ‘The real Leeds.’
I feel a twist, a glass fleck in the flesh between my forefinger and thumb, a long sliver shock shooting up inside my wrist almost to my elbow, so deep in the scar tissue my palm flexes, connects to my finger ends so I’m not sure whether my hand jumps or pushes, whether I go to slap, strike, scratch, paddle, claw but suddenly we are standing, her mouth open, my mouth open, my hand frozen in the air between us. She knows I have performed a trick, I have thrown something and caught it, made it disappear just before it became a red mark on her cheek, or blood on her lip, a new territory, a place we would need reverse gear. Helen reaches to take hold of the table’s edge as if I have struck her, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Tell me, what is it? I’m sorry - your turn.’
Sometimes in meetings I hear people refer to Helen as That Helen Charnley. Say things like Things have changed for the better since that Helen Charnley arrived. Or That Helen Charnley, she’s a good thing. And We need to get Helen Charnley on board first. Sometimes people say to me You live with that Helen Charnley don’t you? I love all the ways they say Helen’s name, I love it as much when they like her as when they don’t, how she lifts them, how she gets under their skin. I put my arms under her shoulders and hug her onto me wishing, as always, that she could let her sobs out rather than grind her teeth, rock with me rather than jag her head side to side. I say each word slowly, placing them into the distance between me and the woman I am holding in my arms.
‘I left the bank. The bank left me.’
‘Oh shit.’ Helen loosens her hug like she is going to step away and talk about the mortgage, but she doesn’t, she seems even taller than usual. ‘It’s no surprise, I could see it coming. I’m glad you’ve done it, you needed to.’ Although my feet are still on the ground I’m being carried. I know why I love Helen completely and why after the meeting with Tony I ran across town to her office at the Town Hall, for what luckily I realised would have been an absurd entrance into a meeting about waste.
So I rang Cyd, we met in the Fat Cat. Cyd curled her lip. ‘So? What happened? There’s a suit’s summit back at the office.’
I suppose I wanted her to cheer, to be excited, to have a celebration drink at least. I said ‘Bet you didn’t expect that.’
Cyd sat back, ‘What does it matter what I expected?’
So I asked her what she thought and she smiled a tight little flat smile, ‘What does it matter what I think?’ Not cold, but no hairs on the arm stuff either ‘What do you think?’ Almost as if she was embarrassed for me. ‘I have to get back, I’m not like you, they want to know where I am every minute.’ On the pavement outside she said, ‘Actually I’m leaving a week on Monday, a friend of mine’s got a flat in Strasbourg, I don’t know what but hey, anyway…’ She kissed me on the lips.
I am trying to hold onto the belief that the way Cyd said What does it matter what I think? was because she felt indifferent towards banks and careers and jobs, not towards me.
Helen breaks our hug, I tell her ‘I broke a one hundred and ten per cent full wine glass across Tony B’s nose.’
She looks at me like I work for her, but that feels good. ‘You cut him? Hurt him?’
I shrug ‘He made a lot of noise, until he realised that wasn’t cool.’
‘They’ve had you in?’
‘No, tomorrow.’
‘Are they involving the police?’
‘They haven’t decided.’
Helen almost laughs. ‘Bloody hell, bad days, you and me both.’ She pours herself more wine, opens the kitchen door to let the last of the evening’s warm breeze in. ‘On the way home I was on the mobile and the conversation got complicated, a legal thing we’re having problems with. I turned off so I could stop and concentrate. This guy came over from his front garden and said ‘Do you know you shouldn’t have turned right? What’s the point of the council putting up all those big signs if you’re going to ignore them?’ I don’t know what it was, maybe I was still wound up about that boy outside Henry Moore, but I called him oh, I don’t know, f’ings and bastards and…I disgusted myself. As I was saying it I was thinking Where’s this come from? This feels like being out of control.’
Helen takes my hand, strokes out from the scarring, to my fingertips, up inside my forearm. ‘Most of this year you have been so angry, you talk about the bank, about little else. Angry angry angry. I think why does she talk about it all the time if she hates it so much?’
