Charlie smiled, toothlessly, as he handed me my suitcase.
I smiled back at him. “Thank you. Remind Maggie that I’ll call and that I’ll let Ronan know what happens with these pictures.”
With a wave over his shoulder, Charlie left. I walked to the nearest Costa to grab a decent cup of coffee and some snacks, and then headed for my platform. I was quite excited to board the train, I hadn’t ridden one in years. There were a couple of changes to navigate before my arrival in London, and the journey was estimated to take a little over eight hours, but it was comfortable, and I could relax.
I read, I slept on and off, and I drank too many cups of coffee and ate awful food from the trolley that came up and down the aisle pushed by a pleasant young girl. I was sure I’d end up with a dodgy belly, and that was the last thing I wanted on a train, but hunger took precedence. I took walks, mostly to the loo, which, for a train, was clean and roomy. The first class section was pretty empty. I saw the tops of two heads in the carriage; both looked to belong to men.
I ached when we finally pulled into Euston. My back was stiff from sitting so long, and I had a banging headache but put that down to too much coffee, although I suspected the eight hours of thoughts about Ronan had something to do with it too. I was actually looking forward to some quiet reflection in my flat when the taxi finally deposited me there.
Joe had texted, he wanted to come over for a catch-up, but I put him off until the following day. I asked him to accompany me to the art dealer, as I had no idea what to say or do and knew he could wing it way better than I could. That evening, I wanted to sink into my sofa with a bottle of wine, a Chinese takeout, and watch crap TV.
As I opened the front door, I was met by one of the downstairs neighbours. An elderly woman that I’d often smiled at, bade a good morning, but never taken the chance to get to know. I felt bad about that.
“Ah, Lizzie, there you are,” she said as if she had been waiting for me.
“What can I do for you…?” I paused realising although she knew my name. I didn’t know hers.
“It’s Danny’s cat. I don’t suppose you have a key to his flat?” she asked.
I stared at her. “Danny’s cat?”
“Yes, Pat. I have him in my flat, and I wondered if you had a key. I could pop him back home. He loves coming for a visit, but last time, when Danny was away, he never went home, and I wasn’t worried because…well, Danny wasn't home, but I don’t think I should be feeding him, should I?” she rambled on.
I frowned, trying to make sense of her words. “Can we back up just a little? When Danny was away, Pat stayed with you?” Danny had only been away once, and I was meant to be feeding Pat who, possibly, was stuffed…or maybe not.
“Yes, Danny didn’t ask for me to look after Pat, but he climbs down the back of the building, and I have a little window open. He comes in regularly.”
“How does he get out of Danny’s flat?” I asked.
“I don’t know, maybe Danny has a window open as well. Anyway, do you have a key or not? I know sometimes neighbours have keys. I can pop Pat back in the apartment before Danny gets home.”
“I don’t. I’m sorry. Is Danny not in?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t heard anyone coming in. I’ll hang on to him for a little longer. I’ve got a little cooked chicken he can finish off,” she said with a broad smile.
I returned her smile. She hardly left the flat, and if Pat was a little comfort for her, then it was better he climbed out of Danny’s than staying there alone all day. As I climbed the stairs to my floor, I started to laugh.
“Oh God,” I whispered to myself as I remembered that I’d thought Danny was playing a prank with the stuffed cat.
“Hold the door,” I heard, and I turned to see Danny rushing up the stairs with Pat in his arms.
I held the door so he could walk through. “You’re back then?” he asked.
“No, this is a mirage or a hallucination,” I said, chuckling.
“Ha ha. Anyway, it appears Pat has been cheating on me with Mrs Dingle downstairs.”
“Is that her name?” I asked.
“No idea, but it seems to suit her, and she answers to it. Did you notice him getting out when you fed him?”
“No, I admit, I didn’t see him much at all, to be honest. So, he could have been cheating on both of us with Mrs Dingle.”
“Will you hold him for me while I check all the windows?”
I held up both hands, one showing a suitcase in it, and the other showing the picture tube.
