An incident popped into his head from a few weeks back in which he and Melissa had been walking home from a club in central London very early in the morning. He had been dressed up for a night out with his hair gelled and some make-up. As they waited at the bus stop a small group of men had approached him and taunted him: they had shouted in his face and abused him. The bus arrived in a minute or so and he had gladly climbed aboard before the situation turned violent. Throughout this incident Melissa had said and done nothing. He hadn’t reprimanded her.
Melissa broke his reverie. ‘It’s not that I don’t do anything, that isn’t what matters. It’s caring about things that matters. I do care about things.’
Steve stopped the music tape and changed it to something quieter and gentler. He knew that she was being sincere, but he still couldn’t resist saying, ‘Please cheer up, Melissa, we still have to work together you know.’
Melissa clammed up. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Steve flicked through his magazine some more, but couldn’t concentrate. As a peace offering he said, ‘Do you fancy some tea? I’m making.’ Melissa shook her head sulkily. He made himself some tea and they sat in silence again. After a while he said, ‘Why don’t we cheer ourselves up with a bit of Power Selling?’ He picked up a silver jacket which had a picture of the Last Supper on its back made entirely out of different coloured beads. ‘You buy lunch if I sell this, OK?’
Melissa grimaced and marched off to make herself some coffee.
The next customer who came in was one of Steve’s regulars. He had a good body and gregarious tastes. He liked Steve and he liked the jacket. By the time that Melissa had finished making her drink a deal had been transacted. He’d bought the jacket and they’d arranged to go out for a drink together after work. Once he’d left the shop, Steve couldn’t resist saying, ‘God, I’m hungry.’
Melissa stared at him coolly. ‘I’m on a diet.’
Steve brushed a few tiny pieces of fluff from his tracksuit bottoms and ran a hand through his short, blond, bristly crew-cut. He said, ‘I’m getting myself a Big Mac, all right?’
It was nearly three o’clock by the time John got home. As he shut the front door his arms ached on account of his having carried home a large, new toolbox complete with saws, chisels, a power drill and a small chain-saw. He put his new purchases down in the hallway and went and stood in his front room, scratching, stroking his stomach meditatively. He didn’t have a garage; his front room would have to be as good as. He pushed his sofa up against a wall and dragged the two chairs into the hallway and then upstairs into his small bedroom. Next he got an old newspaper and used each page to wrap up various fragile glass and china objects before putting them into a box which he pushed into a corner of the room. He moved the bookcase into the hallway and pulled up the Turkish rug. He rolled it and leaned it up against the bookcase. The room was now much simpler and emptier. He dragged his new toolbox into the room and placed it in the middle of the floor, then opened it and arranged around it all the new things that he had bought so that he could inspect each item individually. He glanced at his watch, because he was waiting for a few deliveries. To pass the time while he waited he put on some plugs. Then he found a pencil, rubber, ruler and some paper and sat on the sofa making some initial, perfunctory plans. As his hand flew back and forth across the paper he felt the rest of his body relax, although the left-hand side of his anatomy was numb and heavy and his face was as pale and as puffy as dough.
On Wednesday morning Steve arrived slightly late at the shop. Melissa had already opened up by this time and was sat at the till organizing a float for the day. They still weren’t speaking. All morning her chest had felt tight but empty at the same time. She knew that her body was making her suffer for the argument of the previous day. She knew inside that she had been self-indulgent and stupid, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. This reticence was vindicated, however, when she turned as he entered the shop, a half-empty bag of coins still in her hand, and saw that he had a silver jacket slung casually over his shoulder. She tried to bite her tongue, but still said, ‘I’d have thought that there would be easier ways of acquiring one of those jackets than that, Steve. Your little drink after work must’ve been quite successful – those things cost well over a hundred quid.’
