by Ben Foster
‘She’s good.’
‘You look after that girl, be hard to find another one like her.’
He stretched his shoulders, then shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Thanks for the rub. I’m going to have a snooze before everyone gets home. You look after yourself.’
As I watched him cross the road, I felt as if there was something left unsaid, that I had deceived him in some way. Members of my own family had called me a class traitor when I used the inheritance from Gran to do a massage course instead of blowing it on a holiday in Las Vegas, as my cousin did. Most working people want to get on, they want their children to do well. I knew how proud Pete and Carol were that Lynne was at university. But it seemed sometimes as if every time you tried to pull yourself up, someone wanted to drag you back down again.
9
YOU CAN NEVER SAY NO
With the VW’s air conditioning and a CD player, I was a new man in old trainers; I didn’t want to damage the new ones. I picked up Kelly from her afternoon shift at the laundry and left early for work so I could go easy on the new motor. The sun beat down from above and reflected up from the black tar on the road to Egham, packed and polluted; I always wondered how many millions of man hours were wasted in jams and how insane we were destroying the planet for our children.
Icy air swirled up from the footwell, the four speakers were balanced, smooth as chocolate, and a mellow voice was reading Napoleon Hill’s self-help book Think and Grow Rich, a title that implies that the guide is only about making money. It’s not. It is more about personal development, on training the mind to think and be positive.
I had been given the CD by Rudy Johnson, whom I’d met when I was giving free massages at the gym. He was a business associate of Rufus, his opposite in every way. Rudy was short, mixed race with a shaved head, incredibly white teeth in a broad smile and he was the only man at the gym who insisted on paying for his massage.
Rudy sold mortgages. In two years, he had gone from being a complete beginner to the number one salesman in London with commissions that had allowed him to buy a flat in Chelsea and a house in the country. He told me he had played Think and Grow Rich every day for two years driving to work and driving home. It was like a meditation, a massage for the mind. You had to be absolutely clear about what it was you wanted to acquire or achieve, then channel positive energy into your daily life until the goal was reached. Rudy believed there was no such thing as lucky or unlucky people, only positive and negative people. Positive people were observant and saw opportunities when they appeared.
It had all sounded convincing to me, but after playing the CD once, I had never got round to playing it again. There was never any time at home, not with the kids, and the van didn’t have a CD player. With a new car and new prospects, I resolved to listen to Napoleon Hill on my daily drive to The Lodge and see if I could emulate Rudy. The voice on the disc was confident, convincing, optimistic, the words like mantras that I tried to memorise:
Don’t wait. The time will never be just right.
Whatever the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can achieve.
Every adversity, every failure, every heartache, carries with it the seed of an equivalent or greater benefit.
We had faced plenty of failure and adversity, a lot of heartache. We were always broke. I was ready to grab any opportunity that came my way. I sympathised with Pete Taylor, but I had three kids to bring up and it seemed to me that if you wanted the best for them, you had to do whatever you had to do to earn the money to pay for it.
The road was busy coming up to six when people were making their way home. I indicated, slowed through the gears and negotiated the potholes outside The Lodge. Vinnie Castro watched me drive in, ten minutes early, which always put him in a good mood. He trotted down the steps scratching the bristles on his cheek.
‘You robbing cars now?’
I changed the subject.
‘Do you know what cazzo means?’ I asked him.
‘Cazzo?’
‘Yeah, cazzo, what’s it mean?’
‘Everything and nothing. Prick, cock, fuck, stupid. Che cazzo vuoi? You got an Italian girlfriend?’
‘Absolutely.’
Marley emerged between the double doors. He looked grey and tired.
‘Hey, look,’ Vinnie said. ‘This cazzo’s got a new motor.’
‘My favourite colour,’ Marley said.
‘It’s on lease,’ I explained. ‘The van died on me. How are the boys?’
‘They hot,’ he replied. ‘And when they hot . . . ’
‘They’re not pissing on Billy again?’
‘Not yet.’
We high fived and he wandered out the gate to catch the bus home.
The lights flashed and a double beep pulsed as I locked the car in the shade under the tall sycamores. I followed Vinnie up the steps to start another twelve-hour double shift feeling oddly content to be back in my own world.
Andel Svoboda was playing Monopoly with Chris and his mates.
‘How’s it going, Chris?’ I called.
‘Mayfair,’ he shouted and punched the air.
Del and Jordan did the same. Red hotels had been erected on Mayfair and Park Lane. Chris had piles of money laid out in military formation and I knew because it always happened when people were speculating on property there would be tears before tea time.
The usual suspects clutched the iron bars as they gazed from the window, dust strewn from the dry heat. The two lads weren’t like lions in a cage dreaming of freedom. They were looking out because they didn’t want anyone to look at them. Troy was rocking on his blue chair. I watched Alex switch channels on the TV and caught a glimpse of the man in the white suit who had said in the Great Hall that day that it was nice to hear the sound of women’s laughter; the man who had made the bet with Maggs about whether or not I would be sleeping under her roof by the weekend
‘Go back, Alex, go back. There’s something I want to see.’
