by Fiona Gibson
‘Can you ask all your customers if they’ve seen it?’ the woman wants to know. Her face is heavily crinkled, like the crepe paper Lori used to use for making flowers to stick on her bedroom wall.
‘I will,’ I assure her, ‘and I’ll put up a note on the wall too. Could I take your name and number, in case it turns up?’
She nods, tight-lipped, as I grab paper and a pen. ‘Jean Cuthbertson …’ She breathes over me as I write down her number. ‘If someone’s found it, they’re just going to keep it, aren’t they?’ she remarks.
‘Not necessarily. I mean, what would you do, if you found something in a pocket?’
‘Return it, of course,’ she says crossly.
‘Well, I think most people would do that too.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she retorts. ‘Not these days …’
‘Let’s just see, shall we?’ I say, trying to convey optimism. ‘Let’s hope for the best.’ And off she goes, still seemingly upset and disgruntled, as if the loss of her wedding ring is somehow our fault.
There’s still no joy on the ring front next day, despite us all searching high and low for the trousers. I also gather from Nadia during our quick catch-up at lunchtime that things are still tricky at home. ‘Are you working just now?’ I ask.
‘Trying to,’ she murmurs.
‘Am I interrupting you?’
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘Not at all.’
‘Are you at the studio?’
‘No, I’m at home. I’m working at the dining table. Hang on …’ There’s a pause, and I gather that she’s gone to another room. ‘Alfie’s here,’ she says.
‘Right. So … how’s he doing?’
‘Hmm.’ I hear her inhale. ‘Let’s just say he’s taken to cooking in a big way …’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
She laughs dryly. ‘I s’pose so, but his methods are a bit … chaotic. It’s kind of hard to concentrate on work when he’s blitzing things in the blender and the lid shoots off …’
‘Oh, God.’ I pause. ‘Any news on the … you know. The uni situation?’
‘Nope. That’s why I’m here, instead of at the studio, in case he decides he’s ready to talk things over …’
‘But you need to work,’ I point out.
‘Yes, I know,’ she says, rather tetchily. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jack. You know how it is just now.’
‘Of course I do. Don’t worry.’
‘I’d love to see you but I feel like I need to be here for him at the moment.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s fine. I really do understand …’
‘What’re you up to this evening?’ she asks.
‘I thought I’d see Fergus and the lads,’ I reply.
‘Oh, that’ll be nice. Have fun.’
Things feel a little different, I reflect, as we finish the call still with no definite plan to meet. But naturally Alfie has to take priority and, if I’m starting to feel a little uneasy, then I really should grow up.
The shop is busy enough for the afternoon to fly by, and soon I’m installed in the pool club with Fergus, Tam and Paul. It’s hard to get everyone together these days. Fergus still lives locally – he manages a restaurant – but Tam lives in Liverpool, and Paul’s high-flying job as a geologist involves him spending chunks of the year in the Far East.
‘So how’s the big love thing going?’ Tam asks, chalking up his cue at the pool table.
I smile. Neither he nor Paul have met Nadia yet. ‘Pretty good.’
‘You keep posting pictures of the two of you on Facebook,’ he adds with a smirk.
‘Yeah, well,’ I retort, ‘what d’you want me to post? Photos of me sitting at home, staring at a radiator?’
Fergus laughs. ‘Tam’s just jealous.’
‘You’ve met her, right?’ Tam remarks.
‘Yeah.’ Fergus nods. ‘She’s lovely. He’s punching well above his weight.’
My phone starts trilling, and I snatch it from my pocket, aware of a twinge of disappointment that it isn’t Nadia.
‘Hi, Elaine,’ I say, wandering over towards a quieter corner.
‘Hey, where are you?’ she asks.
‘At the pool club …’
‘Ew, that dingy dive,’ she teases, although she’s never been here. I can tell immediately that she’s a bit pissed, but I know there’s no point in commenting on the fact. She’d only accuse me of being sanctimonious. ‘Surely that’s not where you take Nadia?’ she remarks in a sarky tone.
‘No, I’m with Tam, Paul and Fergus,’ I reply, refusing to rise to the bait.
