Ordinary Joe

by Jon Teckman

  ‘Yeah, it was good,’ I replied, doing my best to sound nonchalant and avoiding eye contact. ‘And I’m sorry about missing you at the end. I looked for you but couldn’t see you anywhere. And I left pretty early anyway. So, I mean, I wasn’t actually still there at the end when you were looking for me because I’d already left some time earlier. On my own. Newspaper?’

  I handed him a USA Today and took one for myself and we flicked through them in a fruitless search for anything of interest to read before both noticing at the same time that this was, in fact, yesterday’s paper, telling the day before yesterday’s news. News from the day before the night I turned into a monster.

  The New York streets were quiet as we drove to the airport. Just over the Brooklyn Bridge, I saw a huge billboard outside a large, modern church proclaiming: ‘The Ten Commandments are not a Cafeteria Menu!!’ Another day, I’d have smiled at these evangelistic ravings, but now the sign made me shudder. Until the previous night, I’d been doing pretty well against this exacting 5,000-year-old standard. I’d done a little coveting in my time and worshipped the odd false idol – who hadn’t? – but otherwise I’d stuck to the rules. Now I’d blown it – thrown away the no-claims bonus I’d accrued over the years to be redeemed against eternal salvation – and for what? A night of drunken sex which already I could hardly remember and which I couldn’t mention to another soul for as long as I lived.

  When we arrived at JFK, we checked in and headed straight for the Business Lounge. I poured myself a coffee while Bennett helped himself to a Virgin Mary and we sat in silence reading papers and nibbling on crisps and nuts. Just as our flight was being called, I heard a sharp ‘beep’ and saw Bennett reach into his jacket pocket. He took out his phone, tapped a couple of buttons and stared at the screen, looking bemused as he read and re-read the message. Then he thrust the phone into my face. ‘Here, West, look at this.’

  Hey there, English. That was some night! I really enjoyed our chat – and the rest of course!! Thx for looking after me. You were grrrreat!

  xxx

  Now it was my turn to look confused. If this message was – as it seemed – from Olivia Finch, how had it found its way onto Bennett’s phone? Had she slept with him as well? Perhaps she had a thing for accountants. In which case, where was my message? I checked my phone. Nothing. Not even a ‘thank you for having me’.

  ‘What’s that about, then?’ I stammered.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Bennett said. ‘Must be a wrong number.’ He pressed another couple of buttons, deleting the message and turning off the phone. ‘Come on, West, we’d better get boarding.’

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC

  As soon as we were airborne, Bennett settled down to watch an unfunny American comedy and for the next two hours proceeded to laugh like the stand-up’s wife at a talent contest. I reclined my seat and tried to get some sleep, adjusting and readjusting my position for maximum comfort and turning up the music in my headset to smother the cackling of my neighbour. Feeling sick with a potent combination of tiredness, guilt, confusion and coffee, I closed my eyes and tried hard to embrace oblivion, but every time I was on the point of dropping off, those indelible images of my crime would reappear inside my head, screaming at me and dragging me back to the new reality I had so casually created.

  Nothing made sense to me. How had I ended up in bed with one of the most beautiful women in the world? How could I have allowed it to happen? And how could she? I imagined the look on my friends’ faces if I turned up for the quiz night at the King’s Head next Thursday evening with Olivia Finch on my arm – specialist subject: ‘The Lives and Loves of the Rich and Famous’. The thought made me smile for a split second but then I remembered: this wasn’t a game. This wasn’t a movie or some crappy television sitcom. This was my life and Natasha’s life and the kids’ lives. And I’d just fucked them all up.

  I ordered a beer from the stewardess, hoping that a drink or two might help me sleep. But, of course, it didn’t. All it did was send my mind hurtling off in a load of other directions, trying to make sense of all that had happened. Why was Olivia now texting Bennett of all people? Or had he hooked up with someone else and was just playing dumb? Perhaps it really was a wrong number and had nothing to do with me or what had happened last night. Coincidences do happen.

  When his film finished, Bennett turned off the screen and fell instantly into a deep, apparently guilt-free slumber. After several more drinks I was finally able to close my eyes and drift off into a fitful sleep myself.

