‘A firm.’
‘Not your first firm, from what I remember.’ Lizzie was happily pissed. Tom’s face broke into a broad smile.
‘You must be confusing me with someone else. No, actually, come to think of it I do remember several firms.’
Pause.
‘A firm of one’s own. Isn’t that what Virginia Woolf said every man should have?’
‘No, I think that was a lawn mower.’
‘So Jules and I are in a tent in the middle of nowhere and I think I’m going to die – the pain was excruciating – and so I wake her up and say, “Jules, I think I’m dying,” and you know what she says? “Do you want a smoke, Lizzie?”’
They both laughed.
‘What did it end up being?’
‘Kidney stones.’
‘My brother Ned had those. They say it’s worse than childbirth.’
‘It is. But nothing is more excruciating than your Nazi-sympathising brother. How is the Führer?’
‘Married with two kids and living in Essex. But guess what his wife’s name is?’
‘I give up.’
‘Eva. No joke. How is Jules?’
‘Great. Corporate maggot. Married a financial adviser.’
‘Back in the breeding pool, spawning with one of her own?’
‘You should meet this guy. It’s more like she’ll be hosting his latest batch of larvae.’
They couldn’t get it all out quickly enough. It was like putting on a jacket you haven’t worn for a while and finding a fifty in the pocket. Smelling your scent from ten years before. They were back together on that tiny planet only they inhabited.
No one noticed Tom and Lizzie’s journey back in time. By this stage everyone was deep in conversation, pissed or both.
Keith lurched over and put his arm around Tom. ‘I see you’ve met Lizzie.’
‘Actually, we met travelling, years ago.’
‘You never did.’ Keith had had a few.
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘When Tom had hair.’
‘And Lizzie was just a loud-mouthed Aussie wanting to be a comedian.’
Becky came over, offering coffee and chocolates.
‘Tom, I’d better drop you home before I get too pissed.’
‘Oh, it’s fine, Keith. I’ll get a cab.’
‘No, no, no. I insist.’ Keith leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, the missus is trying to clean the place out because she’s knackered.’
‘Oh, sorry, mate.’
‘May as well drop you back to your hotel, Lizzie, seeing as you’re just around the corner.’
Lizzie sat in the front seat and poor Tom was sandwiched in the back between the two baby capsules. They spun through streets festooned with Christmas lights while Keith regaled them with television gossip. Lizzie and Tom glowed and buzzed, like children with a secret. In what seemed like no time they were in front of Lizzie’s hotel.
As she gathered her things, she turned around and looked at Tom, searching. ‘Ah, great to see you, Tom. Catching up and all that.’
‘It was.’ Tom gave her a silent ‘I’ll phone you’ gesture and she gave him a nod. ‘Next time you’re in town let Keith know and we’ll all hook up.’
As Keith’s car disappeared, she realised her pulse was racing.
‘Nice bird, that Lizzie,’ said Keith as he pulled up outside Tom’s house.
‘Yeah, she’s alright,’ Tom said unconvincingly. ‘Thanks for the ride.’
Tom slammed the door and Keith sped away. It was 6.30 p.m. and the house was dark and empty. Without even turning on a light he walked into the kitchen, opened the telephone directory, looked up Thistle Charing Cross and dialled the number. ‘Lizzie Quealy, thank you.’
‘Staff or guest?’
‘Guest.’
‘Do you know the room number?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’
‘We have no L. Quealy listed.’ Minor panic. ‘We have an E. Quealy.’
‘Yes, that’d be her. Elizabeth.’
‘Hold please, sir.’
Elizabeth, thought Tom. I’ve never thought of her as actually being an Elizabeth.
Lizzie was sitting on her bed, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally there was the strange buzzing noise and she leapt for the receiver.
Not so fast, Lizzie, she told herself. You don’t want to seem desperate.
‘Hello?’
‘Lizzie, it’s Tom.’
Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. How old was she? Sixteen? ‘I know.’ She cringed. Fuck, what a stupid thing to say.
‘So you leave on Wednesday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Would you like to … catch up again?’
‘That would be great.’
‘What’s tomorrow like?’
‘Fine, yes, perfect.’ Down, Lizzie, down.
‘How about I meet you in the lobby at three? We can have a spot of tea.’
‘Great.’
‘See you then, Liz.’
Clunk. She put the phone down and took a big breath. What the fuck was she doing? She was picking up the phone to find out what time Marks and Spencers closed, that’s what. She needed new undies. And a new bra.
Felicity and Celia rolled in around 8.30.
‘How was the rest of the party?’ Felicity asked as she brushed Celia’s hair.
‘Fine. You know, same old same. How was Imogen’s, Celia?’
‘It was so cool. I won the pass-the-parcel and the dancing competition. Dad, can you read to me before I go to sleep?’
‘Sure, sweetheart. I’ll be up in a minute.’
Felicity spent the evening on the internet, researching the minutia of Britain’s immigration law to help one of Nagem’s cousins.
Tom lay on Celia’s bed and they read some Harry Potter. Then he went into the darkroom for the first time in almost a year. He’d forgotten how much he loved it, how it fed his soul. He developed a few rolls of film and put Radiohead on full blast.
