by T J Price
‘This is Charmaine,’ Gwynne declared with that unmistakable proprietorial air which indicated to Carla that he had found some idiot to call a girlfriend. They shook hands. Charmaine’s eyes never left Carla’s gravid stomach.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said in a neutral tone.
Gwynne ran through the rest by name and they yipped their indecipherable greetings against a background noise of suppressed snickering – none of it quite suppressed enough. And how tall they all were! The most disturbing of these lofty clowns was Jake, with little round eyes and a fixed expression of ape-like hilarity.
Carla unbolted the back door with as much significance as she could muster. ‘I forgot to tell Kitty not to bolt the back door.’ As well as having to repeat to the girl every day what she must do, one also had to tell her what not to do. Still, despite the inconvenience, she could not bring herself to condemn Kitty for being a moron. The benefits were just too numerous.
‘Okay, when we go, we’ll go out the back,’ Gwynne said.
Carla slunk off back to the shop.
This afternoon turned out to be one of those afternoons when not a single soul drifted in – not even to browse. Once in a while, her customers would gang up like this to demonstrate that they didn’t need her. Even the street outside seemed deserted.
The last three hours passed in a torment of loneliness and Carla closed the shop with piercing sense of failure. Once again, Romance had proved itself to be the ultimate dead end, and once again the realised her only hope was to sell up and get into a different line of business. With any luck in a different city.
She went into the house and got a nasty surprise. Gwynne and his crowd were still in the kitchen. They were spread out, relaxed and engaged in conversation. The repartee crisscrossed the room like a rubber ball, one that kept whizzing just past the back of her head.
‘Could you go into the living room so I can get my tea?’ She snapped, expending the last of her self confidence. Running Romance was a severe drain on one’s self confidence at the best of times, and today had been more demanding than usual.
Charmaine scowled, ‘Yeah, we’re in the way, Gwynne,’ she scolded. ‘Why don’t you think?’
Gwynne thought, albeit reluctantly. ‘Um, lets go in the front then.’
This was a short-term solution, of course. Carla now could cook her evening meal in peace, but she could not go into the living room to eat it without being made to feel even more isolated and useless than she did in her shop.
She plodded up to her bedroom and turned her radio on. But this didn’t help. Every little noise that Gwynne’s gang made downstairs, not to say every big noise, found its way up to her and her nerves. Possessing ears turned into a physical liability.
When the yobbos trooped out, an hour or so later, she exclaimed with relief. Then, after a dignified interval – twenty seconds – she left her room with the intention of taking a no nonsense stand with Gwynne on the matter of this gross intrusion into her privacy. Being pregnant would add much weight to her argument. For a start, she could tell him that his gang of hooligans had almost given her a miscarriage. Didn’t he realise she would never balance the shop’s books next year unless she went the full term?
This stinging question was not going to be answered as soon as she might have wished.
Gwynne had left with his new friends and the house was empty.
And that’s how it stayed as the evening turned to night. The silence became oppressive. Carla discovered the peace and quiet of the house was only agreeable to her when she shared her solitude with Gwynne.
Her heart grew more and more heavy, like that old sorry blanket on the washing line, suspended now in a persistent drizzle.
She decided to turn in early for the lack of anything else to do. Once she had changed, she found she had a headache coming one, so she went downstairs to the kitchen, where the medicines were kept in one of the cupboards. As she opened this, she saw the plastic bottle of pills she had been prescribed for her stomach cramps. The invasion of Gywnne’s friends had made her forget to take one that lunchtime. She picked it up and found there were two left. She had been sure there had been only one. Well, she’d still need to get more tomorrow. She swallowed one and then took an aspirin and went to bed.
Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she could not sleep. It was as if she were being forced to stay wide awake and listen for her brother’s return. The bed clothes cloyed around her and every position felt awkward. When it got to the small hours, molten tears burned her eyes as her very faith was tested. Yes, even her dream of selling Romance and escaping London forever seemed like it could never come true.
All at once it was morning.
