Playing Away

by Adele Parks

"You know the very sensitive rim at the end."

  "Of course I know it. I found it for you."

  He laughs.

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm in a cab, on my way home. I've just had dinner with Lucy. You know she said the strangest thing—"

  "Turn round. Come to my place."

  I waver, I look at my watch. It is ten to one. I really should go home and let the cat out, also Sam will think it odd if I turn up in the same outfit two days in a row. On the other hand, Luke is away on some architects' seminar.

  "You're staying at mine tonight." It isn't so much a question as a command.

  adclc parka

  "What's your address?" I scrabble around my handbag and eventually unearth a blunt eyeliner. I try to concentrate on my brain-to-hand motor skills. I give the cabby the address. He rolls his eyes.

  "Do you know it?"

  "Sure do, darling. Best lap dancing club in East London."

  "Oh."

  Thirty minutes later, the cab pulls up outside the club. I see John, my insides do a flip. He pays the extortionate cab fare and lets it go.

  "I thought we were going to go on to yours?"

  "We are. We can walk from here but I have to have you now."

  The cold night sweeps over me and I shiver with anticipation. I should have eaten more than a salad, I only played with the brioche, now lack of food means that the alcohol is flowing like blood, directly to my brain. We walk briskly, talking about something or other. Our hands find one another's; his long fingers knit into mine until we lock tight. He leads me into a doorway. Our mouths are on each other's immediately, roughly. I pull at the zip of his trousers and his hands urgently search under my shirt, for my breasts. Hard nipples and the weight of him leave me without the need for other sensations. My heart pounds in my thighs, then I feel him burning into me. Filling me, climbing up inside me, choking the breath out of me. When it is over, he pulls up his zip. "Come on, let's go back to my place."

  His house is a bit of a surprise, not a white loft-space but a tiny two-up, two-down in a scruffy part of the East End. He forces open the door, pushing his way through mountains of junk mail. A stale smell hits me. I wonder if he's hired this place to bring me to. He probably has a wife and three kids ensconced in a nice house in Fulham. The smell is revolting, and momentarily I prefer the idea of a wife and kids, rather

  playing away

  than him being responsible for this smell. John seems unaware of the vile odor of decaying vegetables, sweaty socks and that indefinable smell of male locker rooms. Alternatively, there are corpses rotting under his floorboards. By contrast he always smells of designer soaps and expensive aftershave. I wonder, what is the masculine equivalent for the saying "All fur coat and no knickers"?

  The house is full of solid secondhand furniture. A sturdy 1930s three-piece suite and several art deco bookcases. The armchairs are masked by floral stretch covers and the settee is blooming mustard-colored stuffing. I stroke the dirty surfaces, happy with the invitation back to his flat. It seems to make the relationship more real than hotel beds and alley walls. We stagger up the stairs to his bedroom. He vaguely waves at the bedroom floor and mumbles an apology for the mess in the room. Chaos prevails; undies and outer clothes lie where he's dropped them, in sweaty piles. Books are stacked to calf height and the wavering towers look decidedly precarious. Several half-empty coffee cups grow fungus. Dozens of empty beer cans are scattered around; they double up as modern art sculptures and as ashtrays. A large pine bed dominates the room. It's unmade. He begins to pull off the linen.

  "I'll change the sheets."

  "Save us the embarrassment of finding a stray, foreign pube." For all that I'm acting very blase I read this as an extreme compliment; men have to be very keen to change the bed covers.

  Other pieces of furniture include: an open fireplace, more bookshelves, a couple of beanbags and a large wardrobe. There aren't any photos or keepsakes, only ashtrays full of copper coins and paper clips. The floor is stripped and partially covered by a threadbare rug. The room's effect is at once both impersonal and sensual. It suggests that an impoverished poet can find comfort in sex here. I don't have time to take anything else in as he pounces on me.

