by Tim Lott
You’re quite happy to spend it.
Yeh. That’s why I’ve got a room full of Prada bags.
You’re living in this house which I paid for. Ever since you’ve been hanging out with that chav Roxy your shopping bill has gone up and up. And I’m not talking about shopping for Sudocrem. Where do you think that money comes from? If I spent all my time protesting against wars, you’d be pushing her around in a second-hand piece of crap from Primark.
It’s very sad that money means so much to you, Frankie.
Yeh, it’s so sad, I’m crying. And truth is, he is close to it.
Why is it so important to you? Really. It’s so . . .
What? Vulgar?
I didn’t say that.
Anyway, that’s a stupid question.
Why’s it a stupid question?
Because . . . because money is . . . money is . . . money is meaning. Whatever meaning means. Christ I’m talking as much rubbish as you now.
Veronica rocks China back and forward and keeps her eyes fixed on the child.
I thought I was marrying a man, she says, without looking up. Not a boy.
In the end, what’s the difference?
The difference is knowing the difference, says Veronica.
She continues clucking into China’s ear. China gurgles delightedly.
I work my great big hairy balls off for this family. Not that I get any thanks for it.
Your balls are tiny.
Giving up on the decimated phone, Frankie goes to the cupboard under the stairs, gets out a dustpan and brush and goes into the living room to clean up the glass shards from the ashtray. He treads on one of them: his foot is immediately cut and bleeds into his sock. He sweeps the broken glass into the pan with angry strokes, blood seeping from his heel. Veronica walks into the room from the hallway, still holding China, who is laughing now and sucking on a rusk.
You’ve missed a bit.
She points to a miniscule fragment of glass by the table leg. Frankie reaches over and picks it up between his fingers.
I’ve cut my foot, says Frankie.
Don’t get blood on the carpet. She leaves the room with China and goes upstairs.
Frankie finishes tidying. Minutes later Veronica comes down again, alone.
We need to have a talk, she says.
We just did.
I need you to get on board.
With what? says Frankie.
With this.
I am on board.
You work twelve hours a day.
I have to work twelve hours a day. To pay all the bills.
But what about me? What about my hopes? What about my career? I’m never going to finish my training if I’m under this kind of pressure. I’m meant to be studying at least four hours a day. I don’t even get four minutes.
I’ll pay for a child-minder. Anyway, she’ll be at nursery soon.
I don’t want a child-minder. I want us to bring up China together.
You can’t have it all ways.
Why don’t you put some of the work onto Jane? She could take up some of the slack.
Jane hasn’t got the experience.
That’s how she’ll get experience.
I don’t want to give up my commissions to her.
Even if it means having twice the amount of time with your family?
You make it sound like I’ve got it cushy.
I’m going insane, Frankie. I need to get on with my studies. Look at us. Look what all the stress is turning me into. I don’t want to be that woman. It will take me years to learn to be a counsellor. I need support from you.
Just leave it until China’s in nursery. Why can’t you do that?
Because I promised myself to bring her up by hand for the first few years. I thought I owed it to her. If you loved me, you would find a way to help me.
Everything I suggest you throw cold water on. I can’t take my foot off the pedal at the agency now.
I didn’t know how hard it was to be a mother.
You don’t understand, Vronky.
You don’t understand, Frankie. You don’t understand what it’s like. Every day. Being here. With her. I’m lonely. And bored. And tired. And irritable. And I can’t study. I’m six months behind on where I’m meant to be.
What about the other mothers?
All they talk about is their kids. You can’t imagine how boring it is. I want to have a job.
Maybe you shouldn’t have chosen to have a baby then.
It was us who chose. Us! Why should I be the one who has to make that choice?
Because. Because.
Because what?
Frankie puts her arms round her. She stiffens, then softens and begins to weep.
Come on. We can do this. Once my plans have played out, we’re going to be sitting pretty.
Veronica wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
What plans?
Buy to let. It’s the future. I already got a little bedsit I let out. And I’ve just seen a house on the market on Goldhawk Road that’s perfect for it. Dilapidated, but since our friend the warmonger, Mr Blair, opened all the floodgates, all these Poles turn up looking for work at about thirty per cent less than the goons and ponces that English builders have got away with for years. I know this bloke, Woyzek, who’s got a whole team. They live in a squat in Barnet, they are top-hole and hungry and if I can close on this house, then I’ll do it up and shift it on in a year for a thirty per cent profit. Then I repeat. And repeat. Until we’re rich.
But you still haven’t paid back the money you borrowed from the bank to start your agency. How are you going to get more to buy this new place and do it up?
I’ve got some cards up my sleeve.
We need to be careful. I’m not going to be making any money out of my therapy practice for a good few years. And the nursery bills are going to start coming in before the end of the year.
Don’t worry about it. I want you to be happy. I want your dreams to come true. I want things to be right for China. Trust me?
Veronica pauses for a second too long before she answers.
Of course I do, Frankie. Of course I do.
And though they are still glaring at one another like fighters, they both find a place within the moment to soften and finally, tentatively, embrace.
