by Lynda Renham
‘I’m going to leave her a bottle of orange juice tomorrow,’ said Ray, ‘on the house like.’
Rita rather thought that orange juice, as full of vitamin C as it was, wouldn’t put the spring back into Imogen’s step. Not even if she drank a bottle a day. But she thought it was kind of him. A bottle of orange juice was what Ray could offer. He seemed a nice person, thought Rita. It’s a shame about the tobacco. It reminded her of the man who used to visit their farmhouse to discuss church business with her father. He’d smelt the same and when Rita had fetched his coat, she’d held it pinched between her thumb and forefinger so she wouldn’t get the smell on her clothes. For days after their hall had reeked of it. Rita wondered if Ray’s hall reeked of tobacco too.
The blonde woman approached the buffet table and Rita wrinkled her nose as the woman’s strong perfume wafted over, encircled the tobacco smell, and with gentle ease overtook it. Rita was relieved. It wasn’t the nicest perfume, but it was better than stale tobacco. Rita watched as the woman’s bright red lips parted.
‘Can I ‘ave a Prosecco?’ she asked the barman.
‘It’s only wine on the house I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll pay,’ she said, pushing a hand into her bag.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Ray, stepping forward.
‘Thanks mate,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘I’m Lorraine by the way.’
Rita found herself wondering how Henry knew these people. They weren’t in the least like him at all. ‘Alright,’ said the woman, turning now to Helen. ‘Just lemonade?’ she nodded at Helen’s glass. ‘It’s on the house you know.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit early and I have to go back to work,’ said Helen primly.
Rita wanted to say that just because it was on the house, people didn’t have to take advantage.
‘It’s never too early darling,’ laughed Lorraine, revealing pearly white teeth.
‘I’m with you there,’ said Ray, sidling up closer to her.
Rita suddenly felt plain and dowdy and not in the least like Rita Hayworth.
‘I’m with him mate,’ said Lorraine, nodding over to her companion. ‘Trevor was his cousin; I never knew the bloke that croaked it. He was an okay bloke though, so I’ve ‘eard.’
‘Oh yes, a very okay bloke,’ said Rita, thinking how strange the word bloke sounded on her lips.
‘A very unassuming man,’ nodded Helen.
The door to the toilets opened and Rita sighed with relief. Imogen walked out with Henry behind her. He looked around the pub and Rita lifted her arm to wave to him, and then remembered that no one else could see him. Henry’s eyes alighted on Rita and he shrugged.
‘I need fresh air,’ he said.
Rita glanced around her nervously. Henry had obviously forgotten that she couldn’t just walk out of the pub like him, at least not without seeming extremely rude. Should she say goodbye to Imogen? Offer her condolences?
She feigned a yawn and said, ‘I think I’ll get going. It’s been a pretty hectic day for me.’
Ray was so taken with Lorraine that he barely acknowledged her. She glanced over at Imogen and waved.
‘Well, goodbye,’ she said and strolled to the doors. Cold air brushed her cheek, where Jack, after taking a quick cigarette break, hurried back into the warm. Rita tried not to grimace at the smell of stale cigarette smoke that emanated from him. The doors slammed shut and she looked about her for Henry. He was sitting on the wall.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘What do you make of all that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rita.
‘What to do?’ mumbled Henry.
Rita buttoned her raincoat and said, ‘I think it’s going to rain again soon.’
Henry looked up at the darkening clouds.
‘You could be right,’ he said.
Henry couldn’t care less if it rained or not. The weather made no difference whatsoever to his situation. If the sun burnt brightly in the sky it wouldn’t brighten Henry’s predicament in the least.
‘Do you want to come back to my bedsit? We could maybe get a takeaway a bit later?’ said Rita.
There, she’d asked. What’s the worst that could happen?
Henry looked bemused.
‘Unless you have somewhere else to go,’ she added shyly.
