Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  But I don't.

  "You don't love her," I try.

  He looks indignant and angry. "I do." His words slap my face.

  "OK," I back down, as soon as I see his anger. I try something else, "But you are not in love with her." His face relaxes, he is willing to listen.

  "How do you know?" Big gamble this one. But weighing it up, I see my choice is I can either say something big and dramatic, which doesn't necessarily have to be true (in fact it is probably safer if it's not true), or lose face. The former is infinitely preferable to loss of face.

  "Because you couldn't do this to her if you were."

  "You do it to your husband."

  "I know." I'm almost embarrassed. I am extremely confused and therefore I concede the point. True, conventional wisdom says people in love do not cheat on their spouses and partners. Seems fair. But conventional wisdom also said that I'd live Happily Ever After and would no longer need grubby

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  sex with wickedly exciting strangers. Quandary, I have just played a double bluff and John may insist I show my hand. For the first time I have hinted that if he wants something more than a terrific shag behind a Portaloo, then maybe I am the girl. But even as I am offering him this bait and hoping to reel him in, I am unsure as to whether or not I want to have him for supper. I look at the empty glasses that litter the table.

  "You're right, I'm not in love with her."

  The contents of my cK pants jumps into my mouth. Is this it? Is he going to tell me he's in love with me? What will I do? Permanency? Luke? What about the amount he drinks? That will be an expensive habit on a permanent basis.

  "I find no comfort in intimacy, it's claustrophobic."

  Oh.

  "Constance, I am fickle, lazy and selfish. No one can hold my attention for long. Not even you. I get distracted, that's just me. A woman walking into the bar can distract me, a football game can distract me, something on the TV—"

  I nod and finish, "Can distract you."

  "Christ, Con, a piece of tinfoil fluttering down the street can distract me." As he says this he does a funny little mime whereby he follows the progress of a piece of tinfoil, as it skips down the street. He is so active and funny that I can clearly see the shiny piece of foil. I need to reel him back.

  "Have you ever had a soul mate?"

  "Be specific."

  "Someone who challenges you. Have you ever dared to love someone more than yourself? Are you trying to go through life never knowing anyone? That way you'll stay untouched, uncontaminated, perfect."

  "I've read the books, Greenie. I know about denial. I'm not like that. It's crap." He pauses for a long time.

  "If you want to know the truth you are the closest I've got.

  a d c I c parfet)

  In Paris I was really happy. Thank God you are married." He pauses again, finishes his pint, goes to the bar, orders more and then reconvenes, "And what about you, Greenie? How are you with intimacy?"

  "I am more honest with you than anyone else in the world," I say. This sounds grand. Fitting. I have had a bottle of champagne and a couple of beers and this feels like the truth. I have no tolerance for small talk. I, more or less, demand big talk, which only has to be, more or less, reliable.

  "The entire world, imagine that." He has no reason to doubt me. My confession prompts him to consider his level of honesty with me.

  "Christ, Greenie. I think that's true of me, too, about you." He is surprised and somewhat dismayed that he feels compelled to offer me honesty. He expects other people to deal fairly with him but he's never felt duty-bound to reciprocate.

  "Why is it that I find it easier talking to you than I find it talking to my mates?"

  "Lucy thinks it's because you are an emotional cripple."

  I wake up with a shiver because the quilt has slipped down the side of the bed. Almost instantly I'm aware of his warm body next to mine. Smiling, I curl into him. In his sleep he nuzzles closer to me and puts his hand on my bottom. I prop myself up on my right side, to stare with wonder. Such eyelashes, such a perfect mouth and fine, jutting cheekbones. I gently trace his noble features with my index finger. Notwithstanding the fact that I am obviously delighted to be here, I keep getting an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach as flashes of Luke come into my head. Not Luke bursting in on us and shouting: "Unhand my wife, you cad." That, doesn't strike me as Luke's scene. Actually, it doesn't strike me that it would be anybody's scene. Anyway, Luke is away

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  on another frigging business trip so he won't know that I haven't made it home, so I don't have any problems there. The visions that come into my head are more mundane than that. Recently I've noticed that Luke is looking a bit tired and peaky. Is he taking his vitamins? Is he eating properly? We rarely breakfast together nowadays as I am invariably nursing a hangover, so I'm not certain. I wonder if he's packed his razor, he usually forgets unless I remind him. And he hates the ones the hotels supply. Never mind, I'm sure that they have good razors in Sweden, or is it Switzerland that he is visiting?