‘I loved it.’
‘Tonight, me shouting at that guy I thought, shit, I’m becoming Jenny. I’m glad you left, really glad, we’ll deal with this. If you like I’ll come with you tomorrow. Now cook something. Tell me what happened, the details.’
The Model Woman
Dee Rimbaud
Tony and his brother are debating the finer points of a football match, which was televised and shown in recorded highlights last night after the ten o’clock news. I am nominally included in the conversation as I was there last night while they watched it, in my usual capacity as hostess. When I was not fetching beer or running other errands I sat in my armchair, drinking from a can of Tennants Lager, on which there was a picture of scantily clad woman who made me feel like a frump in comparison. But I am not a frump! Tony is always telling me how sexy I am. Not that he paid me much attention last night. Him and Eck had eyes only for the television set; and they turned the air a crimson shade of blue, as they shouted out insults and instructions to the referee and the players. This depressed me and caused me to drink faster than I usually do. It depressed me because of its futility. It’s stupid enough to shout at the television as if you had the power of God over events that were going on in a distant place, but to shout at recorded highlights of something that had taken place several hours ago seemed both absurd and infantile.
‘That referee hadn’t a clue, eh love?’ says Tony, directing his attention towards me, trying to enlist my support ‘Hateley clearly took a dive before McKimmie came into contact with him. No way was it a penalty.’
‘Aw c’mon off of it Tony!’ says Eck, before I’ve a chance to reply, ‘Hateley was stretchered off.’
‘The Huns are always fucking well pulling off stunts like that,’ says Tony with a surprising vehemence. ‘Sorry love,’ he adds, remembering himself, ‘Scuse my Ps and Qs.’
I don’t know why he says that, but he always does after he says the F-word or the C-word. I think he thinks I find these words offensive because I don’t use them myself. I’m neither here nor there about swear words. I’ve heard them since the year dot, so I’m used to them. They don’t offend me. I don’t swear myself because of my upbringing. My mum and dad were both quite pious Catholics and I’d have got hammered if I’d ever sworn.
‘Aw c’mon Tony,’ says Eck, ‘be reasonable!’
‘Be reasonable? Be reasonable?’ screeches Tony. ‘What is it with you? Are you some sort of closet blue-nose or something?’
I look at Eck. Then I look at Tony. Then I look back at Eck. He has a wounded look, like a wee bird that’s just been pawed out of the air by a tomcat; and that’s what Tony looks like…a big, swaggering, cock-sure tomcat. Tony is always trying to score points off of Eck. I guess it’s a sibling thing, but I think he’s jealous of Eck as well. Eck still has a full head of hair on him; and he’s only Tony’s junior by two years. He’s also a lot more handsome than Tony.
Last night though, there was little difference between them. The pair of them were like beer-bloated imbeciles. I couldn’t bear to look at them: I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the television, even though the match was boring me rigid. I don’t know how they found any highlights to put on. I certainly could
n’t see any. Even the penalty that Tony and Eck are still arguing about was boring. The goalkeeper dived the wrong way and the ball just sort of rolled into the net. Honestly, I don’t know why we bothered watching it at all. We knew beforehand that Aberdeen were beaten one-nil by Rangers: it was on the news. Aside from anything, Tony and Eck are Celtic supporters.
I don’t mind so much if it’s a Celtic game on the telly, even the recorded highlights: as long as I don’t know the score beforehand. I like Celtic because they play in the same colours as Hibs; and being of Irish descent, it’s natural that my favourite colour is green. I suppose I’ve adopted Celtic as my team since moving to Glasgow, but still – if it came down to a match between Celtic and Hibs – I’d support Hibs. I’ll always support Hibs. Tony knows this fine and just about tolerates it, but he still slags me every now and then for being a snooty Edinburgh bird. I don’t know why. There’s nothing snooty about the bit of Granton where I come from; and he knows it.
