by Lana Citron
The last time I’d seen Arthur had been about six weeks before, at a Portuguese deli counter waiting to be served. He had a thing about herrings – loved the buggers. Anyhow, enough time had passed and been claimed for that I felt guilty and decided to check up on Mr Penn. It was clocking-off time at his office and I’d come down for a quick surveillance session before shooting off to do a five-minute gig at a nearby pub. So, as the long hand was about to hit the half-hour of five, and what with Arthur being a total creature of habit, I raised my eyes to glance at him coming out of the main doors.
Except that he didn’t.
And I waited and waited.
Although I’d never pestered him on his office number before, I decided to call the reception and ask to be put through to him.
‘Yes, that’s it, Arthur Penn,’ I repeated.
‘There’s no one here by that name,’ the receptionist replied.
I begged her to check again.
‘I’m sorry, Miss, but he definitely doesn’t work here.’
WHEN JAMMY SITUATIONS TURN STICKY
Initially I wasn’t too concerned, and over the following week revisited his offices, keeping a keen eye on the comings and goings. I suspected he might have changed jobs or gone on holiday, unless he was justifiably paranoid and everyone was out to get him and had indeed got him. There had to be a logical explanation, so I went to check out his house. I knocked. No response. Then I tried the neighbours. Neither was particularly helpful. Those on the right had recently moved in and as for the others, their Chinese housekeeper informed me, ‘I not know. No see. Nothing. Busy. Velly busy. Goodbye, lady.’
I checked round the rear. The row of terraced houses backed on to the canal. I knew it well, having spied on Arthur from that vantage point on previous occasions. The garden looked only slightly unruly, and from this I deduced, knowing that Arthur was a committed green-fingered gardener, he couldn’t have been gone too long. It was a little bit fishy, but even at that point I was still hopeful of a rational explanation.
And that was when things began to get strange. A week passed before I got round to checking the stats and records, and found out there was no Arthur Penn, or, rather, there had been an Arthur Penn, only he had died two years previously. I was used to meeting freaks in this line of business – it really does takes all sorts – but to say this new information left me feeling spooked would be an understatement.
‘A GHOST … THERE’S NO OTHER RATIONAL ANSWER!’
‘Issy, that’s ridiculous,’ Scarface yawned, totally uninterested in my deductions, and turned over.
‘So how did he completely vanish then?’
Lying in bed, my mind was consumed by Arthur Penn’s disappearance. The case seemed to be spiralling beyond my modest detecting capabilities.
‘The guy I’ve been trailing doesn’t exist any more and that’s a definite certainty.’
‘Talk to Fiona,’ Scarface mumbled, ‘or Trisha, or Nadia.’
There was no way I could tell Fiona or Trisha, considering I’d been charging for all those hours I hadn’t put in.
‘I told you, I can’t. Aren’t you listening to a word I say?’
‘Issy, I’m tired. Can we talk about it tomorrow?’
‘Scarface, we just spent two hours talking about your work and then the second we talk about mine, you’re too tired.’
‘Please don’t moan at me.’
‘And another thing, Scarface,’ I added, ‘I thought we were going to have sex tonight. We haven’t had sex for ages.’
‘We had sex last week.’
‘Exactly, and it’s Wednesday. We always have sex on a Wednesday.’
‘I’m tired, Issy.’ Scarface was really beginning to piss me off.
‘Do you not fancy me any more?’
‘Oh, here we go …’ he groaned.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m tired, okay?’
‘What the … ? Jesus, Scarface.’ There I was, trying to halve my problem by sharing it with my boyfriend, while he refused to play ball. Scarface was beginning to get on my tits – or rather, at that moment I wished he was getting on my tits. I mean, what’s the point of having a boyfriend if he wasn’t going to get on … with me? I sighed heavily.
‘Scarface, things are going to have to change between us.’
He cut me off mid-sentence and for the first time in ages we agreed.
STORMY WEATHER
The day began heavily, the air suffocating with humidity, the skies above threatening all sorts and then delivering a thunderous electric storm around lunch-time. Nadia arrived at the office drenched to the skin, to find me sucking the tip of my right thumbnail and lying in a foetal position on the office sofa.
‘Brodsky.’ Her voice whiplashed me back to reality.
‘What? Oh, it’s you. Did you get the cakes?’ I moaned, pity perceptible in my weakly pitched voice. Another week had passed, another Friday reached, another calorific overload in the offing. Nads ignored my question.
‘Well?’
‘I wonder what’s keeping them.’
‘Traffic?’ I supposed.
Fiona and Trisha were on the way back from lunch with the accountant. Nadia nodded, unbuttoned her jacket and sat down, disclosing a brown-paper bag.
‘Cakes!’ My eyes widened. ‘So, you do have them.’ My hand stretched out, eager to undress the assorted pastries of their brown-paper wrapping and expose a couple of éclairs, one chocolate, one coffee, a mille-feuille and low-fat blackberry muffin. I wanted the chocolate éclair; actually I wanted both éclairs. To be honest, I wanted to stuff my face with as much as I possibly could and make myself sick.
‘Scarface and I broke up last night,’ I mumbled.
