“Too damn right I would.”
“Anyway, can we change the subject? What’s your landlord done that’s got you so rattled?”
Kerry grits her teeth and shows a reluctance to drop Keith and move on, but the temptation is obviously too great. “For one, he’s still not fixed the boiler – flat’s freezing. Now the oven’s started playing up – he’s not interested. ‘Maybe it is that you have damaged it yourself, miss Kerreee! Maybe you have damaged it by not applicating it for its proper use.’ I use it to cook oven chips, Patel, I told him, not washing my knickers. And now – the bastard – he says the flat needs decorating, and it’s my responsibility. ‘A lick of paint is all I am asking of you. If you up and leave, how can I be renting it in this state.’ Bastard then suggests I need a man. ‘You vomen, you need a man.’ He just wants me out, wants the place for his cousin. Wants me to marry his cousin for all I bloody know. He’d put the rent up if he could. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject. You can’t let that Keith into your life, Sal. He’s a fucking freak.”
“He isn’t! He’s just lonely. He needs a friend that’s all.” I glance at the angel in the star-globe. Keith calls me an angel, and I don’t really like it; it sort of feels inappropriate when coming from the wrong person, like babe or honey. Sickly sweet nothings have to slip from the right tongue. When I look up, the women I like to call my friends still don’t look convinced. “Besides,” I continue, “he’s really understanding. And clever too, knows all sorts about all sorts of stuff. I bet he could fix that oven.”
Kerry huffs, which I take to mean, bring him near my flat and I’ll chop him up and pass him off as goat to Mr Patel.
“He’s quite funny too, but without trying to be. You know sort of in an innocent, child-like kind of way.” I actually chuckle thinking about it. “I was telling him that I’ve just about had it with guys like Steve. I told him that Steve’s arsenistic, right. And he said, what, you mean he likes to burn things? And I said, no I mean he loves himself. And he said, Sally, I think you mean, Narcissistic. And then he goes all dead pan, his eyes focusing inward, like he’s reading the definition from a dictionary, like this: having an exceptional interest in or admiration for oneself. Especially of ones physical appearance. And I said, oh you know Steve very well then? And he says, as serious as anything, ‘No I’ve only seen him that once’.” It’s not until I look at the dumbfounded faces of the others that I realise what a soft, lilting laugh of pleasure I fell into. “Well, I suppose you had to be there.”
Kerry shakes her head, and with a look of pitying disapproval, pulls Philippa to one side. Colleen steps up to me and gives my arm a gentle squeeze.
“Be careful, Sally,” she says in a motherly tone, “How much do you really know about Keith? I mean. Be a friend to him if you must, but why give him a key to your house?”
“Oh, didn’t I say?” Colleen’s only concerned about my welfare, and to be honest is probably just saying what my mum would be saying if she were here and not in Cyprus, maybe what my older sister would be saying if she wasn’t in London, but I still can’t help colouring my question with mock sarcasm. In an attempt to take the edge off, I pick up a wodge of mail and flick through it. “Sorry. Look, Colleen, he’s ‘like’ doing me a massive favour. He’s going to let Sukie out for me in the day, perhaps take her a quick walk in the park. See the thing is, she’s taken to crapping in the living-room.” I mouth the word crapping, finding the thought of dog faeces on my living-room carpet too painful to voice out loud. “Steve used to pop home for dinner, but since he’s no longer around... well.”
Colleen still does not look convinced that the situation is a safe one, never mind a convenient one. She glances at the clock. “Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, a key to your house.”
I know she means well, maybe the others do too, but I’m finding this a bit wearing now. Who do they think they are? Wasn’t it Colleen herself who said I should go for a different kind of fella? Not that I have any intention of going for Keith, but–
“Look, Colleen,” I glance at the clock myself. Two minutes past nine, I notice, and Colleen is usually very punctual – nine on the dot, usually, behind her desk, working away. I really want to shout, mind your own f-in business, but I won’t, especially not to Colleen. “They trust him to look after this place don’t they?”
