Keith looks uncomfortable. I have no problem reading body language. Socially inept, to put it politely; arms stiff by his side like a wax-dummy. He is polite, well meaning, sweet even, but sort of empty. Characterless. If only I could combine Keith’s best traits with Steve’s.
“I– I could pay.”
Take the hint Keith; I’m trying to let you down gently. I look around rather than answer, less than subtle, but if a sledgehammer is what’s needed. The foyer has already emptied. Ghostly echoes of eight films merge together in the background. Laughter erupts from one screen, closely followed by gasps of shock in another. Just like the real world, some are laughing their heads off while elsewhere others cower in fear.
An extremely bored looking woman in overalls passes by. She empties a bin into a black bag and moves on to the next.
“No, really Keith, I couldn’t. I don’t want to take advantage.” I cup his elbow, the least erogenous zone I can think of, and give it a gentle squeeze. “Thanks all the same, but I’m a little tired anyway. I’ll give the drink a miss. Maybe next time.” Damn, why’d I say that?
Keith smiles, shakes his head, and places his hand over mine; trapping it against his elbow. “I didn’t mean I would pay for a drink. I– I mean I could help you out. You know. I’ve got some money from when mother–”
“What? No!” I drag my hand from Keith’s gentle but insistent grip. “No, I couldn’t.” The protest must have been louder than I intended, because the woman emptying the bins looks up and stares for a while. I hold the woman’s gaze until she looks away and then turn to face Keith.
The look on his face reminds me of being back at school, the scrawny boy in class who got picked on for wearing raggedy clothes. Moffet he was called. I don’t recall his first name. We had to pick class representatives. Rosie Foster was the most popular girl, and naturally, it was no surprise, all the boys voted for Rosie. All except Moffet, that is. Moffet voted for me. The class erupted into laughter, but he didn’t seem to mind. Why Sally? someone shouted, you fancy her? She gonna be your girlfriend? Feeling my blood boil with embarrassment I screamed at Moffet. I can’t recall what I screamed, but he had the same expression as Keith does now: a deflated, wounded expression of rejection.
“It’s very kind of you to offer Keith, but,” my hand hovers towards his elbow a moment before I draw it back and busy it with the task of holding the clasp of my bag. “I couldn’t, really. I–”
“You could p-pay me back anytime. There’d be no rush.”
“No, I couldn’t... it’s... We should go.”
Out in the dark of night, away from the accusing spotlight-glare of the foyer, which seemed to know all about the Moffet incident, at least I don’t have to face Keith’s hurt-puppy-dog-eyes. The gesture was typical of what I’ve come to learn of him: all give with no expectation of anything in return. He is probably, no, definitely, the most genuine person I know, perhaps the best friend I’ve got for that matter, now that Kerry has grown even more acerbic than usual. Despite all that, I cannot think of him as partner material. It isn’t his looks or his awkwardness; I’ve come to find that side of him quite endearing. There just isn’t any spark. He doesn’t set me alight in any way. People have arranged marriages, don’t they? Surely those people can’t have a spark to begin with. No, I’m not even going to consider it. The tap-tap of my heels are the only sound between us, and make the lack of speech painfully quiet as Keith trudges by my side as silent as a shadow. He threw me a lifeline, and I was more than ungrateful, I was downright rude.
“Maybe I could let you pay for the pictures next week,” I offer. “If you’d still like to that is?”
“Yes, I would. Thank you.”
He sounds so enthusiastic that I feel even worse. Not one hint of a grudge in his voice. “You don’t have to thank me, Keith. Not for agreeing to let you pay for me to go out. You really do need to stop being so deferential. Sorry. Look now you’ve got me doing it.”
“Sorry... Sorry.”
We share a chuckle as we step into the bus-shelter. Splinters of toughened-glass that have proven to be not quite tough enough for a night in the city crunch under our feet. It’ll be replaced in the morning only to be broken again next week – if it even lasts that long. If it gets broken all the time, what’s the point in fixing it? They should scrap the idea of making things look nice and return to the dependability of boring but unbreakable concrete. Like many things these days, it makes me think of Steve.