He rolled his eyes. “After you’ve deposited those, obviously. I don’t want to put him down in case he legs it. The cheeky fucker lets me think he’s old and infirm. I might have to rename him Spider Cat.”
We walked along to my door, which I opened. I left the suitcase and picture tube just inside my flat and then followed Danny to his door. He handed me Pat, who wriggled and stared at me with slitty eyes, obviously weighing me up, or blaming me for having to decamp to Mrs Dingle because I hadn’t actually fed him beyond discovering the stuffed version. The look he gave, if he could talk, would be to inform that he was telling on me. I refused to look at him any more.
I followed Danny from room to room, which wasn’t long since there were only four in total. It was in the bathroom that I noticed a small window in the shower that was propped open.
“Do you always leave that open?” I asked.
“Yes, because the extractor isn’t man enough, and I worry about mould. I didn’t think he’d be able to climb that high.” Danny reached up to close it.
“You could just make sure the shower door is shut, I doubt he’ll get over that. But, how far is the drop? Surely he would hurt himself,” I said.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in the garden, have you?”
“No, to be honest.”
We decided to take a look. I placed Pat on the sofa where he hissed at me before curling up. We left the flat and made our way down the stairs, all the while, Danny talked about the bloody cat. It was how wonderful Pat was, Pat this, Pat that, he gave an account of every day of the cat’s life and a tally of how many animals Pat brought in as presents. I shuddered at the memory of the drawer of ‘presents’ minus their innards and awaiting stuffing. Perhaps Danny was so attached to Pat that he thought he’d make toys of his kills?
I remembered then that I thought Danny very odd.
I rushed down the remaining stairs and power-walked to the back door. It was locked, and I fumbled with my keys, wondering if I had one. I tried a couple, and eventually one opened it, so we walked into the communal garden. It was lovely, and I wondered why I’d never taken the time to sit on the patio in the metal furniture with a cup of tea or meet Mrs Dingle for a chat. I vowed to rectify those things. We looked up and calculated which was the bathroom window. Halfway down was a lintel that stood proud of the brick to create a ledge. Pat could have landed on that, and then if he jumped again, he’d reach a canopy over Mrs Dingle’s living room window.
“Easy escape, but dangerous. Why don’t you see if you can put in a cat flat somewhere?” I asked.
“I’m not staying here long enough, to be honest,” Danny said, as we walked back inside.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” I replied, not knowing for one minute why I’d think it a shame seeing as I didn’t like the guy.
“Yeah, it seems that I’m about to be made redundant.” His tone of voice made me feel sorry for him.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What a nuisance, can you find another job locally?” I struggled to remember what he did for a living.
“Even if I did, the firm pay my rent. I’m not likely to get a job that will cover the rental for this place. I don’t know yet what redundancy package I’m entitled to,” he said, as we reached our floor.
“I’d have a word with Joe. Surely it would be better to have a constant lower rent than an empty property.” I wasn’t sure why I was trying to help. Danny had been nothing short of rude since w
e’d first met.
“Maybe. It’s a nice place, and I get on with the neighbours,” he said, with a wink.
I smiled back. “Well, mystery solved with Pat anyway. I’ll see you around,” I said, as I unlocked my front door.
I thought I heard him reply, and I was sure the word dinner was mentioned, but I pretended not to. I didn’t want dinner with Danny. In that half hour, he had been pleasant, and I had made a mistake about the prank stuffed cat, but he’d been rude on two other occasions, so I’d convinced myself.
I was still miffed over Ronan. I didn’t want the distraction of Danny or Joe even. I was more than happy to wallow in my own pity for the evening. I also had a ton of washing to do, removal of the yeti coat I’d developed while in Scotland for warmth, and I was sure I would soon be sporting a monobrow.
I took a long bath, which resembled a dog clipping parlour by the time I’d gotten out—it took the same length of time to clean it as it had to soak in it—and I headed to the bedroom for some more pampering.