Truth is, I don’t really like football that much. I suppose that’s not really surprising for a woman, but when I was a kid I loved it with a passion. My dad used to take me to see Hibs play almost every Saturday. Sometimes we’d even travel to Glasgow or Aberdeen or Dundee to see them. I used to like away matches especially. That was back in the early seventies, the glory days. I remember especially winning 7-0 against Hearts in the league; and beating Celtic 5-3 in the Dryburgh Cup final and 2-1 in the League Cup final in the same year. Hibs were a real force to be reckoned with back then. My dad still talks about them days. It was Hibs’ finest hour, he says. Now they’re so rubbish he doesn’t bother going to see them play, not even when they’re at home.
I didn’t have time for Donny Osmond or the Bay City Rollers back then. My room was a shrine to Hibernian FC; and especially to Joe Harper who was drop dead gorgeous. I cried the day I heard he was leaving Hibs.
It’s funny, but I saw him on television recently. He was a guest commentator on Scotsport. I was surprised at how old he looked. He was still vaguely handsome, in an old and haggard sort of way, but what really bothered me was how boring he was. He just kept on saying all these stupid things that footballers say like: ‘at the end of the day’ and ‘it’s a game of two halves’ and ‘it’s goals that count’; really stupid, mindless things. Any time I hear anyone say ‘at the end of the day’ it makes me think of David Coleman and Jimmy Hill; and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. My dad never talked in clichés. When he talked about football it sounded like poetry. It was his enthusiasm that infected me as a kid. How could I not have ended up loving football?
I mind my dad telling me about Bill Shankly who’s famous for saying that football was more important than life. My dad didn’t agree with him there, but he admired the spirit of it. He said yon Shankly was a ‘true football man’. My dad had a big passion about true football men. There were lots of them back then: people like Jock Stein, Denis Law and Stanley Matthews. At the time, I understood what Shankly meant, but now I think football is mostly boring and depressing. My dad said money destroyed it all. He’s right though: how can folk pay five million pounds for a footballer when they can’t even find money to keep hospitals open?
Tony and Eck are still arguing about that damn penalty. I only really noticed this because Tony said, ‘At the end of the day that penalty cost Aberdeen the game.’ It was like a synchronicity or something, him saying that; and it made me feel a wave of nausea, the sort you get after drinking too much the night before. I don’t know why, but when Tony says things like that I want to shout at him. A lot of the things he says make my blood boil. Most of the time it’s harmless enough things; and I don’t know why they upset me so much, but sometimes he can be downright pig-ignorant. Yesterday afternoon at the restaurant, I was that close to just packing my bags and leaving him for good.
We were sitting at the staff table, having a fag break after the lunch rush was over. Tony and Eck and their cousin Alfonso were talking about football, as usual. I was sitting, making out I was reading a Cosmopolitan, but I was really eavesdropping on a couple sitting at the window table. Sometimes I do that during breaks or after the shift has finished and we’re winding down with a beer or a wine or something. This couple were very glamorous-looking. The woman was just like a model out of a magazine. She was wearing a beige check skirt suit, which looked like it had been tailored especially for her. There was a slim, gold bracelet round her wrist; and this seemed to emphasise how slim and elegant she was. It also added a certain sophistication to her every gesture. I watched her carefully, over the top of my magazine. She was very refined: even the way she swept her hair back over her ears to reveal her little mother-of-pearl earrings was refined. Her hair itself was gorgeous: straight out of the Timotei advert; pure blonde, like the colour my hair was before I hit puberty. Her boyfriend was a total dish. They were made for each other. He was wearing a designer label suit; and he looked for all the world like a film actor, like a younger, more handsome version of Robert De Niro. He oozed self-confidence; and his gestures had a nonchalant, dreamy quality; like he was moving through a liquid that was thicker than air, but thinner than water. He was a bit drunk, but unlike Tony or Eck, this only added to his charm. At least, to me: his girlfriend though seemed to be irritated by it. She kept accusing him of not paying attention to what she was saying. Her voice was a bit pinched-sounding. I, on the other hand, was paying her as much attention as was humanely possible. I couldn’t hear all that she was saying though because Tony, Eck and Alfonso were having quite an animated conversation. I couldn’t hear what her man was saying because he was facing away from me, but his voice had a lovely, soft murmuring quality to it, like the sound of a slow moving river. I was really surprised that his girlfriend was so agitated because I’d have been hypnotised into acquiescence by the sound of his voice alone, never mind his good looks and expensive clothes. His girlfriend though seemed to be getting more and more exasperated with him. Eventually, she shouted at him, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake! What’s the use?’ This caused Tony, Eck and Alfonso to swivel round and gawk at her. The whole restaurant seemed to freeze into silence. Then the woman got up and stormed off into the ladies’ toilet. Even in a rage she was elegant. She carried herself with the sort of dignity you only see in the movies. If it had been me I’d have tripped over a chair leg or something and people would be thinking I looked like a right piece of baggage.
