WHITE WINE
Ruth
Now
I gather the pile of unopened mail from the counter: letters, leaflets, a couple of slim parcels. I don’t know who they’re for; I haven’t had the heart to look at the names on the address labels. They must be Neil’s, or mine, of course; who else’s? I take the mail and the folder from my bag and bring them to the coffee table. I sit down on the floor in front of the sofa with my legs crossed under the coffee table like I’m about to have dinner off it, which is another thing I’ve taken to doing. Is there anything sadder than eating dinner alone in the kitchen? Mostly, I snack in front of the TV, which isn’t in itself less sad, but it at least makes dining on your own feel like less of an occasion, less of a reminder of everything that’s changed. I arrange the letters on top of each other by decreasing size; the folder is the largest so it goes at the bottom. I push the pile to my left. One and a half months of letters is a lot of letters.
I begin opening them from the top of the pile. Most of it is uneventful news. A couple of charity catalogues, a gift calendar from the bank, my nursing college’s annual alumni brochure. A few takeaway menus. Mostly, it’s bills in Neil’s name. Neil owes money on the electricity bill, Neil owes money on the gas bill, Neil hasn’t paid the last two months of our broadband and so unfortunately our internet has been disconnected, but could be restored immediately by simply calling an 0800 number, free of charge from any mobile on the same network. Neil is behind with the water payment that was owed in a single yearly instalment a month ago. Neil has been summoned to appear in court but does not have to attend so long as he agrees to pay council tax arrears and cover for court costs of up to sixty-five pounds. The bills aren’t coming out of his account because I used his card reader and his savings card to transfer six months of our rent payments into my own private one. He was bound to forget something leaving in a hurry like that. I was among the pre-set payees so that was easy and after that his savings account was empty. He’d better make the best of his time with that girl; he might have to work a second job soon.
I reinsert each letter into its envelope and slide them to my right. I move on to the folder. Two hundred names. Two hundred. All women. I don’t know a single one of them. I start with the names that belong to a different generation: Magdas, Debras, Marjories. I go through the list, axing all the old ladies. I’m quite enjoying it. I take a gulp from my writer’s glass – I’ve had to crack open a bottle of Neil’s organic wine – and hold my pen like a sword. I jot down some numbers on an envelope, tally marks, like in prison movies, for all the people in Alanna’s life I absolutely won’t be able to avoid meeting in person. The hearts and ticks add up to twenty-eight names. I go back to the beginning of the list. I take out the Francescas and Elizabeths and Bellas. I don’t trust those names. On my third glass, I’m getting into a weird, jittery mood, not unlike excitement. I keep talking to myself in a voice that isn’t my usual voice. Frankly, if this is going to be the coolest party, I can’t go easy on the basic bitches. They’re just going to kill the vibe. We don’t want none of that. There is a Francesca Jammy Rodgers and I’m undecided about her for a while. I recognize the name but I can’t place her. Her fictitious second name tickles me. ‘Jammy.’ Jammy like lucky? Was she one of those annoying girls who always won at everything? Well, not this time: she’s a Francesca and my rules are strict. I mull it over for a while, chewing on the cap of my pen. There is a chubby yellow highlighter heart next to her name. Alanna would probably hate me if I forgot to invite one of her best friends. I guess I will make an exception and add her name to my list. I really don’t mind doing this. Then the list is down to 120 so I allow myself a few minutes of me-time. It is the end of a long day, after all. I finish my third glass and dot on some eye cream.
I cross off a few more names: if I don’t feel a strong connection or if I simply don’t trust the way it sounds when said aloud. All the Eleanors and the Jessicas are gone. It is unlikely that, as maid of honour, I will be expected to make a speech or address all of the guests by their names individually, but I am taking no risks.
In this dream I am a child in the playground and I decide to stand on the swing instead of sitting, to be able to push myself higher and faster. It is the first time I have attempted this and, of course, I misjudge the swing and fall off. My right leg gets caught in one of the chains and I hang there, crying, upside down, my hair dragging in the mud beneath me. My mother does not make an appearance. A large woman rushes over to help and scoops me up in her large bosom. The white-and-red polka dots of her dress go out of focus like squashed strawberries when she pushes my cheek against them. ‘Poor little girl’s leg,’ the woman whispers, ‘poor little baby foot.’
-187.
When I wake up on the floor the next day the number flashes up at me from the piece of paper: dash – one – eight – seven, like the emergency extension for a specific health service or perhaps a specific sector of the police force. The dash before it reminds me that this is a negative number. Sadly, these people won’t make it to Alanna’s party. They are the 187 people I have decided are not good enough for Alanna. On a separate envelope there are thirteen names: the chosen few. Budget issue, no hard feelings – sorry, girls. I have a vague memory of triumphantly scrawling the number down and circling it many times with my highlighter. I feel very hungover. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I still have a long way to go for the kind of intimate party everyone has in mind, but right now I’m late for work.