I moisturised, brushed my hair, plucked my eyebrows, and that one stray hair on my chin that refused to give up despite my constant plucking. You’d think, if you plucked enough, you’d manage to remove the follicle and the hair wouldn’t grow back. Isn’t that what happened to old ladies? I was sure that I read that somewhere. Or perhaps chin hair, or hair that appeared anywhere it shouldn’t, was made of much sturdier stuff.
Take pubic hair, for example. I parted my legs and looked at the meagre offering covering my hooha. I gasped as I caught a stray grey.
“What the fuck…?” I grabbed the tweezers. That sucker wasn’t staying, not that anyone had, or would be, looking at my hooha anytime soon. Still, it wasn’t staying.
Once the offending stray grey was gone, I decided that perhaps a trim up was in order. I had a little electric trimmer specifically for hoohas that I’d bought years ago. I couldn’t remember where, but I rifled through drawers until I found it. I propped one foot on the bed and gave myself a little shave. Except, I hadn’t thought to put the guard on the blades. What should have been a little trim up ending up resembling a nineteen-fifties kid’s haircut to get rid of lice. I had clumps of hair in places, bald in others. I had short bits, long bits, and bloody bits.
“Oh, fuck,” I said aloud and wondered just how many times a day I said the F word.
I rushed into the bathroom and wet a flannel under the cold tap. I held it to my hooha and hoped it would stem the blood from nicked skin. I’d have to shave the lot off. I rubbed some shower gel, wincing as it stung the open wounds and used a Bic to give myself a Hollywood Hooha.
I began to chuckle. It was quite liberating to be hairless down there. I patted myself dry and then decided to look in the mirror. In my imagination, I wasn’t fifty-years-old. I didn’t feel it; I didn’t think I acted it. I didn’t believe I looked it until I saw my wrinkled old hooha. It hit me then: I’d missed hooha care off my daily moisturising regime. Not that I could recall ever being told to add it, of course. I checked my arms; I didn’t have bingo wings or old lady spots. I didn’t have that many wrinkles or saggy skin on the back of my hands.
But I did have baggy fanny flaps.
I grabbed some body moisturiser and read the back, wondering if it was okay for hoohas. It didn’t say it wasn’t, so I slathered some on. I’d overdose on moisturiser in the hopes my baggy flaps would tighten up a little.
Of course, I wasn’t delusional enough to know I could reverse fifty years of neglect, but I was that woman who read every fashion magazine, knowing the skin couldn’t absorb all the crap they recommended—we were not made of sponge and even if we were, we’d oversaturate one day—and try it. I had thousands of pounds worth of miracle creams in my bathroom cupboard.
I walked, a little bow-legged back to the bedroom and grabbed my fleecy PJs. I called for a takeaway and opened a bottle of wine while I waited. Twenty minutes later, I was dishing up noodles with sweet and sour chicken and salivating over Outlander.
I slept well that night. There was no tiptoeing to avoid frostbite to the soles of my feet, no wondering if the pipes had frozen or if there would be hot water for a bath or shower. I felt like I was back in civilization. I loved Scotland. I loved the house. I loved hot water on demand, heating, and take outs more.
Chapter Fifteen
I hadn’t heard from Ronan, and that disappointed me. He knew it was the day of the appointment and, okay, I could have hung around a little later to speak to him before I left for the station, but then I would have missed my train, so I convinced myself.
“Oh, look at you,” Joe said, as I let him in the apartment.
I wore a cream suit with a black silk shirt. I thought a professional approach would be needed. Joe was in jeans and a sloppy T-shirt that didn’t smell too fresh.
“Did you go home last night?” I asked, sniffing him.
He cringed. “No, does it show?”
I snorted. “Yes, you stink. There’s some deodorant in the bathroom. Go and spray some over you.”
He laughed as he did just that.
We left the apartment, and I hailed a taxi. Joe had the address for an exclusive art gallery in Soho.
“So, what happened in Scotland?” he asked.
“First, I’m annoyed that you and Ronan had a conversation about me, without including me in that. I thought he was asking me because he liked me, not because you had told him I might be good staff,” I said.