  I am woken up by a rough hand grabbing my shoulder, almost pulling me from my chair – I must have undone my seat belt to go to the toilet whilst still half asleep. Wordlessly, the figure leads me to the back of the Business Class section which opens out into a large, splendidly furnished lounge with a bar and pretty stewardesses serving drinks for thirsty, drunken passengers. To my surprise, I spot myself sitting in one corner chatting to Olivia Finch. We are laughing and she is running one of her hands up and down one of my thighs as if it is a piano keyboard. We finish our drinks and stand up and she leads me by the hand past where I am still standing with my mysterious friend, although now I realise that he is no longer there and my hand has been taken by another spirit, who leads me back to my seat and forces me to sit down. The TV screen flickers into life and I see a woman and two children sitting down to tea around a kitchen table – fish fingers, sweet corn and chips. They all look happy. ‘One more sleep until Daddy gets home,’ my wife tells my children and they both cheer and Matthew throws a spoonful of sweet corn at his sister.

  The screen goes blank and another hand, skeletal and sharp, digs into my shoulder, forcing me to rise again. I float above Bennett’s prostrate form and my face is forced up against the window, staring into the bright light of the late spring sky outside. Droplets of moisture appear on the window, then form themselves into recognisable shapes. It is the same scene as before – Natasha and the kids again but all a little older now. They seem sadder; they’ve lost their sparkle – not through age but because something bad has happened. Something has ripped the life they knew away from them and left them with a shell. From this single vignette, I can tell that I am no longer around. No longer there to hug them and kiss them goodnight and tell them how much I love them and how proud I am of them. Edited out of their lives. The Director’s unkindest cut.

  ‘But tell me kind spirit,’ I imagine myself saying as self-pitying tears start to run down my face, reflecting the water droplets on the window, ‘are these the things that will be or just the things that might come to pass?’

  The spirit replies in my voice: ‘You’ll have to work that out for yourself, arsehole.’

  HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

  The next thing I knew, a stewardess was tapping my shoulder and asking me to put my seat in its upright position for landing. The instant the plane touched down there was the usual rush to gather bags and coats from the overhead lockers and to get from the plane to the front of the queue for Immigration as quickly as possible. As we hurried down the gangway and into the terminal, Bennett switched on his phone, which immediately started to warble like a dyspeptic baby crow. I turned mine on, too, but it stayed embarrassingly silent. Not even a ‘welcome home, one of the kids has escaped’ from Natasha.

  Bennett stared intently at his screen as we made our way through Passport Control and out to the baggage carousels, occasionally pressing buttons and making curious clucking noises. Eventually he let out one of his appalling grunt-laughs, like a vixen on heat caught in a combine harvester, and passed me his mobile. ‘Here look at these, West,’ he said appreciatively. ‘It’s more messages from that same number, but this time, they’re clearly addressed to me. Bizarre!’

  There were four new messages highlighted on the screen, all from the same unidentified number:

  So Mr Joseph A Bennett. Gone all quiet on me, eh? I didn’t wanna be too bold before but I like REALLY enjoyed last night. You were incredible!!! Cant wait to see u some
more.

  Olivia xxx

  Hi, me again! Forgot to say Im gonna be in London soon with the movie so we can meet then. How cool is that??? Would be great to hook up again real soon.

  Olly x

  What? Still not talking to me? Hope ur not one of those love em and leave em guys, English!!! What’s up, Babe? Text me pleeese! I miss you!

  O

  Hey – ur NOT one of those love em and leave em guys are u? You had better fucking not be. I dont give what I gave u last night lightly. Please don’t be mean to me, English.

  Bennett looked at me in eager anticipation, waiting for my response. ‘You know what this is, don’t you, West?’ He sounded wistful but amused. ‘Someone’s having a pop at me. Isn’t Olivia the name of that bird in the film we saw last night? The rather tasty one? I bet it’s those bloody studio guys trying to make it look like she’s after me. The bastards!’ He smiled as he tapped the phone absentmindedly on his chin, his expression full of fondly remembered laddish high jinks. He was enjoying this – it meant they’d recognised him as one of the boys. It had taken him a while to crack this crazy business but now he’d done it. Now they appreciated that beneath the highly professional, executioner’s mask he was a regular guy. Someone who got things done but could have a laugh as well; a chap who worked hard and played even harder. ‘Classic, isn’t it? They’ve really made her sound like some crazy neurotic actress. What a gas! How do you reckon I should reply?’

