“No to both,” Michael answered, scratching his neck.
“Well,” I replied. “I’ll claim the fare back from the homeless section at Medlock Council. And I’ll get you the cash from my car in a second. They wouldn’t be able to cover the tip though. They’re a bit strict about that kind of thing.”
“Ah, not to worry about any of that,” Michael said carelessly. “And I wouldn’t normally tip that much. But don’t you think that it was the least I could do? After he looked after my watch. And after we infected his taxi with fleas.”
A sudden urge to itch my ankle.
“Oh. Oh, God – yes,” I realised. “I’d completely forgotten about that. The fleas. Poor Ali!”
Chapter 6
DIONYSUS, THE AMPHORA AND A CRAP FROZEN PIZZA
It was time to head on home now, before any more bizarre scenarios could hurl themselves in my general direction. I stepped over to my car, “Right. I’ll just get you the cash, Michael and then I’d best be off. Thanks for all your help with Miss Simpson.”
“Stop!” he commanded. Raising his hand in the air like some twenty-first century version of the Green Cross Code man. Minus the silly outfit. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Going home.” Pausing with my keys mid-air.
“Please don’t take offence at this, Rachael. But after everything you advised me of previously … even from here I can see that the inside of your car looks like it would be prime real estate for a small colony of asylum-seeking fleas. Surely you’ll need to de-louse?”
A neat line of lollipop sticks stuck to the rear windscreen were a dead giveaway; this woman is not the best at keeping a clean vehicle. And, in addition to the empty Monster Munch packets, squashed drink cartons, random raisins, my work files and the kids’ ripped copies of The Beano , a pair of Lydia’s knickers lay on display on the parcel shelf. Yes, I knew that they were clean, of course, but innocent members of the public wouldn’t. Hopefully Michael hadn’t noticed them.
Attempting to deflect attention from my pigsty of a car, I chirruped, “I’m impressed, Michael. You’re learning!”
“And I’m itchy and need a good scrub,” lobbing his reply right back at me. “And I suspect that you do too. Coming?”
I narrowed my eyes. Clarify, please.
He added, “I have a rather large shower cubicle.”
I pursed my lips. Hoping that any such pouting might come across as more Brigitte Bardot than Hilda Ogden.
“In your dreams, Michael. And the size of some bloke’s shower receptacle has never mattered to me. I’m a teeny-weeny caravan-sized cubicle sort of girl, myself. I don’t go for show-off big top nozzles.”
He laughed, “Well, you’ve rumbled me there. So, perhaps you’ll be pleased that my cottage has an outside shower room. All very normal-sized. But with a deceptively, fiercely-pummelling shower-head.”
“Sounds better.”
“And all this means that we can both get clean without infesting my house. Or your car. And then I can lend you some clothes. Unless you’d prefer to drive home naked, of course.”
I hesitated for a second. And then I seemed to catch Vicky’s teasing voice – little sister cooing in my ear, circa 1989 – “Rachael is a frigid stiff!” I mentally poked her in the eye. And then shrugged. OK.
He gestured with his head, and I followed him around the side of the house and into a cottage garden. An explosion of colour – flowers, grasses, herbs and brambles. To me, the neglected and overgrown look had always had more appeal than manicured lawns and privet.
“But first, Rachael, would you mind having a quick look at this?” He pulled his T-shirt over his head, screwing it into a ball and lobbing it into the lavender bushes. The sudden half-nakedness made me feel as if I should avert my eyes, look away. But then, I’ve never been particularly good at fake modesty.
“A look at what?” I asked. He tried to reach a hand round to his lower back.
“This. Is it a bite? Or perhaps a very unattractive boil?”
His back was a soft golden colour, marred only by a scarlet spot. I peered closely, my nose just inches from his flesh.
“Definitely a bite. I’ve got a couple on my ankles.” My eyes moved upwards. Drawn to the point between his shoulder blades. His skin was a different colour there. Less tawny, less texture. Smoother. Like the shiny inside of a pink seashell.
He murmured, “Excuse the hideous scars. They always put the girls off.”