‘Aw, the old gang, all together. That’s sweet!’
‘Hmmm. Yeah. So, uh, is everything okay?’ Elaine and I never just call each other for matey chats.
‘Er, yeah. Could Lori head straight over to you after school tomorrow, instead of on Thursday? Something’s come up …’
‘That’s fine,’ I reply, and it is. We have our regular weekly pattern, but it’s never set in stone. ‘Doing anything nice?’ I ask, curious now.
‘Erm, well, I’ve sort of started seeing someone …’
‘Oh, that’s good …’
She laughs. ‘Yeah. Well, it’s early days, he hasn’t met Lori yet, but it’s his birthday tomorrow and we’re both pretty broke. I thought he could come over here, we’ll order in a take-away …’
‘Sounds great,’ I say, keen to get off the phone now.
‘Thanks, Jack. You’re a star. Speak soon—’
‘Elaine?’ I cut in.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is Lori there?’
‘Oh, yeah, but she’s in her room – homework, I think. Better not disturb the creative flow …’ She chuckles.
‘Okay,’ I murmur, thinking: that’s pretty unlikely. The homework element, I mean. I am aware that quite often Lori doesn’t get around to doing it, and that Elaine probably wouldn’t have a clue either way. A short while later, after the lads and I said our goodbyes outside the club, I text Lori.
Hope all’s good? Mum says you’re coming tomorrow. All ok? Naturally what I really want to ask is: How drunk is Mum? It’s a Tuesday night, after all – not that the day of the week is that significant as Elaine isn’t working.
All fine, Lori replies, and I’m loath to pester her further. Instead, I make my way to the subway just before ten, thinking how sensible we’ve become – Tam, Paul, Fergus and me. ‘Work tomorrow,’ Paul announced, and I resisted the urge to suggest one more round.
And I have the audacity to worry about Elaine’s drinking?
I emerge from the subway, almost home now, and stop to check my phone again. Miss you, Nadia has texted. I know you’re out tonight but feel free to come over and stay if you like. Doesn’t matter if it’s late. I’m sitting here working but thinking about you.
I smile and call her as I walk. ‘Hey, that was sweet of you, to send that.’
‘Just missing you,’ she says. ‘Are you still out?’
‘Almost home actually.’
‘Well, if you fancy coming over …’
Hmm, the prospect of being alone in my chilly bed, or curling up with Nadia in hers? Tough choice … ‘What about Alfie?’ I ask. ‘Is he home?’
‘Yes, he’s here,’ she replies lightly, ‘but he’ll need to get used to us being together, won’t he? It’s fine, Jack, honestly. No one expects me to live like a nun.’
Chapter Sixteen
Is it awful of me to hope Alfie will be tucked up in bed, like a nine-year-old, by the time I arrive? Of course he isn’t. He’s stretched out on the sofa with various devices close to hand: phone, iPad, laptop. But at least he says hi, and sort-of smiles, as I breeze in.
‘Hi, Alfie,’ I say, with a big, relaxed grin, wondering now if my affected casualness has caused me to swagger, like a cowboy entering a saloon. Aware of Alfie returning his attentions to his gadgetry, I perch on one of Nadia’s rather hard, unyielding chairs that forces me to sit unnaturally upright. Sure, I’m relaxed eno
ugh around here to take a seat, without prior invitation – but I’m not quite brave enough to sit next to him yet.
‘Like a beer, Jack?’ Nadia asks, having given me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
‘Better not, I’ve had loads tonight.’ I smile tightly, realising that sounds as if I’m inebriated, and wondering whether Alfie will assume I make a habit of this: going out on the piss with my mates, then bowling up here to shag his mother.
‘So, how was everyone?’ Nadia asks, squishing next to Alfie on the sofa (this requires him to edge up – grudgingly – to make space for her). Still, at least the TV is on, helping to defuse the awkwardness as I regale her with thrilling tales of my friends’ recent adventures: Paul’s plane home from Hong Kong being diverted due to a passenger brawl and, less thrillingly, Tam’s camping trip to Arran, and Fergus’s badminton injury.