He paused, thought about that for several moments, stared back as if wondering who I was, then clicked back four channels to the BBC News.
I recognised him now. The man in the white suit was James Chipping, a Minister under Tony Blair. He had a concerned expression on his angular face and gave the impression of being wise as he peered over his half-moon glasses. He was supporting a group of investors who wanted to revive an old race course on land that, according to the spokesman for the Wildlife Trust, was home to numerous endangered species. As they debated the subject, it seemed to be one of those insoluble problems: save the wildlife, create the jobs the Minister predicted, or find a compromise that would benefit no one.
The news rolled on. The ping pong ball smashed across the table. Alex changed channels, confirming his authority over the remote control. Then, unexpectedly, it was always unexpected, all hell broke loose. The table where the Monopoly game was in progress skated across the day room, shedding counters and cards along the way, and Alex turned up the volume on the TV to a deafening pitch.
Chris yelled ‘Fuuuuuck,’ in one long scream, then stamped out and ran along the corridor with a fistful of play money in his hand.
Like a forest fire, the chaos spread. A table tennis bat whizzed by my ear and hit the wall. Tyson, one of the few black lads, pulled all the books from the shelf. Troy rocked faster on his chair and Vinnie came rushing in as Andel chased Chris upstairs.
‘Now what?’ Vinnie yelled.
‘Monday madness,’ I replied.
I spoke to Del and Jordan. They were more cooperative when Chris wasn’t there.
‘Put the table back, lads, and pick up all those cards.’
They nodded in unison and did so while I crossed the room to the TV.
‘Alex, turn down the volume,’ I told him and waited while he let that sink it. ‘Thank you,’ I added when it was done.
I picked up the table tennis bat.
‘Who threw this?’
There was no way of knowing because every boy i
n the day room lowered his head.
‘Don’t do it again.’ I flapped my ears back and forth. ‘I’ve only got two ears and I want to hang on to them.’
There were a couple of smiles. Vinnie let out a sigh. The commotion had run its course.
‘Nice one, Ben,’ he said and left me to it.
We managed to get through the evening meal without any fuss. Andel dished out the drugs and the lads climbed the stairs to the bathroom, cleaned their teeth and filed into the dorms.
I was having a cup of tea, feet up with the Mirror, when my mobile rang with a number I didn’t recognise.
‘Hello, is that Ben?’
‘Yes . . . ’
‘It’s Angela. I’d like you to come tomorrow at six. I’ll text the address.’
She hadn’t given me time to speak and I wasn’t sure who it was.
‘Angela?’ I said.
‘Angela Hartley. We met on Friday. Have you forgotten already?’
Now I remembered. She was the woman who had been sitting on the antique chair, the politician with the strident voice.
‘No, no. Not at all. The thing is, I’ll be at work tomorrow . . . ’
‘Work,’ she repeated. ‘I can’t imagine it’s more important.’
‘It’s my job. I’d be letting people down . . . ’
‘And you would rather to let me down?’
‘I don’t want to let anyone down.’
‘Then you have a choice,’ she said. ‘You must decide on your priorities or you’ll find you won’t be receiving any calls at all.’
The line went dead. Someone screamed out in their sleep, then it was quiet again.
I walked up and down the corridor.
You must decide on your priorities.
What were my priorities? My family, my future, their future. I remembered one of the things Napoleon Hill had said: Don’t wait. The time will never be just right, and I thought: the time is right. This is my chance.
When I called Angela back, there was no answer. She was there. She was making sure I knew my place. I left a message and looked out through the barred windows at the sky. It was clear, full of stars, and reminded me of nights at sea when life had seemed so simple.
My phone buzzed with a text that contained an address and a single instruction: Don’t Be Late.
Vinnie was in his office writing reports. I told him something important had come up and I needed to take the two weeks holiday I was owed starting the following day.
‘You have to book, mate, you can’t just announce it out of the blue.’
‘Sorry, Vinnie, it’s one of those things.’
‘You’re letting me down, you know that?’
‘It can’t be helped. There’s something I have to do and I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t do it.’
‘Che cazzo. Must be that bloody Italian girlfriend.’
My last night at The Lodge was unusually quiet and I drove home at six with the sun rising and a feeling that everything was going to be all right.
10
ANGELA
When I found an empty parking meter opposite the Imperial War Museum, I was a good half mile from Angela’s flat and arrived out of breath a few minutes before six. The entry-phone was on a polished fascia with two rows of brass buttons. I pressed her number and the door opened before I finished saying my name.
‘Sixth floor,’ she said. ‘You’d better hurry.’
Even the lift was under pressure and rose in one quick gasp. The door to the flat was open.
‘Come,’ she called.
I manoeuvred my massage table along the passage and found her staring out the window. She snapped her fingers.
‘Here,’ she said.
I leaned the table against the wall, closed the door and stood at her side peering over the grey slate rooftops sloping down to the Thames. The sky was criss-crossed with the arms of cranes and the skeletons of new buildings. She tapped the window and pointed into the distance.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘The Houses of Parliament.’
‘Ten out of ten. And what’s next to it?’
‘Big Ben,’ I said, and she laughed.
