by Tim Lott
It wasn’t a marriage. It was a bit of fun. That’s all. We were out of our skulls.
Who is he? says Nodge, pushing the words out of a cauterized throat.
Now the man steps out into the aisle. He is tall and attractive, but his shoes are scuffed and the sole is curling at the front.
My name is Jesus Lopez. He pronounces it ‘Haysus’. We are marry-ed in Madrid. In two thousand hand fife.
He reaches into his pocket and holds up a limp scrap of paper.
Owen shakes his head.
Why would you do this? says Nodge to the Spanish man, his voice loud but shaky. Why are you telling these lies?
Hwhy? He holds up two fingers. Hwhy? Two reasons. Hwone. You dump me and disappear without word. Two. This man he left me with enfermedad infecciosa.
Nodge looks at Owen who seems to have shrunk inside his suit. The congregation is dead silent.
I didn’t know, says Owen, desperately, raising his head slightly in the direction of Jesus. I didn’t know then that I was ill. And when I found out, I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, Jesus. I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do.
Jesus is stony, unimpressed. His face is lined with pride, but also, somehow, what appears to Nodge grained with poverty. He walks up to the registrar and hands her the certificate. She inspects it and nods.
This seems authentic. I will have to check.
Jesus smiles without pleasure. He is no more than a foot away from Owen now.
I have thought of revenge often. Of-ten. And you know? Muy bien. It feels good. When Mr Pike here got in touch with me – well, you understand I know. It was a nice little holiday. With this . . . show at the end of it. This . . . what is word? Panty. Panta.
Pantomime, says Fraser, relishing each syllable.
Jesus pauses. Nobody seems to know what to do next. The registrar is on her phone, apparently trying to find information.
Vale, okay. Now I have done what I have come here to do. You can have the registration certificate. I don’t want it any more. Use it for papel higienico.
Jesus bows his head slightly towards Nodge.
I am sorry, Mr Drysdale. ‘Nodge’. Lo siento. You have done me no harm. But I thought you should know what this man is. Of what he is capable.
And he turns on his tired shoes, with some style, and walks out of the wedding chamber. Fraser, smirking, blows Nodge a kiss and follows him.
Owen is in tears. The assembly still do not react. Many are staring at the floor or inspecting their fingernails.
It’s Nodge’s tall, overweight gas fitter father who finally steps forward. His voice is grave and rough, but tender.
Just marry him, Nodge, for Christ’s sake. Get on with it!
Nodge stares at him astonished. Owen is shaking his head. Nodge feels as if the invisible strings which hold him together have been severed.
Can he? says Nodge to the registrar.
The registrar is still checking her phone.
Just a minute.
Do it, Nodge! shouts Frankie. Then Roxy. Do it!
Then the congregation, one by one, takes up the chant in unison.
Do it! Do it! Do it!
Finally the registrar has finished checking her phone. She holds a hand up and the crowd falls silent. Her head high, her voice sharp and officious, she makes her announcement.
This office does not recognize a Spanish civil registration. There is absolutely no reason not to go ahead.
Nodge is shaking, Owen is crying.
Jesus has left the building, says Frankie. Let’s get on with it. Also the place I got your wedding present from doesn’t take returns.
Nodge suddenly laughs. Owen looks at him in astonishment, not quite ready to believe it.
Nodge becomes serious again, seems to gather himself. Owen cannot tear his gaze away from the floor, but Nodge stares at him, then slowly takes his hand. Now Owen looks up at him.
Nodge takes the Spanish registration certificate that the registrar is holding and tears it into small shreds. He holds it over his head and drops the pieces so they land on both him and Owen.
Confetti, says Nodge.
Let’s get on with it, he says to the registrar.
Do you mean it? says Owen.
Think I care less about Jesus? He could have come with his twelve disciples as far as I’m concerned, and it wouldn’t have made any difference.
Owen throws his arms around Nodge’s neck then kisses him full on the lips.
Nodge, after the briefest of pauses, kisses him back.
The registrar smiles and, on cue, everyone in the congregation breaks out in fervid, relieved applause.
* * *
The coffee bar on Marylebone High Street is one of a small chain in London, ‘Patisserie Valerie’. The original one, which Veronica prefers, is in Soho, but Soho is too oppressive for Cordelia. She can just about bear the quiet gentility that lies north of Oxford Street and east of Marble Arch. She is flying to France that evening on one of her frequent luxury retirement breaks and has invited Veronica for tea before she heads off to a villa in Nice for the rest of the month.
There is a gold chandelier on the ceiling and frescos on the walls of classical balconies with trailing vines and seascapes disappearing into mist. Behind a glass counter there are rows of patisserie. They have been sitting at the table now for ten minutes, and little real information has been exchanged, only pleasantries about Michael, and generalities about the new work that is being done to restore the old stables next to the house in Buckinghamshire. Veronica is having difficulty hiding her impatience. Cordelia has the knack of infuriating her without doing anything specific that she can put her finger on. The generation of Veronica’s pique customarily marks a victory for Cordelia as well as a staging post; after she has asserted her control of the dialogue in this fashion, she will permit herself to get to the main point of the conversation. Veronica assumes this thrust will be revealed shortly, since Veronica has, despite herself, taken to biting her fingernails and tapping her spoon on the saucer, long-established tells that reveal all too plainly her frustration. That Cordelia does have an agenda is not in doubt – she never voluntarily meets Veronica one-to-one without some secret purpose.