PRAWNS
Three Months Earlier
cumulonimbus
Sent: 20/11/2015 – 00:03
Dear Lili,
It’s so wonderful, each time, to hear back from you. I truly mean it. I was sorry, however, to hear about the guy at your work and I really would appreciate it if you’d make an effort not to conflate us. You are right, Lili, the world is full of weirdos. I am glad you managed to get him safely removed. But I have been nothing but honest with you: I genuinely cannot wait for us to meet, it’s just that I need to bide my time until I am ready. Please be patient. Besides, that guy, what a moron, if you excuse my language. What’s the point of queuing for Fasta if you’re not going to order the prawn linguini? (There’s a hint for you.) For bread rolls, I go to Tesco. And I never double carb, bloody hell, a man over thirty has to look after himself. (There’s another hint. I wonder if it’s enough for you to guess who I am or whether I remain in your eyes a more generic character than I’d like to admit.)
While we’re at it let’s talk about the menu choices in your particular establishment – and I am dying to know your opinion. It’s not that I don’t enjoy experimenting with food, for that would make me rather boring, but doesn’t it ever grate on you, as an Italian, our peculiar British habit of inventing our own version of things? It’s become a bit of a mania, hasn’t it? We always have to make it pop-up or fusion or I don’t know … a molecular version of a perfectly nice home-made dish … just to make up for the fact that we have no culinary tradition of our own. No one cares about authenticity these days. It seems so demeaning to your rich, nuanced food culture, which I learnt much about when I lived in Rome years ago. Don’t worry, I do remember you ‘manage that shit’, as you so eloquently put it. But I also know that Fasta is a franchise, so I assume you have limited freedom in making executive choices with regards to the menu, let alone the décor. If only you managed the whole thing! I’d sign a petition to have Lili as CEO of Fasta in a heartbeat. Am I right in assuming you would have long shed the chequered tablecloths and those syphilitic basil shoots stuffed in mason jars? There is nothing about you that is caricature. And this is what I love about you: the simplicity of your southern beauty, your humble Mediterranean charm, with all the temper and wisdom of your own sun-beaten land. Lili, I know you want something more from me, but I’m not ready to reveal myself fully, not yet. What I can give you, right now, is a confession, which I hope you’ll accept as a token of my good faith: I’ve been listening to the
song you were named after endlessly, on repeat. I’ve found the Italian version on YouTube and it is so beautiful. I think I am falling for you, my charming girl, my little Lili Marlene.
Your Clay
kittenwithasledgehammer
Sent: 21/11/2015 – 19:40
knock knock
whos there?
no one bc youre a loser Lili and no one wants to hang out with you
not even the guy from the internet. ok listen its *fine* i can give you more time its not like i have a queue at my door, and its kinda okay if you keep on sweet talking me dont mind that *at all*. here i was thinking you were just some guy whod found a cute angle to ask for a pasta discount. turns out im some kind of mediterranean charm on a power trip who makes grown men listen to love songs on repeat. wow. idk dude real sorry to burst your bubble but lili stands for lillian, which is just as old fashioned as your average british grandma. also my dad’s portuguese but ive not even met him. i grew up in lincolnshire with mum. but y’know what mate like i say its not too bad to be complimented. by all means do keep at it. ill tell you what else is good about you. all this talk of being true to yourself in a way is really helping. like it hits the spot. like i kinda thought this guy’s spewing a lot of bullshit at first but then i keep coming back to it. ive reread your emails a bunch cuz its nice to have someone motivate you and say good things about you and your work. even if you take a million years to get to the point. even if most of the things you tell me arent even true, i appreciate you taking the time, man, and anyway im only 20. plenty of time to become a badass CEO bitch. cannot wait.
but really what i am trying to say is thank you for making me really think about this stuff because i don’t reckon i was thinking about it very much before. and its nice that i am now. its not just that. i guess what im really trying to do here is ask you again, this time kindly, wouldnt it make sense for us to meet IRL? please and thank you. what are you afraid of? i mean im not stupid. ive figured out youre a lot older and stuff. high flying city job hey?!! giveaway, silly. im a millennial remember? they dont make them like you for our generation. its OK. ive dated older guys before. listen, there is nothing you should worry about. except maybe if youre one of those mid-thirties dudes who are like, patchy bald. why dont guys just shave it all off when it gets to that point? once i went out with this late-twenties dude who just wasn’t gonna let go of the idea he still had a full head of hair and so he let the front bit grow as long as he possibly could and then he tied it all back into a teeny tiny ponytail on top of his head like a reverse comb-over. imagine when that fell apart during sex it was the saddest thing ever. so much for faking orgasms being a bad thing, i felt so bad i just had to give him something! no wonder i’m shit at dating.
another reason i am shit at dating is telling you about the guys i have fucked before we even meet up in person. i told you, you have nothing to worry about. you cant possibly do worse than that. come on babe, lets go on a bloody date.
OLIVES
Ruth
Now
The care home exists on two different planes, two intersecting maps, like a three-dimensional optical illusion. Staff and patients: blue lens you see one thing, red another. Our clients trawl the corridors like cruise liners, amenably, while all around them we are paddling busily, frantic with work.