Somehow she had slept. The unbearable ache of loneliness had faded somewhat. It revived a little when she discovered Gwynne had still not come home, but by then she believed in her dream again, and what’s more, it was better than ever. Because now, when she did sell Romance, she would refuse to take Gwynne with her.
Making him homeless would just about get her even.
After breakfast, Carla went through into the shop and let Kitty in. She gave her today’s instructions and stood watching while the huge girl began to fill the water buckets.
A moment later, Carla blurted out, ‘So, how are you today, Kitty?’
Kitty couldn’t deal with the question at the same time as her hands were occupied. She put the bucket down and stared at Carla. How was Kitty? The question seemed to trouble her on some profound level. Carla helped her out by giving her a choice of two answers. ‘Well, do you feel good, or do you feel bad?
Kitty gave Carla a crafty look. ‘I don’t know.’
After a moment, Carla said, ‘Like I told you, Kitty, only fill the buckets up three quarters. I don’t want your mother round here again complaining you’ve got a strain.’
She stumped back into the kitchen and was still there by lunch time, when Gwynne showed up.
‘Starving,’ he said.
She watched him as he prepared his dinner, a wistful smile on his face as he cranked open a can of beans. His good humour put her in a state of some perplexity. She wanted to have a good go at him, but she needed him to be sullen to get started, and Gwynne wasn’t being sullen for the first time in nineteen years. Such was the cursed power of love.
She had no choice but to pick an argument.
This was going to be a strange new experience for her. By and large arguments with Gwynne occurred spontaneously and Carla couldn’t help feeling self-conscious as she kicked off with a complaint – for the lack of anything else to kick off with.
‘You and your lot made a racket yesterday,’ she sounded like she was arraigning him in court. ‘You know I have to rest up. I’m pregnant, remember.’
Not looking at her, Gwynne nodded and stirred his beans in a saucepan on the stove. ‘Yeah, I do remember,’ he said, ‘but yesterday I forgot and I’m dead sorry about that, Carly. Somebody said they wanted to see this shop my older sister ran all by herself and I never thought. But I give you my word it won’t happen again.’ He was serious when he said this. Then he was laughing. ‘For a start off, Charmaine doesn’t like flowers. They give her a reaction, like hay fever. Worse than hay fever, though. She gets a rash, see.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Carla said. ‘But there must be an injection that would help.’
Gwynne seemed to appreciate the thought.
‘That’s what I said, but Charmaine told me she takes too many drugs as it is. Anyway, she’s got her own place near Hounslow. She’s said I should move in with her so I could get away from the flower dust too. And I thought, why not? So I’ve told her I’ll give it a go – starting next week.’
Eight: Enter the Other Party
On a leafy, prosperous square in Ladbroke Grove, a clap of summer thunder drew Tamsin to the balconied window of the bijou apartment.
Her friend, Juliet Westhrop, looked on with an indulgent smile as the winsome little creature waited, all aqu
iver, for the next peal of thunder. But none came. Instead the wind got up and a light rain began to patter against the pane.
Tamsin returned to her seat and asked, ‘Darling, I may have to borrow an umbrella later.’
‘Yes dear. I bought a new one Monday.’
Tamsin was stricken. ‘Oh, but I have two of yours already, don’t I? Listen, Jules, I’ll pop back now and bring them.’ She made as if to move, but Juliet halted her with a dismissive gesture.
‘Stay here, Tam. People will be arriving soon and it’ll look strange if I’m on my own.’ As a matter of fact, Juliet did not mind receiving guests on her own, but she always tried her best to avoiding making Tamsin suffer. They had been friends from school, when Tamsin’s hopeless vulnerability was a large part of her charm, and although those days were long since gone, Juliet still nursed a protective instinct towards her.
‘Come to think of it now, I have one of Phoebe’s umbrellas too.’
Tamsin spoke with a polished accent. She was the only child of a leading barrister (her father) and the head of a London-based PR consultancy (mother). It went without saying they had always expected something remarkable from their cherished offspring. They had been glad to fund her at St Martin’s College of Art. But her childhood friend, Juliet, could have told them from the beginning that their daughter had even less talent than ambition. Tamsin had gone to St Martin’s for one reason alone – because Juliet was there.
