Back to Vanilla

by Jennifer Maschek

  And so there had been no warning whatsoever, he stressed, that what he’d assumed to be the two frolicking tipsy lovers next door were anything other than blissed out, an illusion seemingly backed up by the odd enthusiastic hoot and regular rhythmic thumpings through the wall. And then something – his snoring; her refusal to succumb to his drink-addled charms for the fourth time that night; who knew? – kicked off three-and-a-half hours later and all three of them were wide awake, and none of them smiling, as their combined shouts and her eventual loud sobs began drifting through the “soundproofed” walls. With overblown theatricality, he performed his range of emotions and reactions, from his initial desperate, weary hope that it would all end soon, through his glass-to-the-wall fascination, to his eventual hour or two of snatched sleep with a pillow folded over his head.

  It has to be said that Alasdair was in fine fettle, very fine fettle, and this was seriously appreciated by Jane, who was swayed by her own more-than-slight intoxication, the general upbeat and hazy feel to the evening and the fact that her initial appreciation of the most interesting man she had met in months had done nothing but grow as the meal had gone on.

  He was, she thought, utterly charming. He was just a few years older than her, easy on the eye, witty, and so comfortable within himself that it rubbed off casually on those around him; even his politics, not that this generally mattered too much to her, were impeccable. And the cherry atop that icing was that, unlike most men she met, his absolutely self-effacing nature suggested that he had no clue of the effect he was having on her. He was, it seemed, a genuinely nice guy and she’d seen enough rotters to recognise this.

  As they ate through a mix of colourful dishes – polenta crisps with avocado and yoghurt, crusted tofu with wakame and lime, fried tomatoes with goat’s curd… – the conversation cascaded, along with the red wine, towards the inevitable end of the evening. It was nearing this point when Alasdair suggested they move on for a final snort or more before bed. After all, he continued, he didn’t get down to London anywhere near as frequently as he’d like nowadays, and he missed the place.

  “I’m not so sure, Alasdair,” said Lorna, using a tone her mother recognised as being a polite but firm no thanks. “I’ve got to be up early bells tomorrow, and it’s getting late for a work night.”

  “Ach, ye old southern softy,” he said. “This surely isn’t the girl I met for our night out in Edinburgh’s Old Town? I seem to recall you saying you could drink me under the table, and giving that notion a damn good try… albeit failing. Lyall, put the girl straight, won’t you.”

  Lyall, however, knew his fiancée well enough to recognise that tone too.

  “No, Da. I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, and we’ll all get together before the wedding again for sure, but she’ll be a right misery if I don’t get her home, right Jane?”

  And she nodded.

  “So, it’s just the oldies then, unless you’re going to bail out on me too. Family trait perhaps, this lack of stamina?”

  “Oh Lord, don’t challenge her,” said the younger woman. “You have no idea what she’s capable of! All those business dinners and entertaining have given her a solid-iron stomach when it comes to booze.”

  It was true that Jane had a remarkable gift for appearing sober in the midst of intoxicated chaos, but this was generally because she followed a piece of advice given to her early on in her career and drank less while appearing to keep up with the crowd; not such a hard thing to do once you got the knack. Tonight, however, she was not on business.

  “Indulge your future co-conspirator in grandparenthood?” he smiled, as his son poked him a crafty shove in the ribs, irritated and mildly embarrassed by this blatant reference to something he saw as being a mere speck on a distant horizon.

  “Just try stop me, granddad.”

  After a short but fiercely contested battle over who would pay the bill – a fight that Alasdair won – the four of them took the short stroll from the restaurant down to the tube station, wavering occasionally along the way to peer into some shop window or other, mostly at shiny items that caught the eyes of the women.

  As Lyall and Lorna headed underground to the Victoria line northbound, Alasdair turned to Jane. “So, what do you fancy?” he asked. “This road is lined with pubs, though my choice is always for a place where there are seats and the noise isn’t cranked up so loudly you can’t be heard. I don’t even think it’s an age thing with me, though I might be kidding myself – I’ve always liked the chat above all else.”

  Having agreed on this as a sound guiding principle, they opted for a large dated chain pub not far from the station with a rather eclectic clientele – a few businessmen in suits dotted around in pairs, but mainly older and middle-aged less affluent-looking couples and groups.

  To get in, they’d had to manoeuvre through a small group of five or six cigarette smokers, not native English-speakers but clearly locals, mixed gender, laughing and drinking outside. They parted easily to let the couple through, and it was interesting for her to see how friendly people became when a man in a kilt appeared, with the sort of convivial familiarity that you might use to greet Santa or the Easter Bunny.