“It would be a shame though,” Keith says, with seeming randomness.
My mind automatically links his statement to my bus stop rumination, and I think he’s saying it would be a shame if the council returned to concrete bus stops rather than fix things that are only going to get broken again, but then I realise it was a thought and not spoken out loud.
“What would?”
“If you lost your house. I mean it’s very nice, isn’t it?”
“Yeh!” I sigh. “Especially my bedroom.”
I almost say: you should see my bedroom... But I don’t want him anywhere near my bedroom. That would be just too weird. “Everything in there is from Coles,” I tell him, glad that I didn’t voice the former thought. Keith would probably have misread it as: I would like you to see my bedroom. “The curtains cost a fortune. Indian silk. That’s what angers me most. He knows I’ll have to sell the house to pay him off. And he knows how much I love that bedroom. All the other rooms we chose together, but the bedroom’s all me. Do you know what I mean? I think I could live almost anywhere if I could keep my bedroom.”
CHAPTER
26
I might just have the answer to Sally’s predicament. The idea came from nowhere. Inspiration so pure that it caught me off guard. It may also be the answer to my dream of having Sally all to myself. The best ideas often enter the mind when it’s at its most relaxed, and reclined here, in a hot bath, up to my neck in suds, I am certainly at my most relaxed. It’s like when Newton discovered gravity – sitting under an apple tree, just relaxing, not actually searching for any scientific revelations, and then plop; the theory of all gravitational force falls right into his lap. No climbing. No struggling. It just lands there. Just like that. A gift. Some things are just meant to be.
A perfect solution.
I like the scent of Sally’s bath foam and made certain to buy the same one. Fragrances linger in a room and a different brand, a different flavour, would certainly be noticeable. The same goes for shower-gel, again I bought the same brand and flavour that Sally uses. I squeeze a generous dollop of it onto the natural sponge; the same kind of sponge that Sally uses. A quick massage forms a rich lather, which I apply first to my under-arms, ensuring that they get the strongest of its scent.
Now that I have reason to care, I take a bath every day. I keep my hair clean, shave regularly and keep my toenails trimmed. After washing deep into every crevice, I take some time to relax in the soapy water. My favourite music drifts into the bathroom from the portable player out on the landing. Soaking, listening, relaxing, for at least fifteen minutes after a good cleansing is most enjoyable, and the cleaner I am, the more silenced mother becomes.
Lying here with my eyes closed, I imagine Sally’s footsteps on the stairs. I keep my eyes shut when she enters the room. Let me scrub your back, she says. One day, I dare to hope, this fantasy might come true. If I can pull off the idea I’ve had, it almost certainly should come to fruition.
Regretfully I pull the plug, and rising from the shrinking water I grab a warm towel from the radiator. With it wrapped around my middle I take a clean cloth, and with the use of the shower-spray I clean down the tub, carefully inspecting for any trace of scum or hair. After drying off, I use the towel to wipe the tub, making certain every drop is taken care of. I then wipe moisture from the mirror and window, which I make certain to open a crack, letting in fresh air, just as I found it.
Finally, backing out of the room, I wipe damp footprints from the floor, before laying down th
e towel, stepping back in, and standing on it to wipe my feet before rolling on a pair of new socks. Stepping off now, certain I won’t leave damp prints on the tiles, I place the sponge, shampoo, shower-gel and bath-foam into the middle and roll the towel into a tight bundle.
A glance at my watch proves my timing to be perfect. I stuff the rolled towel into my workbag and open the bathroom door. Sukie is sitting on the landing, looking up at me, her tail wagging. Good job she can’t talk. Sally will be crossing the park in fifty minutes, which would normally give me just enough time for a cup of tea before setting out and bumping into her on my way to work.