Tom didn’t sleep much that night. He tossed and turned and tossed and turned. And when at last he rolled over and the clock said 2.17, he bit the bullet, got out of bed, went to the bathroom and had a good toss so that he could get some rest. How long since he’d felt like this? Alive, excited, charming.
He loved Felicity. He didn’t want to leave her. He didn’t want to mess things up. But he had to see Lizzie. He might never see her again and she had a part of him. She was a part of him. Being with her woke something up inside of him.
Lizzie couldn’t sleep. She had a bath, she watched some television, she even tried to do some yoga, but nothing. The sleep train was not stopping at her station. Just when she was nodding off to a repeat of Love Thy Neighbour, the phone buzzed. It was Jim.
‘Staff Christmas do was last night.’
‘How was it?’
‘Great. I think I drank a bit too much. I gave Helen a box of chocolates for looking after the kids.’
‘How are they?’
‘Fine. Scarlet fell asleep in the cubby this afternoon. I think she was so buggered with the heat and all. I saw her dragging her blankie in there, but I thought she was just playing dolls or something. They’re fine, but there’s no break, and sometimes it’s just relentless, you know? No, nothing I can’t handle. Are you having a good time?’
‘Yeah, I went to this party, the BBC guy Keith was having this Christmas drinks thing so I went over and had two glasses of wine and had to crash in his spare room.’
‘Were you pissed?’
‘No, just jetlagged. I bumped into this guy I met on the Trans-Siberian Express.’
‘Wow, that’s pretty amazing. Hang on, Lizzie, I’ve got to go, a kid’s j
ust fallen off the trampoline. Call me tomorrow.’
Lizzie slept fitfully and woke feeling seedy but excited. She went to Marks and Spencer and spent sixty-five quid on bras and undies, then filled the morning by walking around London and riding the tube. She got off at a station called Angel, wandered into a Sainsbury’s and spent a good two hours checking out the food. Why does England have such a bad reputation for food when the produce looks the same as in Melbourne? she thought. Then she picked up a chunk of parmesan cheese and looked at the price on it. 8.36. Fair enough. And then she remembered it was in pounds.
As she walked around the city she thought about her body. It was not the same one she’d had ten years ago. The stretch marks from the pregnancies, the ravages of breastfeeding two children, her grey hairs, her wrinkles. Okay, there were only a couple – but the French saying came irresistibly to mind: Après moi, le déluge.
When she caught herself thinking like this, she had to snap out of it. ‘You are in a relationship. With Jim. Whom you love. There is nothing wrong with your relationship and you don’t want to sleep with Tom. Well, maybe you do, but you won’t. You’re just having a drink with an old friend. Get a grip.’ But then she’d soften up. ‘It’s okay to fantasise. Everyone fantasises.’
She stopped at a little café with orange walls and a white ceiling and ordered pork medallions with a mustard and cream sauce. They were so delicious, she was tempted to lick the plate. By half past one she decided it was time to head back to the hotel. She’d been looking for something to wear but everything was too Eurotrash, too mutton dressed as lamb. But as she made her way back to the station she saw a beautiful duck-egg blue top with a low neck and knew instantly that it was perfect. When you’ve been living in a body for a while, you get to know what suits it. When she pulled it over her head with her swishy deep-purple velvet skirt and her tall black boots, she just knew. It was made for her. Eighty quid later she was on her way back to the hotel.
At 3 p.m. on the knocker she grabbed her bag and headed for the lobby. She didn’t have butterflies, she had elephants. As she waited for the lift, an elderly couple slowly shuffled up and joined her. When they got in, she said, ‘Which floor?’
‘Anywhere, love,’ said the woman. ‘I’m just taking Dad for a walk.’
As she emerged from the lift she started thinking, Should I sit on a stool? Too slutty. At a table? Yeah, a table. But facing the door or facing away? Maybe reading? Yes, good. The paper? No, a book. Reading a book at a table facing the door. But not by the window, someone might see. Not that we’re doing anything wrong.
When she walked into the bar, she didn’t have to think about where to sit. Tom was already there.
Tom had woken early and stood in his towel, freezing his bollocks off for a good five minutes, waiting for the central heating to kick in and wondering what to wear. A suit, he finally thought. That’s what he always wore to work and he didn’t want to raise suspicions. Not that there was anything to be suspicious about. They were both married, de facto, whatever, right? So a suit. Definitely. But maybe she’d think that was too stuffy, being a comedian and all. And in an instant he was back in their first weeks together in London, getting dressed for a job interview while she lounged naked in bed.
‘I bet you think I look like a prat,’ said Tom, feeling her eyes on him as he tried to remember how to tie a Windsor knot.
‘Actually, I have a bit of a thing for prats. And men in suits.’
She looked so real and so beautiful, propped up on one elbow and drinking a cup of coffee. They were staying in Mad Will’s room in a share house in Brixton. The walls were covered in a faded old French wallpaper, a 1920s design in green, purple and crimson. It looked like a jaded bordello and Lizzie had taken to calling the room ‘the brothel.’ Sometimes she’d stand at the door in her dressing gown and say, ‘Fifty quid for straight. No kissing. Anything else is extra.’