After her exit the restaurant came alive with a buzz of excitement. Everybody was speaking in loud whispers, presumably so the woman’s boyfriend wouldn’t overhear them. I don’t think he was much bothered anyway. He signalled the waiter, as cool as you please, gave him some cash and walked out without waiting for the change. He pushed through the smoked glass double doors and walked out onto the pavement in the pouring rain. Almost immediately a cab drew up. He got in and left us to our idle gossip and speculation. That was it, he was gone: not a feather ruffled.
‘Right stroppy cow!’ hissed Tony.
‘Brass neck on her,’ agreed Alfonso.
‘Telling you,’ said Tony, ‘if she were mine I’d have belted her one.’
I know it was probably just male bravado, but it really made me angry, him saying that. He didn’t know anything about the woman; and already he was deciding she needed putting in her place. I knew it was only words: I knew Tony wouldn’t hit anyone, least of all me, but still, I was spitting with rage.
I got up and went to the toilet. I needed to get away from the three of them. I knew I’d say something I’d regret if I didn’t. When I got in there, the woman was fixing her make-up in the mirror: looking for all the world like a model from Cosmopolitan. I wanted to talk to her, but felt too shy, so I went into the cubicle, sat on the pan and tried to gather my thoughts. Then the tears welled up inside and I started to cry. It was impossible to gather my thoughts: they were all over the place, running riot inside my head. All I could see was that I was destined for a life of misery and dr
udgery. That if I married Tony I’d just continue working as a waitress until I got pregnant; and then I’d be a housewife; and that would be it. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about just calling the engagement off. I kept thinking about what Tony said he’d have done to the model woman and I couldn’t get it out of my head that he might become a wife beater after all. The women’s magazines were always warning you about it. I kept thinking about the times he’d put me down or tried to control me; and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed likely. Maybe once he’d got me married and up the spout, once he’d got me over a barrel, his dark side would come out. These doubts made me so miserable I sobbed out loud. I couldn’t help myself.
‘Are you alright?’ said the model woman through the cubicle door. She said it in such a peaches-and-cream voice that I felt safe to confide in her. I unsnibbed the cubicle door and stood up.
‘Oh look at you, pet,’ she said. ‘Your mascara’s run.’ She led me to the mirror and dabbed away the offending mess with a small facecloth. Then she offered me some of hers. It was in an expensive-looking frosted glass and chrome tube: so unlike the cheap plastic ones I buy from Boots it might as well have come from another planet. I felt its smooth strange textures in my hand and savoured them, thinking that this would be the first and last time I’d ever feel anything as exquisite as this. It caused me to let out another sob. The model woman asked me what was wrong and I just blurted out all my jumbled emotions about Tony, hardly pausing for a breath. She listened patiently, then when I came to a halt she gave me a hug. Then she told me that Tony sounded like a useless waster and I should just dump him. Then she laughed and told me I’d be better off on my own because all men are bastards, one way or another. With that, she breezed out the door in a shining haze of righteous indignation; and I was left alone, feeling like a frump with expensive make-up on.
Naked City Page 6