Today, though, I’ve decided to forgo the cup of tea. Inspired by the idea, I make for Sally’s bedroom. The room is only partially lit by the fading light of day, but darkness holds no worry for me in this place. Naked, apart from the socks, I sit on the bed. I look around, wanting to get a feel for the room. How far should I go? Just the paper and curtains, or everything? Yes. Why not everything? New. The lot of it. She deserves it.
I pull back the quilt and slip underneath. Lying here I consider the matter of logistics. I can smell Sally on the pillow, and closing my eyes I imagine she is here, right beside me, snuggling up.
Should I tell Sally about my idea?
No.
The surprise will be much better.
She’s going to be so pleased.
CHAPTER
27
I look around the store, pleased to be back in Sally’s favourite shop. With eager anticipation, I wait, knowing this could be the answer to all my dreams, the jigsaw puzzle of my life and all the missing pieces finally coming together into one pleasing picture. A drop of sweat beads under the pit of my right arm; breaking free, it trickles down to the crease in my elbow, cooling as it rolls. In my mind, to lessen the possibility of stammering, I rehearse how I am going to make the request, what opening words to use, anticipate what possible replies might come back at me. The assistant behind the customer service desk shuffles pieces of paper, occasionally pausing to tap information into a computer. She has too much make-up on, which makes her look kind of artificial – plastic almost, like the manikins on the third floor. Finally she looks up and fabricates a plastic-smile.
“Yes sir, how may I help you?” The pleasant tone in her voice sounds as false as the smile on her painted face.
I now know all about such smiles. I have read about them in depth, studying various books and cross-referencing theories. The analysis of smiles is an easy task when you know what to look for. True smiles show in the eyes. A false smile presents itself on the lips alone. A genuine smile lights up the eyes. Genuine smiles sparkle and form creases. Sally smiles in that way. I know she is genuine.
“I’m wanting to surprise a f-friend,” I begin, still uncertain how best to phrase the request, my rehearsed script abandoning me at the very last moment. “Well not surprise exactly. W-W W-Well, sort of. Replace, I m-mean. But as a surprise. It was... d-d... d-d... destroyed in a f-fire.”
“I’m sorry sir. I’m not really following you.” The woman tips her head to the side and smiles, forcibly, in a non-genuine even more plastic-moulded kind of way. “What was destroyed exactly?”
I place my bag on the floor – the old-lady-bag as Poppy called it – I never did take to the man-satchel Poppy chose for me. From the inside pocket of my jacket I draw out the digital camera I bought only two days ago, in this very shop, for this particular purpose.
“Her bedroom,” I say switching on the camera, presenting the viewing-screen to the assistant. “I want to replace it, as a surprise. All of it. I want it to be exactly the same as it was before, and she recently b-bought it all from this store. She b-bought it all on the same day, at the same time, so I thought–”
“So you thought I could help you source it all?”
Suddenly I feel more confident. The assistant is going to be helpful after all. It’s going better than expected, but then most things do, if you allow them to. Throw a twig in a river and it will naturally float downstream. Grip it tightly in your hand and it’ll go nowhere.
“See the trouble is,” the assistant begins, at the same time handing the camera back to me. “This picture isn’t awfully clear. It would be very difficult. The colour-range of our silk curtains for example, is vast, and going on this picture we might easily select the wrong tone, or even the wrong pattern. And, should we make them up, which for silk especially is rather expensive, should they prove to be incorrect, they would still have to be paid for. Now if you could get hold of the lady’s delivery-note everything would be itemised and it wouldn’t be a problem.”
She smiles then and turns to face the next person in the queue, implying that her time with me has come to an end.
“But–”
Her face returns to me. The false smile forms, albeit now slightly down-turned at the corners. Her head tips to the side. Impatience? “Really, I can’t help you from the photograph, sir. Best you can do, as I say, is to get hold of the itemised delivery-note.”
“B-But it’s meant to be a surprise.”
I catch a glance of the papers she was shuffling, mere moments before I first spoke. They look to contain a customer’s details and an associated order. While I had been waiting for her to serve me, she had been entering them into the computer.
“Can’t you get the list from the computer?”