“But surely he sleeps in the day?” Colleen says, her eyes switching from the clock to me to her desk to Martin’s office. Although I don’t think she’s got anything to worry about from him any more, not after the forward slash incident. He gives her desk a wide berth and looks at her like she’s crazy. I keep thinking, is this as good as it gets, and hear Jack Nicholson saying, we don’t need any more crazy around here, Sweetheart, we’re all stocked up.
I round my desk nonchalantly, meaning, say what you like, think what you like, I don’t really give a damn ma’am. “He says he doesn’t sleep much. I don’t know, maybe he dozes at night, when he’s here all alone.” I start shuffling papers in the hope that Colleen will realise she has gone against her punctual routine. I think about revealing the real reason why I started giving Keith a bit of my time, and this must show in my eyes, because Colleen not only reflects it in her expression, but underlines it with a shade of, oh-my-god-what-is-it?
“Okay, I’ll tell you. But don’t tell Kerry or Philippa ’cause they’ll have a field day. It’s quite sad really. See the thing is, he lives with this senile old woman. She sings all day, keeping him awake. And not only that. Please don’t laugh.” I’m warning Colleen, but I can feel an insistent smirk pulling the corners of my own mouth. “She,” I voice quietly, before drifting into a Les-Dawson-style mime. “She toilets behind the settee. Keith has to clear it up.”
Colleen’s jaw drops. “No!” I nod. Colleen doesn’t even smirk. Finally a look of full-blown sympathy smacks Colleen’s expression. “Why does he put up with it?”
“Old friend of his dead mother, apparently. Can’t bear to put her in a home. And, she’s the only company he has, from what I can gather. He doesn’t talk about her much. Changes the subject whenever I mention her, like he doesn’t want to talk about her. I think he’s ashamed. You know, a man of his age shacked up with an old woman like that.”
Martin Smith leans out of his office and coughs. Colleen jumps slightly and looks ready to scurry to her desk. Instead, she composes herself and marches there with her head held high, a subtle breath of “Morning, Mr Smith. Forward-slash, Mr Smith,” on her lips.
No thanks, we’re all stocked up, Nicholson drawls in my head.
From the other side of the room, Kerry casts Martin a harsh glare, while Philippa pouts at him, suggestively. Martin, looking a strange mix of aroused and afraid, slips back behind the safety of his door.
I’m only straining my ears to hear what they’re saying because I assume it’s about my friendship with Keith. I hear Kerry ask if Philippa’s still friends with Pete. Philippa went out with Pete for a while. He works in this building, and he’s a friend of Steve’s. That’s how we met. What’s she up to? I listen more intently, thinking she’s likely trying to get Pete to have a word with Steve…
“Does Pete still mess with photos on the computer?” Kerry says, “at that what’s-it-graphics firm? I still can’t get over that picture he did of you with the giant tits.”
“If only I could get the real thing as easy. He does, why?”
“I want him do a picture for me.”
“Really?”
Kerry purses her lips and shakes her head. “Not tits. I want him to fix a ruined picture for me. I’ve only got this one picture of my grandparents, and its torn and scratched. Do you think he’d be able to put it together and paint the scratches out, or whatever they do?”
“Re-touching? Yeh, should think so. They do stuff like that all the time. Give it me and I’ll ask him if you like.”
“No it’s alright. I’ll ask him myself.”
I shut their conversation out as soon as I realise
it’s nothing to do with me. But I get the odd twinge of paranoia as they carry on talking, especially as they share the odd cackle of laughter, and Kerry keeps looking over at me. Finally they go to their respective desks and I relax into a long morning of boring work. At least when Steve was in my life I looked forward to the end of the day, even more so to the weekend. Now it all just seems to be work-eat-sleep, with nothing to break the monotony. Maybe I should join a class or something. Wonder if Philippa and Kerry are doing anything this weekend?
* * *
Come dinner break, Colleen approaches my desk armed with two mugs of coffee. Here we go, ding-ding, round two. Colleen shakes her head, meaning, I hope, don’t worry I haven’t said anything.
“Coffee?” Colleen places it in the centre of the desk, as I rummage around in my drawer, as if there were no possibility of me saying no.
“Thanks.” With a huff I look up into Colleen’s expression of concern. It is so much a mum’s look – a look that so obviously says: I know you don’t want to hear this but I’m going to say it anyway. It’s for your own good, so listen and take note.