  I hadn’t a clue. Something didn’t stack up. No one in Hollywood knew Bennett well enough to joke with him like this and, even if they did, no one would dare impugn the reputation of a star like Olivia Finch.

  ‘Come on, man,’ Bennett harried me, ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  I could have stopped the whole thing right there but something was compelling me to go on, like when you pass a car crash on the motorway hard shoulder and implore yourself not to look but look anyway. I could have said: ‘Hey, Joseph, you’ll never believe this but, guess what? It was me who slept with Olivia Finch last night! Yup! Gave her a good seeing to and, for some reason, she thinks it was you. What a hoot! I say, old man, would you mind terribly not mentioning it to anyone at work? Or to Sandra in case she sees Natasha at their book group and spills the beans. You know how the ladies love to gossip! Thanks, awfully, mate. I owe you one.’

  If I had said that then none of the rest of what happened would have happened. Bennett would still be alive. Olivia might have won an Oscar or two by now. And I might still be working at Askett Brown. Living on my own, no doubt, as Bennett would have gone straight home and told his wife, who would have lost no time making sure Natasha knew and my feet wouldn’t have touched the floor. Natasha was not the forgiving kind when it came to infidelity. She had always made it quite clear that there would be no three strikes and you’re out for me. One slip of the libido and it would be ‘hit the road, Jack, and take your dick with you in this bag I’ve knitted out of your scrotum.’

  Perhaps it was this thought that stopped me from breaking the chain. The moment passed as quickly as it arrived and I found myself taking the coward’s way, encouraging events forward with my silent acquiescence. Instead of shouting: ‘Cut! Let’s take it again from the top but this time the little fat guy will own up,’ I adopted the role of someone who enjoyed a laugh as much as the next bloke but occasionally had to be the damp squib.

  ‘Why don’t you text back something like: “Just got off a long flight. Can’t talk now. Catch you later”?’ I said. ‘They’ll think you’re still playing along but soon realise that you can’t be bothered to get down to their level. What do you think?’

  ‘I see where you’re coming from, Westy,’ Bennett replied, mulling over his options, trying to think at least two moves ahead. ‘Slow-play it a bit. See what they do next. Yeah, I can see how that might work for someone like you, West, but it’s not really for me, is it? If these guys know anything about me, they’ll be expecting me to hit back at them hard. I’ve got to show them who’s in charge here – who’s the prankster supremo – otherwise they’ll think they can walk all over me.’ He paused to tap retardedly on his phone. ‘Hey West, what do you call one of those films that’s almost the same as another film but different? You know – same story, same actors but different title. Comes out after the first one.’

  ‘A sequel?’ I suggested, after my brain had assessed and dismissed all other options.

  ‘That’s it!’ he said, ‘that’s the feller!’ He tapped at his phone again, then passed it to me. ‘Here, what do you think?’

  Glad you liked it, babe. I had a cracking night too – deffo up there in my all-time top ten. Let’s hook up again when you’re over in old London Town and go for a sequel. JB

  I felt a knot tightening in my stomach and my toes curling up in anticipatory horror. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little, well, provocative, Joseph?’ I said, knowing that the more I protested the more likely he was to persist in his course. ‘The old slow-play sounded pretty good to me.’

  ‘Yeah, you may be right, mate,’ he replied, looking off into the middle distance as I finally spotted my suitcase sliding down the chute and onto the carousel. Then he pressed the Send button anyway.

  It was past ten o’clock by the time we had collected our luggage and walked out into the arrivals hall. Bennett tossed me a clipped ‘G’bye, West!’ as his driver stowed his ‘Joseph Bennett’ sign and picked up my boss’s enormous suitcase while I sloped off to queue for a taxi. Every trip Bennett ever went on was, essentially, an ego trip and he wasted no opportunity to make sure I knew where the power lay in our new working relationship. Although we both lived in North London, it would never have occurred to him to offer me a lift and I was glad not to feel obliged to accept.

