The Squeeze

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘You Mats, you with a prostitute,’ she says.

  He puts his hands over his face. Yet it feels weirdly good to be chastised. It’s true after all.

  ‘And not even a willing prostitute. Sounds to me like she’s been trafficked.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he mumbles through his fingers. ‘If I’d know I’d never . . .’

  She’s wandering round now, clogs silent on the rug, clopping on the floorboards. Her reflection flits across the windows. He watches her twirl her fingers through tendrils of her tumbling down hair, a habit he’d forgotten.

  ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I always thought you couldn’t surprise me.’ She gives a disbelieving laugh.

  Myself too, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

  ‘When people say all men are rapists—’

  ‘It wasn’t rape!’

  ‘Or all men would do anything for sex, pay for sex, then I always thought that you were an exception. You were sort of . . . tame.’

  He stares.

  ‘You were so good, so upright, so straight.’

  ‘Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘Decent,’ she continues. ‘I always though that you were decent.’

  He says nothing.

  She comes back to the sofa, kicks off her clogs. ‘A bit . . . boring, to tell the truth,’ she adds.

  ‘Boring?!’ He stares at her grinning, lamplit face. He, Mats, boring? She was always the sensible one. Wasn’t she? He sips his coffee, cold now. He frowns back over the years to their time together, their routines, all the socializing with his parents – maybe that was boring? But he thought she’d liked it. He feels a flicker of anger. All the things he’s done for her. The person he became for her. No, no, the person she moulded him into.

  He thinks of the night she told him to take the job in Edinburgh. Not a sacrifice for her at all it seems but her first move away from boring. Maybe Lars was already on the scene. Maybe it was a relief that he moved away.

  No way is he staying to be insulted. He heaves himself up. ‘If you lend me the money I’ll pay you back of course. With interest.’ Trying to rid his voice of its stiffness, ‘It is amazingly kind of you,’ he makes himself add.

  ‘Sit down, Mats,’ she says as if she’d talking to a child, or a dog. She pats the sofa.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You can go later.’

  ‘No, I want to go. I must phone Vivienne.’

  ‘Listen.’ She pulls the coloured Afghan from the back of the sofa and wraps it round her knees and bare feet.

  Puffing his irritation he consents to sit again, perches on the edge of the sofa. His parents will be expecting him back for supper – already he’ll be late. Far will want to see his car. When it’s returned he always walks round it searching for scratches as if it’s a hire car.

  ‘You could pay me back, with interest,’ she says. One of her bare feet works its way under his thigh, he can feel the cold branching of her toes. ‘Or,’ she adds, ‘maybe we can fix up some other kind of deal.’

  Her expression is curious; her fair lashes glint, her mouth is small, the lips prettily modelled. ‘Makes perfect sense,’ she says. ‘A simple bargain. I have what you need – money. You have what I need – motile sperm.’

  An angry and unexpected laugh erupts from him. Could that be the least seductive line ever uttered?

  Unsmiling now she quirks her eyebrows.

  ‘So we sleep together and the loan is interest-free?’ he says.

  ‘More than that,’ she says. ‘I get pregnant you can forget the debt. Think of it as a fee. A stud fee.’

  ‘A stud fee!’ He pulls away, angry and aroused. Confused. ‘Does Lars know I’m here?’

  ‘Forget Lars.’

  He focuses on a bulbous flame in the sooty glass chimney of a lamp. Soft peachy light pools round it, illuminating a wooden bowl of fir cones, the chess set in its wooden box (he knows a white pawn is missing) a toppled over birthday card. Black out there now, chilly black night.

  ‘Mats?’

  ‘But would you tell him? Would you let him think it was his?’

  She gives a light shrug as if this is really not important. ‘He will know it can’t be his but . . . he has a public profile, an image to keep up. He doesn’t want anyone to know about his problem. If I get pregnant, you can be sure no questions will be asked.’ She says all this as if it’s perfectly logical and reasonable.

  And maybe it is.

  ‘What if you didn’t get pregnant?’

