by Various
‘Get out of the way, Sy,’ I snarl at him. Although he’s unspokenly Rachel’s cat, I was the one that named him, fed him, looked after him at first. Because of his big chops, I named him after Sy Snootles, the lead singer of the band in Star Wars. I thought it was a pretty cool name, as it happens. Rachel thought that Mr. Snootles was better. I thought it made him sound like Little Lord Fauntleroy; spoiled. Which he was, of course, being the supposed cure-all that was intended to bring us closer together again. I blamed Women on Top for that bloody stupid idea.
Mr. Snootles finally snootles off once I reach the video entry system. I swear that his tail is swishing madly at the air like a light-sabre; he’s furious that he’s not managed to kill me yet despite his best efforts.
‘Yeah?’ I say pressing the button to speak. All I can see on the small video screen is a close-up of a face. The face is so close that I can’t even tell whether it is a woman’s or a man’s face. Sometimes you can tell that the no-marks that buzz-on for us have absolutely no clue about technology. They don’t realise that by standing so close to the camera, they’ll knacker up the image.
‘Hi Marky,’ says a breezy, sing-song Jar Jar Binks voice. It sounds like someone’s taking the piss. I still don’t know who it is, but it sounds as though it is one of Rachel’s interminable university friends. They are the only ones left that still dare to call me ‘Marky.’
‘Step back from the camera,’ I snap. ‘I can’t see you.’
Slowly, out of the blur, I start to define features on a chubby face. I see a little button nose and a tiny mouth, which is blowing snotty bubbles. I see a little woollen hat propped jauntily on his little head. I see the young face of Jack Richards, the four-month old son of Rachel’s oldest friend, Samantha. Evidently Samantha thinks that I’ll be somehow charmed by this pretence that a kid that can’t even walk or talk or even clean up his own arse has taken it upon himself to climb four feet up a concrete wall and press the buzzer to my flat. I’m unaccountably angry with Samantha, and also with Jack, too. But then, thinking about it, maybe this boiling rage is accountable; I’ve just remembered Rachel’s big plans for this weekend. It hits me like a train.
We’re looking after Jack. Two whole shit-covered, baby-talking, booze-free days while Samantha goes off to some goddam health retreat to get over the fact that Jack’s dad scarpered as soon as he realised what he’d let himself in for. Sighing, I press the big button with a key on it and allow the thing that I understand least in the outside world into my inner sanctum. I must be crackers; if only I’d ignored the damn buzzer.
I go back to the mirror and try to rescue my hair. It’s as though some Person from Porlock has interrupted my work of art in mid-creative-flow, and there’s simply no coming back from the mess that flaps wildly back at me in the mirror. The problem with this style of ‘intentionally messy’ hair that’s all the rage at the moment, is that it’s only one small step for mankind away from actual bird’s-nest. My hair needs to be slapped-down, waxed-up and chemically-treated before I’d dream of setting foot out of the door.
Talking of doors; where’s Samantha and Cute Little Jack (as he has apparently been re-Christened)? I buzzed them through the gate about five minutes ago and still no sign of them. With a pang of something, which might have been guilt, I suddenly remember that Samantha now has to walk around with a veritable army-barracks of supplies these days. She’ll probably have been struggling with her pram and her NHS-crippling bagful of nappies. I’ll probably be in trouble with Rachel for not helping.
Action stations; I run to the door, somehow managing to avoid the attentions of Mr. Snootles. Just as I open it, I see the tired-looking face of Samantha. She’s sweating what with the effort it’s taken to get into the goddam lift. Cute Little Jack is wailing and smells like the bin store down in the basement. I try not to meet the eye of my neighbour who has opened the door opposite and is snarling in contempt at me. Perhaps he thinks that CLJ is my offspring from some ill-advised one night stand way back in the mists of time. Perhaps he fears that CLJ is going to be dumped on me for the rest of my life, thus ruining all of his afternoon sleeping bouts with such awful displays. In a way, you could see why he’d get that impression. For my meetings with Samantha have always had an air of unresolved awkwardness about them. Although she’s never been a Rachel in the looks department – and certainly not now, when she looks so matronly – there’s always been something about her. She’s the kind of girl that always falls too deeply for men; she’s always got this moonish, spellbound look to her – like Natalie Portman in the new Star Wars films – that convinces you that you could do pretty much anything you want to her and she’d just take it and perhaps murmur a polite thank you. There’s something about her that makes you simultaneously shake some life into her and give her a shoulder to cry on; a recipe for disaster at the end of parties when everyone’s had too much to drink.