  adelc parko

  # # #

  Right on cue, as per the appointment card, I wake up, far too early, with a humdinger of a hangover. I lie still for some moments wondering if God is using the house as a yo-yo. I decide not to risk getting up but fall back to sleep. I wake up a second time to the sound of a file rasping against wood. I cling to my head, a new strain of hangover. One at a time, I force open my eyes, letting light surge in. I am pleased it is electric light, necessary in November, as it is less offensive than cheery natural daylight. Chris Tarrant is blaring out of the clock radio, which is on the floor near the wall; it has obviously been thrown there. It keeps going silent and then a few minutes later roaring into action. I don't like this welcome to the day: an aching head, the sound of Tarrant and what is that grating? When I wake up at home Luke is practically out the door on his way to work, but he never leaves without making me a cup of tea and running my bath. I feel disorientated waking to the smell of cigarettes and stale beer plus the inexplicable sight of John crouching over his pine bed with a knife.

  "Are you going to kill me?"

  He briefly kisses me.

  "Morning, Sex. Won't get very far cutting your head off with this." He waves his tool (the knife); it looks like a knife from a dinner set, but I can't swear on it, because my eyes aren't yet up to the complexities of focusing. Even if he isn't going to cut off my head, it is about to fall off anyway.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Notches."

  "Notches?"

  "It's a new bed." He grins.

  "How many notches do you have?" I ask fearfully.

  He stops his woodwork and turns to me, "You're the first, Connie."

  Na Na Na Nana, Lucy. Shows what you know!

  playing away

  I hope that we will play hooky together and spend the day in bed nursing our hangovers; he quickly disabuses me of that fantasy, he has a big meeting at work which is too important to miss.

  "You can stay here though," he says obligingly. "Actually you might have to wait an hour or so until the hot water comes on again. I had a bath." He is dashing about the house with a bowl of cornflakes in one hand and a shoe in the other. "Have you seen my tie?"

  "Which one? This one?" I indicate the silk Hermes that he used to tie me to the bedpost the night before. I've never done that before. It was quite good fun but he'd been too drunk to actually tie any knots. Still, bows are fine.

  "Better untie that or it will be ruined." He picks up another tie from under the bed. "Here's a key; when you've locked up, just post it back through the letterbox."

  "Aren't you worried I'll get one cut?" I joke. As if! This place smells so bad he'll have to pay me to come back again. He doesn't see the joke and momentarily looks worried.

  "Do you want one?" he asks in a manner that could be mistaken as nervous? I shake my head, is that relief I see on his face?

  "Does your girlfriend"—I force myself to say her name— "does Andrea have one?" my mouth asks without permission from my brain.

  "No." The "no" doesn't comfort me. It is not a "no, she's not that important to me," it's more of a "no way are we going to talk about Andrea." I resent the way he protects her from me.

  "You do want me? Don't you?" Fuck, how did that happen? What am I thinking about? As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. I know I sound like a woman unsure of her position, a woman unsure of when she'll next get a phone call. Mentally I kick myself for allowing the things Lucy said to unnerve me. She can be such a bitch.

  a de I c partis

  She is probably jealous that I am so happy.

  Although Lucy isn't normally the jealous type. I am much too hungover to concentrate, I shake my head. He pushes his left foot into his shoe and sits on
the bed to tie the laces.

  "Of course I do. What kind of question is that?" He isn't looking at me as he says it, but then he is late and in a hurry to get to work. "I called you last night, didn't I? I carved you a notch, didn't I?" He turns to me and ruffles my hair. "We're having a laugh, aren't we?" He gives me a peck and then runs out of the door. From the stairs he calls, "Don't forget to post the key."

  Alone in his house I start to get dressed. The lack of basic hygiene means that I don't want to hang round too long. I dress hurriedly and decide to shower at work.

  Where is my bra?

  Shit! Why did I ask if he wants me?! That was stupid. Far too heavy. And unnecessary, because it's been obvious from the first moment in Paris, he does want me, that this is somehow meant to be. It's obvious. I am here in his house aren't I? This is real enough for me.

  I kneel and look under the bed to try to locate my knickers. What have I knelt in? I don't like to think. Beer? Baby oil? No knickers, maybe they are in the bed, tied up with the sheets.