  Inside, the dominant sound was a human one, of voices and the odd cackle, rather than the dull rhythmic beat that pounded through most of the pubs in the area at this time of night. And although it was full, the place was large enough to have spare seats aplenty.

  As they headed towards the bar, Jane noticed a heavily pierced biker chick walking away smiling with a little tray of shot glasses filled with drinks of many colours, and before Alasdair could say a word, she asked the barmaid if could she possibly have the same, please. They took the collection of eight vibrant shots, with little idea of what they were, and sat in a six-person booth.

  “So,” said Alasdair, “here’s to our bairns, and may they make a better crack of the whip at marriage than, well, at least than I did.” And a toast.

  “Don’t rush – let’s add my own failure to the pot. Here’s to broken marriages, beautiful children, and to the future. May they learn from what they’ve seen and have the most glorious life, Alasdair; may they be happier than anyone in the universe ever was.” And another two drinks down, they sat in silence a moment or two, staring at the four remaining flavoured vodkas.

  “The two orange ones… they must be orange – nothing else makes sense, right?” They both nodded earnestly at Jane’s words, which she spoke as if delivering the most profound observation ever to spring from a human mind. “Peach maybe. And the red one, well, that’s a no-brainer.”

  “Indeed. We’re talking strawberry or a crisp Scottish raspberry perhaps. A no-brainer.”

  “Indeed. But the blue one, the blue one, Alasdair. What on Earth is the blue one about?”

  “Well, my dear, there’s only one true way to taste a flavour, and that is to put it to the lips and taste it.” He downed the blue in one, handing the red over to the woman who already felt like his kind of person, both in the evening’s drinking and in the longer-term venture of two families meeting. “Ah, interesting. There are slight tea notes with a hint…” he smacked his lips… “of Ribena.”

  The night was growing more nebulous by the sip. Jane’s consciousness slipped in and out just a little, while Alasdair increasingly became the star of his own show; first setting the pace and then, knowing it was time to slow down considerably or give in and head for sleep, settling down to interview her.

  “I think you’ve the advantage here,” he said, leaning in over the table, having just returned with a glass of water for her and a large whisky for himself in response to the bell for last orders.

  “I know you’ve spoken to Lexi; she mentioned it in our last chat, and anyway Lyall’s so much his mother’s boy that he’s been delighted at the way you two’ve got on, but I’ve no clue about your own ex. Lorna’s never really mentioned him. But he was around until she was, what, 12, 13? And she’s 25 now… a fine girl, credit to you, Jane, a beau
tiful match and I’m delighted for the pair of them.

  “Does it seem like a long time, short time? Do stop me if it’s not a topic up for discussion.”

  She paused and traced the rim of her glass with a well-manicured, red-tipped index finger, the question serving to sober her up a little.

  “No, it’s appropriate for you to know,” she said, choosing her words deliberately, nodding her head slightly and staring down at the table, on which both her elbows now rested. “And I’d hope the fact that Lorna doesn’t talk about him, about any of it, is more about her, I really hope, than about us, about him and me. About what happened.

  “Long time, short time? Hell, it’s a lifetime ago and that’s how it feels, and it’s been a long hard slog, but, Alasdair, I got there and I’m still standing and better for it all. It just took, yeah… it was a long, hard slog.” She looked up at him, then, brown eyes from behind the sideswept semi-fringe of her short blonde hair.

  “Ach, it’s not always easy, is it?”

  “Sometimes it seems like no lesson ever worth learning is. No pain, no gain – bet we both got that T-shirt, right?”

  Chucking-out time was a long process in a bar that stayed serving until midnight and so had become the late-night haunt of anyone wanting a serious drink on a weekday night. His day was not due to start until 10.30, and that was just a quick meeting before his train back home shortly after noon.

  Having just seen her most recent project successfully to completion, a process that always left her first elated and then drained, Jane was in the middle of a long weekend, added to which she was well used to playing as hard as she worked.

  They wandered back through to the exit and she turned quite naturally towards the taxi rank she knew to be five minutes’ walk away. Without questioning the direction, he sauntered alongside her.

  They walked past a late-night mini-mart, the outside of which was framed with racks of exotic fruit and vegetables that, after a long day, were beginning to slump.

  “Now here’s a plan… if you’re game?” he said, twisting as if to head into the shop. “Half, quarter bottle of whisky – or any other preference – another shot or two back at my hotel, and then I see you safely back into a cab and you text when you’re home. Appeal?”