“Colleen,” I say, before she has the chance to voice anything. “Keith is a friend, that’s all. I feel sorry for the guy. He’s lonely. He lives with a crazy old woman who suffers from incontinence and more than likely dementia too. I trust him with a key to my house, but if he proves to be untrustworthy I’ll get the locks changed. I’m a big girl, Colleen. I can take care of myself.” I even did a full shop last night, Waitrose, and spent much more than I could afford. “I’ll chose who I wish to be friends with, for myself. I’ve had enough of being controlled by others; Steve was always controlling me.” Get the olives with the jalapenos; them sun-blushed tomatoes are a bit expensive aren’t they? Sal, you know I can’t stand garlic. “In fact, and I’m not saying this is ever going to happen, but, even if I chose to date Keith, it is none of your, or Kerry’s, or Philippa’s business.”
“Okay then.” Colleen smirks. “Forward-slash would have done.”
I chuckle at that, but then scowl dramatically when I glance into the open drawer. “You’ve not seen them photos lying around, have you? Could have sworn I put them in here.”
Philippa and Kerry saunter over and I give Colleen a look. “I’ll not say a word,” she assures me.
“Looking for these.” Philippa hands me the wallet of photos.
“Did you take them from my drawer?”
I must have sounded angrier than I intended to, because Philippa colours up as if she’s on fire. “Sorry. I honestly didn’t think you’d mind. Only I was telling Moira about them sleeves on that wedding dress... And... Well, you were away from your desk... I didn’t think...”
“Okay. Okay, but ask in future.”
“Anyway, how is the empty vessel?” Philippa asks, as if my annoyance over the photographs never actually happened, suggestively probing her cheek with her tongue and smirking at Kerry.
“If you mean Keith, he’s turning out to be a very interesting and loyal friend. And, what’s more, I’m going out for a drink with him on Saturday.”
Well, I might, I finish in my head, delighting in the shocked look on Philippa’s face and the aspect of scorn on Kerry’s.
CHAPTER
17
Sally always leaves a clean towel by the door for me to wipe Sukie’s feet before I release her onto the cream carpet. I hate it, this foot wiping. But picking up the mess she deposits in the park is worse; it turns my stomach. Dogs are filthy animals, not in the least like cats: independent creatures who bury their mess and clean their own feet. I keep promising to one day feed the dog some chicken-bones, but I won’t. What’s ten or twenty minutes of torture when the reward is having access to Sally’s home? Not to mention her gratitude and friendship. Hopefully, eventually, there will be more. I remove my shoes, and even though I now wear a clean pair of socks every day, I tiptoe across the carpet to the kitchen.
Sally’s house smells like a home. Part of that smell is the luxurious leather couch of course, but the smell of nearly new carpet and the perfume of fresh flowers add to the whole. The flowers with the wonderful fragrance sit on the window-ledge in a glass-vase of blue and red marbling. Today it catches the sunlight and casts bands of mingled purple across the room. There are other smells of course, underlying smells. Subtle smells, almost undetectable smells, such as the aroma that lives in the kitchen. It’s like a fragrant cushion of cleanliness, an aroma of soap flakes, and fabric softener, and citrus fruit in a bowl by the back door.
By the sink, Sally has hand-cleanser in a stainless-steel container. The liquid soap not only smells nice, but also softens the skin. After washing my hands, removing all residue of dog, I cup them over my nose and inhale. When I hold the smell I think this is what Sally’s hands smell like. I kiss my palm and imagine the coconut and fruit fragrance has lifted from Sally’s skin.
Certain that Sally won’t mind, I fill the kettle and drop a teabag into a mug from the draining board. The mug gleams with a crystalline-whiteness that partially reflects the bag it now contains. Cleanliness it seems does not necessarily have to be bound in tightness. Cleanliness can be soft and pleasant, welcoming and warm and with delectable aromas. In such a clean mug the hot water infuses with the tea and illuminates with coppery-gleam. When I open the fridge, in search of milk, I meet a new explosion of smells: an invasion that my senses have never before experienced. After finishing the tea preparation, while waiting for it to cool, I begin to explore.
I’ve never seen such a fridge of wonder.