* * *
Nodge walks through the polished glass portal into the Soho gym with a ragged towel and kit in a plastic Safeway shopping bag. Fraser has told him – repeatedly, and without mercy – that he is fat. Practising considerable self-restraint, Nodge has avoided making the comeback – and you’re old and bald.
Nodge has asked – begged – Fraser to accept him as he is. Fraser, it seems, is unable to do so. So Nodge, finally, has come to the gym. Up until this moment, the closest he has come to keeping fit for several years is walking up and down the stairs at the Porchester Spa baths in Queensway from the lounging area to the saunas and steam rooms.
The man at the gym counter has a buzz cut with whorls like corn circles cut into the side of the furze, and is dressed in a tight white Red or Dead T-shirt. He is chatting with a heavily built black man with an elaborate gothic tattoo on his forearm that spells out the word ‘Pride’.
Nodge is intimidated. He has never been in a place like this. The spa he frequents in Queensway is older, more downmarket and not so, well, queeny, although there is a big gay contingent there along with a weird mixture of cabbies, villains, pensioners and straights.
The man in the T-shirt glances sharply at Nodge’s plastic bag, then more pointedly still at his undefined torso with a faint expression of distaste that he doesn’t trouble to conceal. He turns away and resumes his conversation with the ripped black man, whose teeth, Nodge thinks, seem to sparkle in the brightness of the almost-fluorescent overhead lights. Or is that a racist thought? Fraser polices him for that sort of misstep. He worries since he met Fraser that he is a racist and a sexist and even a homophobe, the latter of which makes very little
sense to him, but Fraser seems to make everything convincing, he is so whip-smart and sure of himself.
For some time the man behind the counter – whose name, according to his badge, is Orson – continues to pay no attention to him. Nodge waits for the black man to finish his long rambling speech about what appears to be an extended longueur in his otherwise apparently vigorous sex life. Eventually the man winks at Orson, guffaws for no reason that Nodge can ascertain, and walks away in the direction of the vast, hyper-lit gym space, which is soundtracked with hammering techno beats. But Orson continues to blank Nodge, now directing his attention downwards at a red leather bound register in front of him. Nodge sees him scratch what appear to be a few pointless doodles into the margins with a very sharp pencil.
Nodge stands there for another twenty seconds. He coughs. Finally, he speaks.
I’m a guest of Fraser Pike.
The man gives the faintest of nods, but continues doodling and studying the register.
Could you tell me where the changing rooms are, please?
The man behind the counter doesn’t even look up. He just waves vaguely towards Nodge’s left. Nodge sighs and makes his way into the changing rooms. The two other men in there have absolutely perfect, sculpted bodies. Nodge removes his shirt to reveal his pale overcoat of hair and flab. He changes into a pair of football shorts and a yellowing T-shirt. One of the men fixes him with a stare.
Alright? says Nodge with a hint, now, of resentment.
The man smiles without warmth and turns back to his companion. They are chatting about a party they went to the night before. The drugs they took. What happened in the half-lit back rooms.
Nodge changes as quickly as he can and drags his heavy body into the main hall. The space is vast. There are mirrors on every wall. There are rows of machines for lifting, running, stretching. The soundtrack of techno music pumps out, it seems, even louder than before. It is ‘Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger’ by Daft Punk, a track he particularly dislikes. He spots Fraser on one of the running machines and walks over. Fraser briefly makes eye contact, but shows no other sign of recognition.
Sorry I’m late, bellows Nodge over the music.
Fraser carries on running silently apart from his slightly elevated level of breathing.
Something the matter, Fraze?
Why should something be the matter? Fraser doesn’t bother to raise his voice, but Nodge still somehow hears him.
I said I was sorry for being late. I had a fare out to Richmond. You’re not allowed to turn them down.
No need to yell.
How have you been getting on?
Speak up, I can’t hear you.
How have you been getting on? shouts Nodge, trying to pitch his voice exactly right between a bellow and ordinary speech.
I’m nearly finished now.
I’ll get a move on then.
Nodge gets on the running machine next to Fraser, switches it on. The treadmill begins to turn. Fraser continues to stare straight ahead.
Who was that stuck-up cunt at reception? The guy with crop circles on the back of his head.
Orson? He’s okay.
He looked at me like I was shit on his brand new Dunk Lows.
Attitude queen. You come to a place like this, you have to expect it.
Nodge has started to run now, and is already breathing heavily.
This place is like hell, he says. His face has turned red already and his chest is pumping.
You didn’t have to come. There’s always Shepherd’s Bush sports centre.
You wanted me to.
I didn’t say that.
You didn’t have to say anything. The way you look at me is enough.
Don’t bother guilting me. It won’t work.
I know. I’m not.
Sorry I don’t want a fat boyfriend.
I’ve already lost half a stone.
I don’t care about your body, only your beautiful soul.
Nodge for a moment thinks Fraser is being serious, then redoubles his pushing.
I’m doing this for you, Fraser. I hope you know that.
It’ll put ten years on your life.
