Criss Cross

by Caron Allan

  He pulled me down to the end of the garden, away from the noise and heat of the party and plonked me down on the little wall there and told me to take deep breaths and pull myself together for a few minutes. And while I did that, I kept thinking to myself, any minute he’s going to pounce and I was feeling so exposed. But he didn’t. After a couple of minutes, he offered me a cigarette. When I shook my head, he asked if I minded, and I said I didn’t, so he just stood there smoking quietly and I just sat there gazing at the ghostly grey flowers swaying in the breeze. Not that it was romantic or anything, just—peaceful.

  Then quite suddenly he said, ‘So how are you planning on doing it?’ And I was so surprised I couldn’t even pretend I didn’t know what he meant, and I didn’t want to insult him by not answering him truthfully, as he’d been so sweet and everything and suddenly he seemed to be my friend, so I told him about the ethylene glycol. He didn’t seem surprised, he certainly wasn’t shocked. He just nodded and murmured something like ‘Yes, that’s a good one’.

  And he sat down next to me, and we just stayed there, enjoying the quiet. From the house I could hear the strains of some romantic old song, and because it was only faint, it actually seemed even nicer. After a few minutes, don’t know exactly how it happened, I was leaning against his shoulder, with his arm around me, and I held out my hand for his cigarette, took a couple of drags from it and felt very French as I handed it back again and he placed it between his lips again.

  ‘She killed your husband, Thomas?’

  I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. My hair snagged a little bit on his chin stubble.

  ‘But I killed hers first,’ I confessed. I wanted him to know the truth. But he waved that away. Details, details.

  ‘How’re you planning on giving her the stuff?’

  ‘In a cocktail,’ I said after a few seconds to regain my composure. I felt like I was really just making a suggestion, he was the one making the decision. He nodded again. Thoughtful.

  ‘Might work okay,’ he said. I didn’t bother to reply, just leant against him. He was warm and solid, and I realised I didn’t dislike him so much anymore. And he didn’t sound so—well, common—anymore. He actually seemed quite nice. One half of my brain was standing back looking at myself with him, saying in disbelief, just how much wine have I had?

  ‘What were you in for?’ I couldn’t help blurting out. I hadn’t intended to, but it had bugged me for weeks. Months, even.

  He laughed, I felt him turn slightly in my direction, looking at me in the moonlight. He ground his cigarette out on my lawn. No. Not my lawn any more.

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘Murder? Armed robbery? GBH?’

  He laughed again and stamped on the cigarette butt on the ground again. Shook his head but didn’t loosen his hold on me.

  ‘Fraud,’ he said.

  ‘Fraud?’ I repeated. I could hardly believe it. I felt a tiny bit cheated. Plus, you know, it’s a bit middle class.

  ‘I scammed some tourists out of some money.’

  I hoped I didn’t sound disappointed when I said, politely, ‘Oh? How much?’

  ‘Fifteen million dollars.’

  ‘Fifteen…Oh My God!’ I began to giggle hysterically. ‘Is that all?’ I asked him when I caught my breath.

  ‘That’s a lot of money where I come from.’

  I gave a rather unladylike snort of laughter.

  ‘That’s a lot of money where anyone comes from! What did you do, sell them London Bridge?’

  He shook his head. ‘Kensington Palace. Told him that once the Queen Mum died, it was on the market, not needed see, as the rest of them all had their own places already.’

  ‘It’s genius. I’d have loved to see their faces.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Americans, I assume?’

  ‘Japanese.’

  ‘Oh.’

  We fell silent again, leaning against one another and enjoying the night.

  ‘I also sold The Angel of the North five years ago. Hong Kong businessman. Only got 1.2 mill for that.’ He sounded a bit crestfallen. ‘Didn’t get caught, though. Nice little earner.’ Then, ‘What sort of cocktails?’ he asked. It took me a minute to back-track though our conversation before I knew what he was referring to.

  ‘Well der—blue ones of course! Anything with blue curacao in it. I was just going to mix it with vodka and maybe something else, lemonade or some juice or something.’

