Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  She could tell from his breathing that he was almost done; he was panting loudly. His hand dropped away from her thigh altogether. She looked up at him. His cheeks were bright red and he had his eyes closed. She might as well not even have been there. She felt warm liquid ooze over her fingers and he went flaccid. He nuzzled his head into her neck. She dropped her hand away and they just stood there until the train entered the next station, her propping him up on her shoulder.

  When they arrived, he said, ‘Thanks, that was great.’ He had an enormous smile on his face.

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ she replied.

  He leant in and kissed her cheek, then followed the crowd of the train.

  She stood in the corner for several seconds stunned.

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ she said again to herself. What a fucking stupid thing to say, she thought, like she’d just held open a door for him or picked up some change he’d dropped on the floor.

  Fourteen

  The last tubing meeting left Polly feeling a little uncertain. She couldn’t lie to herself any more: it wasn’t tubing she wanted, it was him. She found herself thinking about him all the time. She relived their first encounter and the moments they’d spent together in the tube station over and over. She longed for him, an ache in the pit of her belly that spread down to the tops of her thighs. At night, in the space between awake and sleeping, she could almost feel his hands on her, smell him, taste him. Her hand would automatically run down her body to between her legs. She would clench her thighs tightly together, allowing her fingers to slowly work their way in, massaging, then pushing back and forth inside herself until she came.

  When the next message came, she knew it was from him. She could barely contain her excitement.

  free tonight? central line, notting hill gate, 9pm – I’ve missed you

  ‘Polly, I can’t seem to find the T&Cs. Where are they?’

  It was James. He’d arrived in the office unexpectedly at nine that morning. Polly had got in at ten. He’d swiftly pulled her aside for a quiet word about her tardiness – her day had been shrinking, with her turning up later and leaving earlier.

  The T&Cs was a document that set out the rules of business for the newspaper. Recently there’d been trouble over one of the clauses and someone was trying to sue them. James had managed to calm the situation and avoid a costly lawsuit. Polly was supposed to have amended the document last week so that it wouldn’t happen again. She hadn’t. She’d done a lot of daydreaming since James had last been in, but no actual work. It was hard to concentrate with him in her life.

  ‘I saved it in the file,’ she replied, knowing full well she hadn’t.

  ‘Are you sure, Polly?’ James looked at her suspiciously. ‘The file name in the folder hasn’t changed.’

  ‘Oh, I must have forgotten to change it, but I made all the amends.’

  The more she lied, the easier it got. Initially she’d suffered the usual gut wrench, but after a while a certain confidence developed and the lies began pouring out with ease.

  The problem was that she hadn’t been listening properly when James had told her what changes to make to the document, so she’d been stuck as to how to make them. She promised herself that as soon as he left she’d dig out the notes she did have and sort it – no one would be any the wiser.

  James left at one p.m. Polly had just opened the T&Cs document ready to try to fix it when she suddenly remembered what day it was – she was supposed to have met her dad at twelve-thirty.

  She rushed to the restaurant and found him still sitting there in a booth on his own.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, wiping sweat from her brow: the humidity outside was oppressive. ‘I’m so sorry, something came up at work; I couldn’t get away.’

  There was an empty coffee cup sat on the table in front of him. ‘That’s OK, love,’ he said, smiling. He got up to hug her. ‘My little girl with her big-city job. Come here.’

  For a moment she lost herself; she felt as if she were eight years old again and had just got all her spellings right. Her dad was a burly Irishman who didn’t just hug, he gave big bear hugs, squeezing her so tight as if trying to amalgamate them. ‘I’ve missed you, love,’ he whispered into her ear.

  ‘I’ve missed you too, Dad,’ she replied, suddenly realising just how much.

  He pulled back to look at her. ‘How are you?’ he said, his face suddenly stern as he looked her up and down. ‘Everything OK?’

  She panicked: there was no hiding anything from him; he’d been through the doctors, psychologists and clinic with her.

  ‘I’ve just been working too hard,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes. She knew he’d noticed that she’d lost weight. They sat down at the table and he picked up the menu.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ he asked as he put on his glasses and started scanning down the list of dishes.

  She didn’t want to eat. She was too excited about her meeting later; her stomach was too full of butterflies to bother with food. Also, she didn’t want to be bloated. She was tempted to lie and say she’d already eaten, but there was no way her dad would stand for that. In the end she opted for a starter.

  ‘You’ll need more than that, Polly,’ he said. ‘Pick a main too.’

  ‘I don’t want one,’ she replied.

  They were in danger of descending into their usual argument. The tension was broken by the appearance of the waiter who took their order, but the atmosphere remained once he’d gone.

  ‘So, what’s going on at work?’ her dad asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Not much,’ Polly replied sullenly.

  They looked at one another silently.

  ‘Love, don’t be like this,’ he said. ‘I just worry about you is all. I’ve seen how much you can hurt yourself, I don’t want you to do it again.’

  ‘I’m not,’ replied Polly.

  He reached over and took her hand across the table. ‘I just want my girl to be happy and healthy.’