On and on I prattle, thinking how lovely Nadia looks in her lounge-type outfit (could you even call black leggings and a snugly fitting vest top an outfit?). Anyway, she looks gorgeous, and I’m wondering now when I can stop wittering on about my friends’ lives and we can just go to bed.
Alfie glances up again. As well as poking at his devices he seems to be at least partially watching TV. It’s a panel show featuring one of those angry chefs – Kevin-someone – who’s primarily known for his own programme, where contestants are given a limited budget and three hours to prepare a dinner party for ten. I only know it because Lori enjoys it. He shouts, he mocks his contestants’ dishes and frequently reduces them to tears. But now, the panel show reveals that he has the wit of a sloth.
As my conversation with Nadia stalls, I glance at Alfie, knowing that I should at least try to talk to him – to show him I’m perfectly capable of communicating with a nineteen-year-old boy. The situation starts to feel especially urgent when Nadia gets up and wanders off to the kitchen, having persuaded me that I’d like tea, but possibly for some respite from my ramblings about Fergus’s groin strain. But what should I talk about? As Alfie’s gaze flicks between TV, laptop, iPad and phone – it’s admirable, his ability to multi-view – I run through a mental list of things to not mention, such as:
1. Religious architecture of any kind.
2. Rainfall in Aberdeen.
3. His academic course.
4. In fact, anything Aberdeen-related given his recent announcement that he’s not going back.
5. Politics (too risky).
6. Anything to do with my own life, as why should Alfie be interested? He hasn’t chosen to spend time with me. From his perspective I’ve just been foisted upon him, out of the blue.
So what does that leave? What kind of music d’you like, Alfie? I can imagine the withering look that would trigger. Or: Heard any good jokes? No – people of his age don’t tell jokes (are jokes becoming obsolete?) and I’m not about to tell him one of mine, not even the one about the guy answering the door in his pyjamas (handy place for a door, haha!).
I’m contemplating whether to broach the topic of veganism – in an all-ears, tell-me-all-about-it sort of way, as if I might be considering veering down that route – or suggesting I ‘give Nadia a hand with the tea’. But then, he’d know I was fleeing, and I don’t want him to sense my fear.
‘So, any plans for this week?’ I ask, blandly.
‘Not really,’ Alfie replies.
Silence. ‘Nice to be back in Glasgow?’
Alfie nods. ‘Yeah, I s’pose it is.’
I nod too, as if contemplating what he’s said. ‘Bet it is.’
Understandably, Alfie doesn’t bother responding to this. I’m tempted to add, Bet it’s great being looked after, but this might imply ineptitude, and that his mother’s role is that of a serf. Instead, I run my tongue over my teeth, willing Nadia to reappear – not to rescue me, no, but to rejoin the happy throng here.
Finally she comes back, looking a little stressed around the eyes and brandishing three mugs, which she sets on the coffee table.
‘Thanks!’ I beam at her.
‘That’s okay.’ Her smile tenses as she settles back down next to Alfie, and we find ourselves discussing the TV programme half-heartedly. At least Alfie is actually conversing now, and who knows, I think, my patience fraying a little now, a few more nights like this, and perhaps the three of us will be booking a holiday together (Heaven fucking forbid!). At least Nadia and I are going away, I remind myself. It’s still a few weeks away, by which point things are bound to be more relaxed with her son.
‘I’m shattered,’ Nadia announces finally, looking at me. ‘Shall we get some sleep?’
She yawns ostentatiously, which sets me off too. Look at the two of us, yawning away, clearly exhausted and going to bed for a good night’s sleep, and nothing else! Nadia stands up and stretches, rotating her shoulders in a way I’ve never seen her do before, and I get up from the rigid chair and say goodnight to Alfie.
‘Night,’ he mutters, eyes glued to the TV.
‘Turn the TV off when you’re done, love,’ Nadia murmurs.
‘’Course I will.’
‘Well, you didn’t last night …’
‘Didn’t I?’ He affects the look of the wrongly accused, and she laughs indulgently as she makes for the door. Affecting a shambling walk now, as if I’m looking forward to nothing more enticing than assembling a flat-pack bedside table, I follow Nadia out of the living room.