  ‘Got any actual blue curacao in the house?’ he asked. I had to admit I hadn’t. He gave me a pitying look in the moonlight. Like I’d let him down just a little.

  ‘No blue curacao? What kind of party is this?’ he asked. He got up, pulling me up with him. ‘You put on your happy face and go and mingle, I’ll be back in ten minutes or so. Go and have fun.’ He led me back to the house, and promptly disappeared through to the kitchen.

  I’m a bit surprised to realise he’s nice. By the time I went back inside, I was feeling all warm and happy. Then, twenty minutes later…

  ‘Cocktail, Cress?’

  I jumped out of my skin, looking round to find Monica at my elbow. Mummy’s Little Helper, she was holding a huge tray of glasses containing cocktails in various colours and shapes and sizes. Each one was complete with little umbrellas and chunks of melon or pineapple or whole strawberries in them. Two of the glasses contained very attractive–looking icy-blue liquid, each with a gold plastic stirrer, an umbrella and a wedge of sugared lime. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure I wanted to run the risk of tasting any of them, but Monica looked so bright and keen, and I glanced over her shoulder to the other room, where Matt stood by the table, watching. He nodded and smiled at me so I thought it should be okay, after all.

  I selected a glass containing a bright orange drink with a little umbrella and a paper parrot on a stick along with a big lump of ice and a wedge of watermelon and a cherry. God alone knew how I was going to get to the actual drink.

  ‘Thanks, Mon,’ I said brightly with a smile at my best pal. She beamed back at me.

  ‘Great party,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad we did this.’

  We? But I let it go. Not long now

  ‘And a really great idea of yours to serve cocktails,’ I purred. She beamed again and at the same time somehow contrived to smile over her shoulder at Matt who raised his glass in a salute. She turned to me with a coy look, bending closer as she lowered her voice to a mere bellow above the music and laughter.

  ‘He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘Do you know if he’s seeing any one at the moment? Or, no wait, don’t tell me, I bet he’s married. He is, isn’t he?’

  Was he? Mrs H had never referred to a daughter-in-law, or grandchildren. But I had never actually asked. Until tonight he hadn’t exactly been my favourite person, so he was a topic I had studiously avoided.

  ‘I don’t think he’s married,’ I said. ‘But if you like, I can try to find out. Though I’m not sure I’d exactly describe him as gorgeous, but I suppose he’s not terrible-looking and he does seem quite sweet.’

  ‘Cress! Are you mad? He’s definitely gorgeous! And all your girlfriends are flirting with him. Even the married ones.’

  I glanced around the room to see a number of pairs of eyes staring in Matt’s direction. One woman wiggled her fingers in a dainty hello at him.

  ‘Hmm. I suppose.’ To be honest, at that point I really wanted to not be talking about Matt Hopkins. I’d just discovered something and I wasn’t very happy about it. I wanted to change the subject. Toot sweet. ‘What’s in this anyway?’ I waved the glass at her. She took it off me and glugged a great gulp of it, handed it back with an exaggerated wriggle that went from her head down to her hips and back again.

  ‘Everything, I should think! It’s got a helluva kick to it! Nice, but really strong. Just like—what’s his name again?’

  ‘Matt,’ I told her. But she was already walking away to join him, going into what I call her Jessica Rabbit walk as she got within eight or
ten feet of him. I watched him closely as she came in to land.

  ‘Matt, Sweetie, just what is in this cocktail anyway?’ She batted huge black lashes at him and leaned far enough forward that he must have been able to see right down the front of her dress to her gold high-heels.

  He gave her a huge sexy grin, and my heart did a stupid little flip thing.

  Yes. She was right. He was gorgeous. Damn.

  ‘Well, there’s some pineapple juice,’ he began slowly, and she was hanging on his every word like it was some sexy game she had just invented. He quirked an eyebrow at me, not that she noticed. I wanted to turn away but couldn’t seem to make myself do the actual manoeuvre of turning.

  ‘Ye—es…’ she said, giggling.

  ‘And some cream of coconut,’ he said leaning a bit closer and making it sound much too naughty. She leaned towards him, her boobs practically tipping her off balance.

