by T J Price
But for Gwynne, a car crash was the very worst example of a traumatic experience, implying, as it did, the fulfilment of a dream – owning a car in the first place. A decent one too. He wouldn’t want to crash in an old nail, would he?
‘Well, they sound like a pair of right shits, Carl, I agree,’ Gwynne said, adopting the tone of the oily salesman who’d sold Carla the sphagnum moss that she didn’t need. ‘But still, if he wants to take you to lunch then why not just go ahead and see what he says. At least you’ll get a good meal out of it.’
Eleven: Credit Lunch
Philip arrived an hour later to pick Carla up.
He took her in his rust-blistered Rover down the traffic-clogged streets to Putney and having parked it between two other cars with mere inches to spare he conveyed her into a designer restaurant.
This had a striking similarity to the interior of Gerald’s fertility treatment clinic. There was a predominance of white wall, broken by a discreet-few pine-framed pictures that did not retain the gaze too long, nor even try to draw it, but which were quite content to do no more than satisfy the peripheral vision.
‘Ah, Saxifrage, hi there. Table for two, please.’ Philip said, as a waitress approached them – a peculiar, diminutive being, with purple lipstick and a shockingly frosty smile. She welcomed them in a clipped, upper-class accent and led them to a table, leaving them with a menu each.
‘I don’t suppose I can smoke here,’ Carla said, when they were alone. Not because she wanted to smoke as such, but because that was the only thing which all the designer chic said to her.
Philip glanced around. ‘No, I daresay you can’t. In case you are wondering what to try, I’d recommend the beef fillet, with baby carrots and pea volute. Though, for myself, I think today I’ll try the rack of lamb with new season garlic. I’ll get you a half bottle of Shiraz, shall I? It’s not sweet, but not too dry either, and although this may come as a terrible shock, Carla, I have to say I want to do everything in my power to see you reunited with your baby.’
Carla found herself lost for words. The waitress, Saxifrage, returned to the table just then with a carafe of water.
Philip ordered for them both.
This gave Carla time to think. When the waitress had left them alone again, she asked, ‘What’s wrong with it, then?’
‘With what?’
‘The kid.’
‘Nothing, it’s fantastic. Look.’ He pulled some photographs out and began to show them to her.
‘Ugh, put them away! I’m here to eat, aren’t I?’
‘I’d thought you love to see Porchester again,’ Philip said.
‘Porchester!’ Carla scoffed loud enough to turn some heads.
‘Oh, well, don’t let that put you off. Change the name. The kid won’t know any better. Like, I had this dog once which my parent’s brought as a puppy from a family who were moving abroad. They originally called it Carbon. Yeah, that almost put me off too. It was all black, you see. But I persisted, and within a week it learned to run to me when I called Butch.’
‘Butch?’ Carla queried with a faint smile.
Philip frowned. ‘I do want to help you, Carla.’
Carla leaned forward and propped her chin on her hands. ‘Then why do you want to do everything in your power to see your child back in my arms?’
He looked confused. ‘Because . . . you really want him back?’
‘Bollocks to that.’
Philip’s jaw went slack. Then he bleated, ‘But what about the maternal instinct? It’s the strongest instinct there is.’
‘Which is why I can’t understand why Juliet would want to let it go.’
‘Ah, but you see,’ Philip went on, eager to explain. ‘Juliet and I are getting divorced. Or at least we’re on the downward spiral that leads to divorce. At this stage, I feel he would have a better future with you. You see? There’s no need to feel guilty about taking him.’
Carla groaned and put her face in her hands. She stared at him through her fingers. ‘You’ve got a flipping cheek. I carry the thing and now you expect me to bring the little fucker up.’ She dropped her hands.
Philip leaned forward and grasped one of them. ‘How about if I pay you as well – to take it away?’
Carla withdrew her hand. ‘Why are you so desperate to get rid of it?’ Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘Just what did I give birth to?’
Philip laughed. ‘He’s a healthy kid. Honest, Carla, you couldn’t wish for better.’
‘Yeah? Then why would Juliet let you get rid of it? What happened to her maternal instinct? Okay, you’re getting divorced, but that doesn’t mean she can’t keep the kid.’