  I lie awake, for hours, listening to the radiator announcing that it is morning. In the absence of birds and daylight, this system seems reasonably reliable. I gaze at the long off-white curtains which billow in the draft created by the ill-fitting window. The breeze is cool and relaxing, a welcome contrast to the sweaty warmth of our bodies under the covers. I'm careful not to move too violently, in case I wake John up. I roll over to watch him sleep.

  J am almost certain that Luke will have taken a warm jumper.

  As I watch I begin to doubt that he is really asleep. His breathing last night was regular and deep. Now it is barely perceptible. He is awake and holding his breath on life. I play along with his silent farce. I don't want to talk either, I'm too tired to be entertaining.

  He rolls over in the crisp white sheets. He stretches his catlike body. He is rolling over with some trepidation. By now, I know that this is because he changes his women as often as the sheets. He is thinking, Will she be fat or thin, blond or dark? Never quite certain. Trepidation and anticipation. The exciting moment of rediscovering what he's pulled. Who has he brought home?

  Turning.

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  He's thinking, So a blonde—good. Focus, focus, he shakes his head slightly and immediately winces, regretting it. So let's have a look. Blond, good. Slim enough, nice tits, focus, focus. It is coming back to him, not in flashes, like people always say, but in slow motion. The presence sleeping next to him is, in fact, a repeat performance. He's woken up to me before.

  "Fuck, we drank a lot last night. How much?"

  "We shared two bottles of bubbly, then we had four pints each."

  "Flash bitch."

  "You love it."

  I stretch too and glance at him; he quickly shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to hold my gaze. In lurid, Technicolor smudges it's coming back to him. Is he regretting opening up to me? Is he dismissing it, trying to ignore that he's moved the relationship on by telling me I am different, perhaps even exceptional? Is he wishing that he could rewind?

  I don't want to kiss him until I've cleaned my teeth, yet I want to reconnect in some way. There are suddenly a million miles of confusion pushed into the few inches of sheets that lie between us. Separating us. I gently trace the definition of his muscle with my finger but he shakes me off. We stay silent, in contrast to all the talking of the night before. I get out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. I know he's watching me. He'll be able to hear me plonk my bum on the loo and pee, which is excruciatingly embarrassing. This is the first time I've ever been embarrassed in front of him. I flush the loo, clean my teeth, emerge from the bathroom, swaying in the doorway. Then I say something inane and flop back onto his sheets. I can't say anything articulate as I am still trying to judge his mood. The morning after is never easy but it is particularly hard if one of you is waking up with a head full of shame, the other a head full of regret and both with a

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away

  head full of dented brain cells. Severely limiting. I wait for him to kiss me. I wait about a thousand years. He doesn't. This may be because his breath smells of cunny and fags, with a little next-morning staleness mixed in, but I get the feeling that he doesn't want me there at all, worming my way into his sanctuary.

  I'm not worried.

  I am very worried.

  I watch him as he gobbles his breakfast cereal, moving the bowl closer and closer to his mouth, spooning the stuff into his face, faster and faster, like everything he does in life, racing. Eventually he just drinks from the bowl. I do this too, but only when I am alone. There are two dirty cereal bowls besides the one he is using. I raise my eyebrows but don't ask the question. It is possible that the bowls are his, from two other days. He grins. They might be. Or they might be the debris from another love picnic. I don't shower there, I don't eat breakfast. I just want to go home. I need to get back before Luke flies in.

  "I'm off now. I'll call you."