‘I’m surprised Phoebe has an umbrella,’ Juliet said.
‘It was still sealed in the original packaging.’ Tamsin stared at the rain and sighed. ‘She should try to take more care of herself.’
Juliet tried not to smile. For some reason the rain always made Tamsin melancholic, and when Tamsin was melancholic she was at her most ludicrous. ‘No need to worry about Phoebe.’ Juliet soothed. ‘She’s a real toughie.’
Tamsin took heart from these words and Juliet was about to tell herself, yet again, that the girl was such a pathetic and simple soul, when Tamsin said, ‘I’ve just remembered something, Juliet. I’ve won ten thousand pounds on the premium bonds. Of course, it’s not the jackpot, as such, but . . . ’
Having taken a moment or two to swallow this, Juliet hastened to congratulate Tamsin on her good fortune.
It was then that she was struck by how often before she had congratulated Tamsin on her good fortune. Far more often, indeed, than she had ever congratulated any of her other friends. She had been obliged to congratulate her, for instance, on her triumphant graduation show at St Martin’s College of Art. Tamsin’s contribution consisted of a series of sepia portrait photographs of her friends’ vacuum cleaners.
It had been acclaimed.
Tamsin was pleased to be acclaimed, but she was over the moon about her uncle and aunty leaving her as the sole beneficiary in their will. She wasn’t quite rich now, but she had enough to buy a tiny house near the Portobello Road and lead a comfortable lifestyle off what remained.
Since then, Tamsin had no longer taken account of her parents’ high expectations for her.
‘It’s so nice to be able to come to a party,’ Tamsin declared. ‘I mean a party like this one, rather than Helena’s. And when the weather gets gloomy, it helps to cheer one up thinking about beautiful summer evenings like this.’
Juliet gave her a pitying smile. No, Tamsin couldn’t count on being cheered up at one of Helena Hursborg’s art parties – the only kind of party she attended on a regular basis. Helena – their mutual friend from art college – was a decade older than either of them. They had met her at St Martin’s only because Helena had somehow made her three-year degree course last eight years. She was a manager rather than an artist and knew by instinct how to use people. Juliet disliked the way Helena used Tamsin at her parties as a kind of waitress, and yet, she also had to admit that perhaps waiting on people with wine was Tamsin’s true vocation. ‘By the way, Tam,’ Juliet said, just in case Tamsin got the wrong idea. ‘Philip’s got his orders – he’ll be taking the drinks round.’
‘Poor man. Anyway, I wish I could throw a party myself once in a while,’ Tamsin said, referring to the limited size of her little house.
‘It wouldn’t be safe for any more than five or six people, dear. Fire regulations.’ But the issue of safety was on Juliet’s mind for another reason. ‘That reminds me, I’d better put Phoebe’s candelabra out on the table now. She might think we’ve flogged it otherwise. You know how sensitive she is.’
This was one of Philip’s jobs, but her husband was still out, buying extra salted snacks from the nearest SevenEleven. Tamsin helped her take the candelabra from the locked cupboard in the hallway.
This gargoyle of contorted metal was only ever let out of the locked cupboard when Phoebe was expected to visit. A versatile artist and welder, the candelabra was the nearest she had ever come to the homely and utilitarian. Cautioning each other to take care of the many wicked spikes, Tamsin and Juliet lugged it to the living room and stood it on the middle of the dining table, where it squatted, looking ominous and malign.
The doorbell rang.
Juliet went downstairs and found Liam waiting outside.
Another friend from those bygone days at St Martin’s College, Liam was a tall, youngish man, pale and yet saturnine, who nursed a throbbing core of rancourous defeat under the long, dingy, old man’s coat he wore throughout the year. He got about London on a creaking boneshaker bicycle – his one constant companion in life.
‘Where’s your bike, Liam?’
‘Stolen.’
‘Oh dear. Come on up. Only Tamsin’s here so far. When does your show show?’
