The heat took him by surprise. It was only March, a freakishly hot day. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt as he gazed at the list of sandwiches. Chicken salad or cheese and ham? A girl ran by, a little thing with long hair . . .
He stared after her. Something about her. He began to walk fast; she was disappearing. He began to run.
Was it the girl?
People stared. Maybe they thought he was chasing her. He felt absurd jogging along behind her, only fast enough to keep her in sight, trying to keep his expression pleasant and unthreatening as he ran. He wasn’t even sure it was she. Maybe it was not? What did it matter? One piece of bad judgment weeks ago. A dirty secret. Do not repeat. Forget it. Move on. Stop running. But he could not. Sweat trickled under his shirt. His leather shoes were tight, no cushioning, he felt the jolting in his knees.
They ran all the way to Princes St. She only stopped when she got to the road, waiting for the crossing, and he almost caught up. She crossed the road and, panting, resting his hands on his thighs, he watched the way she went, no longer running, but she was getting lost among the crowds. He could not wait for the next green man but dashed across the road, a cyclist swerving, a bus blaring its horn.
It was the same girl, he was pretty sure now. His shirt was soaked. He took off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder as he threaded through the crush. She was small, her shoulders, her hips, her long hair bunched up messily, revealing a slim nape. She was wearing a knee-length skirt, a loose T-shirt, flat canvas shoes; not whorish at all, you’d take her for a student. Maybe she was a student?
She turned off and he followed her along, she was slower now, he had to walk slowly behind her, she was dragging her feet. She stopped outside a shop and he walked past her to the top of the hill where, looking north, you could see distant hills, and a frill of coastal villages across the blue neck of the Forth. Maybe, he thought, they might drive across the bridge at the weekend; Arthur would love it, maybe it would cheer Vivienne up, a change of scene—
Casually he looked back. Yes, it was the same girl; that was established. So what? Now he should let her walk right out of his life. Now he should go back, pick up a sandwich, return to work. She was staring into the shop window but as he watched she turned away, began to walk back the way she’d come, but slowly, wearily. Something hopeless in her gait, pulled a string in his heart. He began to follow her back down the hill – it was the way he had to go anyway. He paused to look in the shop window. There were some bad splashy paintings of hills and boats and below them a display of art materials – his eyes were drawn to a wooden box of pastels, graduating through every nuance of every colour. Beautiful. Although he wasn’t artistic in any way they made his fingers itch. Maybe she was an artist, an art student? Of course, a poor student turning tricks to pay her way, not really a whore at all.
He followed, gaining on her. Her hands were in the pockets of her skirt, on one shoulder hung a heavy bag, pulling it down. For the sake of her spine she should wear a bag on her back, or at least across her body. Nina always did, and Nina knew.
He looked at his watch: 1:40. No time for a sandwich now, he must go right back. As he passed a café, the smell of pizza made him hungry. She reached Princes St and crossed the road. He had to wait and once he was across, she was lost to him. OK. Good. Leave it. Go. But there was a gap in the railings, steps down to the gardens, maybe . . . just a quick look. What did he hope to gain from this? It was crazy. But it was where his feet took him.
And there she was, sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree. He had no choice now but to walk past her. He could not look over his shoulder, could not stare, what a creep he would seem. Was he a creep? This might qualify as creepy behaviour. But no, it was just interest. It was just . . . he recognized the sensation, ridiculous in this case; it was responsibility. Having used her in that shameful way he felt responsible. And that was dangerous for him; responsibility was irresistible.
He tried to walk away, focus his mind on work; must make the meeting. He turned back decisively, hoping she’d be gone – that would have been a relief. But no, she was still there and the bench next to hers was empty like an invitation.
Accepting, he sat down.
Why wouldn’t a man want to sit down on such a hot day, a man with a headache, yes it was still there, he pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. The bench was half in the shade. Twiggy shade, no leaves yet. The wooden slats were sticky with spilt juice or a melted lolly. He moved across to the sun, let his head hang back, feeling and seeing through his closed eyelids a glare of gold. His sunglasses were in the office, on his desk beside the papers he needed for his meeting with, among others, the American delegate. Frank. Without Frank he would never have used a prostitute. Never dreamed of it. He gave a sudden snort, the irony occurring to him; in avoiding Frank, he’d seen the girl again.
The girl. He stayed in the same position, soothing for his head, but opened his eyes slightly and manoeuvred himself so he could watch her. She’d taken something out of her bag, a book? No paper, she was drawing, no writing. A writer then? A young writer, subsidizing her meagre earnings? Or maybe she was applying for a grant, or for Art School?
He watched her bend over her knees and write, pause, gaze into the distance, write a few more words, pause. A poem? A story? An essay? 1.55. Christine would be getting twitchy about the meeting. She would be having kittens, as she always put it. He should eat something. Get up, go, grab a sandwich and an Irn Bru on the way. Christine always had Nurofen in her bag; she’d give him a couple.
The girl licked the flap of an envelope, flimsy blue airmail; he glimpsed the dart of her pink tongue. And then she buried her face in her hands, shoulders convulsing.
Go.