  It had been Lucy that complained that she hated January. "It is a flat and gray month and worse, everybody accepts that it is. No one parties, everybody abstains, nobody flirts, or dines, or drinks or thinks. I hate it when flirtation stops." We'd been in All Bar One, a day or so into the new year. I think her bad mood was a result of the hangover that she'd been nursing for three consecutive weeks. She'd arrived late and was unwrapping herself, discarding coat, hat, gloves, earmuffs. We stared glumly into our glasses, our silence was our agreement. Except Sam who had piped up, "Well, I'm going to make sure January is a fun month. It's my birthday on the 29th." We'd glared at her, darkly. Why is it that she is so optimistic, when all the evidence indicates she should be the opposite?

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  Unreasonably, I'd been quite touched by her buoyant outlook, which sat in stark contrast to my own and so I'd offered to host a sleepover for her birthday.

  "It will be a giggle," I'd assured brightly and falsely. It would, at least, fill a part of the ever-increasing gaps of time that stretch between my evenings with John. So now, here I am, knee-deep in alcohol, balloons, alcohol, streamers, alcohol and small sausage things on sticks. Luke's cleared out. Run for cover at the squash club with Simon.

  "Cocktails, haven't you heard, are certainly making a comeback. I read it in the Evening Standard the other night. They are popular among not only the young and fashionable set but also the more mature and sophisticated," I quote.

  "And which set are we?" asks Sam.

  I roll my eyes. "Accept it, kiddo, the latter." I, self-appointed cocktail queen, have planned ahead. My hostess book informs me that a supply of glasses, ice mixes and garnishes must be available. They are. I've read and heeded the advice that cocktails ought to be consumed as soon as they are made. I intend them to be. The book also encourages experimentation. "The Cocktail Game, A to Z" is certainly that. The idea, theoretically, is a sort of truth or dare but in this case it is truth or drink.

  Game rules: by turn, we each ask the person to our right, the most intimate, impertinent or outrageous question that we can think of. If anyone refuses to answer a question, they have to drink a sip of alcohol (or the entire glass as the game becomes more riotous). If someone challenges the veracity of an answer (which is usually a hoot of laughter and a screech of "you bloody liar"), and their case stands up, you have to drink. If their challenge is not accepted then whoever challenged has to drink. These are the official rules. The rule that we generally play to is simply there are no rules. Besides the above, reasons to drink are: if your answer is too tame you

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  have to drink, if your answer is shocking then the person who asked the question has to drink, if someone reveals something that no one knew before, everyone has to drink—a kind of celebration, if someone shouts "Have a drink," you have to drink.

  Basically, you have to drink.

  I line up the stock: brandy, gin, whiskey, vodka, light rum, vermouth dry and sweet, Cointreau, Baileys, creme de cacao, for Sam and Rose, soft, girls' drinks.

  "Bloody hell, we'll all die if we drink this lot," laughs Daisy, "I'll never sober up for the wedding." Daisy's wedding has now officially replaced A.D. and B.C. as a Western calendar.

  "We don't have to drink it all," I argue, although I do think that as I've gone to so much trouble we should try, "and we do have tomorrow morning if we don't get through it all." General nods seem to suggest that this is OK then.

  "I've also got orange juice, lemonade, mineral water and tomato juice." As I list each product I pull them out of the Tesco Metro bags and reverently place them on the kitchen table. Sam starts to help me pull out more bottles . . . "Cream, Angostura bitters and grenadine, of course."

  Lucy joins in, "And the garnishing is so important, I bet you have lemons?"

  "Check," I confirm.

  "And limes."

  "Check."

  "Strawberries?"

  "Check."

  "Olives?"

  "Check."

  "Maraschino cherries?"

  "Check."

  "Salt?"

  "Check."

  adcle parko

  "Sugar?"

  "Check."

  "Eggs?"

  "Check."

  "We can't catch you out, can we? I have to admit you are the hostess with the moistest, " says Sam, in her Adelaide from Guys and Dolls accent. We all laugh.

  "Come on, then," urges Rose, who is surprisingly fond of a cocktail, "get mixing."

  I've done my research. I've bought all the necessary equipment. I deftly collect together a shaker, a strainer, mixing glasses, measures, spoons, juice extractors, tongs. I whiz around the kitchen collecting teaspoons, chopping board, knife, corkscrew, can opener, clothes, swizzle sticks and straws. I love the look of pleasure on Sam's face and the look of surprise on everyone else's.