‘It’s showed. Two weeks ago.’
Juliet made a fuss of wondering why she hadn’t been told. And so did Tamsin. Joining their sympathy up seemed to make it amount to something.
‘All of Helena’s invitations got lost in the post once,’ Tamsin said, in an attempt to make Liam feel less alone and worthless.
Liam’s gloom sharpened into resentment. ‘They were bound to get lost eventually. She sends them out every fortnight. My show was a virtual one off.’
‘But maybe you ought to try the same approach to selling your paintings as Helena does,’ Tamsin offered, as a tentative suggestion.
‘The Hursborg Tupperware Party approach?’ Liam sneered. He understood perfectly that the true agenda of Helena’s art parties was to flog her paintings – abstracts that demonstrated that she couldn’t even use a paint roller right.
Juliet said, ‘It does seem to work though. She sells everything she makes.’
Liam nodded. ‘That’s true. But then, everyone’s drunk before they buy anything.’ He let out a bitter, but feeble laugh, and Juliet and Tamsin answered with repressed smiles. Liam went on, ‘Actually, I don’t resent her being such a good salesman. I wish I had her gift for selling. What does get to me is that her parties really are Tupperware parties. All her dreadful pictures are nothing but Tupperware still-lives. She’s got a big collection Tupperware hidden in her attic. She uses them as her models.’
‘Has she?’ Tamsin asked, wide eyed.
Juliet laughed at Tamsin’s naivety. However, Liam’s wall-eyed stare made Juliet realise he was being serious.
Her laughter petered out.
‘She’s coming along later, Liam,’ Tamsin reminded him.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t actually care enough to tell her what I think about her.’
Juliet and Tamsin exchanged a look. They had never worried about Liam telling Helena what he thought about her, and they never would.
Just then, the front door opened and shut and Philip came clumping up the stairs with a box full of salted snacks. ‘Hello, you two,’ he greeted them with a happy smile. He was six foot six and sported a shank of floppy blond hair that still didn’t look too young for him. He also boasted endless legs attached to lean, athletic body, and he was currently enjoying a vibrant City career in the Centaur Corporate Investment Bank.
Juliet alwa
ys felt like punching the air when she added it all up.
‘How you doing?’ Liam asked neutrally. Tamsin went up to bestow a kiss.
‘Fine, fine.’
‘We’d better dish this lot out as well,’ Juliet said, as Philip put the box of snacks on a chair.
‘Use scissors,’ Tamsin said, being the expert. ‘It’s quicker than opening the packets by hand.’
Juliet went to the kitchen to fetch the scissors and more plates and came back to find Philip telling Liam that his bank had recently invested in artwork to the tune of three million pounds. The doorbell sounded again and he broke off to answer it, returning followed by Phoebe – a tall rangy woman in her mid twenties, short-haired and wearing jeans and a white tee shirt. She was accompanied by a man of her own age, who was taller even than Liam and Philip. This guy, who boasted a frame of solid bone and muscle – the bone predominating – and was dressed in fashionable street-fighting style, evinced an air of physical menace. Phoebe introduced him as Justin.
‘Hello there,’ he said in a brisk, impersonal voice. His accent revealed him to be of purest upper-middle-class origins.
He was carrying a pair of bongos.
‘I’m afraid you can’t play those here,’ Juliet told him as soon as she spotted them. ‘The neighbours.’
Juliet’s crisp command confounded Justin. As a gentleman, he knew he must do as the hostess asked, but, you know, the bongos was an important prop in his current image. He was at a loss. Philip stepped in adroitly and commandeered him to help Tamsin dish up the salted snacks – the bongos had to take care of themselves.
Meanwhile, in one corner, Phoebe launched into an enthusiastic conversation with Liam. She gushed about the bash she had thrown last week at her flat in Maida Vale. The lovely, but strange Elspeth Williams had been there – the Elspeth Williams who was tipped for this year’s Turner Prize. Phoebe waxed lyrical about how Elspeth was working in the media of “found” crisp packets.