The Squeeze

by Lesley Glaister

‘Seventeen.’

  ‘You look younger . . . and older at the same time,’ he said, as if determined to flatter her one way or the other. ‘And so pretty, and so . . .’ He glanced down at her chest and she vowed never to borrow Sig’s dress again, ‘well proportioned.’ She waited for him to say Natural beauty and grace but he did not. The waiter brought a tray with coffee, slices of vanilla torte, a bottle of plum brandy and two glasses. Pavel leant forward and poured a measure of liquor into each glass. ‘Let me toast you,’ he said, holding up the glass. ‘To you. To pretty Marta!’ He swallowed the drink in one go.

  ‘Thank you.’ Marta took a sip and felt the burn.

  ‘Knock it back,’ he said.

  ‘To you then,’ she said and forced it down in a gulp that brought tears to her eyes but then a lovely feeling of warmth and comfort, and at once it was as if she’d been born to sit on just such a sofa, in just such a place as this. She revolved her ankle, enjoyed the prettiness of the dangling shoe.

  The coffee was strong, the cake soft and meltingly sweet on her tongue. He was a talker and after they’d chatted about the weather he told her about London, London, where he did business. He’d even been to Scotland. The brandy loosened her tongue and she quizzed him about the UK, till with a laugh he held up his hand.

  ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’

  Marta shrugged. ‘There’s nothing much, I’m just a girl who lives across the river, who works the twilight shift at the chemical plant. What else?’

  ‘Well, you have a little sister.’

  ‘And a big brother who works in town.’ She paused for another mouthful of cake. Really it was a waste to eat such a delicious thing and have to concentrate on conversation as well.

  ‘Your parents must be proud.’ He poured two more shots of brandy.

  She took a breath and made the hard feeling come in her throat before she said, ‘My Tata’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He bowed his head for a moment. ‘It must be a struggle for your mother.’

  ‘We manage. Mama and I work and Antoni. He contributes.’ She fought to keep the edge from her voice.

  ‘Always a struggle, eh?’ he said. ‘Another drink?’

  Marta shook her head. ‘I mustn’t, I have to be able to walk!’ A silly slurred giggle came from her mouth.

  ‘Another brandy, another coffee and how about another slice of cake?’ Pavel said. ‘I won’t take no for an answer!’

  How could she could resist? She was expecting, at any moment, that he would make a pass. She looked slyly at his lips, narrow and wet; at the little paunch that strained against his shirt. Could she bear to let him touch her? People did of course; every day people gave part of themselves to get something back. As long as you were sure of getting something back. Something worth getting.

  Pavel gestured to the waiter: ‘Again,’ he said, and the waiter strode off. It was wonderful the authority Pavel had, the confidence. Would there ever be a day when she would be able to click her fingers and say, ‘Again,’ like that – and have someone take notice?

  ‘Do you come here very much?’ she asked.

  He waggled his hand. ‘Now and again, you know,’ he said, ‘when it suits.’

  ‘What do you do?’ she said. He looked surprised by the question, which, perhaps it wasn’t polite to ask. ‘I mean what line of business?’ she blundered on.

  ‘Exports,’ he said. A silence gaped between them. Marta couldn’t think of a suitable question to ask; had she offended him? Leaning forward, he topped up their glasses. She picked up hers and went to drink and missed her lips so that the liquor splashed down Sig’s dress.

  ‘Oh no, and it’s not mine!’ she said, stupid, stupid, what did it matter whose dress it was? And now he’d think she’d borrowed it specially. ‘We swap clothes all the time,’ she added. She opened her bag to take out her handkerchief and the head of the plastic rose popped out. It was identical to the one on the coffee table, so there was no mistaking its origins – and his smile! Her face throbbed, almost burst with a rush of blood. He leant over, tucked the rose back into her bag and fastened the zip.

  ‘There,’ he said, patting the bag. ‘For Mama?’

  The waiter came with the coffee and cake, took a minute clearing the dirty crockery, tilted his head to look at her. Marta held tight to her bag.