‘I ought to go home sometime,’ he said, while thinking how pointless that would be. Imogen wouldn’t know he was there and presumably she would go back to her parent’s home. ‘Oh, what to do?’ he added.
‘I have some nice wine,’ Rita said encouragingly. ‘I get discount at the store.’
‘I could drown my sorrows,’ agreed Henry.
‘Yes,’ said Rita, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.
Henry puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his eyes wearily.
‘Yes, a good bottle of wine will do wonders,’ he said, and Rita smiled.
Chapter Nineteen
Rita lived in a quiet street. The town house was rather a nondescript affair, Henry noted, and not in the best part of town. Still, he thought forgivingly, not everyone could afford a nice home. She opened the front door and crossed over the threshold, the rain-scented air giving way to the stronger smell of lemon-scented disinfectant. Imogen would never use lemon-scented anything. Rita, seeing him grimace said.
‘My landlord has been using a lot of disinfectant lately.’
Henry simply nodded and didn’t bother to ask why.
She beckoned Henry to follow her past Billy’s living room where the familiar sounds of jazz could be heard.
‘My landlord,’ she whispered, and Henry wondered if Rita was allowed visitors.
He followed her up a flight of stairs and then they were standing outside a glossy white painted door. Henry noticed the landing smelt of bluebells, just like Rita’s perfume.
‘This is my bedsit,’ said Rita shyly, crouching to retrieve the key from under the mat.
‘I’m always losing my key,’ she explained.
‘It smells nice,’ said Henry.
She’d never imagined Henry coming here. She wondered what Henry’s house was like. She’d pictured it as large and foreboding and the interior would be immaculate. Everything would have its place and there would be many bookshelves for she imagined Henry was a great reader. Most likely too, there were interesting paintings on the walls. Rita liked art but didn’t really understand it not like Henry probably did. As she turned the key in the lock she saw her hands were shaking. It was cold inside and Rita turned apologetically to Henry.
‘I’ll switch on the electric heater. It won’t take long to warm up.’
‘Don’t you have central heating?’ he asked, remembering the faulty radiator in his own house.
‘No, just an electric heater,’ Rita apologised.
‘I’ll keep my coat on for a bit,’ said Henry, stumbling on the dark landing.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Rita, flustering about and clicking switches on the wall.
The room was immaculate. The single bed in the far corner was neatly made. A small two-seater sofa with an assortment of colourful cushions was the only seating and Henry wondered if he should sit on the floor rather than sit next to Rita.
‘I have a little table,’ said Rita hurrying to it.
The table seemed far too small for the two of them to sit at but then Rita nimbly lifted a flap each side and the table suddenly grew in size.
‘Handy,’ said Henry.
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Rita.
They stood in silence for a moment; Henry wondering when Rita would turn on the electric heater and Rita wondering if she should put the kettle on or suggest they open a bottle of wine.
‘It’s a bit chilly,’ said Henry, finally.
‘Oh yes,’ remembered Rita. ‘The heater; let me put it on.’
‘Not very economical,’ said Henry.
Rita bustled about in a corner of the room that Henry realised served as her kitchen. How awful, he thought, to live in such a confined space. Where did she keep everyt
hing? He couldn’t see much cupboard space. He supposed giving out samples in a supermarket didn’t pay very much.
‘Here’s the menu,’ said Rita, breathing heavily from her exertions. ‘They deliver.’
Henry studied the menu and said.
‘I think this is too spicy for my stomach. It’ll give me terrible trouble later.’
‘Oh,’ said Rita, trying to remember what she had in the kitchen cupboard.
‘I have some baked beans and bread in my cupboard.’
‘Excellent,’ said Henry, growing hot. ‘I’ll just take my coat off.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll hang it on the hook.’
It won’t smell of horrible tobacco, thought Rita. She very much hoped the clean smell of Henry would be on the coat and that it would linger in her bedsit for some time. Henry looked at the bottle of wine on the table.
‘Shall we open it?’ he asked.