  MILL HILL, NORTH LONDON

  The taxi journey home seemed to last an eternity which was nowhere near long enough for me. I felt an oppressive, suffocating guilt about everything that had happened. I was dreading seeing Natasha again and also worried about how Olivia would feel when she read Bennett’s latest text. It was totally irrational of me to blame him for any part of what had happened – yet still I did blame him. Why had he had to make the terrible situation I’d created so much worse? Why, when faced with competing options of what to do, could he not have done the right thing? Why did he have to be such an arse? Was it, as the scorpion said to the frog, simply his nature?

  The house was almost completely dark when I walked in. Looking up the stairs, I could see a faint light peeping out from behind the three quarters-closed door of our bedroom. Natasha was probably sitting up in bed reading, looking forward to hearing all my news. And I still had absolutely no idea what I would say to her when I saw her. I rifled through the post on the table, annoyed at the staggering ordinariness of it all, reminding me I was back in the real world of bills and junk mail and putting out the dustbins on a Sunday night.

  I took off my shoes, picked my way through the dark living room into the kitchen and ran a glass of water from the cold tap. I gulped it down in one draught, then decided I needed a pee, so I popped into the downstairs toilet and took my time emptying my bladder as quietly as I could before washing my hands as if I was scrubbing up for a delicate operation. Then, bereft of further reasons for delay, I climbed the stairs with all the perky enthusiasm of a condemned man walking to the execution chamber, opened the bedroom door and prepared to meet my fate.

  Natasha was propped up on her pillow, fast asleep. The book she was reading – this month’s book-group selection – hung limply in her right hand, a thumb wedged uncomfortably in the crease where it had tried to close, saving her place. She was still wearing her glasses and her soft brown hair had fallen forwards, half-covering her eyes. She looked at peace – as if she had gone to bed without a care in the world.

  I made no attempt to wake her, grateful to put off even longer the shattering of her delusions. Carefully, I prised the book from her sleeping hand and placed it on her side table. Then I turned
off the light directly above her head, and replaced it with the weaker glow from my bedside lamp. I tiptoed into the children’s bedrooms just to look at them as they slept. Helen was lying exactly as I imagined Natasha had left her. Not a hair out of place, her duvet perfectly even and tucked up crisply under her chin like a floral pie crust. By her head lay her favourite teddy – a souvenir from a previous trip to New York – now worn in places from too much loving. I wanted to hug her and plant a kiss on her perfectly smooth forehead but didn’t feel I had the right. How could I use the lips that the previous night had wandered all over Olivia Finch’s illicit body for such a precious assignment? I watched her breathing for a while, then muttered a quiet ‘goodnight’ and left.

  Entering Matthew’s room, I was greeted by a totally different scene. He was spread-eagled across his bed, his limbs arranged in a casual swastika. All his bedclothes were on the floor – his duvet, pillow and even his under-sheet. Perhaps he had woken in the night in the throes of a terrible nightmare and thrashed around wildly waiting to be rescued, or perhaps he’d gone to bed still pretending to be a spaceman or a dinosaur hunter and somehow managed to strip his bed in the midst of the action. Matthew was a deeper sleeper than his sister so I risked stroking his hair as I lifted his head to replace his pillow. I re-covered him with his Thunderbirds duvet and left the room. He would have to make do without his sheet tonight.

  Finally, I went into the bathroom, stripped off my well-travelled clothes and ran a bath. After I’d brushed and flossed my teeth and scraped my face with an expensive exfoliating cream (the legacy of some long-forgotten Father’s Day or anniversary), I poured a generous helping of bubble bath into the running water, stirred it to create a thick foam and climbed in. I lay there without moving a muscle for some minutes, enjoying the sensation of the hot water on my skin. Then I scrubbed myself vigorously with a harsh abrasive scrunchy thing of Natasha’s (the legacy of a long-forgotten Mother’s Day or anniversary) like a religious pilgrim purging himself, desperate to obliterate every molecule of my sin.