Get up and go. Forget her.
He walked as far as her bench but could not pass. He sat beside her. At her feet was a scatter of broken bottle glass, glittering green. Her gym shoes were childish and worn out, her ankle bones frail and sharp.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Can I help?’
She sat up, face shining wet, and scowled from under dark brows.
‘You’re upset,’ he added.
Her skin was a pale olive, sickly in the sunshine and the lines between her brows were deep already, odd on her young face. Did she recognize him? She gave no sign of it. So strange to think that he had had her, in that way, and she didn’t know. Or maybe she did? She inched her hips away from him on the bench, put the letter in her bag.
‘Well,’ he said. He had to stand, it was clear she wanted him to go. ‘If I can help?’
‘Money for stamp,’ she muttered without looking up at him. The line of her jaw was very pure; her little ears nestled among dark, messy curls.
‘Stamp? Sure.’ He put his hand in his pocket, jingled his change. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Why?’ Her face turned up to his, a small, fierce wedge.
‘Just wondered.’
‘Why do you wonder? What do you want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Oslo. Norway.’
Silence stretched between them. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll take your letter and get it franked at work.’
‘Franked, what’s this?’
‘Posted.’
‘Airmail. Quick way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’ll put it right in the post.’
She stood up, hesitated, then with a quick movement, shoved the letter into his hand. She was so small, her head did not quite reach his shoulder, he’d forgotten how very petite she was, but curvy too, fabulous breasts, though he should not notice, should not think it. He had a flash, a migrainous glimpse of rosy light, white silk, then only the true silk of her bare skin.
She replaced her bag on her shoulder and walked away. He fe
ll into step beside her, though it was the wrong direction. An emergency at home, he improvised, they all knew Vivienne, they all knew the situation; no one would disbelieve him.
She stopped. ‘You walk this way?’ she pointed. He nodded.
‘OK,’ she said, and turned and walked in the opposite direction. He watched the quick swapping of her feet, the bob of shadow behind her and he followed. She looked over her shoulder, saw him, stopped and turned, hands on her hips.
‘What do you want?’ Round her lips was a tight white line. Her lashes were still wet.
‘Sorry. I just . . . you’re upset.’
‘So?’ Frowning, she narrowed her eyes. Such a warm, almost flowery brown. ‘OK. Thank you for posting the letter. Now I am going. OK?’
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Just tell me and I’ll go. Promise.’
She blew through her lips. ‘Marta,’ she said. ‘OK?’
He watched her walk away and noticed someone else running towards her. It was the boy, the long haired boy, running bare footed! He grabbed her arm. Did she recoil? Did he imagine this? They were too far away to see. Not his business, not his business, oh his head.
Marta.
He looked at his watch. 2:30. He would not be back till nearly three; Christine would have had kittens already, with maybe another litter due. A laugh surprised him as he climbed the steps back to Princes St where buses roared and tourists toured. Crossing the road, he started back towards work, passed a bar where a couple sat drinking cold lager and walked into the dim interior where, as if he was someone else entirely, he ordered a Heineken and a steak sandwich. He sat in the flicker of a gambling machine, numbly sipping and chewing, aware of the ticking on his wrist, gleeful, aghast. In the Gents he stared in the mirror, half expecting to see a stranger’s reflection.
Had the boy grabbed her? Was he coercing her?
Not your business, Mats.
Back in the office air con, it felt icy. As he stepped out of the lift, Christine came hurrying. She was a tall, quiet, clumsy woman with a mass of almost colourless frizzy hair. ‘Are you all right? What happened? Fergus is having kittens.’
‘So many kittens!’ He put his hand to his brow, pretending to look for them.
‘You know fair well what I mean,’ she said stiffly.
He straightened his stupid rubbery face, which was trying to stretch into a grin. Had he actually lost it?
‘Sorry Chrissie,’ he said, ‘problem with Vivienne, had to pop home.’
‘If you’d only said . . . phoned . . .’ She gazed at him, head to one side and he felt a qualm: did she know about the girl, about that night? Did Frank blurt something at lunch, though secretaries didn’t get invited to work lunches, he was being paranoid. Christine was a nice, loyal, beautifully ordinary woman, very, very good at her job.
‘Sorry Chrissie,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate . . .’ He waved his hand vaguely. I’m sorry.’ And he was sorry, very sorry for everything. Sorry and puzzled. He was a straightforward guy; he always knew what he was doing. Always did the right thing.
She softened, her neck flushing. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Fergus ended up postponing till the morning. You look knackered. I’ll bring you some tea.’
‘Thanks Chrissie.’
He shut his office door and put his head in his hands, the headache still there, but faintly now, threads of steak caught in his teeth. He fished the letter from his pocket. The handwriting was neat. It was addressed to Doamna Sala, at a place he’d never heard of in Romania. Christine came in with the tea and shortbread.
‘Thought you could do with a wee lift,’ she said.
‘Thank you. Perfect. Could you get Fergus for me. In five.’
She nodded. ‘Take ten. Drink your tea.’
‘Oh,’ he added, ‘found this on the street – could you drop it in the post?’