Of course, once we’re in bed, sex isn’t an option, not with her son in the flat. To even contemplate it would be ridiculous, and to actually do it – or even to engage in any kind of foreplay – would be far too risky to even think about.
So I lie there, thinking about it, as Nadia curls up by my side.
The trouble is, she is naked: beautifully, perfectly naked, her soft, warm body next to mine. So of course I can’t just lie there and think about going to sleep, or the fact that my kettle is broken – I need to order a new one – or indeed any other pressing domestic issues. Numerous scientific studies have proved that it’s impossible for your average straight male to contemplate housekeeping matters in such a situation. Add the fact that Nadia is the most desirable person I have ever been to bed with since – well, ever – and I find myself taking her in my arms, and kissing her, and of course things start to happen.
‘Just relax,’ she whispers, sensing my slight hesitation. I try to, in the way that I tried to ‘relax’ as instructed just before my dentist hoiked out one of my molars, with pliers. But it’s impossible. Never before has our sex life required some kind of risk assessment, but now it must. Her bed is rather creaky, I know this from numerous previous occasions, and we’ve laughed about the fact that some of those rivets could probably do with tightening up. I also know what teenagers are like, feigning deafness whenever you ask them to wash up, for instance – but with hearing as keen as a whippet’s whenever the situation requires it.
We are kissing again now, and naturally, I want to do things. I can feel her heartbeat against mine, and sense her quickening breath. But we mustn’t do it, because things have got off on a shaky enough start with Alfie and I don’t want to make things worse. And now I’m remembering the time I took Lori on a ‘bat watch’ at a wooded nature reserve, and the ranger led us to a clearing, armed with a sonic device that could pick up the tiniest sounds the bats made, which were inaudible to the human ear.
Could Alfie have installed such a device in here?
‘Jack,’ Nadia whispers again, ‘you seem so tense.’
‘I’m fine,’ I fib as she starts to stroke my inner thigh.
‘Worried about Alfie?’ She casts a glance in the direction of her bedroom door.
‘It’s just …’ I wince. Her hand is slowly working its way upwards and I’m finding it extremely difficult to be articulate.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘He’s still watching TV …’
‘Yeah, I know …’ But didn’t she imply that he’s prone to leaving it on when he’s gone to bed? I’m aware that his bedroom is just across
the hallway, and although I haven’t been aware of any footsteps out there, he could be prowling.
We lie side by side in silence for a few moments. ‘Remember the bathroom’s between us and the living room,’ Nadia adds.
‘Yes, I know.’ She rests her head on my chest, and then she starts kissing my neck and my chest and my stomach, and I am powerless to stop her as I lie there, my head swirling from her loving attentions. Now she’s sort of nuzzling at my ear, and it’s wonderful … She stops and looks at me, smiling as she pulls me close.
‘Come here, you.’
Just three little words, but their effect is something like the starting gun at the Grand National. We are on each other, and a few moments later my head is spinning to that place she takes me to, where I can’t think about anything but how good she feels – how it feels with her. We’re actually doing it now – albeit quietly but, Christ, I’d never realised near-silent sex could be so, well, erotic, possibly even more than the noisy kind, because—
Bang!
Nadia and I leap apart. It was only the bathroom door shutting, but I’m aware now that Alfie is closer; my mind seems to have turned into a radar device, capable of tracking his movements as if he’s an enemy battleship. We start kissing again, but it’s impossible to get back into that zone. Every sound Alfie makes seems terribly amplified: the flush of the loo, some ostentatious coughing, the sound of a tap being turned on at full force. I can actually hear him washing himself now, the slapping of hands on wet skin. It sounds almost … violent. Perhaps he’s trying to knock himself out, in order to escape the horror of what he’s imagining is going on in here?
And now, as we continue to kiss and touch, I am aware of the battleship exiting the waters of the bathroom and into the otherwise serene straits of the hallway.
Brrrrrrr! A shrill whirring sound seems to fill the flat. ‘What’s he doing now?’ I hiss. ‘Drilling for oil?’
She pulls away and sits up, stifling a laugh with her hand. ‘Oh, God. I am sorry.’
‘What is it?’ My mind is actually boggling.