‘If we’re talking about platonic love, which I assume we are, then most people I know would claim to love their closest friends. Even–’
‘Right. That’s absolutely right, but again it’s because they’re told, you see? Told that what they are feeling is love. Fuck it, actually, pass the mirror over. Careful. And my credit card. Thanks. You want one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How many’s that now?’
‘Four?’
‘Not bad for a first time. I think there’s at least three more each. Now … Fuck, where was I?’
‘Friends.’
‘Friends! Yes. You’ve got friends, right?’
‘Nobody I’d donate a kidney for.’
‘Well friends in general, anyway, how would you define them?’
‘People you care about, I suppose?’
‘No. Absolutely not. There are people I care about who I wouldn’t miss one jot if I never saw them again. The people I miss the most when I’m not with them are those who make me feel best about me. That’s what it’s about. The better a connection I have with somebody, the more I am able to be the confident, amusing, outgoing, vivacious character that I’m capable of being. It’s lurking inside all the time, and some people bring it out, to varying degrees, and when I can’t be that person that’s what I miss. Or I miss the closeness of having a confidant, someone to tell my secrets to while I pretend I care about theirs.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No. I enjoy being told because it’s always good to hear gossip, and I can play the role of listener and adviser, and that’s fun because it gives us power. Do you see? It’s all self-satisfaction. The whole complex, overanalysed, wonderful human flea-circus is motivated by utter selfishness.’
‘So what about the other kind of love? Erotic love?’
‘Friendship plus sex, and more selfish than anything. What’s better than feeling adored?’
‘Makes sense to me. Love equals friendship plus sex. What about what we’re doing? Where does that fit in?’
‘Sex plus coke plus that hint of the taboo …’
‘Lovely.’
‘You want this first?’
‘After you.’
‘Ok … yum. Jesus, take this. Beautiful.’
‘Thanks.’ I snort it up. I feel like a pro.
‘Nice?’
‘Very.’
‘Good. The way I see it … Can you reach that lighter? Thanks. The way I see it, we’re all subject to two masters and two masters only: pleasure and pain. We court the former and do our best to shun the latter. There’s nothing else. And life? Life, in all its glorious subtleties and variety, is merely an intricate web of pleasure-seeking and pain avoidance. Killing time. Killing time until you die. Now come here and suck my tit.’
Twenty minutes later, while Emily chops out two more lines, I’m grappling with my flies in front of the toilet. I’m alarmed by what I discover.
‘Where’s my cock gone?’ I mutter into my chest. ‘Oh. Really?’
It’s been replaced by a withered old caterpillar.
‘Can’t wait until Emily sees that.’
It takes several minutes for me to start peeing and then it refuses to stop, but it’s a breathtaking relief. Finally, bathed in satisfaction, I replace the caterpillar and flush the loo. Then, stooping to wash my hands in the basin, I inspect my bruises in the mirror.
My right eye resembles a plum with an axe wound; my left is stained by splashes of purple and yellow, but at least it’s open; the split on my bottom lip still looks fresh under the stitches, and the swelling on the left of my jaw has deepened in colour, but gone down a little. I should think so too; it’s been nearly a week. Tentatively, I put my fingers to my right eye. At my touch the bloated flesh yields a little, and I wince. I barely look like myself. It comes across as odd to me that Emily likes it.
Emily. Now that I’m feeling chatty, I’d better explain.
Drink?xx
‘Who’s that?’ my wife said, having noticed my phone vibrate.
‘Um …’ Shit! Who could it be? I thought fast, but haste is only useful when it has direction and I was panicking already. ‘Um … I dunno.’
‘Oh. Help me get this down.’
‘Ok.’
I’d like to say she has no suspicions about who’s sending me messages, even though nobody ever sends me messages, because she trusts me. I’d like to say she has so much faith in our relationship that she knows I’d never cheat on her, not after the rules she laid down after the Barbie doll interlude, but it’s not that. Frankly, she can’t envisage any other woman giving me the time of day. It’s not healthy. Why was I having to lug around a half a hundred-weight of seething jealousy (ok, I admit it) because she was buggering off to Chichester with Guy Smiley from the Beeb, while she sailed away on a jewelled magic carpet of contentment safe in the assumption that I’m as attractive to the breadth of feminine humanity as a cracked tooth? And I had to help her pack. I wasn’t going to stand for it.