‘Hi Samantha,’I say, pecking her on the cheek and ushering her into the flat. I make sure that I grab the bag of nappies before Rachel gets a chance to see me not helping. ‘How are you?’ I ask, just to be polite. I already know the answer. It’s written into her face; it’s carved into the prominent frown-lines on her forehead and effortlessly shines through the rushed make-up job.
‘I’m worn out, Mark,’ she sighs. For a moment, I fear that she is about to cry, but her lip quivers and that’s it. I’m safe for now.
Or maybe not. When asking a friend of a friend how they are, there is an unspoken agreement that you don’t really care. All you are doing is making polite conversation. Bring a baby into the equation and all that changes. Evidently, Samantha feels that my enquiry deserves a frank and full confession of all of her medical difficulties since she’s popped out the little bundle of fun. It’s the kind of thing that I would have been shocked by before I started reading Women on Top on the bog while I was dropping my own kids off at the pool.
‘I can’t seem to lose the weight that I put on. My ankles are always swollen. I’m a walking pharmacy. My nipples are sore and bleed in the mornings. I keep getting sick and I’m worried about it being passed on to Jack.’
I stare out of the window. There’s a bloke on the third floor – roughly at the same height as our flat – that works-out basically twenty-four seven. He’s a beast for his weights. Only problem is, in all the time I’ve been living here, I haven’t seen his body develop in at all the way it should be doing. He’s going about it all wrong; still looks kinda like a Gamorrean Guard. Sometimes, when I do my own weights, I do it in front of the windows. I kinda hope that he’ll see me and take some tips on board.
Suddenly, I realise that Samantha is staring at me expectantly as though she’s waiting for me to respond to some question; probably whether I think she looks fat. Come to think of it, she is a bit more blurry round the edges. She’s wearing baggy clothes and what looks like a man’s coat as though she doesn’t want people to notice the few extra pounds on her hips or some new curves she’s developed.
‘Rachel’ll be out in a minute,’ I say, for want of anything better to emerge from my ransacked mind. Already, this unfortunate twosome have taken over our beautiful front room. They’ve turned minimalist elegance into jumble sale disarray with their collection of bags, toys, nappies and clothes. ‘Would you like a drink while you’re waiting?’
‘I’d kill for a glass of wine,’ she admits, ‘but I’m driving.’
I smile affectionately. Falsely. Wine hadn’t been on offer. When had I presented this fallen woman and her terrible man’s coat with a wine list? When had I invited her to sample some of Italy’s finest and most expensive blends (a Wine Club Special Delivery for a fine customer) so that she could waste them by getting CLJ’s snot in the cut-crystal glass?
‘Tea then?’ I ask, gingerly.
She nods, resigned-like, as though calmly submitting to her lot in life. I feel like advising her that wine was the thing that got her in this whole damn mess in the first place, but obviously I don’t.
The last thing I need is a screaming match and this woman looks close to the edge. Not only does she have big dark saddlebags under her eyes, but her old spots have come up. Her once-fine auburn hair now looks greasy and I swear has traces of CLJ’s sick mixed-up in there somewhere. Her skin is deathly pale, apart from on her face, where she’s over-compensated and in this light, she looks a little orange.
Come to think of it, maybe a nice glass of Pinot Grigot would have been a good idea. It would at least do something to break through the awful silences and the deep, unspoken things. Neither of us wants to be here. As I make the brews, I listen to her baby-talking with him. The lad will grow up not-all-there if she continues in this fashion.
‘Mummy-Wummy’s going away for a couple of days, Jacky-Wacky. She’s going to leave you with good-old Auntie Wachel. We like Auntie Wachel, don’t we, Jacky-Wacky?’