‘If you’d like,’ replied Rita, rummaging in a drawer for the corkscrew.
‘Maybe wait until the beans on toast is ready,’ said Henry.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ agreed Rita.
Henry smiled. Rita was so amenable. She was plumping up the cushions on the couch and Henry realised that she wanted him to sit down. It was a tatty sofa, he noted but very comfortable. It smelt of Rita’s perfume.
‘What’s the perfume you wear’ he asked.
Rita blushed.
‘Oh, it’s Jo Malone Bluebell. It was my mother’s perfume. She was given it by someone at our church and I liked it. I only buy it at Christmas with my Christmas bonus …’ she stopped, embarrassed.
‘Your church?’ he asked.
‘I don’t go now. When I was younger, I did. My father was minister, you see,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll phone through our order.’
That sounded weird, she thought; like I’m phoning our order through to God. I wonder what Henry would ask from God, she wondered. Presumably, he would ask not to be dead.
‘I thought we were having beans on toast,’ said Henry.
‘Oh yes,’ said Rita, flustered.
‘Your father was a minister?’ said Henry, thoughtfully.
He would never have imagined Rita was a vicar’s daughter.
‘I like it,’ Henry said. ‘The perfume.’
A thumping on Rita’s door made them both jump. Henry looked at it in alarm and Rita said quietly,
‘It might be my landlord. He sometimes comes up for a drink.’
‘Without you inviting him?’ said Henry, surprised.
‘Well …’ began Rita, but stopped when the thumping came again.
‘Anyone there?’ called a voice.
‘You’d better open the door,’ said Henry.
Rita debated what to do. If she let Billy in, then how would she get rid of him? She couldn’t say she already had company because Billy wouldn’t be able to see Henry. This is very awkward. If she and Henry stayed very quiet then surely Billy would go away. She didn’t think Henry would like Billy very much. He wasn’t in the least like Henry with his perfectly ironed shirt and clean fingernails. It was getting very hot in the bedsit now and little droplets of sweat ran down between Rita’s breasts. She couldn’t put it off much longer. She’d have to open the door soon.
‘Maybe if we ignore it,’ she whispered while knowing it would be impossible to ignore.
Billy rapped again.
‘Hello, anyone in there?’
Another voice came and she recognised it as Lily the tenant from across the hall.
‘Everything all right Billy?’ she asked. Rita heard a tremble in her voice.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Billy. ‘I thought I heard something, you know.’
‘Yes,’ replied Lily quietly.
‘No one in the rooms after eight.’
‘I know,’ said Lily. ‘You know Rita’s not there?’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Billy.
‘I think you’d better open the door,’ said Henry again.
However, to Rita’s relief, Billy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rita waited until she heard the sounds of Billy’s television set. ‘I’m sorry about Billy,’ she said eventually.
The booming sounds of a comedy show reverberated through the walls. Henry’s eyes met hers.
‘You can do better Rita,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty
Billy called her babe.
‘Alright, babe,’ he’d say.
At one time Rita had liked Billy calling her babe. It had made her feel normal somehow; like her girlfriends. Mostly though, Rita felt odd and different, like the outsider looking in. There was always a convenient corner for someone like her; a place to blend into the wallpaper and to be forgotten; a place for the unworthy.
Often Billy would come uninvited to her room and Rita never liked to turn him away. What if he put her rent up or even worse, kicked her out. A gentleman waited to be asked. Henry would always wait to be asked, thought Rita.
One day he’d come to her room. She’d left work early feeling unwell. She prayed he would go away, but he continued to knock on the door until finally she had opened it.
‘I thought you weren’t going to let me in,’ he laughed. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.’
‘I’m a bit tired, actually,’ she’d yawned.
‘It’s early,’ he’d said, peering at her. ‘You’re never home this early. How come?’
‘I haven’t been well today,’ she’d explained.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he’d asked suspiciously.
‘I don’t really know,’ said Rita.
‘A drink is what you need,’ Billy had cajoled.