  ‘I will,’ she says simply. Her fingers press her side. ‘I am ovulating right now.’

  Another line that very far from turns him on.

  ‘You can drive to the Roadhouse and ring your wife, ring your parents, say you’re staying the night.’

  ‘What will they think?’

  ‘That is not my problem.’ She folds herself up from the sofa and comes over to him. ‘They know we’re old friends. Maybe you’re helping me, or trouble with the car, or a glass of wine too many? Say anything you like.’ As she speaks she puts a finger on his chest and smiles. ‘Let me open another bottle of wine,’ she says. ‘I have plenty of food. A nice evening together and lots of sex. We were always good,’ she says. Her pupils have dilated and her eyes glow at him. ‘Remember all those times in that bed?’ she nods towards the platform and her finger bumps over his shirt buttons, tracing down towards his groin.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’ he says.

  When he returns, with his arrangements – a pack of lies – all made, he’s welcomed into the cabin by a smell of roasting meat. He spies a bottle of red warming by the stove, but can’t see Nina and then he knows. He climbs the wooden ladder to the sleeping platform and there she is in the deep soft bed, face shadowy, hair flickering in the lamplight. ‘Come on in,’ she says and lifts the quilt to reveal her slim, white, naked body.

  Vivienne

  click

  OK, it’s Sunday afternoon and Mats is away. We were meant to be doing something as a family, Deep Sea World maybe. But that didn’t happen. Poor Mats came home from work in shock. His dad suddenly taken ill; he looked so scared. I just wanted to hold him but no time for that. I said I’d go with him, but he said no. He booked himself on a plane, called a taxi and went. Just like that.

  So the whole weekend stretched out with nothing. I rang Rita, hadn’t seen her for a while which in itself was strange. She said she’d come on Saturday afternoon and stay for dinner, which cheered me up. I mean, I might have a drink on my own sometimes though it’s a bit sad, but if a friend’s round, well you have to, don’t you?

  Saturday was sunny, thank God, but still cold. We took the kids to the park, went for a coffee, looked in the toy shop and before I could stop her she was buying a book for Artie, a fluffy rabbit for Tommy.

  She was kind of pent up like she had a secret, but I didn’t ask, I mean it was up to her if she wanted to tell me.

  She made dippy egg for Artie’s tea while I had a bubble bath and shaved my legs. Once the kids were down, we phoned for pizzas and opened the wine and then she got this massive box of truffles out of her bag. Charbonnel et Walker, must have cost her an arm and two legs.

  ‘Had a raise?’ I said.

  ‘Tell you later,’ she went. She’d her hair cut in a new way like a leprechaun or a lesbian. Suited her though.

  We watched Stars in Their Eyes. It was like the old days, before I even met Mats, when she used to come round to my flat – still miss that flat – and we used to talk about dating and stuff. We got through the first bottle pretty fast and I said, ‘Shall I open another,’ and she said ‘Not for me,’ but she did have some when it was open. People are always the same, pretending they don’t want to drink, when really they do.

  ‘Can we put it off?’ she said when Stars in Your Eyes was over. She was curled up in a corn
er of the sofa, sipping her wine. She’d left half her pizza so I started eating it for her; she was making me nervous because she seemed nervous.

  ‘It’s not a raise,’ she said in the end, ‘but I’m leaving work.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Well.’ She put down her glass. ‘I’ve got a new job.’

  ‘Fab,’ I said. ‘Doing what?’

  Her pizza was ham and pineapple and I was removing the pine­apple, I mean it seems sort of unholy doesn’t it, wet squares of fruit on a pizza? She picked up a Lego car, and span the wheels, red and yellow.

  ‘Same sort of thing,’ she said and then all in a rush went, ‘only it’s in Toronto.’

  ‘Toronto in Canada?’

  She slugged back her wine. ‘I didn’t say before in case I didn’t get it. I mean I thought you might be upset.’

  ‘Why would I be?’ I said. ‘Well done.’

  There was this silence and my stomach felt too full. Spin, spin, spin went the Lego wheels.