Steve refused to be ruffled. He slung the jacket over the back of the swivel chair and said in a funny Oscar Wilde voice, ‘Oh, I’m just borrowing it, darling. Everything has to be so tawdry and absolute in that little mind of yours. As it happens, he simply forgot his carrier bag in the pub last night and it seemed rather churlish of me to refuse to take possession of the coat until I see him again. I’m sure he’ll be in later. Satisfied?’
She was satisfied but she didn’t say anything. She felt bad. Steve made himself a cup of tea in silence and then slouched by the till and read his book. Melissa realized that he was punishing her, but this only made her feel more angry and defensive. She flicked through Vogue and said, ‘Thanks for the tea.’
Steve looked at her for an instant. ‘Grow up.’
He carried on reading. Melissa was determined to humiliate him, to turn the tables. She said, ‘How about a game of Guess or Gush? At least if I win I’ll get some tea. The next person we don’t know who comes in, all right?’
Steve smiled to himself and said, ‘Go ahead.’
Melissa smiled daggers back at him.
John’s living-room floor was now awash with pieces of paper covered in complex sketches and plans, tools and electrical equipment, an unconstructed woodwork table which was at least seven feet long and four feet wide, and, up against one wall, four very large chunks of wood, beautiful pieces of half-tree with bits of shaggy bark still coating the outside, the inside glossy and luminous.
Accumulating his carpentry material had made John feel like a squirrel, a beaver, a humble creature compelled by the dictates of nature, by mortality, to build himself a secure nest, to build himself a coffin, to do-it-himself, to leave a mark, something self-created, something unique, individual and personal.
Instead of turning him away from death, his new involvement, his brand-new preoccupation had made him face death, had made him dive into the idea of death and swim around in it. Eventually he knew that it would drown him, but it didn’t matter any more. He felt so vital.
It had been a wrench on Wednesday morning to drag himself away from his wood and his new tools and his schemes. Nevertheless, he had left for work at the usual time and had spent the morning at his desk phoning, making deals, securing sales. During his lunch-break he went out and bought a sandwich, then strolled around looking in shop windows.
Although everything felt very secure and normal to him again – his illness had been pushed away into a tiny crevice of his mind – he felt strangely light, as though illuminated from within, powerful but weightless like a born-again Christian. His compulsion to buy, which had always been his guiding motivation, had, he felt, almost disappeared. He was fully aware of a deep irony in this situation, given that the previous day he had virtually emptied his savings account, but he now perceived those expenses as the beginning of something, and at the very same time as the end of something. He was cheerful in his hypocrisy and folly, like Don Quixote sitting backwards on his donkey, beguiled, foolish, happy.
He wandered into Soho, past the peepshows and then past some of the smarter and more expensive shops in the area. One shop window was based on an Aztec theme, full of gold and azure and orange. Everything was chunky and angular and sharp. The colours shouted out at him and he tried to picture in his mind an Aztec coffin made like a glorious offering to the sun god. He smiled to himself and resolved to get hold of some books on the subject as inspiration. The next shop window was based on a white theme. It was very clean and crisp, but ultimately uninspiring. John wanted to keep an open mind, however, so visualized a white-theme funeral with a white coffin lined in white satin with himself laid out inside in a Liberace suit of white and gold spangles. He li
ked the underlying implication of contradicting the blackness of death by offering himself in a clean white marriage to eternity, to eternal wedlock with nothingness, to space, to an infinite white silence.
Looking at his watch, John realized that it was almost the end of his lunch hour. He was just about to turn around when he caught sight of a young shorn-headed man standing in the doorway of the next shop along with a jacket slung over his arm. It was a silver jacket which was beautifully beaded on its back with some sort of colourful illustration. It looked silver and yet it wasn’t a plastic or a leather jacket that had been spray-painted silver, it was a sort of soft, flickering silver velvet which shone and glistened like something organic. The young man was talking to someone who appeared to be a friend. He passed him the jacket and then gave him a peck on the cheek. His friend smiled, waved and then walked away. John waited a few seconds and then approached the young man before he’d had time to turn round and re-enter the shop. He smiled and said, ‘Excuse me, would you tell me where you got the jacket that you were just holding?’