‘Hey. Don’t you even wonder a little bit who it was? I mean, I could be hiding something from you.’
‘Of course. Can you reach my shoes, though? No, they’re under the bed. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Seriously though, it could have been anyone sending me that message. Some mysterious beauty, perhaps. Why do you need that skirt?’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I’d tell you if there was enough of it for me to make an accurate judgement. I thought you were going to be working.’
‘Even archaeologists don’t spend twenty-four hours a day in overalls, darling. We might decide to have a bit of a social life?’
‘Oh, what, so you and Mr Chuckles are going to slip out for a quiet cocktail after hours, and you have to dress up like–’
She threw the clothes in her hand into the case, on top of the offending skirt, and threw me a glare that would stun a wild goat. ‘Like what?’
I could feel righteous indignation rising. And I was right, too. I had this one in reserve. ‘When was the last time you wore a skirt like that when you were out with me? When did you dress up like that for me, huh?’
‘A month ago, when we were at the opera. You didn’t notice.’
Shit. ‘Yeah, but you don’t dress like that for me, do you? Or you’d dress up at home. It’s not me, it’s everyone else. And he’ll just love that bloody skirt.’
‘Who? Louis? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’
‘And have you seen the way I look at him?’
‘Eh?’
‘What the hell does it matter how he looks at me, even if that was true? You can’t stop anyone looking at me if they want to, and nor can I. I suppose you want me in a burka next? Covered from top to toe?’
Yes. ‘No, but–’
‘Quite. Now stop being ridiculous. I trust you, and if you give yourself a rational moment to think things through you’ll realise you trust me just as much. You’re just sensitive because I’m going away.’
‘Well, yes, but–’
‘And that’s sweet, but you have to be a little more, not mature, but … grown up about these things.’ What’s the difference? ‘Besides, I’ll try to get back at weekends. Now, can you stop being silly and get my woolly coat from downstairs? It’s by the front door, I think.’
‘Sure. Sorry,’ I said and headed for the landing, trying to figure out how that had backfired on me.
Later that afternoon I packed Julia off in her car and sat in the kitchen with a glass of Reserve Crianza, composing my reply to Emily’s text for a full half hour. I finally settled on this:
Sure. When?
I shuffled into The Troglodyte at exactly nine o’clock that evening. The Troglodyte is a small, dark pub in a side alley towards the west end of the High Street. I never go into The Troglodyte, and I remembered why as soon as I saw the oaf behind the bar. He was a misshapen creature whose skin glowed with the deep pallor of the
cave-dweller. His hair was the colour of weak tea and shaved up the sides, leaving a long, flaccid stripe at the top which flopped down the back of his head to between his shoulder blades. He had a spike under his bottom lip and several in his ears, and a hole in one earlobe you could flick a pea through. He wore a faded black t-shirt tucked into tight black jeans, and a tattoo on one forearm said something in Japanese. There were only two other people in the tiny front bar. The short round girl who was being served had a head like a lump of dough that had dried in the sun, had a face painted on it by a vindictive toddler, and been adorned with a wig and the contents of my cutlery drawer. Her hair was stringy and streaked with red, and she was wearing a short black top which revealed a globular midriff spilling out over a frilly purple skirt. Waiting for her in the corner by the silent jukebox was a lanky fellow who had clearly been rejected from the production line before assembly was complete. He had greasy black hair covering one side of his face and no flesh on his bones. His t-shirt boasted the details of a concert by a death-metal style band with a name like Satan’s Clergy or something, who no doubt propounded the benefits of drinking each other’s blood and hanging from hooks in darkened rooms as a relaxing alternative to doing anything useful. I don’t know. Ruth is the one who likes all that sort of stuff. All I know is these people are putting on masks. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself how many of these Goth types are attractive under all that gubbins. And if I’m honest it makes sense to me. If you can’t compete with the beautiful people, why bother? Why not be angry and mysterious and outlandish and inscrutable? Why not be obsessed with evil, death and blood and Satan when there are so many smug wankers filling up the available niches in acceptable society, and why not have a code so you can recognise each other? People like me don’t have a code, but I wish they did.