It is 7 a.m. and Bex is running Mr Hancock’s jute bathmats through the dryer. They make a horrible sound and I’m sure this isn’t the way to do it, but unfortunately it’s the only option this morning. We’ve been so focused on Alanna’s party that we’ve forgotten that today is the first Sunday of the month: the preferred day for the less frequent visitors.
What if Miss Hancock turned up? We can’t risk welcoming her with dirty bathmats.
Emmy, the redheaded Lolita, scampers into the laundry room.
She says to Bex, ‘I see your boyfriend is expecting guests.’
‘He’s not my fucking boyfriend.’ Bex turns, her elbow squeaking against the white plate of the dryer.
‘Easy,’ says Emmy. ‘It’s a joke.’
‘Well then, you can take these up yourself.’ Bex slams her palm on the dryer and strops out of the room.
‘What’s the matter, Emmeline?’ I ask.
‘Oh, nothing, you know. Mr Hancock planted a fat one on her.’
I am not exactly surprised. This isn’t uncommon – some of the older men do get a bit handsy – but I have always had a strange feeling about Mr Hancock. Still, we all get old, sooner or later, don’t we?
My first kiss happens in the back of a school bus. I’ll never forget it. The boy is tall with round hips that I very much like. He is a well-liked, wholesome-looking boy with well-respected, stocky guy friends. He has beautiful brown eyes, round and soft, and the premature hint of a moustache lining his top lip. I’d never dare to think he might be interested in me.
The trip lasts a whole day. A picture of our class is taken in front of Big Ben, from the other side of the road so that the clock tower can be included in full. Kids crowd into the middle of the picture, like ants to a nest: around the edges, girls hold their fingers in peace signs, up high like majorettes, and behind them, boys hover rock horns over their heads. I am wearing a nylon pink top and keeping my back straight. The boy I like is to the far left, looking at me.
On the bus home, he passes me a note. It reaches me where I am sitting, travelling in between the rows of seats. He’s sealed it with chewing gum and I pop it into my mouth without thinking. It is warm and a little salty.
In the note, he has written, ‘Kiss?’ Below he has drawn two square boxes: one for yes and one for no.
I pull a biro from the bum bag around my waist.
Yes, I tick, quickly. Because I do want to kiss him. But what does he mean? Does he mean right now, right here on the bus, where everyone can see us? Not here, please, I whisper. But what if this is the only opportunity he is going to give me?
I fold the note quickly, pass it back. I sit staring forwards, chewing his gum. The laughter grows louder, row by row, as the note finally reaches the back, where the boy is sitting with his friends. There is a pause. Silence. I stand up, take a deep breath and turn around to start making my way towards him.
I dream about this often.
‘Those boys are forever terrorizing us,’ says Miss Phyllis, as I enter her room. She’s relieved to see us nurses each day; she’s convinced that all the night porters belong to the Soviet secret services.
Boys, boys, boys. Boys will be boys. At least that is true of the boys I know, or have known in the last ten years. There are the boys I see every day. I count them on the fingers of one hand: my little finger for Donal, the porter, who is a gross, Teddy Boy kind of hot; ring finger for Timmy, the cleaner, bless his sweet, romantic soul, his perfectly chiselled, curly beard; slimy Mr Hancock, who would love to be added to my list of boys, though of course, he doesn’t quite cut it. Far too old. Index finger for Neil and Neil and Neil. Although he was never a boy when I was a girl, always a little older, knowing more, pointing me in the right direction.
But I have seen the photographs of him as a boy and certainly I have witnessed the tantrums.
And who for the thumb?
Mrs O’Toole doesn’t have a problem with boys: she likes the night porters. What she dislikes is when the pictures of her family are moved when we clean her room. Her photographs are her greatest pride. Mrs O’Toole’s family is genetically atypical. At the back of the display, there are three larger frames with photos of her daughters; in front of them, six smaller frames with pictures of her granddaughters, and up on the wall, updated printouts of her baby great-granddaughter. A private, all-female pantheon. Her three daughters gave birth to couplets of perfect girls, and all the faces are perfectly balanced, stupefying multiples of sparkling brown eyes.
‘Leave my angels alone.’ She taps my wrist when I move the photographs to dust them. ‘Look at them. Aren’t they beautiful? We just don’t know how to make them in my family, do we?�
��
She means boys. Boys aren’t a problem in Mrs O’Toole’s family. There just aren’t any. And her girls are beautiful. She insists I bring over each of the photographs so she can kiss them on their etched lips, before I replace the frames on her dresser.
Lunchtime: the Lolitas roll Alanna into the Goldfish Bowl on an office chair. They have decorated her head with a garland of crimpled blue roll and it is my understanding this represents a crown, perhaps a halo? She looks even younger today. She looks like a child bride.
‘God save our gracious Queen
Long live our noble Queen,’ they sing.
A crown, then.
‘How’s the prep going?’ Alanna is smiling, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
The Lolitas are standing behind her. Alanna rolls her eyes. I feel like laughing.
The Lolitas have started singing again.
Shelf Life Page 11