by Tim Lott
Isn’t that dishonest?
That’s just a way of a looking at it. It’s the wheels of commerce. You have to keep them oiled.
Frankie starts to whistle as he helps himself to a cup of coffee from the cafetière. Veronica watches him carefully. He is clutching and unclutching one of his hands. His leg is tapping the floor furiously in an unceasing tattoo.
I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Frankie.
Say whatever you like.
I’m pleased that you feel better. But you seem a little bit . . . I don’t know. Hyper. A few nights ago you could barely get dressed.
Frankie knocks back the mug of coffee in one, smacks his lips in appreciation.
I’m absolutely fine. Please. Don’t start on me with the Freudian analysis. We had a talk. It had an impact. Simple as. Thank you for that. Now I’m back in the saddle. Frankie the Fib is back.
Okay . . .
Another thing. Guess what?
I’m listening.
I’m going to get rid of my birthmark.
What?
You went and had your face fixed. I’m going to do the same.
This is hardly the time . . .
Don’t try and talk me out of it. I’ve made the appointment.
He rushes across to Veronica, kisses her passionately and walks out of the room, whistling ‘When You Wish Upon A Star’.
Veronica looks at China and whispers half to herself, half to China.
What on earth was that all about?
Daddy gone crazy, says China.
After she has finished her breakfast, Veronica heads down into the basement to make a dent in the chaos. The space, though, is immaculate. The bed has been stripped, the carpet hoovered. However, the litter bin is full. She goes and gets a black bin liner to clear it out. There are empty cigarette packets, a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie, a takeaway Chinese food carton and, right at the bottom, the DVD of Pinocchio.
* * *
Roxy sits and stares at the enumerated and valued list of assets that she has inherited from Colin. She cannot believe the number of noughts at the bottom of the page. These noughts are now hers, to do with as she wishes. She had no idea.
The irony is that shopping, since Colin’s death, has lost its appeal.
Veronica is there with her as she reads the financial statement. She has brought it to the house in North Kensington to try and make sense of it. Veronica stares over her shoulder.
I’m not sure what to do with it all, says Roxy. It’s not as if I earned it.
Nice problem to have. Anyway, it’s just irrational guilt. ‘Survivors’ guilt’ they call it.
Have you learned a lot from your training then?
It’s been an eye-opener, I’ll say that much.
I’m going to give some of the money to charity. Colin would have wanted that.
Veronica bites her tongue, since Roxy’s rosy view of Colin seems to be helping get her through the grief.
Also, I’m thinking of getting a lease on a little shop. I’ve got this idea for a business start-up.
What’s the idea?
Promise you won’t laugh?
I promise.
It came to me the other night when we were at the cinema watching, what was it?
‘Mrs Henderson Presents’. Yes that’s it. And we were sitting there munching on our popcorn.
Being bored half to death.
Yes, it was terrible. And the popcorn was terrible too. Nearly broke my tooth on one of the pieces.
That’s exactly it! That’s my idea!
What is?
Gourmet popcorn! Because at the moment it’s just salt or sweet, right? But there are all sorts of possibilities. Imagine cherry popcorn. Chocolate popcorn. They have it in America. It’s all about niche.
I don’t know, Rocks. Is it wise to risk it all like that?
I’ll put some money aside. Even if the popcorn idea is a flop, I’ll be okay.
Well. If you’re sure.
What should I do with it, though? The money I’m putting aside? Should I invest it?
Don’t ask me. I’m hopeless with money. I was practically one of the only people in London in the last ten years to buy a flat that I lost money on. I thought the feng shui was more important than the survey. Frankie warned me against it, but I didn’t listen.
What about gold? I’m feeling gold.
Frankie says it’s waste of money. You got to buy some property at the moment or find a proper investment broker. So he says.
I don’t trust those people with their stocks and shares. I still fancy gold.
You just like bling.