  ‘I am, Dad.’ It was true: over the past few weeks she’d felt so much better. ‘You don’t need to worry about me, I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I know you can, but worrying about your daughter is part of a father’s remit, I’m afraid, no matter what age you are. You’ll see when you have kids of your own.’

  But not part of my mother’s remit, thought Polly.

  Since Polly was fourteen she’d known exactly what her mother thought of her. Before then she’d known there was something wrong, but hadn’t known what. It wasn’t anything her mother had said or done, it was more the things she didn’t say or do. Polly couldn’t remember ever being touched by her, not a kiss or a hug, not even a pat on her hand. She was like a robot, programmed with all the right commands, but cold and completely blank inside where Polly was concerned. When Polly was young, she’d sometimes catch her mother staring at her. She’d be playing with her toys or reading a book, and she’d look up to see her mother watching, lip curled and a sour look on her face.

  It was on a Tuesday afternoon shortly after her fourteenth birthday that she had discovered the whole truth.

  Her dad had taken her mother to a hospital appointment. It was the first time Polly had been allowed to stay home alone. Usually she was dragged along, forced to sit in sparse, disinfected waiting rooms. She had been giddy with excitement when the front door finally slammed shut and her dad’s Ford reversed out the driveway. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She wandered around the house from room to room. Her parents slept in separate bedrooms; Polly couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t, something to do with her mother’s illness. She rarely went into her mother’s room. Now, all alone in the house, she couldn’t resist it. She went upstairs and slowly pushed open the door.

  It was in perfect order, the bed neatly made, the surfaces polished, everything where it should be. Polly stood in the doorway for several minutes, daring herself to go in. When she took her first step over the threshold, her heart was racing. She wasn’t
looking for anything in particular, she was just looking. At first she didn’t touch anything, but, the longer she stayed, the more assured she became. Before long, she’d gone from picking up the odd trinket to rifling through her drawers and wardrobe.

  It was in the back of the wardrobe that she discovered the truth. In a large shoe box she found several exercise books. At first, Polly thought they were hers; they were exactly like the ones she used at school. She was momentarily touched by the thought that her mother had her old schoolbooks as keepsakes. But, when she opened them, it wasn’t her handwriting she found, they were full of her mother’s scribblings.

  They weren’t diaries as such, they were rants. Her mother had spewed her anger and hatred on to page after page. Polly had known her mother was unhappy, but she hadn’t realised the extent of her misery. Whenever Polly thought back to this moment, she wished she’d packed all the books away again and left, but how could she? How could anybody? She read every word.

  The food arrived and Polly’s dad eagerly tucked in. Polly pushed her own food around her plate pretending to eat. Her dad watched disapprovingly. She tried to distract him by asking about the garden and what was going on in the church, but to no avail. In the end she ate it, but, as soon as she’d finished, she went straight to the ladies and puked it up.

  When she got back to the table, the plates had been cleared and there was an envelope on her place mat.

  ‘Just a little something for you,’ her dad said, patting it, as she sat down.

  She knew what it was immediately.

  ‘Dad, you don’t have to.’

  ‘I know, I know, but I want to. Buy yourself something frivolous, have some fun with it.’

  She opened the envelope. There were two sets of four £20 notes, each with a fifth folded around them. The Queen’s head, as always, facing up on the right. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, getting up to hug him.

  She wished she could use it on something frivolous, but she had an outstanding credit card bill with interest that was mounting by the second. The cash would help fill a small part of the hole she’d managed to get herself into. Her parents weren’t rich, definitely not by Oliver’s standards, but her dad was generous with what he did have. Polly was extremely grateful.

  Her father paid the bill and they said their goodbyes before Polly rushed back to work.

  Fifteen

  Polly got back to the office at three p.m. Her plan was to get on with the T&Cs document, but she was too excited about her meeting later to work. She texted Oliver to tell him that she was going out with Alicia after work – women’s talk – he wouldn’t want to know any more than that. She wished she could go home and change, but didn’t want to have to lie to Oliver’s face. She was wearing a floral dress cinched in at the waist by a wide brown leather belt and a pair of gladiator sandals – cute, but far from sexy. At least she’d brought her make-up bag with her.

  After work she spent forty-five minutes in the toilets doing her face and backcombing her hair. She was pleased with the end result – cutesy, but naughty. It was just before six when she walked out of the front door of her office building. The warmth hit her as soon as she left the lobby. The humidity had cooled and the weather was now glorious. Her skin puckered the instant the sun touched her. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the heat defrost her insides.

  Three hours to kill.

  She decided to walk up to Regent’s Park. She stopped in a supermarket on the way. Her intention was to buy a small bottle of rosé to accompany her on her walk, but she ended up buying two miniature vodkas and ten cigarettes as well.

  She entered the park through Portland Place. Once inside, she downed one of the miniatures before unscrewing the bottle of wine and dropping in the straw she’d nabbed from the shop counter. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply. She instantly felt light-headed. She sat on a bench, savouring the moment.

  The park hadn’t fared well in the unrelenting hot weather. The usually lush green grass was badly scorched. All that was left was an expanse of uncomfortable-looking hay. It hadn’t deterred the scantily dressed couples and tourists frolicking in the early evening sun – the park was packed. The good weather always brought out too much skin. Polly couldn’t believe how brazen people could be. You’d think in central London you’d get a better calibre of sunbather.

