by Stella Duffy
“So, John, none of these brown eyed blondes are September. Now that could mean several things. To be blunt, perhaps she died somewhere else, and though you may find this difficult to believe, I don’t have access to all the death records in the world. But what I think is much more likely is that she really did rip you off, she took your money and …”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I know her …”
“You don’t even know her name!”
“We know that! Hear me out. It’s true I don’t know her name, but I know her. She wouldn’t cheat me. She’s in trouble and I still want you to find her.”
“Look John, I don’t think you can afford this, you still don’t have a job, to take it any further I’m going to have to go to New York. The air fare alone is two hundred quid.”
“Go. Just go. She needs me.”
John Clark looked like a man obsessed. Gone was the “Mr Grey” Saz had met weeks before, this man had a dream, it was to get September back, it was to have dinner every second Friday night, whether that proved to be the most expensive meal of his life or not.
So here she was, early Monday evening, outside a “private hotel”. And she’d been outside this “hotel” for nearly an hour, consulting her map, looking frantically at her watch as if she was waiting for someone and watching the people go in and out. But mostly in. And mostly men. And all very well-dressed. Glad she’d thought to pack some “posh clothes”, she finally decided to go in herself. She took off her coat to reveal a plain but well cut business woman’s suit, slipped off her trainers and took her court shoes out of their plastic bag like any other New York yuppie and walked up to the desk with her finest Sloane voice.
“Um, excuse me, I wonder if you could help me?”
The desk clerk looked up, evidently surprised at the English accent on the chick he’d been eyeing through the door for the past half hour.
“Yes ma’am?”
“I’m afraid I was expecting to meet a Mr – ah, Mr Hannon. Patrick Hannon.” Saz said, invoking her maternal grandfather as she always did in moments of stress.
“He said six thirty and I’ve been waiting outside for almost an hour and it’s most dreadfully cold, so I wonder if you couldn’t let me wait in here for just a moment. You do have a lounge?”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t know a Mr Hannon. He’s a member?”
“A member? Oh. Well, I don’t know. I’m terribly sorry, I’m only in town for a couple of days and he suggested we meet for a drink, I thought this must be a hotel he frequents …”
“No, ma’am. This isn’t a hotel. It’s a casino. But if you’ll just wait up a minute I’ll get someone to cover for me, and then I can go on up to March to see if maybe he’s in the new members’ lounge.”
“I’m sorry … did you say March?”
“Yeah, I know it’s silly honey, but we’ve got twelve rooms – one for each game, you know, and each one’s named after a month, like blackjack’s in October, roulette’s in January, poker’s in July … and there’s one room which is just kind of a lounge. That’s March.”
“Well, what a … what an interesting idea. But look, I don’t want to disturb you any longer and to tell the truth, Mr Hannon is my ex-husband, so if he can’t be bothered to turn up on time, well, I’m sure I’ve got better things to do with my time than to sit around waiting for him!”
“That’s the spirit sweetheart!”
By now the desk clerk was all but kissing Saz’s feet so she decided to push her luck just that little bit further.
“So um, how does one join this club?”
“One is invited,” came a cold voice behind her. Saz turned to see a tall, immaculately dressed man standing in front of her, on either arm was a beautiful woman, both with the darkest brown eyes – and though one of the women was black, they also both had the same long, blonde hair.
“Charlie, what’s this lady doing here?”
“She was just waiting for someone, Sir. A Mr Hannon.”
“And I presume you told her we had no Mr Hannons here?”
“Well, I was just going to check in the new members’ lounge, sir …”
“No need, we have no Mr Hannon.”
“Yes Mr James. Sorry Sir.”
“Perhaps you’d like to call the lady a cab now Charlie and get back to work?”
“Yes Sir, right away Sir.”
Charlie picked up the phone and Saz watched as Mr James and the two women, without another glance at her, swept out of the foyer and up the staircase. She turned to Charlie and hoping that his fear of his boss wasn’t greater than his attraction to her, said “Don’t worry about the cab Charlie, I have a car. But let me just give you this …”
Saz grabbed two of the cards at his elbow, scribbled Caroline’s number on one of them and kept the other one hidden in her palm.
“I’m staying with a friend. You might like to call me and maybe we could meet? I don’t know that many people in New York and it does get kind of dull … especially as my friend works days …”
She placed the card slowly in front of him, smiled her most provocative smile and slowly walked out of the front door, all the while praising her mother for her tuition in decidedly politically unsound flirting. Once safely away from the front of the building, she changed her shoes and began to run. Only when she was back in the subway on the way to the apartment did she turn the card over.
CALENDAR GIRLS
– Private Hotel –
We cater for your every need
all year round.
MEMBERS ONLY
Saz let out a low whistle.
“Well, little Miss Goody Two Shoes September, what would John Clark have to say about this?”
That night she talked it over with Caroline as they fell asleep.
“I’m sorry Saz, but it sounds more like a brothel than a casino to me. Dolly bird blondes, rooms named after months …”
“But I saw men going in with women.”
“There’s some funny couples in New York!”
“I don’t know. It didn’t feel like a knocking shop. It looked quite passable – no flocked wallpaper anyway.”