For a moment, I sense a chance of victory to be snatched from the gaping Sarlacc Pit of defeat; Rachel chooses that exact moment to come back out from the bedroom. I suddenly have this euphoric vision of my darling girlfriend telling this pathetic woman to leave. Rachel isn’t the kind of person that you can easily call ‘old’ or ‘Auntie’. In fact, she’s the kind of woman that looks as though she is so well-proportioned, so perfect, that things like family and the ageing process are not part of her world. But, cursed fate, this is a new Rachel now, and it has been ever since the arrival of CLJ. Instead of knocking Samantha’s cheeky head off – ‘who you calling old?’ – she trots in, hair still not properly dry, and collects the baby from her friend’s lap.
‘Hewwo, Cute Little Jacky-Wacky,’ she sing-songs. And suddenly I feel as though I’ve entered some alternate dimension. This is not the flat that I know or the Darth Vader girlfriend that I know. It is not even the Samantha I know. Even Sy Snootles looks wrong, hovering back there by the bathroom door. But he’s right, the moggy; he’s right to be wary of these intruders and the changes that they’ll bring. Maybe this could be the thing that bonds us; a mutual antipathy to CLJ.
Unfortunately, Rachel catches me looking at Snootles. ‘And don’t worry about the cat,’ she says to Samantha.
‘They do carry diseases… not great for a little one…’
‘We’re taking him to the cattery for the weekend, aren’t we Mark?’
I wonder if Snootles knows his fate? I wonder if he’s as forgetful as me? I still can’t remember this supposed conversation where Rachel and I agreed that we’d disrupt our whole weekend just so Samantha could have a bit of me-time. One thing I am sure about is who will be paying for the cattery, and who’ll be the one forced to try to coerce him into that carry-case that he so hates.
‘I’ll take him now if you like,’ suggests Samantha. ‘That way, you can both get to know Jacky-Wacky right from the start.’
She smiles then, as though she knows that far from helping, she is in fact storing up the problems for us later, when he’s collected, all gift-wrapped and ready to attack from the cattery on Sunday.
‘That’ll be lovely,’ coos Rachel. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?
Honestly, the way Rachel is talking, it is as though Samantha, not her, is the one bestowing favours. When the kettle finally boils, Samantha and Rachel are already embroiled in a deep conversation about feeding times and changing nappies.
Half-heartedly, I dig out the cat-carrier and wouldn’t you just know it, as soon as Mr. Snootles spots it, he scarpers onto the top of one of the cupboards. I proceed to climb on the damn pouffe and try to follow him up there. Only CLJ shows the slightest bit of interest in my toils, emitting a loud belch as though by way of commentary. I shoot him an angry look and try to lever myself upwards, using the fridge door handle as a foothold. Mr. Snootles hisses in warning from somewhere higher up.
As I’m hanging by three fingers of one hand – the other is holding the cat-carrier – Mr. Snootles moves closer to the edge. I see that look of delight pass his evil eyes as he realises my predicament. And then he starts to lick my fingers; his rough tongue dances between them, tickling and probing. I know that I’m going to fall.
‘Rachel!’ I yell. ‘Will you help…’
Too late; my fingers lose their grip. The fridge door handle makes a loud cracking noise under the weight of my foot. I feel myself falling backwards. Suddenly, everything’s in slow-motion. I anticipate the pain that I’ll feel as my unprotected back hits the floor. I know that it will be far worse than the pain I felt when I got into that scuffle with Samantha’s ex. I know that I won’t be able to hide these injuries from Rachel. I look up at the top of the cupboard through wide-eyes. I’m worried that the last thing I’ll ever see will be that shit-eating grin on Mr. Snootles’ chops. And the last thing I’ll hear will be his goddam purring. The little bastard is in ecstasy that he’s done this to me.
And then, with a superhuman effort, I reach out my arm again and manage to grab onto the collar around his neck. If I die, I’m thinking, then at least I’ll be able to take him with me. I feel the weight of him; he’s actually quite a big cat these days. Maybe it’s the lack of exercise; he can’t exactly go anywhere what with us being in the city centre, and so he’s house-bound just like me. His agility has never been allowed to develop properly. Like me, he falls awkwardly. Like me, he lets out this pained cry as he does so.