  ‘When are you going?’ I said in the end.

  ‘Wednesday,’ she said and she kind of winced like she thought I might throw a wobbly.

  But why should I? It’s her life.

  I wanted to watch 2.4 Children.

  I wanted to throw up.

  ‘You could have said before,’ is all I said, not stroppy or anything. I mean she must have been planning it for weeks, and booking tickets and that. It was partly because of Eddie – an old boyfriend. Her first love. They were back in touch; he lived there.

  ‘It’s a bit of a risk, isn’t it?’ I said. I mean she hasn’t seen him for twenty years and obviously it didn’t work out then.

  ‘If nothing else we’ll be friends,’ she said. ‘And I can always come back.’

  She showed me a photo of them together, when they were about sixteen. She’s not tall but she’s taller than him, he had one of those moon faces and a thick pale fringe like a slice of bread. I’m pleased for her, I really am.

  I hope it works out.

  click

  After she’d gone I didn’t know what to do. If I’d had more wine I would have opened it. I mean, wouldn’t anyone? But there wasn’t any in the house, Mats made sure of that. I thought he might ring but he didn’t, which I took to mean that his Dad was OK. I mean if he’d died, surely he’d have rung?

  Then he did ring. And it was quick and weird, from a public phone, he was at the hospital he said. His dad was out of danger, he’d tell me about it tomorrow. ‘Is Tommy OK?’ he asked and I said, ‘Yes, why shouldn’t he be?’ And then his money ran out and he was gone.

  I was too frustrated to sleep but I must have gone off because Tommy woke in the night and cried for ages before I remembered Mats wasn’t there. When I went to him he was cranky, expecting to see his daddy. In the morning it was stormy, wet petals blowing off the cherry trees and sticking on the windows so it made me think of snow.

  click

  Waited and waited for Mats to ring again. He hadn’t said when he’d be home. In the end I rang his mum who said he’d just left for the airport. I said, ‘How’s Jan?’ and she said, ‘OK,’ sounding sort of surprised and careful. She asked about the boys. I didn’t like to press about Jan. All I said when I rang off was, I hope he gets well soon and send him love from me and the boys.

  After I rang off I got frightened. What if it was a lie? What if Mats had gone off for some other reason? Her voice sounded strange, fake. I opened the wine I’d bought to welcome him home.

  click

  Shouldn’t have listened. All these little tapes sitting in a box, all full of my shitty voice. I was bored waiting for Mats, worrying if he’d lied to me. I decided to destroy them but listen first. I listened while I drank a bottle then I pulled the first tape off its little spools, all that tape tangled on the floor, sticky brown strings of my thoughts. I pushed it in the bin with peelings and nappies, then I pulled it out and snipped it up into tiny pieces, shiny pieces like brown confetti. Then I put it in a saucepan and boiled it. And that’s what I’ll do with this one when I come to the end. And record no more.

  click

  I want Mats; I want him. I want him to love me and stay with me and be a family. I am going to be better. I am already. I only got one bottle of wine today. I don’t care if it was a lie about his dad. I don’t want to know I won’t even ask, just be nice. Just nice. Just make it work.

  click

  It’s past midnight but I’m waiting up even if I have to wait all night. I’ll make him a sandwich or whatever, coffee or whatever. I’ve got my silk nightie on. Maybe he’ll want to make love. Men always . . .

  That’s him

  click

  Mats

  In Departures late on Sunday night, he spots Crochet Woman and ducks behind his newspaper. His mind is oddly blank, his body heavy yet buzzing, almost sore. He needs to shut his eyes, to do some processing. Or maybe to switch right off. No chat please. He waits till everyone has boarded before getting up. He’s the last passenger on and as he makes his way up the aisle of the plane towards the back he sees Crochet Woman already embarking on a conversation with a startled-looking guy and feels a rush of fondness for her.

  She catches his eye, gives a smile and a wave. ‘Everything all right?’ she mouths, raising her grizzled eyebrows.