The person behind blows with exasperation. The memory of a burn sears my wrist, and I rub each one in turn. No word-snakes, not now, not in here.
“I can’t really give you another customer’s details sir. It would be unethical.”
I can feel the onset of tightness – a sense of there not being room in my chest for my lungs to fully expand.
“I DON’T WANT HER,” I draw a deep breath, realising, when the assistant draws her self back from the counter, that I’d shouted. “I don’t want her details,” I calmly repeat. “I just want to buy the same things she bought. I want you to deliver them. Then I want to decorate the room for her as a surprise.”
“It’s a most unusual request, sir. You see, we don’t normally...”
Again the person behind blows with exasperation. I feel the burn on my wrists, the memory of it almost as intense as the actual event. My hands ball into fists. My lungs feel tight with the memory of bleach fume.
“Just let him buy the stuff can’t you? Isn’t it obvious that he’s trying to do someone an act of kindness? I wish some young man would buy me an entire bedroom as a surprise. Good for you son.” The old woman places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake of encouragement.
“Yes madam,” the assistant says to my unexpected supporter, “I’m certain it is a nice gesture. But all the same, it is confidential information.”
“Listen,” says the old woman, heavily proportioned and dressed in a manner that suggests an air of wealth. She eases me to the side and leans her heavy bosom onto the counter, “I don’t blame this young man, but I am in rather a hurry. He wants to buy something for his female friend, not steal something from her. Now where could the harm be? If he tells you her address, he obviously knows where she lives. If he pays on account– Do you have an account here?” I nod that I have. “Good. Then if he pays on account you know the items are paid for, and you know his address. Quite frankly, my dear, I fail to see the problem.”
The assistant’s smile appears to be getting too heavy to hold and now looks to be more of a grimace. Despair? Her eyes fix on me as she manoeuvres the mouse on her desk. Her eyes flick to the monitor then back. “What’s the lady’s name, sir?”
“S-Sally. Sally Bradwell.”
“Girlfriend is she?” the heavy-bosomed woman enquires, leaning into my ear. Her breathy words tickle with uncomfortable hot dampness. Her perfume, thickly floral, catches in the back of my throat like a gasp of scented-talc. I can taste it, over-powering and choking. It has the smell of tightness. Still, despite my discomfort at her close proximity, I smile as pleasantly as I can manage
and nod. At a guess, the smile doesn’t sparkle in my eyes, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice. Most people don’t look for the little things. They glide through life as if on ice skates, oblivious to most of what’s going on right under their very noses.
“Lucky girl.”
“The address, sir?”
“Ten Sycamore rise, near the park on the other side of town.”
“Postcode?”
“Er, I don’t know the postcode.” I should have found out, there’s always post on the mat. “But, deliver it to my house. Like I said, it’s a surprise. She didn’t have insurance you see.”
I turn to face the old woman when the assistant casts me a look of suspicion, her sculptured brows forming a questioning scowl. “So, I’m, you know, paying for it. Going to send her to her mum’s for a week. She lives in London. And then I’m going to decorate it while she’s away.”
“That’s very nice dear.” The well-to-do-lady pats my arm and smiles at me – genuinely – before throwing a frown of impatience at the assistant. “Like sixty-minute-make-over?”
I haven’t a clue what that means, but her smile seems to beg a yes, so I simply nod.
“Well it’s all here, all itemised sir, but I’m still not entirely happy about this.”
“Just process the order woman. Didn’t you hear the young man? She’s his girlfriend.”
“He says she is.”
I hand over my store card, the one that Poppy persuaded me to open – only geeks use cash, apparently. The assistant studies it and begins to look as if she will change her mind at any moment.
“I think I’d maybe best put this by my manager,” she says, with a note of there’s-something-about-you-I-don’t-quite-trust in her voice. “You say you know this Miss Bradwell, but–”
So close to closing the deal, and the stick turns around and starts to swim against the current so fast you’d think it had been fitted with an outboard motor.
Imperfect Strangers Page 17