  ‘How about I buy her some real roses?’ Pavel was saying. He put a finger under her chin and turned his face to hers. ‘Your secret is safe,’ he said. ‘A dozen red roses. I’ll have them sent. Would she like that? Would you?’ She pulled her face away. He lit another cigarette. She swallowed the brandy.

  ‘Eat your cake,’ he said. He leant back and watched her eat, blowing smoke in long thoughtful plumes. The smell of the smoke mixed with his cologne was cloying and spoilt the taste of the cake; if only he would look away so that she could wrap it in a paper towel and take it home for Milya, but to open her bag again would be impossible. She forked in another creamy mouthful. Ash powdered down on Pavel’s knee, a flake or two on the blue of the dress. He brushed it off, his hand lingering. She shifted her leg away.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting pretty things, a girl like you. It’s only to be expected.’

  She picked up the brandy, to burn away the sickliness in her throat.

  ‘Steady on,’ he laughed as she finished her glass, ‘why not drink your coffee? Here—’ He passed her the cup. ‘You want to earn good money?’ She caught his eyes on her chest again, the dark brandy splashes on the tight material. She looked into the shallow blue of his eyes and knew that Ant had been right. She did look like a tart and that is exactly what he thought she was. Or could be. Buying her with cake and coffee, getting her drunk in the afternoon, no doubt there was a room waiting upstairs, no doubt the waiter, like the doorman, thought—

  He seemed to read her mind. ‘You don’t think . . .?’ There was an appalled silence. The waiter gloated past. She could feel Pavel’s eyes burning on the side of her face.

  ‘You think I invited you here for sex?’ His voice had turned chilly.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, only . . .’ But her speech was slurred, tongue gone thick with all the sweetness.

  He lit another cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. ‘Believe me, if I wanted to buy sex I could buy it more cheaply than this.’ He gestured at the debris of cake crumbs and coffee slops.

  She didn’t know what to say. There was hard silence until she spoke: ‘Maybe I should go?’

  She moved forward on the sofa and perched foolishly on the high heels, trying to gather the momentum to stand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, ‘for the coffee and . . .’ but the word cake was too sweet to say and she lurched urgently to her feet, hand over her mouth and staggered back towards the Ladies. Inside, a white-haired lady was winding a sticky red lipstick back into its tube. Marta rushed past and into a cubicle, just in time to throw up. She sank to her knees and rested her cheek against the plastic seat. She threw up again and again, tears running down her face as all the treats hurled themselves out of her stomach.

  She heard the woman mutter and tut, and a disapproving clunk as the door closed behind her.

  Marta flushed the toilet, sat down on the lid, head in hands, tears leaking from between her fingers. Natural beauty and grace, she thought, natural beauty and grace. After a while she opened the dress to fish out the slip of paper, damp now with perspiration. The words had transferred themselves in blurry mirror writing onto the white skin of her breast. Standing up, she dropped the scrap into the toilet and flushed. And then she dried her eyes and when she was sure the Ladies was empty, unlocked the cubicle door, washed her hands, splashed her face, rinsed her mouth and opened her bag to take out her comb. The stem of the rose was broken. When she replaced it beside the sink, it stooped in a studious examination of the hot tap. She t
ook another cake of soap, zipping her bag shut just before a cleaner barrelled through the door with a trolley of cloths, brushes and bleach.

  ‘Shutting for a minute, cleaning in progress,’ she said. And then she paused and squinted at Marta.

  ‘You all right?’ She began to spray the basins with a giant hissing canister. The smell reminded Marta of a chemical she’d packed recently, sweet and nippy, that had made the eyes stream.

  ‘Do you like working here?’ Marta asked, hoping to distract the woman from the broken rose, the absence of soap.

  Her reply was a snort and a drawing back of her head back as if to ascertain whether Marta was mad or joking.

  ‘It’s better than where I work,’ Marta said.

  ‘Hmmm.’ The woman put down the canister, leant her hips against a basin and crossed her arms, settling in to give a proper answer. Her bare shins were corrugated with swollen veins. ‘It’s not bad,’ she said with a sniff. ‘It’s an honest day’s work.’ As Marta pondered the phrase, the woman added. ‘I’ve done worse. There are perks.’