She took the letter. ‘Nice of you.’
Once she’d gone and shut the door behind her, he sipped the strong and sobering tea.
Vivienne
click
Next day, was it? Anyway around then I woke to a tray with orange juice, coffee, toast with marmalade, sun in my eyes as the blind rolled up. Like something in an advert. My handsome husband, wet haired in a fresh white T-shirt and jeans. Ah yes, Saturday. It was the weekend and he was going to paper the hall and I would get a manicure and then we would be safe.
‘Morning,’ he said and as I sat up he bent over and kissed my head. And then he left me to it. I sipped the coffee feeling beautifully blank. Artie crept into bed beside me with his Action Man.
‘How would you like to live in Norway, Arthur?’ Mats asked, suddenly back in the room with Tommy in his arms, red cheeked in a banana-coloured sleepsuit, curly hair wild, reaching towards something. Surely not me!
‘What’s in Norway?’ Artie asked, making Action Man do the splits on the hills of his knees.
‘Grandma and Grandpa Brunborg of course,’ Mats said. ‘Skiing, the mountains. You know this.’
‘Do you want to, Mum?’ Arthur looked up at me, green eyes – he hadn’t got his specs on yet – sleep in the corners, a scaly patch of skin beside his nose. He needed E45 on that. Nanny was remiss!
‘Mum’s thinking about it,’ Mats said. He sat down, sinking us all to an angle. ‘Careful of the coffee.’ Mats reached over and removed the tray before Tommy could reach for it; he’d just worked out what his hands were for. He sat propped against my knees, staring at my face, doing his hundred-watt smile.
‘Hello,’ I said. I could see I needed to show willing, especially if I wanted the nanny to go. I was better, loads better – but it was still like they were separate from me, like maybe they were real and I was someone on TV. Or the other way round. It turned out the nanny wanted to leave anyway for some reason. Maybe we weren’t posh enough? But if I didn’t want another nanny, which I did not, I had to pull myself together. The toad was gone. I only needed someone to help a bit around the house. In the mornings I could think like this, think positive.
click
OK. This is hard. Really hard. I don’t have to do it. I don’t have to say it. I don’t have to listen to it ever. I could pull all the tape off the spools, I could burn it, I could throw it in the river. I’ll have to open another bottle. Don’t know why they call it Dutch courage. What’s Dutch about it? Anyway, this is Australian.
The hall is white now.
The toad has gone.
click
So there I was in bed that morning that was nearly like an advert. But then it went back into real life. Artie moved his Action Man across to show me something and Tommy tried to grab it.
‘Get off!’ Artie shouted.
I tried to help and somehow Tommy got knocked off the bed. I think Mats thinks it was me; my fault anyway. How could it have been? I don’t know. I don’t remember. All I remember is yellow legs disappearing over the edge of the bed and a clunk as he landed on the floorboards on his head. We waited for the scream but there was no scream, only silence. Mats’ face went grey, his eyes black as he looked at me. He reached down and picked Tommy up.
He was silent and floppy.
‘Is he deaded?’ said Artie.
I slid down flat in the bed, the sheets felt wet. I felt cold and hard as a fish in ice. Time did a big dangerous warp and then Tommy let out a cry. Not his usual yell, more of a mew, but thank God thank God thank God thank God.
We took him to A&E where he was X-rayed and kept in overnight for observation. It was nothing but concussion, no lasting damage they said. But it marked a turn. As if the dynamics had been shifted. Mats never blamed me, not out loud at least. He never said it. If he’d said, ‘I blame you,’ I could have defended myself, but he never said it. He was different from then on though, he never looked at me with love again.
And Tommy, the concussion seemed to make him crankier. Not such an easy baby any more. And I don’t know but . . . I can see that this does sound mad. He was checked over at the hospital and they said no damage. But I am his mother and I think that he was damaged. And that is when he started to need me. He looked so vulnerable in the hospital cot, now that he was broken. My love for him came suddenly awake. He had seemed huge now he shrank to normal baby size. He’s not an easy baby any more. He’s hard to manage and Mats . . .
I miss how he was.
He’s here and he does all the right things. He did the hall for me.
All white and fresh.
click
Marta
As she rattles through the curtain she sees him rise from the sofa. It’s the man who took her letter to post, the Norwegian, standing awkwardly, briefcase in his hand. He smiles but she does not.
‘Come then.’ She leads him up the stairs. When they’re in the room, she shuts the door, turns to face him. ‘How did you know I’m here?’
He looks down. Must be a punter then. No memory of him. At least he was no trouble. You only remember trouble.
He fidgets on his feet, reluctant to meet her eyes.
‘Did you post my letter?’
He nods, clears his throat, fiddles with the end of his tie.
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
She imagines the relief. ‘She’s all right!’ Mama will cry and she and Milya will hug, and there might be tears. But once they’re over the relief – what will they think then? Maybe they’ll hate her stupid guts.
She crosses her arms waiting for him to speak. But he just stands like a big donkey, shifting from foot to foot. ‘What do you want?’ Her stomach gurgles, the taste of coffee in her gullet.
The Squeeze Page 9