Yeh, no, yeh, I do like bling, so I’ll get myself some nice pieces, I reckon. Put some more in a safe deposit box. I like the idea of money you can look at, do you see what I’m getting at? Hold in your hands.
Now Frankie walks through the door, eyes darting violently about the room. The slightly manic behaviour that appeared when he first emerged from the basement has, as far as Veronica is concerned, continued intermittently, although Frankie brushes it off as her imagination.
I heard what you said, Rocks. Money’s not like that anymore. It’s just digits on a screen.
That’s my point, says Roxy. Money is getting sort of spooky. Unreal. Gold, that’s real.
Gold is a mug’s game, says Frankie, taking off his coat. It just sits there for the most part. You should put it into property. I can give you a hand. Tell you what. Spain is a prime market at the moment. Villas going for a song. I’ve got contacts.
I’m thinking of starting a gourmet popcorn shop. What do you think?
Long shot, says Frankie, tapping his foot frantically on the floor. Long as you don’t buy gold. Just because it’s yellow and glitters.
Who do you think you are? John Maynard Keynes?
Who’s he when he’s at home?
Come on, Veronica. Frankie must know what he’s talking about. You just told me what happened when you didn’t follow his advice. With the flat and that. I reckon Spanish property sounds like a good idea. You get an investment and a holiday gaff. Mini-breaks in the sun.
He’s not infallible.
I am actually, says Frankie, not smiling.
The Spain thing sounds like it’s worth looking into. Thanks, Frankie.
Good move.
But what about the popcorn shop? I don’t know anything about the popcorn. Or opening a shop, come to think of it.
Never stopped me when I was starting out, says Frankie, taking a coin out of his pocket and idly tossing it. Heads . . . tails . . . heads. You go, girl.
Okay, Frankie, I hear you. I hear and obey.
That’s the spirit. No wonder Colin was nuts about you.
Anything for a laugh, isn’t it?
* * *
Frankie is sitting spry and shaven in the office area of FLB Estates. His leg bounces up and down under the desk, as if sprung. There is a bandage on his head, where he has had surgery to remove his birthmark. In a few days’ time he will take it off in order to properly assess the results. The surgeon warned him that the procedure could be unpredictable, but that the long-term outcome was reliable.
He’s completed on the six-bedroom property off the Askew Road on a hundred per cent mortgage. He’ll cover the repayment by renting out the rooms piecemeal on recurring six-month leases. That way, the repayments are easy. Even after the expenditure of keeping the places maintained, he has money to spare. The bricks are rising in value, every day. And the surveyor was an easy mark – he signed off the mortgage on inspection after Frankie had made it look very roughly like a family home and removed all the Yale locks from the inner doors. He replaced them the following day, once the surveyor was out of the picture.
Frankie feels good, purposeful, wonderfully and constantly agitated. No time to think about anything, and that’s the way he likes it. He understands now why he was getting depressed. He simply wasn’t working hard enough. He simply wasn’t
rich enough. He simply wasn’t good enough.
Colin was unlucky, but then you make your own luck and Frankie’s going to be one of the lucky ones, he’ll make sure of it.
He is surprised about how much time buy to let takes up. Tenants who need a tap fixed, a piece of furniture replaced, a leaking roof repaired. He tries to be an adequate landlord – some of them around here, like Dirty Bob who sold Veronica her white elephant flat in Shepherd’s Bush – are cowboys. But tenants, he learns, can be a giant pain as well. One couple, who rented a small house just off the Uxbridge Road, did a bunk in the middle of the night, leaving the place trashed. Shit on the floor. Literally human shit. Now he’s spent the morning trying to organize workmen and cleaners to come in and sort the place out. He can’t afford to lose the rent for more than a few weeks. He’s stretched tight, but there’s an excitement to it that he loves, that he needs. Without tension there’s just entropy.
The work piles on the work. Twelve-hour days, sometimes seven days a week. Truth to tell, he hardly sees Veronica any more, but he expects that is a relief to her. They haven’t had sex since Colin died. China doesn’t need him, she’s her mummy’s little girl. Anyway, there will be time for that later. In the meantime the money is rolling in.