  ‘Ye—es,’ she giggled again and I finally turned away, unable to stand any more. I heard him do a little low chuckle, sexy as anything, and he said to her,

  ‘And of course, lashings of rum with maybe just a little splash of vodka.’

  She did a shriek of mock-outrage that nearly rent my eardrum.

  ‘I think you’re trying to get me a little bitsy tipsy!’ she said again, hardly able to speak for giggling. He joined in the laughing,

  ‘Is it working?’ he asked, winking.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘try me with a really big one.’ And then I heard her hoot with laughter.

  Oh God, I thought, she’s not only drunk, she’s an embarrassing cliché. It was all too much. I went out of the room.

  It seemed like a lifetime later—though it was actually only three and a half hours—that I finally managed to shut the door on the last of my guests. I felt exhausted. My lips ached from smiling constantly and saying ‘…and I’m going to miss you, too! Yes, Darling! Of course we will keep in touch, Gloucestershire’s no distance really!’

  But it had been okay—no one had thrown up and no one had started a fight. In my book, that’s a successful party.

  Only one problem.

  Monica was still here.

  I didn’t really bother to count her amongst the guests because she always used to come and go as she pleased in the old days of our friendship. She and Matt had disappeared for quite a long time after the ‘what’s in the cocktail’ conversation, and now she was still slow-dancing with him in the middle of the room, her boobs squashed against his chest, her hips clamped way too firmly to his for my liking. If I heard Move Closer or Love Don’t Live Here Anymore one more time I was going to put on some Sex Pistols or something else loud and strident just to kill the mood.

  I wandered through to the kitchen where Sid was sitting at the table drinking cocoa and reading the paper, surrounded by leftovers on plates and in front of him, a massive plate of sausages and chips.

  Lill was washing up a few last cocktail glasses. I felt despondent, the way you do when you’re tired and some other woman (the one that murdered your husband) is slow-dancing with the man you’ve just realised against all good sense and your own better judgement you really fancy. I plonked myself down at the table, and nabbed a chip from Sid’s plate without thinking about what I was doing.

  I had bitten it in half before I came to my senses with a flood of mortification but he waved away my apology, pushing the plate towards me.

  ‘Plenty of ‘em, Duck. Dig in. Bad for me clesterol, anyway.’

  I took another with a grateful smile. Mrs H turned towards us.

  ‘Well it certainly went off with a bang. Your party,’ she clarified at my blank expression. ‘It went well.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes it did, and mainly due to all your hard work. Thank you, Mrs Hopkins.’ She inclined her head graciously.

  ‘It wasn’t nuffink, I’m glad it went well for you. Nice to say a proper farewell to your pals.’

  ‘Well, I really don’t know what I’d do without you, you’ve been like a mother to me, you’re a gem, Mrs Hopkins.’ It must have been the alcohol making me sentimental. She blushed and giggled.

  ‘Oh, now, it’s a pleasure, really. And you and poor Mr Powell have been wonderful to us. What with us losing the house, and everything, and giving Sid here a job and giving our Matt somewhere to stay when he first…’ but here she hastily caught herself and launched off in a different direction, ‘well anyway, and I’ve told you already, call me Lill, please. It’s much better than keep calling me Mrs Haitch all the time.’

  I felt touched, and a little bit emotional. Like I said, too much booze. When I thanked her, it came out as a broken whisper, and there were tears in my eyes. We all beamed at each other with new warmth. Then Sid let out an almighty belch, and I bolted for the cloakroom and vomited horribly for about ten minutes. Thank God for toilet duck and mouthwash.

  When I crawled up to my bed in my naked bedroom, there was a glass of iced water on the floor by my bed, and actually in the bed, a hot water bottle had been placed to provide comfort. I was too exhausted to write in my journal, which is why I’m doing it this morning.

  When I came downstairs this morning, the last of the few bits and pieces were being loaded into the van. Lill gave me a tight goodbye hug as if we wouldn‘t see each other again for months, and then they were off, leaving me alone in this shell, wondering what on earth to do with myself until my train leaves tomorrow morning.