“You can barely seem them,” I lied. “How did that happen?” He turned round and folded his arms across the auburn-silver hair on his chest. The posture made his biceps look quite impressive. I resisted the urge to pinch them and challenge him to an arm-wrestling competition.
“War wounds, of course!” Eyes wide, a tight little smile on his lips. No mirth in his eyes, although there was a glint of ochre. From tabby to tiger? But he was skilful at self-effacement. And it masked whatever it was that I had caught a glimpse of.
“Oh. From Afghanistan?”
“Not quite. I’ll bore you with all that some other time, when I’m not itching my tits off. Right. When I’m done, I’ll find you some spare clothes of mine and leave them outside the door for you.”
The sound of running water accompanied my wait in the wild cottage garden. Bees, which should by rights have been on their last legs, were still bumbling about. A blackbird was fluttering in and out of the hedge at the end of the garden. He should have been bedding down and getting ready to nest at this time of the day. But this heat seemed to be messing with the heads of both man, lass, bird and beast.
I heard Michael call, “Shower’s free, fleabag!”
Making my way into the shower room, I stripped off and was surprised to find Tyler’s mobile phone still squished inside my bra for safe-keeping. I placed the phone on the side of the sink and then dropped my clothes out of the window, with the intention of bagging them up and taking them home with me. Then I showered, borrowing Michael’s shampoo to wash my hair. I couldn’t resist the urge to peek into the bathroom cabinet, but there was nothing of interest in there, though (no lady-things, no Viagra.) While I was drying myself on a non-fabric conditioned towel (single man?), Michael rapped on the door.
“Clothes outside!”
I paused for a few seconds, and then opened the door to find a pair of Bermuda shorts and a navy-blue T-shirt. I yanked the cord in tight around the shorts in order to keep them up. The top was baggy enough to hide any gratuitous nipple action, should that little embarrassment transpire. Sans knickers and sans bra. Not done that for a while.
I towel-dried my hair and then examined myself in the full-length mirror. For once, my legs were smooth, de-fuzzed and even had a bit of a tan, thanks to the unusual weather. The Mummy Smelz tattoo, thankfully, had been washed away.
I was hardly Vogue Model of the Year, though. But would Vogue model woman know what to do with a flea infestation, survivors of domestic abuse and demented, incontinent pensioners? I very much doubted it. And yet, despite my attempts at positive affirmations, I could still hear the siren song of the Emergency Make-Up Bag calling me.
Back at my car, the compressed heat boomed out at me. I scrabbled for the cosmetics bag in the glove compartment. Its contents were rather gooey, but they would do the trick. I gurned into my compact mirror and began some fast re-surfacing work.
Some things don’t change.
Sixteen years ago. One of those all-nighters with Shaun. I told myself that we never really got any sleep anyway. So why bother with taking the make-up off? And so it was perfectly reasonable behaviour to sneak into the bathroom in the wee small hours. Amend the eyeliner and sluice on some more mascara.
I snapped the compact shut. Disgusted. That had not been Good Feminism back then, had it, Rachael? No. Reading Virginia Woolf while letting Shaun screw me over? One kind of cancelled the other one out, didn’t it?
And neither was this. Prannying about in your car with the gloopy dregs of your war paint.
I wondered whether Jess wore make-up. Probably not. Saint Jess would possess both inner and outer natural illumination. Juggling her high-flying career in the charity world while ironing Shaun’s shirts. Feeling equally fulfilled by digging wells for blind orphans in Benin as she would when carrying out all manner of domestic dross. Yeah, Shaun had always known which side his bread was buttered on. Jess would be the sort to listen attentively to his tales of underhand local authority dealings and changes to by-laws without recourse to fake snoring. Unlike yours truly.
But enough of that.
In a conscious decision to move from vanity to self-flagellation, I dragged one of the kids’ metal nit combs through my hair. Bloody painful. Barnet sorted, I hastily removed Lydia's knickers from the parcel shelf and shoved them under the passenger seat. I grabbed my handbag and took out my phone. No messages about recalcitrant offspring antics. Champion.