‘No, I …’
Billy’s eyes had fastened on the bottle of wine she’d bought that day. It had been on special and with her discount it had been a good price. Rita’s shoulders had slumped. She should have put it in the fridge. Billy would never have seen it then.
‘Ooh,’ he’d said jubilantly, ‘that looks like a nice one.’
Rita had wanted to cry. She could feel the tears prickling behind her eyelids. That was a special wine. She couldn’t bear for Billy to tarnish it with his eager hands. He’d reached out for it and had stopped abruptly when Rita had growled, ‘Don’t touch that.’
‘It’s for a friend,’ she’d said, her voice placating.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Billy, disappointed. ‘I’ve got a bottle of Merlot; shall I get it?’
Rita had flexed her neck to release the tension. She didn’t want to upset Billy. But she really didn’t want to have a drink with him. He’d frightened her that night she’d found the gun. He’d hurt her twice. Rita didn’t want him to hurt her again. She’d have to move, and the thought depressed her. Everywhere was so expensive.
‘Billy, do you mind if we don’t have wine tonight. I don’t feel too well. I think it’s my stomach.’
‘You’re not going to be sick are you?’ he’d asked, backing away.
‘I might,’ said Rita, sensing this might be her opportunity to get Billy to leave.
‘Perhaps I’ll leave you to it then,’ he’d said. ‘How about the dogs one Saturday? You’ll like that.’
‘Yes, okay. I’ll let you know.’
Rita had been profoundly relieved when Billy opened the door.
‘Let me know when you feel better babe. I’ll come back with the Merlot. Not the same bottle, mind you,’ he’d laughed. ‘That’ll be well gone.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Rita had said, desperate for him to leave.
The door had closed behind him and Rita had leant against it, tears pricking her eyelids.
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry looked around Rita’s neat little room and wondered what on earth he was doing there. The world outside was occluded by Rita’s net curtains. Imogen had always wanted net curtains, but he couldn’t remember why they never got them. Not that anybody looked in their windows, which had been Imogen’s concern. Everyone had their own lives to liv
e and usually hurried past their house. People rushed everywhere these days, thought Henry; to the station, to the office, to the airport, to the supermarket, rushing towards their final day as if they couldn’t somehow wait. They’d be rushing out to buy Christmas presents soon. Henry realised that he’d been doing the same. He’d been rushing to the bus, rushing to the office, rushing to the tennis club and then rushing home to his wife. Filling in time, he thought. We’re all filling in time. Five sleeps to go. Four sleeps to go. One sleep before it’s all over. Why doesn’t anyone realise? Life was so short. Why hadn’t he realised? So many things he said he would do. He always thought there would be plenty of time. When will we realise that we don’t know how much time we have. When this is sorted, I’m going to live for the day, he decided.
He glanced at the clock by Rita’s bed. It was nearly five-thirty. He ought to be making his way home. What if Imogen were waiting for him with the sausages burning in the oven? Imogen always timed dinner to be ready as soon as Henry walked in the door. She knew how much Henry hated eating late. It would play terrible havoc with his dyspepsia and then he would have a restless night. Henry sighed in irritation. This whole thing was becoming tedious. He didn’t have his indigestion tablets. What if Rita’s food upset his stomach, which it was likely to do. Imogen always cooked them bland meals. It was healthier. Henry didn’t believe in too much salt or too much sugar. Moderation in all things, he told himself. You can’t go wrong then. He wondered if Rita was a good cook. She didn’t seem the type to have lots of takeaways and she was nice and slim so probably didn’t eat too much sugar either. He’d phone Imogen if only he had her number. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. Perhaps everything was normal again and her number would be there. But it wasn’t and things were exactly the same and Henry slumped into Rita’s sofa, its softness cushioning him.
‘I think I ought to phone Imogen,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know her number.’
‘Oh,’ said Rita.
‘I could try home,’ he said, pulling the phone from his pocket again. Only to find the battery was low.