Cordelia sips at her cappuccino, and wipes her lips with a paper napkin. The remains of an outsize strawberry mille-feuille are in front of her, which she has somehow consumed without getting a crumb on herself or the table. Veronica has stuck to lemon tea, no sugar or milk.
Veronica listens to Cordelia, talking now about the architectural challenges of converting the old stable into a guest room, and the unreliability and surliness of the labourers. Her crow’s feet contract and expand as she talks, and her turkey neck wobbles in time. Her make up is professionally applied, but cannot conceal the fading of herself as the beauty she once thought herself to be.
Finally, Veronica can take it no longer.
So. What is it you want to talk about?
Why the hurry?
I’m not the one that’s in a hurry. You are. I thought you had a plane to catch.
Plenty of time. It doesn’t leave until seven.
Won’t Daddy be getting worried? You know how neurotic he is about plane departures.
Cordelia pauses, a pause that Veronica recognizes as being for effect.
Michael isn’t coming.
What?
In all their marriage, so far as Veronica knows, Michael and Cordelia have never been on holiday without one another.
Why not?
I’m too angry with him.
Oh my god, Mummy. What has he done?
Cordelia says nothing.
He’s hasn’t had an affair, has he?
Worse than that.
What could be worse than that?
He betrayed me.
How?
Veronica is beginning to feel worried. Her mother knows each of the tender spots of her psyche and takes a casual pleasure in prodding them. Cordelia looks up through her h
alf-moon spectacles, secured around her neck by a silver cord. Another pause for effect, but Veronica is too anxious now to feel irritated.
He betrayed you as well, Veronica.
Mummy, what on earth are you talking about?
I thought long and hard about telling you. I only found out this afternoon, and I wasn’t going to cancel my holiday because of him. But I’m not going with him. No chance of that.
You didn’t think that long and hard about it if it was only a few hours ago.
Now Veronica registers something odd in Cordelia’s responses. She sees controlled fury there, certainly. And upset, and disappointment. But there’s something else, something that makes her wary, makes her want to get up and leave before she hears what she has to say.
I didn’t really have time to spend days chewing it over.
Get to the point, then.
Cordelia takes a sip of the cappuccino and wipes her lips again, this time firmly, as if her mind is finally made up.
I got some old boxes out of the stable before they came in to work on it. They’ve been waiting in the hall cupboard for a while. I couldn’t find my passport, so I decided to start going through them to see if it was there for any reason. Not that it was very likely but I was running out of places to look. Anyway.
She fumbles in her bag, and brings out a buff A4 envelope. She holds it out to Veronica.
I found this.
Veronica stares. She cannot bring herself to reach out and take it.
What is it?
It’s something you need to know.
Is this what made you refuse to go on holiday with Daddy?
Yes.
So what’s it got to do with me?
You’ll see.
Cordelia puts her hand over Veronica’s. Veronica withdraws it, but takes the envelope.
I’m sorry, darling. I did try to warn you.
Veronica sees, immediately and with agonizing clarity, that she isn’t sorry at all.
The feeling she couldn’t identify before is now plain on that leathery face, barely disguised.
Triumph.
* * *
Veronica meets Tony at the business hotel near Hammersmith Broadway in the afternoon and they make love in a third-floor room that is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, simply anonymous. Plate-glass windows reflect their bodies on the bed in the falling light.
Tony does not treat her with the gentle, firm respect that Frankie does. He throws her around like a rag doll, seems to want to destroy her with every thrust. From the front, from the back, in the mouth and in places she has never allowed Frankie to trespass. She is horrified, puzzled and above all, excited at her eagerness. Nothing in her therapy training has prepared her for this. She is disgusted by herself, and yet stimulated by her own self-disgust. She is appalled by her submission and yet fascinated by it.
When Veronica has screamed herself to a conclusion, and Tony has lifted himself off, he turns to her as she lies, as if broken, on the left side of the bed, gazing blankly at the ceiling.
Why do you stay with him? says Tony, carelessly wiping the end of his cock on the bed sheets.
He’s my husband, says Veronica, without looking at him.
What do you get out of it?
He tries to understand me.
Okay.
You don’t.
It’s impossible for anyone to understand anyone.
Now she does take her eyes away from the ceiling and look at him.
Yet somehow without thinking about it at all, you do. You do understand me. At one level. Some level that I can’t understand myself.
Don’t come over all Sigmund on me.
Now Tony is out of the bed. Veronica leans back, feeling the stretch marks by her belly. Tony leans over and kisses them.
Do you feel guilty? he asks.
I don’t. Because he deserves it. This.
Why? What did he do? Is this a revenge fuck? Not that I particularly care.
Veronica skirts the question.
It’s a strange thing, guilt. It’s there where it has no place to be. And nowhere where it should be. I’ve seen it in my clients over and again. It’s like some kind of random virus that can generate out of nothing.