  Even if we don't talk about the big things and we haven't agreed who's calling who next and when, I am sure that he understands. Ours is more of a deep, silent understanding.

  Now stockings, where would they be?

  Thing is, after coming on all heavy, if I talk to him about destinies now it'll seem impossibly cloying. What a blunder! I can't believe I've done that! Bloody Lucy.

  Trousers? They lie in a crumpled pile behind the door. I shake them out. Hmmm, not ideal for work. They smell terrible—fags, sex and beer. It was a mistake to continue drinking when we got back here. I might have had a chance of feeling

  playing away

  half-human today, if it hadn't been for the beer and red wine. Oh no, red wine; I spilt that down my white Calvin Klein top when we were trying to have sex in the kitchen. I rummage through his wardrobe to see if I can find anything of his to wear. I can't. I'll have to go to Next on the way to work. I look out the window. It is an icy November morning. My nipples spring out in protest. I'll catch pneumonia.

  Slowing down is a mistake. I take a deep breath and fight back the tears. What a bloody, fucking mess. I try to calm down. It is not a problem. It's simply that I temporarily forgot the golden rules: men are very simple and straightforward (not a criticism, a light relief to our constant soul-searching). Men are only ever with you when they want to be. They won't stay with you after they stop wanting to be.

  Closed chapter.

  I don't need to ask him if he wants to be with me. It's obvious. I pull on my hat and search for my gloves.

  Frantic, dirty, dizzy and sick, I close the door behind me and obediently post the key back through the letterbox, without even considering keeping it to get a copy made. Well, without seriously considering it. I have no idea where I am or where the nearest Tube is. We're having a laugh aren't we? God yes, I am having such a laugh.

  I stumble into the office at five to ten.

  "You're late," comments Sam. She gapes at my crumpled yesterday clothes. I know she's not worried about what time I clock on, just if I've copped off. I've had the journey from hell and don't want to get involved in this discussion; luckily I am saved when my phone rings.

  "Connie, it's me."

  "Hi, Lucy, how are you?"

  "Fine. Listen, has Luke called you?" She sounds brusque, which is as near to agitated as Lucy ever gets.

  adc le parka

  "Luke? No, why should he?" Sam is making a terrible attempt at looking busy.

  "Because he came home early last night. I gather you never made it back."

  My heart stops.

  I've been tumbled.

  Time to face the music.

  Time to walk the plank.

  Time to wake up and smell the coffee.

  Time to stop listening to Sam's moronic cliches. I tune back into Lucy.

  "I have to be on the trading floor in four minutes, so pay attention. When I got back to my flat there were a couple of messages on my answering machine. Nothing too heavy, just asking what time he should expect you. Didn't you get a message on your mobile?"

  "No," I say. I did listen to my messages but fast-forwarded all those that weren't John's. There might have been one from Luke.

  "I told him that you'd passed out but you'll have to ring now and pretend you've just woken up at my house."

  "OK."

  "And, Connie, remember to use your mobile in case he 1471s."

  "Yes. Thanks."

  I call Luke.

  "Baby, how are you? I was so worried." His voice oozes concern, which is at once a relief and irritating.

  "You needn't be."

  "Needn't I?" His voice wavers.

  His words hit like stones. "What sort of question is that?"

  He doesn't answer but turns the conversation. "Connie, let's go out tonight."

  "I have to work tonight." It is true. I know that the pound-

  playing away

  ing hangover will mean that I'll achieve little today and will undoubtedly spend this evening catching up.

  "Well, can you leave it?"

  "Not easily."

  "Oh well, I guess we can always do it next week." He sounds disappointed.

  "Yes, we can always do that."

  I put the phone down and Sam stares at me. Her glare withers my intestines!

  "What?" I ask innocently.

  "You know what," she says, pretending to be my father.

  & break with tradition, we are not going to spend Saturday afternoon spending spondoolies but spending energy instead. We are going for a ramble. Sam has decided I need a distraction ("You're bored. That's the root of all of this. You aren't challenged. You need a break from your routine"). Although I don't agree with her diagnosis, I concur because I am obsessively pursuing a better physique. Besides which it is late November and I can't bear the idea of battling with the Christmas shoppers that have been populating Selfridges since August. Sam manages to persuade Daisy and Lucy to come along; they are also pursuing better physiques more or less vigorously, respectively. Rose is delighted to be invited, too, and so offers to drive us out to the country.