  Feel a bit depressed and wish I could have seen Matt this morning, even though I know I look terrible and even though I’ve a horrid suspicion he’s still tangled up with Monica’s long but admittedly rather middle-aged legs, her newly bleached-blonde hair spraying across his chest. I’m sure they snuck off during the party, absolutely certain, I didn’t see either of them for an age, but again, don’t really want to think about it.

  Feeling morose and full of self-pity, I grabbed my few last things together then went to take a last look around the house and the garden. But it was all oddly soulless, and now that it was empty, it seemed quite unlike the home I’d known all these years. It felt like a bit of a let-down—it was almost as if I was a prospective buyer, seeing a new and unfamiliar house for the first time. Even the garden held no pleasure for me, I felt only an odd sense of detachment when I looked around. The only thing that I felt sorry about was that I didn’t catch a last glimpse of that little git-of-a-cat Twinkle. My new life was waiting. Time to go.

  I was actually on my way to the front door to leave the house forever when there was a loud knock. I went to the door, puzzled, and opened it.

  Matt smiled at me from the step.

  ‘Depressed? Or just sentimental?’

  ‘Both,’ I said. He held out his hand for the keys, and as I joined him outside, he locked the door, and put the keys back in through the letter box as I had arranged with the agent. He turned and tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.

  ‘Let’s go and grab a sarnie,’ he said, ‘and then we’re going to the zoo.’

  ‘I’m not five,’ I grumbled, pleased.

  We had a lovely day.

  It felt a bit odd, especially as he insisted on paying for everything, it felt almost like a teenagers’ date, but although there were a couple of awkward moments, we had a fabulous day—I can’t remember when I last went to the zoo, but he made it so much fun for me, and nothing was too much trouble for him—he made sure I didn’t miss any of the feeding times, bought me an ice-cream (yum!), a hotdog (yuck!) and a cuddly tiger-cub, took photos of me with my head through one of those giant picture postcard cutouts, so that I looked like an eighteen-stone black woman in a tiny yellow bikini.

  There were some absolutely gorgeous big cats: tigers, white and yellow, Siberian and—whatever else they come in, and lions, and even some little servals, looking sleek and content in the sunshine. I just adored them all, huge cousins of Tetley and Twinkle. Who knew that I of all people could become a cat lover?

  It was when we were sitting having our hotdogs at one of the
less crowded cafeterias, sitting at an outdoor table watching the antics of some truly stunning scarlet macaws, that I asked him if anything interesting had happened after I left him in charge of Monica and took myself off to bed (following a quick dash to the loo to yak up Sid’s chips, but I didn’t mention that, obviously).

  I don’t quite know what I expected—I kind of thought he and Monica might have spent the night together, and I was dreading hearing him confirm it, for some reason.

  He admitted he took her home—she was too drunk to drive herself. It appeared (I was sad to discover) she had declined to try any of the cocktails he had tried to force on her, cleverly switching to vodka and lemonade—no chance of sneaking any anti-freeze into anything so clean and clear. And then, he said, once he got her home, she had made a clumsy pass at him before passing out cold, as per all the best fiction, while he was making her a mug of black coffee.

  ‘So I got out of there with my honour intact,’ he ended up, laughing, but his eyes were watchful as he took in my studiously indifferent, ‘Oh?’

  There was a long pause. Then he balled up his food wrapper and throwing it in the bin, and sending mine after it, he dragged me to my feet, and turning, led the way out to the path, saying over his shoulder,

  ‘There’re some hippos around this corner, I want to see if they remind me of my Ex.’

  As we set off, he murmured, ‘Shame about the anti-freeze, though. That would have been a nice one.’ I had to agree.

  After a pub dinner that evening he delivered me to my hotel room, didn’t linger at all, just kissed me chastely on the cheek and took his leave, calling over his shoulder,

  ‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock prompt to drive you down to your new home.’ He waved his hand above his head as he walked away, not turning even once. And I didn’t mind, didn’t feel lonely, just felt relaxed and happy and that life was full of possibilities. With the added bonus that I was going to be chauffeur-driven to Gloucestershire!