Then I made my way to the back door of the cottage, weaving my way through a utility-room. A floor strewn with old editions of The Guardian and lovingly adorned with bits of metal and motorbike.
(Another pang. Best ignored.)
On entering the kitchen, the Aga caught my beady eye. There were few material possessions in life that I got giddy about, but here was one of them. An Aga was something that I’d always harboured a secret and shameful desire for. The epitome of idyllic, rural lifestyle. And yet all too impractical in my house. Matthew would have baked an entire box of Lego in such a contraption. Lydia would have bribed her brother to crawl into the small oven. And hey presto. Toasted Matthew for tea.
But the rest of Michael’s kitchen was a far cry from the pages of Country Life magazine. A mess of stacked crockery, piles of clothes, towers of unopened letters and paperwork, books and newspapers. And this was all quite unlike his public persona. Because the man on the news was always Mr Neat, Urbane and In-Control. This place though – his home turf – was warm, wild and bohemian. I sank into a navy-blue sofa, a beaten-up old thing with faded coverlets and a technicolour throw draped over it.
Michael was wearing a faded Harvard T-shirt and a fresh pair of shorts. He stood next to the kitchen counter, wielding a bottle opener, and pointed the corkscrew at me.
“Blimey. Those shorts were far too small for me. Middle-age spread.” He patted his not at all lardy stomach. “But they look very fetching on you. You look like Bobby Charlton playing in the ’66 Cup Final. Especially with the bruises.”
I flinched at his skills of observation. Yeah. I was definitely not Vogue Model Woman.
“Thanks for the compliment. The bruises are from a certain small child who’s been trying to kneecap me with a lightsabre all week. In fact, tonight is the first time that my parents have offered to have both my kids for a sleepover. It’s actually my first night off from getting attacked or harassed in, what – twenty months?”
“Crikey.”
“Yes. It’s a never-ending assault course with my two. Matthew’s three and a half. He’s at that age where he likes to bite or attack random people. And Lydia prefers the approach of slow mental torture.”
“Hmm. They sound utterly charming. Makes me grateful that I’m allergic to anyone under the age of eighteen. But don’t get comfy on the sofa. Outside with you. Let’s catch the last rays while our pizza is cooking.”
“Pizza?”
“Yes. I’m starving and you must be, too, after the day that we’ve both had. So, apologies for the cheap and cheerful cuisine. And I hope to dear God that you’re not a veggie.”
I shook my head, heaved myself up and did as I was told. Michael followed me back through the house, carrying an uncorked bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Good. Because I only hang out with carnivores. I live on frozen meat-feast pizzas when I’m back in the constituency. And I add generous, extra toppings of dead animal onto the shop-bought versions. So what with the wine obsession and the meat consumption, I’m anticipating that I’ll be developing gout fairly soon.”
At the back of the house a dreamy, picture-postcard view of the darker crowns of the Peak District unfolded. Next to a boxed-off herb garden stood a wooden bench and a small cast-iron garden table. I perched on the bench while Michael tried to steady the legs of the table with a stone from the garden.
“You’re very lucky to have this to wake up to, Michael. You can even see Kinder Scout from here. It’s beautiful.”
He nodded and looked up at me as he squatted underneath the table. “And property here is so incredibly cheaper than in London. Plus in terms of scenery, there’s no comparison. The view from my Bloomsbury flat consists of fire escapes and dead pigeons. Mind you, I can see the top of the London Eye. If I stand on my toes.”
I shot him a sceptical look. He raised himself back up and picked up the bottle and glasses from the stone flagging, placing them onto the now-steadier table.
“I don’t think so, somehow,” I told him. “I know your lot all too well. Your pied-á- terres. Your tables at The Ivy. I’ve spent plenty of time working with MPs and government in London. My first job after graduating was working for an MP. As well as doing a year with a senator in the States. And until pretty recently I was working as a policy advisor in Whitehall. So I’ve seen the kind of stuff you get up to in all your Commons bars. I’m all too familiar with your hard-luck stories.”