Yesterday it was empty, but now it’s more than full, every available space crammed with peculiar delights. Queen olives swimming in virgin-olive-oil? Infused with basil and garlic. Inhaling the sweet yet pungent blend, I notice that the container is only half full. Muck, mother would have called it – foreign muck. On first tasting one of them I’m inclined to agree, but further analysis sets free a tumult of subtle flavours that I decide I could grow to like. The olives have a kind of sour saltiness, and they’re meaty, not slimy as I expected. Further perusal discloses a container labelled sun-blushed tomatoes, also half empty – yet another foodstuff that is infused with basil and slivers of garlic. The wedge is slippery between my finger and thumb; oil dribbles to the wooden floor, and I sniff tremulously when the scent enters my nostrils. Juices of anticipation collect in my mouth as I cautiously place the wedge of tomato on my tongue. I hold it there, wanting to savour the moment of trying something so new, and when I do eventually chew I’m amazed, blown away, that a wedge of tomato could taste so good, so rich, so unexpectedly complex in flavour. Without thinking, hardly realising, I scoff another three pieces. Guiltily putting the tub back, I take a piece of kitchen-roll and mop the evidence from the floor. Screwing the paper into a ball, I put it in my pocket rather than the bin. Whole cloves of garlic pickled in lemon juice? Again half the tub has gone. Had I not had the slivers with olives and with tomatoes to die for, the whole cloves might have been too much, but I quickly munch three of them. I discover that I love garlic. Who would have thought?
I am almost certain Sally would not mind, but all the same, I’ve not had permission to eat her food. You do not take things that do not belong to you Keith. That is theft and thieves must be punished. The chocolate embrace of the couch soothes away my feelings of guilt as I settle into the cushion and sip the tea. It’s good. Refreshing. Clean tasting with an absence of tannin-rings. I’ll just sit a while and relax before going home. Sukie sits before me wagging her buckled tail as I take the book on interior design from my bag. I take note of the date it needs returning, before counting the pages, dividing the number, and finding the slip that marks where I’ve already read.
“Push off dog.” Sukie ignores my demand, wags her tail, and settles at my feet as I sink deeper into the cushion. The bone of her jaw feels uncomfortable on the roof of my foot, and feels like its cutting into the tendons.
“MOVE!” Sukie shoots across the room and settles th
ere, her head on her paws, eyeing me suspiciously. “That’s better. You need to learn your place dog. Or I’ll feedyer chick’n bones.”
After reading a passage about the balance of light and dark, I take a look around the room. Two dark wood frames sit on the chalk-white mantel. They house what look to be professional shots of Sally in a soft focussed black and white. The one I particularly like, has Sally lying on her front, facing the camera, her chin resting on the back of her hand, her lips pouty-plump and her eyes wide and kind of dreamy looking.
Sukie likes you, Sally would say – if she were here – from the chair opposite, her legs tucked beneath her as she reads a novel. Probably chick-lit: a genre of which I don’t really approve, but she seems to like those books, and they are a part of who she is, so I say nothing. When I close my book she will close hers too and join me on the couch. Our combined movement releases a wafting-blanket of chocolate-leather that coils through our embrace, binding us with an invisible yet irrepressible force. Sally’s breast presses softly against my forearm. Her hair falls in silken strands over my nose, as I nuzzle through to her delicate ears and whisper, I love you. She cups my face, holds it close to her face, her breath mingling with mine as she says, I love you too.
When I wake it is mid-afternoon. A patch of drool on the sofa’s arm has turned the chocolate-brown leather to black. I’m desperate for the toilet, and jumping to my feet, I almost, but thankfully, thank-you-fully, don’t knock over the half empty mug, which at some point, without realising, I must have set down by my feet. I take the stairs, bounding them two at a time. Sukie chases after me, seemingly excited by the unexpected action, her tail rotating like an overeager propeller. Three doors greet me on the landing. I nudge open the door on the right. Spare room, looks like: half decorated, containing a single bed and various cardboard boxes full of stuff. The second I try, straight ahead, is the bathroom. I rush in, whip down my zip and release a Niagara-like surge of strong smelling urine.
Imperfect Strangers Page 11