Philip’s amusement faded fast. He picked his fork up so that he could twiddle something nervously between his fingers.
‘A kid, you know, would make a divorce very messy. Juliet will claim crippling child maintenance off me. Look, lets say I pay you instead. A one off payment. How about . . . another five thousand pounds?’ Carla did not respond. ‘I’ll add five later this year, and five next. You’ll have had fifteen thousand altogether. What do you say?’
‘But then I’ll get lumbered with a kid to bring up. And I don’t want one, even if you were paying me regular maintenance.’
‘Ah, but you see, you couldn’t claim maintenance off me,’ Philip said perkily, ‘that’s what’s so beautiful.’ He eyed the fork, moving around and around in his fingers and murmured . ‘But don’t worry about bringing it up. Just wait awhile and then sell it for adoption. They’re crying out for babies in America. You’d get even more money then, wouldn’t you? Maybe twenty-thousand pounds. Maybe a lot more. I tell you, he’s a great looking kid.’
Carla’s interest quickened. ‘Twenty thou?’
He smiled at her. ‘Or more. It’d be easier than you think. I’ll even do the research for you. And as for claiming the kid back off us, don’t worry – you won’t have to do a thing. I have a lawyer. David Chudhury. He’ll work with you and make sure you get him back. You have to hurry though, Carla. You have to lodge your claim within the next two weeks, or under English law you’ll lose your right to take him back. What do you say? You’re looking to make thirty-five thousand pounds altogether. Not bad for no work, eh?’
Carla didn’t feel the need to answer straight away. She studied Philip for a moment. ‘You must really hate Juliet to do something like this to her.’
Philip avoided her eyes. ‘No, I don’t hate her,’ he said. His lean, haughty face twitched with hurt. ‘I can’t help myself. I’m trapped.’ He scowled at his plate. ‘It’s my fault. I thought marriage would change the . . . way I felt.’ Misery played across his features for a moment, then he looked up at her defiantly. ‘All right, enough’s enough. There are other options. Will you help? Yes or no?’
A silence grew between them. Carla heard the sounds of the restaurant echoing from a distance. ‘Okay then, but only if I get all the money you’re offering up front. The full ten. That’s my condition.’
‘That’ll be difficult,’ Philip said, but he looked relieved.
‘See, it’s no good to me in installments,’ Carla kept drilling, not daring to believe she had struck oil yet. ‘I need the money straight away to make any difference. I’ve got a business to sell and I want to start up something new.’
‘Okay, okay, lets fucking well talk.’
Gush!
Twelve: Flies on Serena
Spring. Yes, another one. And like every year before, Serena was in raptures as she made her regular appearance at Romance.
‘Oh Carla, the blossom!’
Carla just knew she had come direct from a haircut that very morning, and this haircut, much like the previous twelve months, had left her unchanged in every way. Hence that ineffably self-satisfied smile. Serena’s ineffably self-satisfied smile was something else about her which had survived all-devouring time. Except . . .
Serena’s ineffably self-satisfied smile congealed now and slid off her face, like half a pound of j
ellied eels.
Carla was smiling back at her!
‘Yes, it is a wonderful day,’ Carla cried. ‘Absolutely stupendous. It’s the sort of day when you’re just glad to be alive, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Serena said, sounding like a vacuum cleaner powering down.
Carla had always suspected that her own misery and hopelessness was one of the constants of Serena’s life. Serena liked life to be constant, even if it meant Carla had to die unhappy and alone. If Carla didn’t, then Serena would have to rely on her fifty quid haircut and the blossom in spring to bolster her illusion of immortality against the onslaught of all-consuming time.
So, as Carla had anticipated, Serena immediately went on the offensive. ‘Sounds to me like someone’s in love,’ she trilled.
‘Well yes, man has recently entered my life,’ Carla chirped back.
Serena’s frigid smile widened. ‘Tall, dark and handsome no doubt.’
‘Well . . . is the Pope a Catholic?’
Try as she might, Serena could not interpret this as a negative reply. Instead, she went with the spirit of the thing and laughed. Carla had never heard Serena laugh before. ‘And does he have a good job, like the Pope?’