  "Wow, this must have cost a fortune," says Rose.

  "And so much time," adds Daisy. I rapidly open cupboards, frantic to locate the glassware. We put as many glasses as we can lay our hands on in the fridge. Martini glasses, champagne flutes, red and white wine goblets, tumblers, highballs, brandy balloons and liqueur coffee glasses. We hold back about a dozen glasses and immediately half-fill them with crushed ice. Some of the ice escapes and scatters on to the floor. No one bothers to pick it up.

  "OK," I say darkly, trying to create an ethos of reverence around the game. "The A to Z begins. A is for Alexandra Brandy. Ice, brandy, creme de cacao and cream all into the shaker, a spot of nutmeg, a strawberry."

  "Lovely," smiles Rose, who picks up the Martini glass and downs its contents in one. Everyone stares in disbelief. Feeling their eyes burning into her, Rose pauses, she holds the glass halfway between her lips and the coffee table, as if in an attempt to disown it.

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  "What?" she asks hotly.

  "We didn't even ask you a question," Sam points out.

  "You didn't even refuse to answer," Daisy adds.

  "Oops," Rose says and smiles her sweet, girlish smile, "well, it is so lovely."

  "Quite right," I say. It doesn't bother me, as the ultimate objective of the game is to get everyone plastered and sipping might not be the answer. Unquestioningly, downing shots will be fine. I am quite keen to rush toward oblivion myself.

  "Well, you've broken the rules so you will have to have another now, as punishment," argues Lucy.

  "Fair enough"—Rose accepts her fate—"B is for . . . ?"

  "Black Russian," squeals Sam excited, "I'll do that. Vodka, Kahlua and a cherry."

  There are loads of Bs to wade our collective way through. Bloody Mary, Blue Spring, Brandy Crusta, BScB.

  "A what?"

  "Brandy and Benedictine."

  "Ughhh, lethal, it will send me to sleep."

  B52 and finally, Boo Boo's Special.

  "Now you are making them up."

  "I'm not. Pineapple, orange and lemon juice, Angostura bitters and just a dash of grenadine," I defend.
r />   "Sounds almost healthy," says Sam disapprovingly.

  We relax and sit like cushions, scattered and untidy. I have abandoned the rule of not smoking in the house and so it looks like an opium den. We each rush to make the next drink and also think of the next question, yet our heads are already beginning to feel . . . floaty.

  "Are you seeing anyone at the moment, Sam?" asks Daisy tentatively. Quite a brave question under the circumstances. Sam is now officially our only single girl, well, besides Lucy but Lucy is beyond any categorization that fits the rest of us.

  "I am actually. I'm snogging a Beckham look-alike."

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  We visibly sit up.

  "What does he do?" Me.

  "What's his name?" Daisy.

  "How old is he?" Rose.

  "Is he married?" Lucy.

  Sam grins. "Art director at Abet, Mood and Wickers, Warren, twenty-eight, no."

  "Abet, Mood and Wickers, I'm impressed." Daisy.

  "Twenty-eight. I'm jealous." Me.

  "Single, I'm glad." Rose.

  "Warren, there is always a drawback." Lucy.

  We laugh. After some serious interrogation we discover that he is South African, blond, happy to go down on her. By the end of "B" we have established that Sam and Warren have, on average, sex nine times a week but that is to be expected as they've only been going out together for a couple of weeks. Daisy looks a bit fed up when she admits that she and Simon have sex roughly once a week.

  "Sometimes twice," she defends.

  Sam immediately cheers her up by saying, "But you're practically married, Warren has no intention of marrying me." We all nod our agreement and have a free group swig to celebrate and console. Lucy is laughing. I look at her and am hit again by her beauty. She looks staggeringly splendid at the moment. She's recently had her hair layered around her face— maybe that's it.

  The cocktails are about as strong as Tyson and much less familiar than Fergie is to the tabloids. Slowly we nudge forward, toward that amazing time when we will all swap intimacies, the latest and unknown secrets. Well, actually, I hope that my secret will stay exactly that, but I am interested to know what is going on in everyone else's life.