  ‘Perks?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people leave in here.’ She pulled a little pot from her apron pocket and brandished it at Marta, before she leant close to the mirror and smeared a hectic splotch of blush on each cheek. She turned and grinned. Her front teeth were broken, her chin whiskery, her black hair dye had grown half out leaving an inch of scalpish white. ‘I could put a word in if you want,’ she offered.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Marta.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The woman lost interest and went into a cubicle, began vigorously to flush and spray.

  Marta stepped out into the lobby, gazing round at the reflections of lamps and sofas infinitely receding in the smoky mirrored walls. Each one a stage less real. The taste in her mouth was bitter. She headed towards the exit and stopped; there was Pavel having an altercation with a waiter. When she approached he gestured towards her. ‘It is nothing like that,’ he was saying. ‘See, here she is: my girlfriend.’

  ‘Is this true?’ the waiter asked her.

  Marta hesitated for just a moment before she nodded.

  ‘Then I apologise for misconstruing the situation.’ Sardonically the waiter bowed his head before he turned away.

  ‘Shall we go?’ said Pavel. She gazed at him with eyes unpeeled. He wasn’t so spectacular, but he was a chance, maybe a stepping stone. She let him take her arm.

  Alis

  Marta was a virgin before they did her: one, two, three, four, and she cried to lose her virginity this way.

  That’s her broken in, one said, like he had done something good. Fat prick with bent dick.

  We were put in a tiny room, just us, with a mattress on the floor. The cover was new cotton, pretty and bright, red and yellow tulips in rows. The room had a locked door and a small window, very high. I could see out but Marta was too short. Anyway, no point looking out at roofs and aerials.

  Instead, Marta lay down and watched the clouds go by.

  Look, she said, there’s a fish.

  I lay down and looked up at the cloud.

  What do you see? she asked.

  I saw only cloud but I pretended. Potato, I said.

  That made her laugh. I looked at her face, white salt dried on her cheeks, sweet mouth, brown eyes very bright with long lashes, hair all puffed out on the pillow, pretty hair that stank of men.

  I looked at the cloud again. Hey, now it’s a dick, I said and she laughed again. I liked to hear her laugh.

  Mats

  Vivienne’s was the first face I saw when I arrived at the Edinburgh office. The doors were sliding glass, the lobby wide, her desk like an island in the centre; her red hair the only colour. I was too preoccupied with first-day nerves to register her properly. If I thought anything, maybe it was that her hair was too bright to be natural.

  Once I’d introduced myself she nodded. ‘Mr Brunborg has arrived,’ she said into a receiver and then, ‘Go right up.’ She put down the phone and pressed a button to let me through the security barrier. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hang on. Sorry, Mr Brunborg, did no one say? We have a no shoes policy here and Fergus, Mr Walsh, is really on to it. You’d make a better impression, if you don’t mind?’ She held her hand out for my shoes.

  So strange in the workplace. I hesitated, but she kept her hand stretched out. I noticed the red of her nails, brighter even than her hair. I bent to remove my shoes, glad my socks were new and matched, handed her my shoes and walked across the cool marble floor to the lift.

  A man, tall, thin and bald, was waiting outside the lift for me when the doors opened on the 3rd Floor. ‘Welcome. I’m Fergus,’ he said, putting out his hand to shake. He raised his eyebrows as he caught sight of my socks.

  ‘The girl in the lobby . . .’ I began to say.

  He threw back his head in a laugh. His glasses were smudged, his lips, dry and rough. ‘Did you not register the date?’ he said. ‘She’s a wee minx. Don’t worry. I’ll have a word.’

  It was April 1st. I hadn’t thought about it at all. I did not know they had Aprilsnarr in Britain too. I thought it a Scandinavian tradition only. Mor would always play a joke when I was a kid. ‘Look Mats, there’s an elk in the garden,’ or, ‘There’s bird poop on your back.’

  I took the lift down to retrieve my shoes.

  ‘You got me,’ I said to the receptionist.

  I noticed that her front teeth crossed a little, giving her a goofy look. Just above the corner of her lipsticked mouth was a dark brown mole, neat and distinct. Her eyes were green, her nose large and fleshy. Not a beauty, and she was heavy – compared to Nina anyway, who never allowed a millimetre of fat.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t resist.’