  He nods, feels his face stretch into a grin. Everything all right! If she knew the half of it! He secures a double seat to himself at the back – it’s a quiet flight – swallows a whisky and manages to sleep.

  Emerging groggily into post-midnight Arrivals he sees Crochet Woman being bear-hugged by a bald and beaming man. Probably the husband. Love there, he recognizes with a lonely pang: proper, simple love.

  ‘Good weekend?’ he asks, as he passes them by.

  ‘Super,’ she replies. ‘You?’

  He nods.

  ‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘This nice man . . .’ she begins telling her husband about him.

  ‘Got to go, lift waiting.’ As he leaves, Mats thinks how nice to be greeted with a hug, a smile, a lack of complication. How nice to face life with that openness. Now he’s turned off that straightforward path and the ways forward seem shady, possible maybe, but oh so complex.

  There’s no lift waiting for him, of course; he gets a taxi, sits cold in the back, shivering, disorientated. He recognizes a hot tight feeling in the back of his throat – a cold coming on, that’s all he needs.

  Expecting all to be dark at home, his heart sinks when he sees light glowing through the curtains. She should be in bed by now, asleep by now; he was counting on it. But maybe there’s a problem with Thomas – this feels like something he might have earned. Fingers fumbling, he pays the driver and hurries inside.

  Unusually, Vivienne comes out to greet him in the hall. She’s dressed in one of her vintage negligees, and when she kisses him he’s enveloped in a warm waft of perfume. She tastes of lipstick and wine and his heart sinks further.

  ‘Poor Mats, you must be knackered,’ she says. ‘Come and sit down. Nightcap?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Warm you up.’

  ‘OK,’ he says, ‘but I’m going straight up. Thomas all right?’

  ‘They’re both fine. Out for the count. But how about Jan?’

  Mats fakes a laugh. ‘Oh fine! False alarm. They thought it was a heart attack but it was only indigestion.’

  ‘But they still kept him in hospital?’

  ‘Just till he got the all clear.’

  She gazes at him for an unnervingly long moment, head on one side. ‘What a palaver,’ she says at last. ‘You go up, I’ll bring the drinks.’

  His legs pull him up the stairs. In the boys’ room he bends over the cot to inhale the scent of sleeping Thomas, tucks the cover over his legs – he always kicks it off– glances at Arthur, noti
ces he’s still wearing his specs, gently removes them and folds them on the beside table.

  In the bathroom he pees and splashes his face. Definitely a cold coming on. Maybe she won’t want sex. How can he after . . . ? He takes as long as he feasibly can flossing and gargling, but when he gets into the bedroom she’s standing by the mirror, negligee off now, revealing an ivory silk slip.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says. She does. But at one remove from him. Objectively, she looks lovely.

  ‘Glad you think so.’ She tilts her hip at him, light-hearted, flirtatious, like she used to be.

  ‘But I’m getting a cold,’ he says. ‘You don’t want it.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’ She hands him his whisky and he drinks. She’s got a glass of red on the go. He doesn’t approve of drinking in bed. It seems irresponsible for parents with little ones sleeping close by, but still, he takes the glass and knocks the whisky back in one before he turns away to strip, awkwardly, feeling her eyes on him.

  ‘I’m done in,’ he says as he slides into bed and gives an exaggerated yawn, but still she snuggles silkily against him. He can’t not make love to his wife because of Nina. That would be despicable. He rolls over, kisses her, smelling wine and hairspray and waiting for her to . . . yes she does it, to sigh luxuriously and stretch out on her back, to lie passive, like a plate of perfumed meat, waiting for him to take her. This is how it always is. At first he’d found it alluring, old-fashioned, unexpectedly modest even, after Nina’s matter-of-fact approach; he’d found it moving. But now . . . if she only would be the first to make a move, to suggest, to do anything rather than just lie there. A bolt of guilt shoots through him as he takes her in his arms, feels the solidity that seems somehow innocent, remembering Nina’s lithe body, so much fun to make love to, you knew where you were with her, she always said what she wanted, let you know if you made a wrong move.