Steve smiled back at John, who seemed rather too middle-aged and tedious in his business suit to constitute a serious customer, ‘That jacket comes from this shop. It’s an original design so we only have a couple of them. Would you like to come in and see?’
John looked at his watch again and then thought, ‘What the hell.’
He followed Steve into the shop. As he entered he noticed his helper giving a significant look to a girl who was standing leaning against the changing-room rail with a cigarette in her left hand and a copy of Vogue in her right. She looked up aggressively and then – somewhat surprisingly – immediately broke into a smile. John smiled back, but he kept his lips closed and his mouth formal. The young man said, ‘I’m Steve, by the way. Hi.’ He then sat down on a stool by the till and added, ‘Melissa will serve you.’
Surprised at Steve’s reticence to serve him John turned to the girl and said, ‘I’m looking for a silver jacket like the one your friend …’ He tipped his head in Steve’s direction, but Steve was apparently already engrossed in what appeared to be The Age of Reason, ‘… the one like your friend just had over his arm outside the shop.’
Melissa’s expression took on the trace of a slight sneer at the mention of the jacket. Vaguely uneasy, John added, ‘If that’s all right.’ Then she smiled again. ‘Sure, that’s fine.’
She turned away and pulled a couple of hangers back to locate the item in question, then passed it to him. She said, ‘Here you go. It’s the last one we have, well, we only had two anyway. Nice fabric, isn’t it?’ John took hold of the jacket and ran his hand over the material, which was as soft as a peach. Melissa watched him for a moment and then said, ‘Were you thinking of buying this for yourself?’
John realized that this must seem like a rather ridiculous proposition. He shook his head slowly. She said, ‘I’m not surprised. It is rather, well, rather gaudy, isn’t it?’
As Melissa said this she stared over his shoulder at Steve. She glared. John thought her strange and distracted. She made him feel ill-at-ease, with her bright clothes and short greased-back hair. He appreciated that he was under some obligation to explain his purpose, so he began to say, ‘It’s not so much the jacket I’m interested in as …’
Before he could finish his sentence, however, Melissa said, ‘Hang on a sec,’ and walked away from him over to the till, whereupon she snatched the book Steve was reading from his hand and picked up a pen. She turned to the title page and began to write with great vigour. Then she slammed the book down on the counter and returned to John’s side.
Steve picked up his book looking highly disgruntled and irritated. He turned to the front page where Melissa had written in a large scrawl, THIS GUY IS SOME SORT OF MEDIA SALESMAN. I BET HE SELLS CRAP ON THE PHONE. HE’S GOT THAT SORT OF SMOOTH VOICE. EAT SHIT ARSEHOLE. Steve closed the book and placed it back down again.
On Melissa’s return to his side John continued, ‘It’s not so much the jacket I’m interested in as the material.’
The girl’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. She paused for a second and took a drag on her cigarette. ‘What?’
John began to feel irritated. He said, ‘I want to find out about the material, if that’s not too much trouble.’
Melissa stared over at Steve and said, ‘Steve can help you on this one.’ She turned away and wandered to the back of the shop to fill the kettle in anticipation of her victory.
John was beginning to feel fairly disorientated. Steve stood up and strolled over to him saying, ‘What was it you wanted?’
John was growing tired of repeating himself. He said, ‘I want some of this material to line a coffin with.’
He expected the young man to show some surprise at this request, but instead he didn’t appear to have listened and was now suddenly staring at John with what seemed to amount to a look of recognition. He then said, ‘I don’t mean to be nosy or anything, but don’t you work in a media sales department. You know, selling stuff on the phone?’
John frowned. ‘I said I wanted some of this material to line a coffin. Are you listening to me? What the hell do media sales have to do with anything?’
He was determined to possess some of the material that he held in his hand; it was as soft as tears, softer. Steve had the good sense to look slightly embarrassed. What the man was saying about coffins had just sunk in. He stared at John incredulously for a few seconds and then asked tentatively, ‘May I ascertain from this that you are a coffin-maker?’