She had hung a sarong on the window for privacy and now it flapped in the gentle morning breeze, floating up to reveal a perfect blue sky. She looked out the window and Tom grabbed the Leica, which he’d picked up from the repair shop the day before.
‘Lizzie?’
She turned around smiling and he snapped. He’d captured her. ‘Bloody hell, Tom, don’t you have enough photos of me?’
‘Hey, don’t be so up yourself. I’m just testing out the camera. Anyway, slight non-sequitur, but fancy a shag?’
‘Didn’t we fancy a shag an hour ago?’
‘Did we?’ said Tom as he took off the trousers he’d just put on and Lizzie drew him in. When they finished he stayed inside her and kissed her gently on the mouth. Her eyes were closed and she kept on coming. Eventually she stopped and opened her eyes.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen next.’
‘I do,’ said Tom as he pulled his pants on. ‘I’m going to have a job interview with some posh tosser who owns a law firm.’
‘Aren’t you going to have a wash?’
‘No, I want to smell you on me all day.’
And he did.
*
Tom wanted to look polished for Lizzie. Not to get her into bed. He just didn’t want her to think he was old and worn down. He put on the Ted Baker suit, a pale-green Hugo Boss shirt and a silk tie Felicity had given him for his birthday.
Felicity and Celia were both still asleep. He kissed his wife on the head and she mumbled, ‘What time is it?’
‘6.50.’
‘Why are you leaving so early?’
‘Can’t sleep. I want to go in and deal with the mess at work.’
‘Okay, darling. Have a lovely day. Don’t forget Celia’s Christmas concert tonight.’
Tom didn’t hear. He was out the door and miles away. When he was four houses down the street he stopped abruptly, turned around and walked back through his front gate. He went into the darkroom, picked up his Leica and wrapped it gently in a blue batik scarf that was lying on the couch. Then he tucked it into his soft leather satchel and left.
At lunchtime he wandered along Audley Street to James & Victor’s, his regular barber’s. It was a dodgy old shop, dark and wood-panelled with an old barber’s pole out the front, the kind you only see in the movies. It offered old copies of Fox and Hound, Ralph and, if you dug down far enough, Penthouse. You waited your turn and got some bad music, a bawdy joke and a bloody good haircut for a tenner.
‘Hello, guv’nor. The usual, is it?’
‘Yes, thanks, Vic. And a shave too, come to think of it.’
‘Special occasion, is it?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Right you are, then. How many blondes does it take to change a light globe?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Fifty-one. One to hold the light globe and the rest to turn the room around.’
As Vic got to work, Tom racked his brain for what to do with Lizzie. He couldn’t help it. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her for a second. What did he normally fill his mind with? He couldn’t remember. Cameras? Cars? Work?
It wasn’t about fucking. Sure, she turned him on, but it was more than that. She had this part of him that he thought he’d lost. A part from back before the mortgage, the car payments, the life insurance, the disability insurance, the income-protection insurance, the school fees, the tax audit, Harry and the El Husseins and all the rest. Back when all he needed was a pair of jeans, his backpack and his Leica. And Lizzie. How had life crept up on him like this?
As he wandered back to work, a bus rolled past. When he read the advertisement on the back, he knew exactly where he’d take her. Not too sleazy. They wouldn’t bump into anyone he knew. And they could be alone. As soon as he was back in the office, Tom picked up the phone. ‘Great. 4 p.m. Yes, just the two of us. No, I don’t think we want the cupid package. Can I pay by credit card? Wonderful. See you then
.’
Lizzie’s gonna love this, Tom thought. He pressed the buzzer and asked Bronwyn to send in his one o’clock client, a mean little man who wanted to screw his wife for everything he could.
CHAPTER 10
‘Hi,’ said Lizzie as she approached the table.
Tom stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She offered her other cheek and he kissed that too. Then she hugged him – a good to see you hug, not a fancy a shag hug.
‘What would you like?’
‘A vodka, lime and soda, thanks.’
‘Great.’
Tom went to the bar and returned with two glasses. He put them down next to Lizzie’s packet of cigarettes.
‘You still smoke?’
‘Only when I travel. I bought them at Singapore airport.’
‘Ah, Changi. Bottoms up,’ said Tom, picking up his glass. ‘Here’s to inappropriately named airports.’
‘I think I’ll have to skol. I don’t know what comes next,’ said Lizzie.
He looked confused for a moment, and then he remembered their drinking game. A smile spread across his face.
‘Thinking back now—’
‘I suppose you were just stating your views.’
‘What was it all for?’
‘For the weather and the battle of Agincourt—’
‘And the times that we all thought would last—’
‘Like a train they have gone by so fast—’
‘And though we stood together at the edge of the platform—’
‘We were not moved by them.’
‘With my own hands—’
‘When I make love to your memory—’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘I miss the thunder, I miss the rain.’
‘Stuff this, I need a drink.’ Tom skolled. ‘What was that one called?’
‘“St Swithin’s Day.”’
‘Ah, that’s right. You know that’s the name of Keith and Becky’s place?’
The Happiness Show Page 7