‘Your reputation precedes you.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Be quiet now,’ she added.
A moment later, I heard the faint sound of ringing bells.
‘When you hear the six o’clock chimes you know all is well in the world.’
We lived in different worlds, not that Angela would have appreciated my saying as much. She turned and gave me a long, penetrating look as if she might find something shocking hidden behind my eyes.
‘This is my little hideaway. It’s our secret. Are you good at keeping secrets?’
‘I don’t really have any to be honest.’
Her expression softened. ‘Then let’s keep it that way.’ Her hair was blunt cut around her cheeks with a long fringe that she swept from her eyes. ‘Now, what’s all this about the Oriental twist, is that what it’s called?’
‘I think it’s a misunderstanding. My Swedish massage is a full-body treatment, but I like to think of it as more of a meditation. It’s a system of healing that comes from India and China.’
‘Nothing good has every come from India or China. How long does it take?’
‘Forty-five minutes.’
‘That’s much too long. What else can you do?’
‘I can do an abbreviated version . . . ’
‘Good, you get ready.’
‘Would you like some music, some candles.’
‘I want it all,’ she replied, and hurried briskly into the hall.
I secured the table and glanced around the room. It was sparsely furnished with files on every surface and a box of empty wine bottles in the corner. The flat was in a modern building, more modest than I had expected, and coldly impersonal without pictures or photographs. I lit a teakwood aromatherapy candle, scrolled down my iPad and chose Musicazen, a mixture of wind chimes and flutes.
‘What’s that noise?’ Angela said as she marched in wrapped in a towel.
‘It’s supposed to be soothing.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
I turned it off. She gave me a steady, defiant look as she removed the towel. She was naked, small, five feet without heels, her hard body bursting with energy. Even her thatch of pubic hair looked furious.
‘Do your worst,’ she said.
‘I can only do my best.’
‘You don’t have a sense of humour, do you?’
‘I do, but I take my work seriously.’
‘Your work at The Lodge?’ she asked, and it threw me for a second.
‘Well, yes, that too,’ I replied.
Angela looked me up and down, as if she might be having second thoughts about me, about the massage. She wasn’t vulnerable or self-conscious. She was totally in control. I wondered how she knew I worked at The Lodge and must have read my mind.
‘You don’t think I invited you here without knowing who you are, Ben,’ she said.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘You do know who I am?’
‘Yes . . . ’
‘Good. Now, let’s get on with it.’
There wasn’t a spare moment to wash my hands. I held her arm as she levered herself up onto the table and wedged her head in the opening. I ran some oil into my palms and added a few drops to Angela’s back.
‘Take slow breaths, then hold a long deep breath for the count of ten.’
She didn’t like being told what to do. Her shoulders tensed, but she followed the instruction.
‘Do you have any pains anywhere?’
‘If you don’t have pains at fifty you haven’t lived.’
‘Nothing specific?’
‘Tony Blair,’ she said, and I smiled in spite of myself.
This was what she was famous for, the one-liner, the instant put down. Angela Hartley was always on television, never stopped talking and was renowned for the outrageous things
that came out of her mouth.
I applied light friction, or effleurage, sliding my palms in long strokes to spread the warmed oil over her back and up towards her heart, the direction in which the blood flows. I brought my hands back down, maintaining contact without applying pressure. I would have continued the motion for ten minutes, but sensed Angela’s impatience and moved on to her shoulders. I switched to circular, petrissage strokes with more compression than effleurage.
‘That feels good. What about my neck?’
‘That’s next. Just relax. It’s best not to speak.’
‘Is that a fact?’
Angela always had the last word. I had watched her talking over newscasters and rival politicians. But on the massage table, the masseur takes the lead. You are partners in a duet. You can’t describe it. You have to be a part of it. I thought briefly of Vivienne in her white room and pushed the image out of my mind. With massage, you must be in the moment. You dance with the one you are with.
The pressure I applied through my hands rose from my waist, my core, which allowed me to work steadily without tiring. This creates an energy exchange that releases a shot of oxytocin, the ‘love hormone’ that makes massage intimate and helps people bond. Not that there was much chance of my bonding with Angela. In the way that people imagine they know celebrities, I felt as if I knew Angela Hartley. That made it all the more implausible, more weird, that she was stretched out naked on my massage table.
The flat must have been closed up all through the July heat wave. The room was stuffy and the scent from the candle made my head spin. My hands were on auto-pilot as I gathered my fingertips in a cone and applied percussive strokes, called tapotement, swift, repetitive drumbeats in the stress triangles at the top of her back. Angela sighed and wriggled. She clearly liked this and I continued down over her saggy bottom and thighs.
From the head of the table, I placed my hands just below her neck, and used a fanning motion, running my thumbs down towards her lower back. I alternated the pressure from one thumb to the other, moving from the top of her back all the way down to her hips. I massaged the muscles on either side of her spine – you never work directly on the spine, which can be uncomfortable, even unsafe. Moving to her side, I added a drop of oil to my palms and gave Angela’s hips a series of ‘twists,’ a fluid motion pulling one hand towards me, while pushing the other away.