The barman finished serving dough-face and greeted me with a disarming smile.
‘Hi there, mate, what can I get you?’ he said in a cheerful upper register. I was taken aback: I’d thought he’d have designs on my vital organs.
‘Oh, erm, a pint of lager, please.’
‘Coming up.’
There was no sign of Emily, so when he returned with my beer I asked him what his tattoo meant. He held it up for me.
‘It’s my girlfriend’s name: Amy Lucas. It’s in Japanese.’
‘Oh.’ It’s ridiculous. You don’t see the Japanese tourists charging round Whitbury with names plastered all over them in English, and a good thing too.
‘And I’ve got a Celtic design on my shoulder, here–’ Oh, good grief, ‘and a Ying Yang on my ankle, but I’d have to take my boots off to show you.’
‘Never mind. I think I can picture it.’
‘Yeah, and this flesh-tunnel I got done in Glastonbury. There’s this lady on the High Street just up from the Italian restaurant. Crazy goddess priestess type, but she’s the best in the country.’
‘That’s good.’ I gestured to my pint. ‘How much, by the way?’
‘Three forty.’
I paid the man and sat down by the window, hoping I looked ok. I’m only thirty-five and my work keeps me pretty trim, but I am developing a paunch and I’ve got skinny legs which are a comical sight when exposed, at least according to my wife. To combat these ill-matched aspects of my appearance I wore loose cotton trousers and an untucked white shirt with vertical blue stripes. My shoes were polished brown leather. My hair I’ve long since given up on, but I nudged it around a bit and it didn’t misbehave that much. Not too shabby, then, and I don’t mind confessing that in a certain light I think I resemble a young Tony Curtis, although I shan’t bother mentioning it to Julia again.
I also hoped I didn’t look too old, Emily being a ball-clenchingly recent eighteen and still at school, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.
‘Champagne Man!’
I got up to greet her. ‘Hi.’
Emily was on the threshold. Her right hand was propping open the door with a handbag dangling from the elbow, the left held her smartphone cocked at an angle. One leg, in a silver high-heeled shoe, had made it into the pub, splitting her turquoise dress more than halfway up her thigh. Her head was tilted forward so loose strands of hair slalomed down her face, and there was a scintillating flush on her cheeks. Static yet energetic, like an action photograph, it seemed she’d had a busy night so far.
She strode in. ‘God damn it’s cold. Get me a drink, would you? Vodka and tonic, ice and lemon, double.’
‘Sure.’ I turned to order but the barman was already on the case.
‘And another lager?’ he said.
‘I think so.’
Emily slipped off her thin black cardigan and tossed it on a chair. She sat down, slapped her phone screen-up on the table, dumped her bag in front of her and began to rummage inside it. Having retrieved her vaporiser, she took a lengthy drag before blowing the sweet smoke across to the bar. Finally she crossed her legs and leaned back in her seat. She looked brash and magnificent. When I returned with the drinks she got up, grabbed my collar and kissed me hard on the mouth with her lips open. Then, pulling back an inch and fixing me with her eyes, she said, ‘Thought I’d get that out of the way. You looked nervous.’ She patted me on the cheek and flopped back down. I joined her at the table, and hoped I had enough blood available to cope with its sudden redistribution. She looked at me over her drink. ‘How have you been, CM?’
‘Good.’
‘What have you been up to?’
This was a conversational cul-de sac for me. I did the best I could. ‘Working, mostly.’
‘Nothing else?’
I couldn’t think of anything. I could hardly tell her I don’t know anyone apart from my work colleagues and my wife, a) because that’s really sad and not likely to impress an off-the-rails teenager, and b) because I didn’t think it was a good idea to mention that I had a wife (I’ve never worn a wedding ring). But the effort to invent something felt like trying to run through quick-dry cement, so I gave up and told the truth, assuming she’d think I was joking.