‘What’s that?’ Nadia threw a copy of the Evening Standard at me, saving the magazine section for herself, which served to aggravate me, as the magazine was the only thing worth reading, specifically the horoscopes.
‘Can’t I have the magazine?’
‘Brodsky, this is the wedding issue,’ she attested.
‘Rub it in Nads, why don’t you.’ So she did and waved a bejewelled finger at me. I mirrored the gesture using my middle one.
‘Nads, last night Scarface and I …’
‘Issy!’ she admonished, pointing at the cakes, ‘Can’t you wait till the others arrive?’
‘They’re late, they mightn’t come for ages.’ I had already demolished one half of the chocolate éclair and was cutting through the coffee one.
‘What’s the problem, Brodsky?’
‘I wanted the magazine.’
‘I’m reading the magazine.’
‘Can’t you at least read out the horoscopes?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m hoping to meet Mr Right this weekend.’
‘You’re really annoying me.’
‘Nads, you’re not listening.’
‘Go on, then,’ she snorted dryly, fast flicking through the pages.
‘Scarface and I broke up.’
Silence descended; then emerged the distant whirring sound of Nadia’s brain finally computing my news.
‘What? What?’ She looked genuinely shocked.
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘Why?’
‘We put it down to irreconcilable differences.’
‘Irra … what?’
‘Differences.’
‘Being?’
‘He’s a man and I’m a woman.’
How quickly the sheen of romance fades. After glorious vistas of this thing called love comes the incessant compromising, the loss of personal space, unmet expectations, the ‘where is this going?’ talk, the ‘you’re not the father of my child’ talk, the ‘don’t talk to my child that way’ talk, the ‘don’t talk to me that way’ talk, even the ‘okay, so perhaps I am jealous of your relationship with my son’ talk. Then there was the ‘are you listening to me?’ talk and the ‘did you hear what I said?’ talk, not to mention
the constant petty swipes and general grief. All sprinkled with a fair bit of undermining and lastly, the ‘for Christ’s sake, the least you could have done was ring’ talk.3
Sure, we’d been fighting a lot recently but, as I told Scarface, every couple has their ups and downs. Our problem was probably due to us having not enough ups and too many downs.
‘Why can’t you take things seriously, Issy?’ he’d groaned.
‘Because I’m a comedian,’ I’d replied.
‘That isn’t funny.’
He was right. It was a naff, pathetic attempt at humour.
He said things had changed and that he didn’t feel as strongly toward me as he once had.
‘Jesus, Scarface,’ I’d cried. ‘Grow up – most people in relationships hate each other, loathe each other. We actually like each other. Believe me, that is a huge plus. The roaring fire of passion can only be sustained for so long: it changes to a flickering flame. Think of it in PlayStation terms: we are on another level.’
What is it with blokes, eh? If they’re not playing with one type of knob, it’s another. God damn all PlayStations, God damn all knobs. God damn it all!
I never did get any on that Wednesday or, for that matter, any subsequent night.
‘But what happened exactly?’ Nadia flung down the magazine and rushed toward me with open arms. Oh how we girls love the nitty-gritty.
‘He said he wanted some space.’ Actually it was more along the lines of: ‘I can’t do this any more.’
‘Do what?’ I’d asked.
‘I need a break. I think it would be better if we had a break,’ he’d said.
‘What do you mean?’
He’d rambled on for a bit, said he loved me but wasn’t in love with me, if that made any sense. I’d wanted to smack him in the jaw with my clenched fist. He had kept asking me if I understood. It was like he wanted my permission or reassurance that he was doing the right thing.
I’d told him he wasn’t just breaking up from me but also Max. He got defensive, accused me of emotionally threatening him, which I guess I was. See, I was acutely conscious of how Max might feel abandoned, and prayed Scarface would take his feelings into account. The lot of the single mum: not only do you put yourself in a vulnerable position, but your child also.
‘Scarface, he’s really fond of you. I don’t want to see him hurt.’
‘What do you suggest I do, Issy?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been in this situation before.’ I was sure my heart would mend, but Max really loved having Scarface around.
‘He wanted out. What else can I say, Nads?’
Nadia’s mouth gaped open, wherein her tongue lay retarded before she came to her senses and wailed, ‘Issy, you can’t let this happen. If you two guys can’t make it, nobody can.’ Nadia had liked Scarface. She’d said we were two of a kind and foresaw great things.
‘What’s Brodsky done now?’ Trisha pushed open the door to the office. Trisha is like paint, either bone dry or a bit wet. She didn’t suffer fools gladly, so our relationship was ever so slightly strained.
‘Scarface and I have split.’
‘Time to renew the Prozac prescription.’
‘Trisha, this is no joking matter,’ snapped Nadia, her tone quickly changing to one more consoling. ‘Issy, do you want a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll have one,’ barked Fiona, who stormed in all radiant like she’d just got lucky. ‘Issy, guess who I had dinner with last night?’ Her eyes twinkled mysteriously, ‘Come on, guess.’
I wasn’t in a frivolous mood, so meekly shrugged my shoulders.
‘In a roundabout way, Ms Brodsky, I have you to thank for bringing us together again.’