I land on the pouffe less disastrously than I’d expected. For a moment, I worry that I’ve been paralysed. Where is the back-cracking sacking pain I’d anticipated? Soon though, I do start to feel pain. Mr. Snootles is scratching and biting at my white-knuckled hand, which is still gripping his collar far too tightly.
‘Let go of him, Mark,’ growls Rachel, who has come quickly now that she’s seen that her darling might be hurt. She slaps my hand off him and quickly and efficiently deposits him into the cat-carrier. He allows her to do this as meekly as a lamb.
‘Are you okay, Mr. Snootles?’ she asks, through the bars of his cage. He meows pathetically.
‘What about me?’ I yell. ‘How about asking if I’m okay?’
Rachel and Samantha are both staring at me now as though I’ve committed some terrible crime. Rachel shakes her head dismissively; Samantha looks up at the sky, doing a great impression of exasperation.
‘I’d better go,’ she says. ‘Before anything else happens.’
Rachel nods. I watch from the pouffe as the two dazzlingly self-righteous women wander back to the sofa area and to CLJ. I watch them with barely disguised contempt as they coo over him some more. Samantha is actually crying now, as though it’s not just two days she’s away for, but some longer, undefined period of time. Perhaps she fears she’ll drown in the Jacuzzi at the health retreat. Or maybe she’s scared that the masseur will be too rough with her and end up battering her to death. Or, scarier than all of that, perhaps she’ll get so used to the good life that she won’t want to come back to a world of duty and responsibility.
Samantha has left the building and she seems to have taken Rachel’s confidence with her. Both of us now are kneeling behind the sofa, arms tucked under our chins, staring over into the cot at CLJ, waiting for him to do something but secretly hoping that he won’t. We watch him gently kicking with his legs and blowing saliva bubbles from his slack mouth. In a way, the whole thing reminds me of a nature documentary about a rare species which has just been discovered in the depths of the rainforest jungle. This creature is so alien to us that we can only watch and wonder. It’s like that sometimes with Mr. Snootles too; I wonder how something so small can be sentient and feeling. My eyes keep searching CLJ’s all-in-one blue suit looking for the power button.
‘Are you okay?’ breathes Rachel. For a moment, I believe that she is talking to CLJ and don’t respond. I should have known better; are you okay is the thing Rachel and I always ask each other. And I don’t mean in a sweet, begging for reassurance kinda way or even that she’s concerned about my earlier fall, I mean that we use the phrase as filler for the awkward silences. It’s like lettuce in sandwiches.
It doesn’t mean anything. Just like when I asked Samantha how she was feeling; neither of us expect anything other than a grunted assent in response to are you okay.
She reaches over and touches my wrist. Before I realise what I’m doing, I flinch away from her. We’ve grown so far apart now that we’re more like flatmates. Or like ships that pass in the night, to use that old pub-saying. I suppose I spend too much time in front of my laptop screen. I suppose I should make time for her when she gets home from work. But it’s not my fault that she goes to bed so goddam early every night, is it? It’s not my fault that she has to get up early too, while I lounge around in the night-smelly sheets waiting for her to leave so that I can catch a few more z’s before I need to get up and start on my own work again.
It’s a relationship of convenience; only through living together can we afford to live in a place like this and drive the nice wheels and assuage Mr. Snootles’ seemingly unquenchable thirst for milk. Only then can we have the Bang and Olufsen system on the walls and the ridiculously expensive cappuccino machine that neither of us really knows how to use.
I look at her, leaning over the top of the sofa with her long dark hair now curling because she’s not dried it properly. It’s usually sleek and shiny, like in the adverts on the television, but now it looks like that of a normal, everyday bus-stop woman. I hardly recognise her. I realise with a lurching feeling in my stomach that this is because she has this hopeful look in her eyes. It’s like for the first time in god knows when, she needs me here. Perhaps we’re both having the same realisation at the same time.