‘Well, apart from being tall, dark and handsome, he’s a partner in a law firm. He’s based out in Houslow, as it happens.’ Carla could see Serena trying not to swallow this, so she crammed a bit more down her scrawny neck. ‘His name is David, David Chudhury. Do you know him? I only ask because he specialises in divorce.’
Serena glared at her. This rare display of genuine emotion lasted less than a second before Serena was smiling again. But nonetheless, Carla’s heart leapt in triumph.
‘No, my lawyer is based in New York,’ Serena said, like this was a crashing platitude. ‘I often visit there, you see . . . But you didn’t meet David in New York did you? Because that would be such a coincidence.’
‘No, we didn’t meet in New York. It’s difficult for him to get away.’
Serena pounced. ‘Oh dear, he’s not married is he?’
‘Yes he is,’ Carla countered without hesitation, having prepared for this question ‘But they’re splitting up.’
‘Splitting up? Dear, they all say that.’
‘His wife moved out quite some time ago. It’s been almost two years now. Actually, it’s a laugh – a scream, really, but she’s moved next door. So, you could say a wall has risen up between them.’
Serena acknowledged the joke with the fleeting ghost of a smile. ‘I’m very happy for you, Carla dear, but I’d better hurry off now, I’m due in Knightsbridge at twelve.’
‘Shame, I’ve got some gorgeous irises in. They came yesterday.’
‘I do love irises, but, what I want today is – ’ Here it came now and Carla readied herself for it – Serena’s monthly comprehensive statement of what she thought of Carla and her shop. The statement she had been making for years. ‘A can of flyspray, please.’
‘A can of flyspray?’ Carla sang. ‘Well, I do believe there’s a can with your name on it around here somewhere. A reserve vintage, so to speak.’ She chuckled to herself as she squatted down behind the counter. ‘Lets see.’
Serena’s countenance went cold at this insolence and she turned to one side to study a row of miniature roses on a nearby shelf.
Carla started shifting around the tin pots and pans she had put underneath the counter – just to provide good sound effects. The clashing noise soon had Serena’s temple throbbing. Oh, she was such a sensitive creature!
All at once, Carla stopped.
Serena turned.
Carla had positioned herself so that her eyes alone appeared over the counter. Like a hippo submerged in a muddy African river.
From this vantage she could stare right up Serena’s nose.
It didn’t look like a dud.
‘Carla!’
‘Ready for a surprise?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Carla reared up from behind the counter and banged a can of flyspray down on top of it. Serena gawped. Carla had sellotaped a slip of paper to the can, on which she had written Serena’s name. And then, out of sheer exuberance, she had drawn a few orbiting flies.
‘This is Lily of the Valley, Serena. I tell you, it sells like hot cakes. My first batch was ripped off the shelves in a week. I couldn’t believe it. But anyway, I’ve kept a can back so that you can give it a whirl.’
‘Pine Fresh.’
‘Yes, yes, I know you swear by Pine Fresh, but Lily of the Valley is the up and coming thing. It’s got the full endorsement of my very best, most discriminating customer – Rupert Nodes. He should know, Serena. He’s an undertaker.’
Serena fixed her with steely eyed determination. ‘Pine Fresh.’
Carla heaved a sigh. ‘Here you are then,’ She took a can of Pine Fresh from under the counter without even having to bend down.
‘How much?’
‘Tell you what, this can’s for free, in gratitude for all your many years of faithful custom. But if I were you, I’d get used to Lily of the Valley. See, I talk to Eric, the leading flyspray salesman in West London, and the word is Pine Fresh has had its day.’
Serena listened to this, and then opened her purse, took out three pounds and placed them on the counter. ‘Keep the change, Carla.’ She put the can of pine fresh in her handbag, straightened its straps on her shoulder, checked the lapels of her coat and was all set to go. Yet for seconds and seconds and seconds nothing else happened. For some reason Serena was still there. Carla gave her a quizzical look, at which Serena’s eyes dropped down to the note with her name on it attached to the can of Lily of the Valley.
‘You’re going to take my name off that, aren’t you?’ Serena asked.
‘Yes, straightaway,’ Carla assured her, as if she were already in a flurry to get the job done. Meanwhile, she didn’t move a muscle.
Serena didn’t move a muscle either.
At last, Carla picked the can up with some reluctance and said, ‘I’ll go get the scissors.’ She began to edge away from the counter.