‘Really?’ I was intrigued despite myself. Doing good, even by default, was highly unusual behaviour for me. No point denying it: I was the office clown, butt of all jokes and general scapegoat. Perhaps I cast myself in the role. To an extent I must have. At worst the situation stank, but at best it was an inverted way of getting attention.
(The most recent things deemed my fault, which had nothing whatsoever to do with me, were:
1. Trisha losing the nail on her big toe. A nasty experience, I’ll grant you. It occurred after I hung a picture on the office wall, which she claimed was crooked and then attempted to straighten. It subsequently fell on her toe.
2. Nads’s car being clamped. Nadia was on a case, so I borrowed her car to drive Trisha to casualty. It was an emergency and inadvertently I’d parked in an ambulance bay, the point being I’d had to get as close to the hospital entrance as I possibly could to help Trisha hobble in. Lesson learnt: being charitable and doing good deeds cost dearly, like £100 for starters, and I was really miffed that Trisha didn’t contribute something.
3. Fiona not having been laid for three months.
4. My mother’s gynae problems. Yeah right, like giving birth thirty-recurring years ago could be that problematic as to continue into one’s fifties?
5. Max blaming me for everything because I was his mother. True, but that’s a given.)
Fiona sashayed up to my desk.
‘Brodsky, last night I had dinner with Geraldine McIntosh.’
‘Really?’
Fiona smiled smugly. ‘Yes, really. We used to be childhood … sweethearts.’
‘Bit odd,’ I mumbled, ‘considering Geraldine’s a lesbo and you’re … were a homo.’
‘At the time she was a goth and I was a nerd,’ explained Fiona. ‘If you must know, we had a spiritual relationship, one that transcended the physical.’
‘Ah, one of those,’ Trisha commented. ‘Where one partner is besotted and the other not interested in the slightest.’
I winced, then fleetingly wondered if Scarface could be tempted back into a relationship on such a premise.
Fiona sighed heavily. ‘No, not one of those. She, eh, became an ardent man-hating feminist and we drifted apart.’ Fiona gazed dreamily into the distance, then added: ‘You do know she’s going out with that stand-up Lisa?’
‘Hmm, yes …’ I mumbled. How could I forget?
The three of us peered across at Fiona. She was behaving as if she was sort of in love.
‘So, Brodsky, I owe you one.’
And even in my anguished post-break-up state, I thought it best to take advantage of Fiona’s magnanimous mood and asked if she could put in a good word for me.
‘May, may not,’ Fiona teased. ‘Right, ladies, I’m absolutely ravenous, where are the cakes?’ Hungrily her eyes scanned the room. Fiona hitting a sugar low was not a happy sight. Furtively, I brushed away the remaining crumbs from my top lip. Too late, for she spotted the torn paper bag.
‘Who’s been eating the cakes?’ she roared.
My arm shot up. An old habit retained from years back, from an era when I truly believed that honesty was the best policy.
HONESTY?
Is there such thing? How many of us are ever really honest with ourselves, never mind others? I told Scarface he could have his break. He sought permission. I granted his request. I reckoned I could let him run free from the paddock awhile. He would be back, just like Arnie. He would be. Surely fate was not so cruel as to scathe my heart so recklessly.
And I made it my mantra, my prayer, my hail Scarface, boyfriend of mine, bastard of the century … can’t we just be friends?
He said of course we could be friends, but to give it some time.
He said he needed space, to find himself again.
He said the Kings of Leon, Raconteurs and Kaiser Chiefs CDs were his. I had my iPod so what did I care? Besides, he would be back. It was a guaranteed certainty, as I’d swapped the original CDs for Robbie Williams, Christina Aguilera and Westlife. Thankfully, Max’s reaction to our split had been one of incredible resilience. Scarface let him keep his PlayStation and pledged Max full access to the Xbox he was going to purchase, which may have had something to do with it. Scarface also promised to continue to take Max to Sunday football until his course fini
shed. I was really appreciative and it indicated to me that Scarface wasn’t a complete bastard and hadn’t disappeared into the ether.
SPEAKING OF WHICH …
It was Sunday morning. I’d waved Scarface and Max goodbye and decided to take the opportunity to have another look at Arthur Penn’s house. This case was creeping me out big time. At present my instincts and the evidence suggested he was a spectre, a ghost, a floating soul, maybe even a Time Lord. Scarface, having scoffed at my suggestion, made matters worse by saying, ‘You’re making this up,’ which then totally freaked me. I hadn’t yet considered the notion that Arthur could be a manifestation of my own psyche.
Thus my imagination ran riot before I reined it in and gave myself a sharp slap on the wrist for even considering such nonsense. The Arthur I had followed had to exist, as he had paid quite a hefty sum of money for my services in advance. The payment had definitely been made. I remembered the large stuffed envelope of notes totalling a good few hundred. I checked the office account books, then rechecked, only to conclude that no record of the payment existed. I couldn’t believe it! I casually mentioned it to Fiona, her response being a wink and nod. ‘Cash advance? Many hundreds you say? I can’t recall any cash advance. However, Brodsky, there is a fair whack now owed for all those hours you have recently claimed.’