  Lucy and I spot Rose's red Volvo at the same time and watch it curl around the corner. We wave maniacally. Rose flashes her smile, huge and welcoming, and them immediately settles her face back into a worried expression, as she concentrates on finding a place to park in the heavy, Saturday traffic. Sam winds down the window of the passenger seat and yells at an unsuspecting passer-by, "Show us your grundies!" He is about nineteen, probably going to a football match, not really ready or willing to encounter a group of man-eating thirty-

  playing away

  somethings. Sam throws her head back, laughing raucously at her own cheek. Rose, of course, feels sorry for him.

  "He's blushing. Leave him alone." Christ, there is an unreasonable amount of compassion squeezed into that woman.

  Lucy pulls open the car door violently and throws her bag inside. She climbs in and folds her long cK-clad legs after her. She does this in one swift easy movement. Daisy and I, in the meantime, struggle with loading all our bags into the boot and then sardine in after her.

  "Gosh, it's amazing to see how light one can travel without children," comments Rose. If anyone else had said this I would have thought the comment was sarcastic, as I survey enough sweets and spare clothes to feed and dress the Russian Army.

  I am in the middle seat. This means I have to wear my head at a jaunty little angle, of 45 degrees, for the entire journey to Essex. No one offers to take turns to sit in the middle. Rose would have happily sat in the crappiest seat, but her fear that none of us are insured to drive the car overwhelms her sense of politeness. The journey will be uncomfortable for me but agony for her. She likes to be the one who suffers most.

  Quick air kisses all round, sharing of Evian (precaution against dehydration) and Mars Bars (necessary for energy), taking off jackets, a decent amount of elbowing, questions about everybody's week at the office and
Rose's baby-sitter, then we settle into the journey.

  "Is that really necessary?" Lucy asks Sam. "The pseudo-laddish behavior?"

  "Oh yes," assures Sam, "it's a girls' day out, with obligatory innuendo and infantile behavior."

  "Good point," concedes Lucy, "pure filth."

  "That's an oxymoron."

  "Don't call the lad a moron, you've never even spoken to him."

  adclc parka

  General sniggers. I know that Sam is being overly jolly in an attempt to coax me out of what she wrongly identifies as my "adultery stage." She's trying to show me that I can do crazy, zany things with my friends and don't need a lover. Although I appreciate the effort, I do not allow that a Mars Bar has any advantages over his dick, not even a King Size.

  The journey to Essex is brilliant. Admittedly, we get lost a couple of times, well five actually. But no one cares. As an all-women vehicle we have no hang-ups 'fessing-up that we said right, but meant left. We can pull over into rest stops and study maps without feeling an iota of shame.

  "I'm glad I wasn't born a man," comments Daisy, as she climbs back into the car, having asked for directions for the third time. She's just discovered that we are heading in the wrong direction by about 180 degrees.

  "Why is that?" asks Rose. "I'm curious. They seem to have got the best deal from where I'm standing, or more often, from where I'm hovering, cleaning, shopping or burping babies."

  "They aren't allowed to ask for directions though, are they?" says Daisy. "Simon seems to think that as Christopher Columbus and Captain Cook managed without doing so, it is beneath his dignity."

  "How much further?" asks Lucy. "I need the loo." No one is foolish enough to suggest that she should have gone to the one at the Little Chef. Lucy doesn't use public conveniences, under any circumstances. It would be acknowledging that she is as mortal as the rest of us.

  We have just finished a rather rousing, if somewhat tuneless rendition of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" when Sam shouts "Here we are, that's it! Pull over to the left, Rose." I see a pub, pretty much the same as twenty or so other pubs I've seen on the journey here. But according to our Country Walks Near London guide the Green Man pub is the pub, where we start and finish our walk. It's an enchanting pub, paneled in