“It’s not a knocking shop babe, it’s a high class brothel. Or it could be drugs I ’spose.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, why not? A room for each ‘drug of choice’ as we Americans say.”
“Carrie, you’ve been here three weeks.”
“Columbus had only been here a day and he got to name the place.”
“You could be right though, one of those girls, the one with the natural blonde hair did have really strange eyes. Her eyes were incredibly brown, massively dilated pupils.”
“More likely her contact lenses than coke. Your Mr James isn’t going to waste his merchandise on the staff – not while they’re working anyway.”
“What did you say?”
“I said he wouldn’t waste good drugs …”
“No, not that. The contact lens thing.”
“Well think about it Saz. If she’s a natural blonde then the chances of her having brown eyes are pretty small. Not impossible but pretty small.”
“ ‘O’ Level biology darling, remember?”
And Saz did remember. Remembered John Clark telling her that September’s eyes were so dark it was hard to tell what colour they were, that sometimes it looked as if her whole eye was taken up by the pupil. As Caroline’s breathing became regular beside her, Saz silently kicked herself. Whether it was coke or contact lenses or both that had made September’s eyes big and brown, it made her previous analysis of Gary’s information redundant. It was also inevitable that Mr James knew something about it and the person who was most likely to be able to help her was Charlie. And she hoped her charm had more effect on him than on Caroline who was beginning to snore gently beside her.
CHAPTER 11
Cake but not candies
She’d been w
orking as a tour guide. Not your ordinary “and this is St Paul’s Cathedral” from the top of a bus, but a specialist guide. She’d take families out in her car, or if there were too many of them, a specially hired mini-bus. Usually day trips to some beautiful or historic part of Britain; Stonehenge, Bath, the Lakes. Mostly the customers were American, occasionally French or German. She knew a lot about most places, but if they had a special request she’d spend nights in the library, boning up on all the facts. Sometimes she’d stay with them longer, taking them on up to Edinburgh or down through to Paris, Amsterdam. When she had to stay away I was usually rewarded with a special bottle of wine or some good Dutch cheese. Mostly she brought back some kind of objet d’art too. Usually some ugly touristy thing her guests had bought her to remind her of their great time together. Luckily she managed to break or lose most of them within a couple of months. When she wasn’t touring, and most tours were midweek, she’d go into her office to plan the next assignment or take future bookings. As I said, when I first heard about it, her job sounded terribly glamorous. In truth, she usually came home exhausted and wanting to sleep for a couple of days. Still, it paid the bills – all the bills, most of my share too. And it got her out of the house. I was hoping to get a surprise trip for my birthday, but it wasn’t to be.
That’s when I first found her out.
It was the third of my birthdays we’d shared but the first to fall on a Friday. It was not one of the Fridays per month I’d been allotted but I assumed she’d be with me anyway. I assumed wrong.
“What do you mean you’re going to your parents?”
“I mean I’m going to my parents. I mean it’s their night. It’s one of their nights. I mean I ALWAYS go to my parents three Fridays a month. You know that.”
“But it’s my birthday.”
“I’ll take the day off work. I’ll only go to them for a couple of hours. I’ll meet you in town.”
“No.”
“I’ll be home with you by nine thirty.”
“No.”
“OK. Well I’ll bring dinner. I’ll buy your favourite takeaway. And we can have champagne. Well, you can have champagne. We’ll get a video out. And we could go to a club. You know you always want to.”
True. I did always want to go to clubs and she’d always promise to go with me and then discover she was too tired at about ten thirty.
“No. I want to be with you. It’s my birthday for God’s sake. I want you. What am I going to do by myself for four hours?”
“Oh, come on Maggie! You’re a grown up, you’ve got friends, call someone, see if Dolores wants to go out and I’ll come and meet you later.”
“Right. Yes. Good move. That’s ideal. Now … what shall I say? – ‘Hi, Dolly, it’s Maggie. You know how you always told me it wouldn’t work? Well it hasn’t. It’s my birthday and she’s gone home to her mummy and daddy. And no they won’t be sending me a present.’ Now that would be the ideal present for Dolores wouldn’t it? I can just see it, she’d be round here with open legs to comfort me in no time.”
“There’s no need to be crude, and anyway you know Dolores is far too much in love for that, even on your birthday!”
She was right. Dolores had fallen head over heels with a wonderful woman. A landscape gardener. And pagan. So now even my barbed confidante was not as free as she had been.
“You’re right there. So what do you suggest I do? Sit at home and be the good little wifey until you’re ready to come and play with me? Or perhaps I should come with you?”
That got her. She seemed genuinely scared that I should want to go with her. So scared in fact that it didn’t occur to her that I couldn’t possibly make the trek all the way to Golders Green merely to be insulted by her parents. So scared that she didn’t even realise I wasn’t serious. The protestations began.
“But you couldn’t … I mean they wouldn’t let you.”
“They couldn’t do much if I just turned up though, could they? Surely they wouldn’t cause a scene in front of the neighbours?”
“Well, no they wouldn’t. But you can’t. It’s not fair …”
“Not FAIR? It’s MY birthday!”