He does the maths in his head, over and over again, like an imagined pornographic tableau. Five properties in total. Combined rentals income £12,000 per month. Mortgage repayments on 100 per cent loans: £2,500 per month. Even taking into account refurbishments and missing weeks and repairs and legal fees, he is clearing £100,000 a year before his salary from the agency. Plus the capital is rising with every month. It’s a licence to print money.
* * *
With hard work, application and much more capital than she had planned to use, Roxy has managed to set up the popcorn store in a tiny premises, no bigger than the kitchen of her house, near the Portobello Road in one of the less fashionable side streets. It is not far off Christmas now – she’s determined to cash in on the seasonal market – and she has set up a number of gift packs ready for stocking fillers.
She is satisfied, at last, with the look of the shop, which has gone through a design, a redesign and then a refit. A flashing neon sign that reads ‘PC GONE MAD’ in yellow neon adorns the frontage, flanked by a flashing red-and-white striped vintage-style popcorn canister, with creamy fluorescent popcorn chunks spilling over the top.
The opening party starts in an hour, although they can only fit twenty people into the tiny space. There are popcorn-flavoured martinis made with popcorn water, butterscotch ripple, vodka and cream. Roxy is dressed as a carton of popcorn – all stripy red and white cardboard, crepe and foam rubber, with a crown of polystyrene popcorn resting gingerly on her head.
She is still in the back of the shop when Veronica arrives with China, followed almost immediately by Nodge and Owen. Owen looks ill and does not touch the popcorn. Frankie has rung to say he is going to be late because he is so busy. China wanders from table to table trying each of the popcorn flavours in turn and spitting them out in disapproval.
How much does it go for, then? says Nodge.
Four pounds a bag, says Veronica.
Steep, says Nodge.
Not like you to see the downside, Nodge. Where’s Roxy?
Maybe the loo?
I don’t know how she’s going to manage a slash dressed up as a box of popcorn.
Veronica goes into the back of the shop to find Roxy. She tracks her to the toilet, where she is sitting on the lid of the bowl, crying.
What’s the matter, Rocks?
Roxy looks up at Veronica through the neck frills of the popcorn outfit.
Colin would have hated the whole thing. Would have thought it typical of me. Frivolous. Impulsive. Childish.
Colin isn’t here anymore, is he?
No. And that’s how I get to open this frivolous and childish and impulsive popcorn shop. Using his money.
Why don’t you come out of there?
I can’t face it.
Veronica pulls up a packing case from the corridor and perches on it.
You asked me other day if I’d learned anything from my counseling training. If I’ve learned anything it’s this. Guilt is a waste of time. It’s even more a waste of time when the person is dead. You’re still young and you’ve got lots of life in you. Use it. You’re the one who’s always saying that life’s too short. You’re seeing things all distorted.
But I’m not, though. Don’t you see? I killed him in the first place. It was me.
Oh, come on, Rocks. How do you figure that one out?
That day I made him miss his usual train. Because I wanted him to fix my computer. If he had caught his train, he wouldn’t have been caught up in the bombing. I didn’t really need my computer fixed to be honest. But there was something I wanted to buy online. A pair of shoes. A pair of Jimmy Choos that I’d seen on Sex and the City. That’s what I killed Colin for. A pair of fucking spike heels. They arrived a week later. I put them on the fire. It’s a disaster.
You can always order another pair.
Roxy tries to laugh, but instead she breaks down into deeper sobs. Veronica tries to stand and put her arm around her, but the bulk of her outfit makes it impossible. She finds it hard to sound grave addressing a five-foot carton of popcorn.
Listen, Roxy. We’re not gods. We can’t see the future. I made a decision to come by public transport tonight because Frankie was so busy with work he couldn’t pick me up. If I’d have been blown up on the bus, then Frankie would have blamed himself just like you did. But then let’s say I was going to go on public transport and Frankie insisted he drive me and had a crash and I was killed, he would have blamed himself for that too.