I don’t suffer from it, says Tony. I just don’t.
So why do you spend all this time looking after drug addicts and alcoholics at the centre? For no money? When you don’t have any money yourself.
Not because I feel guilty. It just makes me feel useful. I don’t know why. I like doing it. Do I need more of a reason than that?
Do you never get, you know, depressed?
Don’t understand the word. I know drinking and taking coke were meant to be filling some ‘deep hole’ in me.
He makes speech marks with his hands around the words ‘deep hole’.
Thing is, I didn’t see it that way. I just enjoyed them. Now I don’t enjoy them. I don’t because I can’t. But not because they were ever covering up anything.
What about betraying Frankie? You don’t feel bad about that?
Frankie blanked me after the golf game. He didn’t even invite me to your wedding.
The famous golf game.
He blanked me when I needed him. I never heard from him when I was in rehab. So, frankly, you know what? Fuck Frankie.
Is that what you’re doing when you’re fucking me? Fucking Frankie?
You mean that this is a double revenge fuck? Me and you both?
He glances over at her with sly, lizard eyes.
I don’t want to fuck Frankie. I want to fuck you.
Come on then, says Veronica, feeling the wetness between her legs, the pulse inside her, again, insisting, longing.
Tony looks at his watch.
Sorry, babes. I’ve got to be at the centre in fifteen. You’d better clean yourself up or Frankie might notice something.
Veronica, disappointed, idly starts to play with herself. Her back arches slightly, her chin stretches back.
Frankie never notices anything. He’s happy so long as he gets a smile and an occasional ride.
Sounds fair enough.
Doesn’t that bother you?
What?
That Frankie and I are having sex.
Tony appears puzzled as he pulls on his Margaret Howell trousers. Somehow, despite his modest income, working part-time at a run-down Greek barber’s in Acton, he still manages to dress expensively.
Should I? It would hardly be fair of me. Anyway, I don’t believe you.
Uh?
You don’t have the taste of a woman who’s been having sex. See you later, Vronky.
Veronica takes her hand away from between her legs and sits up.
Don’t go, you bastard.
Tony pulls on his sweater, pecks her on the cheek.
I have to. Responsibilities. By the way. Your office is near Oxford Street, right?
What? Why?
You’re going to think I’m vain.
You are vain.
I know. But there’s a flash sale at one of the department stores for fashion. I need a new suit, for a job interview, and I can’t afford one. But I’m going to get one anyway. Have to, the other one the moths have been at. Only I can’t afford to get one that fits wrong, and you’re good at that sort of thing.
Am I?
Women are as a rule.
What’s the job interview for?
You’ll laugh. Chauffeur. Part time.
Veronica laughs.
Better than begging for change on a park bench, says Tony, a slight curdle in his tone suggesting he is genuinely piqued.
Of course it is. Sorry.
I’m not bothered. Take the piss all you want.
So what do you want from me then?
Will you come and give me a second opinion? It’s a big investment.
It’s just an excuse to see me again, isn’t it?
Don’t flatter yourself.
When?
Can you do tomorrow?
He says it as if he knows perfectly well she will accept. Her hackles rise. But all that comes out of her mouth is, What time? Where?
I’ll let you know.
I’ve got other things to do. Appointments with clients.
Like I said. I’ll let you know.
He walks towards the door, still the slight swagger in him that she remembers from before he split from Frankie. She watches him go, astonished and partly repelled. Even his closing of the door seems to gesture towards an indestructible indifference.
She wonders once again if it is purely sex that makes her return to Tony, but she knows that it isn’t. And yet she cannot work out why it is. He seems half-bored and unsolicitous. He is not the father of her child. She is not even particularly attracted to him at a physical level. She doesn’t like his smell, musk and cigarettes and earth.
She supposes it is to do with Tony being so unremittingly – Tony. There is no apology in him, no remorse. He is not concerned what she, or anyone else, thinks of him. He is invulnerable. It’s as if his short time on the streets has toughened him rather than softened him.
And Frankie is weak. With all his love. With all his tenderness. With all his concealed vanity. With all his money, trying to buy himself strength.
With all his lies. With all his unavoidable, unforgivable lies.
She arches her back again and with her finger, tries to make herself forget.
* * *
The next evening, Owen returns home from John Lewis to find Nodge cooking dinner.
That smells good.
Thank you.
Sit down, it’s nearly ready.
Owen takes off his coat and sits at the table which is already laid for two with a bottle of wine in the middle. He brings the casserole pot and removes the lid.
It looks good, too.
Appearances can be deceptive.
You can say that again, says Owen, archly.
Nodge, looking puzzled, starts to ladle out the food, chicken with chorizo and rioja.
What does that mean?
I saw something this afternoon that I would rather not have seen.
The new Laura Ashley curtain designs?
I’ve been debating with myself ever since whether to tell you about it.
Obviously, you’re going to. Hold on, I forgot the garlic bread.
Nodge goes to the oven and takes out a Tesco baguette smeared with garlic butter. He tears a lump off for himself and bites into it with pleasure, unsullied by a fear of gaining weight since he knows what a matter of indifference the shape of his body is to Owen.