“Well you can’t, that’s all there is to it. I won’t take you.”
“I’ll go by myself. I’ll just turn up and knock on the door. In fact I’ll go early, before you’ve finished work, so I’m waiting there for you when you get there. I’ve got the address. Yes. That’s it. I’ll go by myself. About time I met the in-laws anyway.”
I was furious by now, and so carried away that I almost believed I could do it. Almost believed I could brave their anger and hate. And she collapsed in front of me. Just collapsed like a punctured beach ball. Just curled up at my feet and begged me not to. Begged me not to go. Said she’d cancel. She’d stay with me. Said her mother couldn’t cope. Said she was sorry. She was thoughtless. She hadn’t known it mattered so much to me. Well, neither had I. She said she’d spend the whole day and night and every waking minute with me. Only she begged me not to go to her parent’s house.
She begged me not to do it.
And because it was up to me, because I was in control, because it was my decision, I said I wouldn’t.
“Don’t be silly darling, of course I wouldn’t go to your parents’. Can’t think of anything less fun to do really. Anyway, now I come to think of it, Dolores said Annie was probably having a party that night so I think I’ll go to that. You can come and get me later. I’d rather do that really anyway, after all, as you so rightly said, we do have the rest of our lives together.”
She hated me for that. But she never could hate me for long. Because I can never hate anything for long and I don’t let people around me stay mad. I get very, very angry, very quickly and then it’s gone. Like it was never there, except for the burn marks where my white hot rage has scarred someone or something.
She looked scared – and scarred – for a day or two and then, when she realised I really wouldn’t carry out the threat, life picked up as usual.
The way life usually does.
The day of my birthday dawned crisp and sunny with a strong breeze carrying promises of a clear day. I woke in her arms and, all pain of the previous week gone, began to make love for another year of my life.
Began to make love for another year with my love.
At nine thirty I rang in sick for her while she heated croissants and poured fresh coffee. We moved to the lounge for the sunshine and lay on pillows and duvet watching Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger while we allayed ours. It was still early, before midday when she brought me clothes to dress in. Functional, warm clothes. Then she led me to the car where she blindfolded me and lay me in the back seat.
I got my day trip after all.
I succumbed to this order readily. For a treat with me as the centre I will always succumb.
It is when the event is not about me that I need to take control.
She drove, playing my favourite music for about two hours. My sense of time defined by which tapes were played and for how long. We arrived at the sea. It was sea by its sound and its smell. She sang to me in the back of the car and then she took me out to the shore. I taught her how to skim stones. To make them hop just across the surface of the water, to make them curve as if they could come back to you, just before they sink deep under. She told me the names of different kinds of seaweeds and we picked shells from their beds and told each other stories of the crabs that had lived there.
“This was Mr Joseph Crab. When his girlfriend told him she was pregnant he ran away to sea and became a … hermit crab!”
“This is Miss Caroline Crab, all the other crabs hated her because she was too big and ugly to fit into any of the old shells and her hands were always too hard and ungainly, then one day while looking in the Directory of Crabs and Crustaceans she discovered she was not a crab at all, but a beautiful baby lobster.”
“So she climbed happily into a pot of boiling water and lived deliciously
ever after.”
“Maggie! That’s so cruel!”
The Woman with the Kelly McGillis body wouldn’t know. She eats bacon sandwiches but not shellfish or any seafood. Not so much dietary laws as allergies.
I’m allergic to very little. But when I am, it’s obvious.
She brought lunch out from the boot of the car. Cheeses and bread, olives and hummus and salad and fruit and still frozen ice-cream and chocolate and champagne for me and beer for her. And so we ate and drank and feasted on each other and the day until it was mid afternoon and time to return. This time I watched as we drove home. Watched her sure and steady hands directing the car, much the same as her hands directed me. Sure, steady and always attaining their goal, my goal.
My hands are shaking.
She took me home where we washed and dressed. She for her parents, me for Maximum Impact. And then she dropped me off at Annie’s house on the way to the house where she’d grown up.
I walked in, about three hours before most of the other party-goers. Annie and Dolores were upstairs. Dolores was dressing. I could tell by the shouts coming from the bedroom.
“No. NO. NO. NO. That’s horrible. I hate them. I hate all my clothes. They’re hideous. Horrendous. I hate them.”
It was a cry I’d heard at least three times a week ever since I’d first known Dolores. Annie’s brother let me in and took me into the kitchen for coffee. Annie and her brother run the landscaping business together. She came out when she was seventeen and went straight into gardening. He went to Oxford, married a very nice woman, was “something in the city”, father to three children and the apple of his parents’ eye. Then when he was forty-three his perfect wife died and he and the three teenage children, none of whom had ever done anything more domestic than make a cup of coffee, discovered they couldn’t cope with grief AND housework. Annie moved her collective of housemates out and her family in. The five of them had lived very happily with each other and their fading grief for five years now, Keith doing the books and bookings and Annie doing the digging with occasional help from Keith’s son. And now they had Dolores on semi-permanent loan from her grateful flatmates. Keith handed me coffee and I handed him a few bucketloads of sympathy.