“Really?” He looked slightly taken aback as he uncorked the wine bottle. “And here was me thinking that you’d only ever had experience of general thuggery in the domestic arena. Sounds like you’ve had an eclectic career to date, Ms Russell. I need to know more. But first of all … wine.”
He started to fill one of the glasses.
“If that’s for me – best not,” I said. “Driving and all of that.”
He ignored me.
“No. I’ve decided. You’re going to have a rest. And some grub. And you’re going to appreciate my wine. And that means at least one or two decent-sized glasses of it. And then we can taxi you back over the border. Where is it you said you lived? Holmfirth? Holmevale? Holmebridge?”
“Just Holme.”
“Yes. That was it. Why is it that Yorkshire folk are so terribly unoriginal in their place names?”
I frowned. “But my car?”
“Easy. You could either taxi back over the hills again in the morning and collect it – taxi fares would be my treat, of course – or, I could even drive it over to your place for you tomorrow. Vinnie trusted me with his vehicle, after all.”
“Yeah. And look how that ended up.”
I chewed the inside of my lip. He could tell that I was feeling disconcerted. I heard a faint sigh.
“Sorry, Rachael. I know I’m very direct. Goes with the job. But think of it like this. I’ve already told you that I don’t have any roots in this part of the world. I don’t get visitors. Treat me as a charity case, if you like. Indulge me.”
I picked up my phone. Half hoping for an emergency message from my mother in relation to the kids. Half hoping not.
But no message on phone. Dilemma.
“And you’ve already confessed to having a very rare night off. And this wine here – my wine – is rather special, you know.”
“Well. I did notice the wine rack, Michael. It looked like it was about to collapse. You must be a bit of a connoisseur. Do you stamp on the grapes in your own back garden, then?”
The two glasses still stood, untouched. He picked one up, slowly twirling the stem between his fingers.
“Something like that. This one is a favourite. From my family estate in France.”
I blinked hard. It took me a few seconds to realise that he wasn’t actually joking. He noticed my reaction.
“Hum. That probably sounded a bit ostentatious, didn’t it? It’s only a piddling little place in southern France, really.”
(Not at all, Michael! My family specialise in produce too. Next time I see you, I'll fetch you a bag of some of my dad’s home-grown tomatoes from his Greenhouse Estate in Stalybridge. A whole four
foot square on a rain-drenched patio, you know.)
“So please. Try it. Unless, of course … you have another reason why you can’t stay and have a drink? Perhaps you jettisoned your kids for a Saturday night hot date or something?”
I shook my head. “No hot date.”
Tabby-grey eyes fixed onto mine. I looked away.
“Oh, all right then,” I said “Go on. Give us some of your cheapo plonk!”
He passed me the glass. It was classy, heady stuff. I told him that it had to be the best wine that I had ever tasted. He cocked his head.
“Thank you. Not exactly complemented by the crap frozen pizza, though. This burgundy goes best with a steak. And I should really have gone to the effort to make you a proper meal. I imagine that you don’t get much time off from cooking and whatnot. Being on your own. With the kids, I mean.”
A pause. Waiting for my reaction.
“Yes. It’s non-stop, that’s for sure,” I volunteered as I looked down at my unkempt hands. One of my fingers still encircled in rings. Unpolished rings that were fast approaching the tarnished look.
“But I didn't realise the actual circumstances, Rachael.”
Wine and the warmth of the evening sun in the garden. The dusky scent of herbs. The affability of it all had caught me off-guard. I sat up straight. Preparing for the inevitable.
(How will it play itself out? The end of all banter? A dead-ended exchange? Embarrassment? Apologies? Morbid curiosity? Or maybe even a quick change of subject – side-stepping the elephant in the room? All classics.)
But I was wrong. We had none of that. Michael moved to the overgrown herb garden and started ferreting about in it. Yanking out some deadwood. Unusually, though, he kept looking up at me. Most people were appalling at eye contact when they heard The News.
“So until Brenda at the hostel mentioned it … I had no idea that you had lost your husband. That’s just … horrendous.”
Blackened strands of vegetation in his hands. Shaking his head.
Mind Games and Ministers Page 9