  Once I’d put my shoes on, I straightened up and looked at her seriously. ‘One day I’ll get you back,’ I said.

  She laughed again. No, she was far from beautiful in any standard way, but she was attractive. ‘You’ve scared me now,’ she said. And then her phone rang. She waved her pen at me as I went back to the lift and my first meeting.

  At the Edinburgh Office, it is traditional to have an after-work drink, especially on Fridays. In Oslo this is not so true – people are glad to get home after work. If Nina had been waiting for me, I would not have gone, or not for more than a quick drink to be polite. The wine bar was busy and smoky, wide wooden tables, blackboards listing food and drinks. Fergus bought me a very large glass of red. It did its work. As soon as I’d taken a few sips, the tension of my first week fell from my shoulders like a heavy coat. Hey, it was the weekend! It was a good tradition, and good too to see colleagues in a different atmosphere, good for working relationships and maybe productivity.

  I loosened my tie, went to buy Fergus a drink and found myself beside Vivienne at the bar. I offered her a drink.

  ‘Is this revenge?’ she said in a fake American accent. ‘You gonna slip me a mickey?’

  I shook my head. ‘I will be more subtle,’ I said.

  She widened her eyes. ‘Oooh, now I’m petrified!’

  ‘You should be.’ I could not prevent the smile. I did not meant to flirt but it felt good, I must say.

  As I was buying the wine – huge glasses they served – I saw a tray of food go past: potato chips upright in a little silver bucket, a curl of battered fish.

  ‘Shall we eat?’ I shouted to Fergus. He came over to take his glass. ‘Och no, I’ve got to get home to Karen and the wee ones before they go to bed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Vivienne said.

  Fergus told me about his family – four sons including newborn twins. ‘Have to be there for bedtime or I’ll be in the shite.’ In one movement he glanced at his watch and drained his glass. ‘I’ll leave you in Viv’s capable hands,’ he said. ‘Put it on the company card,’ he said to her as he left.

  �
�Thanks Boss,’ she said, saluting. Once he’d gone she grinned. ‘You don’t know how rare this is! Let’s go for it.’

  And after all there was only a cold and empty flat awaiting me.

  We chose food – fish and chips for me, something with prawns for her – and ordered a bottle of Champagne. I vowed to make sure Fergus knew that this extravagance was not my idea. I’d already had enough with two big glasses of the red. It’s true what they say; they do drink more in Britain.

  And then there were two,’ she said, looking round. And I noticed that yes, for sure, all our colleagues had gone.

  It was fun. Too much alcohol in my blood to worry about work. Or even think too much about Nina. After our goodbye at the departure gate, I’d caught a glimpse of her expression before she was lost in the crowd. Already her mind was on the next thing. I knew her so well. I loved that she was so practical, not sentimental. She did not like to talk of love or ‘sloppy stuff’. I admired it. But it would have been nice if she’d looked back just once, or seemed a small amount sad at this parting.

  Vivienne was entertaining, gossiping about my new colleagues, telling jokes I didn’t really understand, though I laughed as if I did. We drank the Champagne, shared a pack of cigarettes between us. She wanted to order brandy but I could not take any more. Since we lived in the same quarter, we shared a cab, her knee warm against mine, and when we arrived at her door, she invited me in for coffee. At first I declined.

  ‘Oh come on . . .’ she said.

  ‘My wife would not appreciate it,’ I said. ‘Besides I’m tired.’

  ‘Wife?’ she said. ‘I thought you lived alone.’

  ‘Nina is in Oslo,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’m only offering coffee. Sober you up before you go home. Horrible to go back alone, half cut. Come on . . .’

  I did not know that expression. Half cut. My apartment in the New Town was cold and I had not yet made it comfortable to be in. There were boxes to unpack, things to buy, nothing much in the fridge.

  Her place was only two blocks from mine, a ground floor tenement apartment with big rooms and high ceilings. It was the same style, but warm and cheerful, cluttered with colourful things. And something else – there was a babysitter, Rita, who I was to learn was Vivienne’s best friend. A babysitter – therefore a child.