What’s your point?
We are all in the dark. We all have our heads in the same place – up our behinds. If things go well, we think we’ve been wise and clever. If things go badly, we think we have been stupid and foolish. Sometimes we have been wise and clever. Sometimes we have been stupid or foolish. But more often or not, it’s just luck, good or bad. Things just happen and then other things happen and there’s not much we can do about it.
Roxy dries her tears, and wipes her hands on her pink-and-white striped apron.
I don’t care what clever things you say, says Roxy. I still killed him. And it’s not only that. At the same time as I’m beating myself up, every day, for killing him, at the very same time, I’m thinking how glad I am that he isn’t here anymore and that I’ve got all this money whereas before I didn’t have any of my own and had to rely on him, ask him for everything. And then I feel guilty about that too.
It takes generosity to accept a gift. And to accept good fortune. There’s no need to—
Don’t tell me there’s no need to feel guilty! Don’t. Even though it’s true. You seem to think in the end you can think everything through and, you know, make it make sense. Then it will be alright. Straight. But that’s not true. Things are all twisted up. Don’t they teach you that at shrink school? People are all bunched up and cross-wired inside and you can’t untangle it. You can talk about it all you like. It don’t make any difference. Some people they just got the skill, you know?
What skill?
Of ignoring it, of ignoring that it’s all crossed wires in the end. They’re like, the happy people. I thought I was one of those. But I’m not anymore. Not since Colin. I can’t help it. Maybe one day it will go away, I don’t know. But it’s inside me, like a worm eating everything and I can’t get away from it.
Come on, Roxy. It’s the opening of your new shop. Dry your eyes and get out there. It’s going to be fine. This should be a happy day.
Yeh, it’s going to be fine. Lots of money. Lots of shoes. Everything’s fine.
She dabs fiercely at her eyes with her apron.
I’m sorry, Vronky. I’m being a total fucking bitch and I know you’re only trying to help.
I don’t want to give you something else to feel guilty about.
Okay then, fair enough. I won’t feel guilty. That’s what you lot are all about, isn’t it? Not feeling guilty about stuff. So right. Let’s get out there.
The front of the shop is packed now with guests. The seventies record ‘Popcorn’ by Hot Butter is playing at full volume on a loop. Frankie has arrived and sees Roxy emerge from the back of the shop. He kisses her cheek.
Rocks. This looks great.
Thanks.
It’s going to go gangbusters.
Hope so.
You put some money in the Spanish property too, right?
That sounds like a vote of confidence.
Better safe.
Yeh. I got a place lined up near Valencia.
That’s the ticket.
Nodge pushes through the crowd, picking at a box of popcorn.
What do you think? says Roxy to Nodge.
First ever electro pop song. Beat Kraftwerk by years.
I mean the popcorn.
Yeh, alright, pretty good. Not sure about the Salt and Vinegar.
I know what you mean. Wasn’t my greatest success.
Strawberries and Cream is nice, says Owen, nibbling at the edge of one.
That’s my favourite, says Roxy. I’ve also included a classic. Simple Sugar.
She holds out a tub of popcorn to Nodge, then to Owen. They each take a piece and pop them into their mouths.
Nice, says Owen.
Hmmm, says Nodge. Bit boring, though. For a gourmet popcorn shop.
Give the girl a break, Nodge.
Nodge is right. It is boring. But it’s what Colin would have chosen. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with gin and tonic flavour or elderflower posset, I can tell you that. He was a traditionalist.
A square, says Veronica, who is wiping China’s sticky hands with a screwed-up Kleenex.
A cube, says Nodge.
Roxy raises the cup of popcorn in the air.
This one’s for Colin. To Colin!
Feeling slightly foolish, everyone else also picks up their cones and toasts Colin in popcorn.