John appreciated the fact that this revelation must make him seem rather strange. The girl, Melissa, was staring at him with open-mouthed hostility. He thought, ‘Maybe people don’t like talking about death in high-fashion shops.’
He waited for a second and then said, ‘Well I’m a sort of carpenter. I do things on commission, if you see what I mean. At the moment I happen to be making a coffin, yes.’
Steve began to smile at him. His face was very rosy and genuine when he smiled. He then said – rather inexplicably in John’s opinion – ‘God bless you!’ and looked over at Melissa, ‘Thirsty are we dear?’ He started to laugh and went to sit down again; then picked up his book and ripped out the title page with great showiness. The girl looked very upset. John didn’t know exactly what it was that he’d done to upset her but he presumed that it must be serious. She stalked towards him, took the coat and marched to the till. She said, ‘I know the girl who designs these, I’ll phone her and ask where she got the material from.’ She dialled a number, smiling tremulously over her shoulder at John as she waited for an answer. She held on for a minute or so and then hung up. ‘She isn’t in, I’m afraid.’
John shrugged. He’d had enough. He said, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ and turned to leave. But before he’d reached the door the girl was at his side and had rather inappropriately grabbed hold of his arm. She said, ‘Don’t go. I could try the number again.’
John was slightly shaken. He felt stupid and naïve. He felt disappointed too and oddly tearful. He pulled his arm away and said clumsily, ‘What would you care anyway? Go back and read your stupid magazine.’
The girl seemed to freeze. She stared at him and suddenly her face was very simple and uncomplicated. She said, ‘Have I upset you somehow? I really didn’t mean to. I really do care.’
She said the last few words with especial emphasis. John blinked. His eyes felt ridiculously damp. She stared at him. He said, ‘Your cigarette smoke got into my eyes. I’m allergic, that’s all.’
She said again, ‘I really do care. I’m sure that I could get hold of some of that material for you. I know I could. I promise.’
John shrugged helplessly. He didn’t know what to do. Melissa was looking nervously around her and rubbing her nose in a gesture which seemed to express a mixture of both embarrassment and confusion. Then she said, ‘I know, give me your phone number and when I get through to the designer I can phone you and tell you where she got her supply from.’
John pondered this idea for a moment, and placed his hand against the door frame for support. As he touched the painted wood his hand felt very cold. He could feel the wood but he couldn’t properly feel it. His hand felt as though it had randomly been given a local anaesthetic. Surprisingly, his face and especially his tongue, felt very cold too. He blinked, realizing that these sensations had distracted him from the conversation at hand. Melissa was still staring at him. She looked confused. After a second she said, ‘Are you all right? You don’t look too well all of a sudden.’
John lied with surprising ease. His father had died of diabetes. He said, ‘My blood-sugar levels get slightly low sometimes. This trip into town takes it out of me a bit. I didn’t prepare for it. I’ll get a taxi home, don’t worry.’
His knees felt like cardboard, flimsy and thin. The doctor had said this would happen. It had happened before. He said again for emphasis, ‘I’ll get a taxi,’ and turned. Unfortunately the words didn’t come out this time as quickly as he’d anticipated. He’d turned before the first two syllables had been completed by his spongy and ineffective tongue, and the force of his turn caused him to slam into the door frame. Melissa grabbed hold of his arm and said, ‘Wait, I’ll go and call one for you.’
She dashed out of the shop and ran to the top of the road and on to a busier street, where she tried to hail a cab.
Steve approached John’s gradually collapsing form and, putting his arm around his waist, pulled him down into a sitting position. He sat by him on the step. He said softly, ‘Can you say your address?’ John nodded, humiliated, and started to mumble. Steve got up and went to the till where he grabbed a pen and the first bit of paper that came to hand, then he returned to John’s side and patted his arm as he said, ‘Go on then, slowly.’
Love Your Enemies Page 14