‘Goodbye then,’ Serena said, hesitated, then turned and went to the door. But as she opened it, she glanced back and caught Carla about to put the can under the counter again. Carla shoved the can under one arm and began to root around in an exaggerated fashion.
‘Scissors, scissors, scissors,’ she yodelled, ‘where did you go to after I finished my toenails?’ She stopped theatrically. ‘I know! Gwynne’s taken them upstairs to cut his hair.’ She turned to Serena and grinned. ‘I’ll just call him.’ But she stopped dead, her face alight with inspiration. ‘Hey, Serena!’ She was excited now. ‘I’ve just thought! Gwynne’s got pretty nifty at cutting his own hair now. What do you say? He could give you a trim . . . and it’ll only cost you a fiver too.’ Not waiting for Serena’s reply, she turned to the door behind her and hollered into the house. ‘Gwynne!’
Serena fled.
Thirteen: Airgun Wedding
Manhattan glinted like old silver in the winter sunshine.
Carla and David dawdled to a stop on the sidewalk and David turned to her, his head framed by Macey’s sparkling window display.
‘Well, Babe, I’ll see you at Treski’s,’ he said with a knowing smile.
‘Don’t be late, I’ll be starving by then.’ Snow flakes began to fill the air between the tower blocks that sailed above them. Carla drew her fur coat more tightly around her shoulders. Suddenly, wildly, madly, David was holding her, his warm lips so very, very close to hers, and then . . . the shattering slam of the front door shook the whole city to its foundations.
She woke with a painful start and found herself at home in bed.
As always, whenever she woke at night, she seemed to catch Romance in the act of sucking the life out of her, like a vampire. She lay there, helpless, as her youth slipped away – nothing more than a fading dream. She was locked in the grip of an utter hopelessness and she almost cried out in her despair. As so of
ten before.
Then she remembered – David was real. A real dream man.
Damn, it was almost too good to be true!
And not only was he a real dream man -- he was fighting for her in court!
True, he was supposed to be Juliet lawyer,.because Juliet was contesting Carla’s claim to the child. But really, and a bit secretly too, he on her side. And Philip’s side too, because Philip was his old friend. And apart from being dishy beyond words, David was a fantastic lawyer. He assured her that he was extraordinarly confident about losing Juliet’s case. And even if he hadn’t been a fantatic lawyer, Carla could see for herself that Juliet had begun to show all the signs of an incipient nervous breakdown, and the way she ranted and raved in front of the judge wasn’t doing her any favours.
Oh yes indeed, the transformation of Juliet from a haughty metropolitan middle class type – the very species who patronised Romance so insufferably – into a hollow-eyed female loon was a memory Carla would long cherish. But the real star of the show was, of course, David himself. He was putting up a magnificent-looking fight for her rights in the case. Such a contrast to Philip, who was actually Juliet’s husband. Oh, it was sickening how he attended to her every little need in court, putting on a show like he shared her pain and whispering to her, ‘Strong, Jules, be strong.’
David could never be such a two-faced shit to his wife. He didn’t pretend that he liked her when he hated her really. No, he was unflinchingly cutting her out of his life. That was a real man. He was a tower of strength and she’d had no trouble pouring her heart out to him . . Well, he’d asked her to, because the more he knew about her, he said, the better he could tip-toe around any area in her life that was best kept quiet about in court.
In return, he had revealed his own past with devastating honesty.
He admitted that some years before he had entered into an arranged marriage, simply to please his aged mother. His parents were from the Punjab and were very conservative. Well, as he should have foreseen, the marriage to Angit hadn’t worked. Perhaps they should never have moved into his mother’s house in Hounslow. Angit couldn’t tolerate his mother’s overbearing manner. As a compromise, David had added an annex to the house – a granny flat – so they could all have their own space. But what happened was, after yet another dreadful screaming match, Angit was the one who moved into the granny flat, not his mother. David spotted his opportunity, and had the connecting door walled up. From that day on, he took it as read that Angit and he were separated. With a smile breaking out on his sensitive, rakishly handsome face, he told Carla that in a couple of months he could start divorce proceedings. Indeed, in telling his story he seemed rather amused by everything that had happened to his marriage.