‘Just plotting a murder.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘That's much more like it. What fun. Tell me–’ she licked her lips as she leaned across the table, ‘–who’s the poor victim? Anyone I’ve heard of? I mean, is it political, personal, business, pleasure? Ooh, is it religious? Are you a zealot, Champers Man? Have you been radicalised?’
‘No, I’m not a zealot. And it’s not political. It’s pleasure, I guess. Yeah, pleasure.’
‘Ok, so the Prime Minister’s safe, and the Archbishop. I wonder who it could be? Perhaps some slimy young upstart has just beaten you to a promotion and you’re after revenge. You’re going to break into his house and tamper with his gas heaters, because it’s winter and he’ll be using them regularly, and you should be able to force enough carbon monoxide out of them to kill him while he’s watching Saturday night TV over Duck à l'Orange and a bottle of ’78 Latour; except you can’t figure out how to spare his wife and kids, but then they deserve it too for being associated with the arrogant, mealy-mouthed scoundrel. Or maybe it’s a lonely, rich old spinster you’re going to convince to leave you her millions before she’s helped headfirst down the marble staircase. But you’ve had to put in the time, wooing her I mean: flowers, chocolates, horse and carriage through the park, and then the final, glorious seduction; and you’ve taken care of the details, too, and swallowed enough Viagra to raise the Titanic; but you still gag when she throws back the covers and spreads her liver-spotted thighs for you, because that flower wilted long ago, but business is business and you’ve got to show her the time of her life or she’ll never fall for it, even though you’ve no chance of matching up to the dashing Spanish Spitfire pilot she met in 1941, the last man to penetrate her inner sanctum, but who she never heard from again …’ She sat back in her chair and sniffed. ‘Am I close?’
‘Yes. Right first time, in fact. The old lady wouldn’t have me.’
‘Guess she never got over Fernando.
Shame.’
‘Right. Thought I might kill her anyway, even though there’s no money in it.’
‘Rejection’s a bummer, eh?’
‘It is.’
She laughed, and so did I. I was impressed by her quick-fire imagination, the processes of which had given me some unlooked for reassurance: as soon as she had heard the word murder, the first imaginative leap she made was towards motive. And we all do the same: ‘Why?’ we ask, never anticipating that a killer might just be thinking, ‘Why not?’
I decided to change the subject. ‘Anyway, what have you been doing lately? Is it good to be on holiday?’ The best I could do.
‘Yes and no. You get fed up with lessons, sure, but home is so restricting. Daddy’s coming back from New York soon and he’ll be as frosty as ever, Lenny’s a complete shit and Mama hasn’t spoken to me since the party. Still, we had the Christmas Ball on Friday. That was something.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Indeed.’
‘We never had anything like that at my school. What are they like? I get visions of greasy, floppy-haired boys in tuxes getting hammered and throwing up all over themselves, in between feeling up the girls and pissing in hedges.’
‘That’s about it, but with more Class-As. They’re all such children, even the ones I can tolerate. And they’re all so respectable, most of them; even underneath their drug habits and lager culture they still want to impress Mummy and Daddy more than they want to express themselves. And everything they do is about girls. Everything. Whether it’s playing in a band, or being captain of the rugby team, or working out four times a day or tanning or spending an hour a day in front of the mirror with a pot of gel. You know most of them shave their balls? I’m all for equality but if you ask me that’s taking it a little far. And they’re such fucking puppy-dogs. You wouldn’t believe how many of them latch onto you, offering you whatever they can think of to offer you, coming up with feeble excuses to spend time with you, accidentally coming out for a smoke when you come out for a smoke with excuses like, “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there …” Fuck off. Wet, servile, flaccid, spineless pussies. And they don’t even care who you are, just what you look like. If they took time to get to know me, most of them, I’d scare the living shit out of them. They don’t like girls who can challenge them, because they have this inbuilt masculine need to be the dominant personality. It’s hilarious: they suck up and suck up until they get you, and then wham! They expect you to roll over and do whatever they want, or whatever they think you want from all that shitty porn they watch without bothering to find out for real, so they can brag about it and look hard in front of their mates.’
Back Trouble Page 14