  Her straw gurgled. She gave the bottle a shake; it was empty. She leant across the bench and chucked it in the bin. A poster on the lamp post opposite caught her eye. It was for the park’s open-air theatre. A showing of Romeo and Juliet was on at seven-thirty tonight. A ‘sold out’ sign was plastered right across the middle of it. Polly couldn’t believe they were showing Romeo and Juliet tonight of all nights. She checked the time on her phone; it was just gone seven. She quickly gathered herself together and got going.

  The theatre was well signposted, so it didn’t take her long to find. As she approached, the smell of barbecue made her stomach growl. Through the iron turnstile next to the box office she could see a huge spit roast on a carousel. A man in chef whites carved thick slices of pork on to paper plates and dished them out to the eager queue next to him. The sight of the juicy meat and the thick, smoky smell made her mouth awash with drool. She turned away; now was not the time to be thinking about food.

  She distracted herself by looking at the black and white photographs of the cast hung along the box office wall. She looked at each one carefully. Romeo wasn’t quite as she imagined him. He was short, with curly blond hair. The Nurse wasn’t right either, a tall, slender black woman. Juliet was suitably thin and beautiful – she didn’t spend long looking at her pictures.

  The tannoy overhead announced that it was time for the audience to take their seats, the performance was about to start. Polly desperately wanted to see some of the play. The theatre was hidden behind a wall of eight-foot-high evergreens. They circled the entire stage and auditorium. She nonchalantly walked round to the left, away from the box office, to look for a way through. She knew she was heading in the right direction from the murmurings and occasional bursts of laughter from the audience. She kept going, sure she’d find a gap in the undergrowth to spy through. But the hedge grew thicker and thicker the further she went. She pushed on through, despite branches pulling at her clothes and entangling in her hair. She suddenly felt a sharp sting on the back of her neck, then another on her arm. A cloud of midges were swarming her. She quickly retreated, her arms shooting out around her, trying to shoo them away.

  She stood back and looked around, frustrated. She wanted to see! It was a sign, stumbling across a showing of Romeo and Juliet on her way to meet him. She had to see. Then she noticed the corner of what looked like a bench poking out of the trees further down. She sized it up. If she stood on it she could probably just about see the stage. A hushed silence spread around the audience ready for the start of the play. She quickly made her way over to the bench and climbed on to it, grappling with branches for support.

  ‘Hey, what you doing?’

  She jumped, nearly falling backwards off the bench.

  The voice was hidden in the bushes. Polly climbed down and started backing away.

  ‘Hey, lady, where you going?’ The accent was thick Glaswegian.

  A man in a full-length dirty brown coat and no shoes emerged from the bushes. He moved so slowly, it looked as if he was morphing out of the greenery.

  ‘I’m just going,’ Polly replied, continuing to back away.

  ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you, girly. I just didn’t want you clambering all over my beid.’ He pointed to the bench.

  Polly nearly gagged when the smell of him hit her, and again when she saw the state of his hair. It was completely matted with dirt and grease, so much so that it looked like a piece of plastic melted on to the side of his head.

  ‘You trying to see the play for free?’ he said with a cheeky smile and a wink. There were three black teardrops tattooed just below the corner of his left eye.

  ‘No,’ sh
e said defensively.

  ‘Looked like it to me.’

  ‘I was just passing — ’

  ‘Och, I don’t care, girly. You like old Shakey, do ya? Star-crossed lovers an’ all?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, not really knowing why she answered.

  ‘Forbidden love. Ach … ’ He paused, momentarily lost in thought.

  For some reason Polly stopped.

  ‘It’s what got me in this state in the first place,’ he went on, lifting his hands to indicate his appearance.

  ‘Really?’ Polly asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Uh-huh. I was married once, you know, had me a house and some bairns. But then I met a wee girl and fell in love … About your age, she was. A right bonnie lass.’ He paused, losing himself again. ‘Couldae been perfect, but “never was there a story of more woe … ”’

  Normally Polly would have made her excuses and left as soon as some old tramp started telling her his life story, but the alcohol had kicked in and she was intrigued. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We upped sticks and moved to London to be together. I left everything behind me – the wife, kids, job. But then we get here and she meets some new fella and tells me to feck off. Broke my bleedin’ heart. Thought I were gonnae die. Didnae have nowhere to live, couldnae go back to Scotland, couldnae get a job, ended up here.’ He shrugged

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. At first I was so feckin’ mad, I couldnae believe it, after everything I’d given up for her. The thought of her with some other fella ate me insides. I couldn’t do nothing ‘cept get shitfaced – I can always get shitfaced,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But then, you know what happened?’

  ‘What?’ Polly was hanging off his every word.

  ‘It occurred to me that life’s nae worth livin’ if you dinnae jump every now an’ then. If I hadnae gone with her, I’d’a spent the rest of my days wondering what wouldae happened, you know? What’s worse – the pain o’ havin’ your heart broke, or never havin’ loved enough to get it broke in the first place?’