Fraser says nothing more, just carries on running, smoothly, tirelessly. A light sheen of sweat covers his body. Nodge finds the sight exciting. He switches his gaze and looks straight ahead – at himself in the mirror. He sees a shapeless blob – his head – on top of another shapeless blob, his torso. Since coming out more than three years ago, his definition of himself has matured, become more exact and defined and real. Now he wants the same for his body, his personality.
After five minutes, with bursting lungs, Nodge switches to the rowing machine. He rests there for a while. To his left, one of the men from the changing room is rowing at a brisk pace. Nodge starts, taking it in leisurely strokes. He’s feeling exhausted already. He takes a swig out of his plastic water bottle. He glances at himself in the mirror again. There is no escape from the shining surfaces. He is repulsed and depressed by what he sees.
There is another rowing machine to his right. Fraser leaves his treadmill and Nodge gestures towards the available rowing machine, but Fraser goes instead to lift some weights.
After five more minutes of rowing, Nodge lies back and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, a heavy, hairy man with a beard is leaning against the rowing machine to his left, which the previous occupant has now vacated. He is tanned and his nose is peeling.
Enjoying it? he says, mildly. His accent has a faint Welsh tang.
Does it look like I’m enjoying it? says Nodge.
There’s got to be more to life, he says, smiling at Nodge.
Couldn’t agree with you more.
My boyfriend put me up to this. Otherwise I’d be having a catnap.
Mine too.
Nodge pulls himself up into an upright position.
You work around here?
I work everywhere. I’m a taxi driver, says Nodge.
I’m in the transportation business myself. I deliver pizzas. On my bicycle. Well, that’s one of the things I do. You’ve probably nearly run me over once or twice. Trouble is, they give me free pizzas. Murder for the waistline. Hopefully it’s just a short-term thing.
Don’t tell me. You’re trying to break into acting.
I’m training for a job at John Lewis. Soft furnishings. Curtains, mainly.
Fraser walks past, swigging on a bottle of Evian. He finishes, then blows Nodge a kiss, without making eye contact, before tackling a squat rack.
That your boyfriend?
Yes, says Nodge, flatly.
Nice pecs.
Nodge takes another drink of water. He can feel his thinning hair matted soggily on his rosy head.
I have a confession, says the man.
You’re not training for John Lewis. You’re really after a job in the reclining chair department of World of Leather.
I haven’t got a boyfriend, says the man. I’m just here because I thought it would be a nice place to meet people.
How’s that going? says Nodge.
I’ve met you.
Not exactly. We don’t even know each other’s names.
I’m Roger Mycock.
I’m Jon Sadler, but people call me . . . that’s not really your name, is it?
Obviously not.
What is it really?
Owen Ambrose. What is it people call you?
Noj. It’s—
Jon. Backwards. I get it.
Owen holds out a dry, large, meaty hand. Nodge wipes his own hand carefully on his T-shirt and shakes it.
Why aren’t you working out with Charlie Atlas there?
Who’s Charlie Atlas?
Ask your boyfriend. He’ll be old enough to remember. His generation’s answer to Schwarzenegger.
He’s a bit out of my league. In terms of physical fitness anyway.
Bit long in the tooth for you, isn’t he? He must have twenty years on you.
I’m not in a position to
be that choosy, says Nodge. Anyway Fraser’s got a lot of good qualities.
I can see that.
Other than his torso. He’s funny. Well, quite dry. Sometimes.
Sounds like a riot.
He’s classy. He’s got taste. A lot of taste. And he has standards. Both moral and physical.
Hence the gym for you?
Hence that, yes. He’s a nice man, really. Well, not ‘nice’ exactly. Good. Righteous. All appearances to the contrary.
Owen nods, ruminatively.
Shall we have a go at something together? he says. We can goad and mock one another mercilessly. Good for the motivation.
What did you have in mind?
How about the punching bags? I’ve got a lot of pent-up aggression.
Against anything in particular?
Gyms, mainly. And narcissistic muscle Marys. Like this place is busting with.
They go to the punching bags, where they put on gloves and start attacking the red vinyl sand-filled sheaths. Nodge finds it satisfying, although he can feel the flesh on his upper arms wobbling in a way that he worries must look unattractive.
Now this is my idea of a workout. Beating the shit out of something helpless, says Owen between shortening pants of breath.
Nodge smiles at him.
Are you Welsh?
Why would you think that?
Owen? It’s a bit of a giveaway.
I like to play down the Welshness. It’s all a bit butch.
I like Welsh cakes, says Nodge.
Nice stereotype, says Owen. Actually, I make a lovely Welsh cake. That’s about the only part of Welsh culture I know about.
Are there other parts?
Probably not. Singing, isn’t it? Poetry. Violence.
Fraser walks up, slow and vaguely disdainful. Although he is nearly fifty, and with a bullet head and a hooked nose and thin, prissy lips, his body is a thing of wonder, all prisms and angles and edgy hard bulges.
I’m finished, he says flatly, looking disinterestedly at Owen then glancing at Nodge.
I’ll see you in the coffee bar, says Nodge.
Fraser doesn’t answer. He takes a slower, more appraising look at Owen, up and down. Then he walks off without another word.
Nice, says Owen.
Yes. He’s in good shape.
No. I mean you, says Owen.
Are you flirting with me?