“Good staff?”
I waved an annoyed hand. “Staff, great at doing admin, whatever it was you said.”
Joe turned a little diva on me. “I’ll tell you what I said. Ronan was worrying about trying to do it all himself. I said he should speak to you because you are brilliant at organisation, that’s all. I thought if the two of you worked together, it might spark something.”
I hummed, not entirely convinced. I then told him most of what happened, right to the point of leaving.
“Hold on, he was doing what?” Joe asked, stifling a laugh.
“Wanking, and I had to hide at the foot of the bed with the bloody photograph of his dead best love.”
“Oh, my God,” he said. The taxi driver frowned at me in the rear view mirror.
“What would you have done?” I asked the driver. If he wanted to listen in, he could add his opinion.
“Same as you, love. Except I might have left the photograph there and when he asked who covered him over, deny all knowledge of it. He would think he did it when he was drunk.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t think that much about it,” I snapped, annoyed I hadn’t done just that.
“You just wanted to see his willy,” Joe said. Both he and the taxi driver convulsed in laughter.
“You watch the road, and no, I didn’t want to see his willy.” I scoffed. “Who uses that word nowadays, anyway?”
“So have you spoken to him at all?” Joe asked.
“No, he lost his phone, remember? He had to get a new number, and I don’t have it.”
“And he won’t have yours, either, I bet,” Joe added.
I hadn’t thought about that. “I have Maggie’s, so once we’ve seen this art chap, I’ll call her.” I settled back into my seat while we fought the mid-morning traffic.
The stark white walls, floor, and ceiling were blinding and the macabre images of Old woman in throes of death, as the label claimed, did nothing to enhance the premises. I wasn’t sure whether the pile of screwed up paper in the corner was meant to be an exhibit or something waiting to go in the bin. A gentleman held a phone to his ear, and he waved us over with a beaming smile as he finished his call.
When he finally did, he greeted us. “Joe, my friend, how are you? And this must be Lizzie?” he asked.
He held me at arm’s length as one would a child they hadn’t seen in ten years. Then he kissed both cheeks. I had an urge to wipe where he’d left slobber and hoped he’d hurry up and do the same to Joe. I grabbed a tissue from my bag in preparation.
/> As he turned to Joe, I dabbed at my face, but the stickiness of his lips stayed. I was convinced he must have had some gloss or at least a balm coating his lips.
“Lizzie, this is Dave,” Joe said, since Dave hadn’t introduced himself.
The man with the tweed suit, waistcoat, and cravat looked the least like a Dave. I’d have expected a Henry as his name.
“So, you have something for me to look at?” he asked, eagerly getting to the point.
I handed him the tube, and he walked to what resembled a pasting table. He rolled out the two pictures I’d brought. One was a photograph, the other a painting. He used weights to hold down the corners, mumbling about them being rolled up. I glanced at Joe, who wagged his finger in a mock telling off.
He hummed, arrhed, walked around, paused with his finger on his lips, and walked some more. Walked away, returned, cocked his head as if a different angle might produce a different image. He peered close and then stepped back. The whole process was done in silence and must have taken a good ten minutes. Eventually, he turned to Joe and smiled. Joe pointed to me.
“I love them, Lizzie,” he said, finally turning to address me.
“That’s great to hear,” I replied, now stumped because I had no idea what to say next.
“Would you exhibit with a view to selling them?” Joe asked. I praised Joe in my head.
“I would like to, yes. Would the artist consent to an opening?”
“She’s dead—”
Before I could finish my sentence, he interrupted. “Oh, that’s even better.”
I gaped at him.
“I didn’t mean that to sound so cold, but buyers love a dead artist,” he added, making his initial statement sound even worse.
“I’m sure Lizzie, and I will attend on her behalf. Now, how will this work?” Joe asked.
Dave went on to explain that he’d have a brochure made, at our expense, of course, he’d expect ten images to display and that he would take forty per cent of the sale.
Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits Page 17