  It did.

  Whisky, large carton of orange juice as an alcohol alternative rather than a mixer, and a packet of salt-and-pepper cashews in a thin plastic bag, and seven minutes later the two were back at the door of room 272, second floor. Alasdair slid the plastic card that passed for a key in and out of the lock, while Jane stood by, hand over mouth to cover the spluttering giggles that kept erupting.

  Finally successful, he stepped to one side, allowing her in first. The room was functional rather than aesthetically styled. Small double bed, unlined striped curtains matching a seemingly pointless foot-wide strip of cloth across the bottom of the white duvet – everything a person could need was there, but in bare minimum quantities.

  “I’d call this a budget hotel, but I’m not sure such a thing exists in London,” he said. “Do take a seat. There’s this charming chair or you have, of course, this enormous bed on which to sprawl.”

  He fetched the two plastic disposable tooth cups from the bathroom and unscrewed the Bell’s, as she shook both her head and her left hand.

  “Oh God, no more.”

  “Just the one, and look… I’ll open the juice and,” he looked around, “pour you a large, erm, coffee mug of this healthy stuff and all.”

  Choosing the bed, she slipped off her emerald velvet fitted jacket, kicked off her heels and pulled her bejeaned legs on to the bed, where she lay spreadeagled for five minutes or so without saying a word. He placed her mug of juice on the bedside shelf and sat on the chair, his own glass on the table beside him.

  “Hey, don’t you go falling asleep on me, lassie, or I’ll have to pick you up and chuck you under a cold shower awhile.”

  Jane’s half-grunted, half-whined “Urghhh” was accompanied by a roll over on to her right side, facing him, and with an incredibly slow hand movement she pulled a section of the duvet over her long, shapely body. After a few moments, her left eye opened and, with a disgruntled look, she asked if she’d been out for long.

  “Days,” he said. “It’s Sunday morning now, and I’ve been trapped in London since Thursday night.”

  “Oh shut up. Can you pass me my drink, please? I know it’s right next to me, and it might seem just a bit lazy, but I think I’d be better able to function with some vitamin C inside me. I hope. Pretty please?”

  Alasdair lifted himself from the wooden chair and leant over her, mug in hand, her eyes following him, and she moved over a little, both to sit up and to create a space on the bed where he could join her.

  “Come, share your bed… you did pay for it, after all,” and she patted the area next to where she now sat, leaning back against the freshly plumped up pillows.

  He sat down, swinging his equally long legs, still kilted, but also without his jacket, on to the bed, and she slumped her head against his shoulder.

  “God, Alasdair. That’s what I call a damn fine session. I don’t want to get all soppy on you, but it’s good, it’s great, it’s been great to meet you, and I like the idea of the big family thing. Lorna... hell, you know how we feel about our kids… and she’s not had too good a time of it. I mean, he’s been a good dad, but he was a shit husband – though he seems to be doing okay second time around.”

  “Lorna mentioned her two little brothers. Twins, right? Ten years… oh.” And something fell into place.

  “Yes. Oh.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Very well. I knew that… I knew that girl, because that’s what she was, for sure. I employed that girl. We employed that… girl.”

  “In your house?” Alasdair was looking straight at her now, or at least at the top of her head, which still rested on him.

  “I worked. I worked and worked and worked and he… Michael… he, hell, worked, he did. He was, is, a cameraman, did she mention that? Well, that’s what he did. Away for days, weeks, and then home for just as long stretches, which was great for her, but in between times we needed someone to just be there. For Lorna, for normality, and she was such a lovely thing, the girl we picked, and I just never thought… honestly it never even occurred to me that he could do that. Fuck things up. Be so fucking stupid.”

  He lifted her head up to face him, a silent tear running down her left cheek, another ripe to fall from her right eye. He wiped the existing tear away with his right hand, then caught the other from her lashes before it dropped.

  He scooped her up and clung on to her, listening to her controlled breathing as she struggled not to collapse into a tired, drunken, heartfelt sob, and succeeded.

  “It’s good. It’s all good. If everything happens for a reason, I’ve learnt and I’m a bigger and wiser and stronger girl now. And I can pat myself on the back for choosing waterproof mascara this evening.” And one enormously deep breath followed, after which she pulled herself away from him and sat up straight.

  Alasdair pulled her gently over towards him and kissed the centre of her forehead, just lightly. “You want that taxi now?”

  “My staying,” Jane said, looking him right in the eye, and softly stroking his hand so there were no mixed messages in what she was saying. “It wouldn’t be a good idea?”

  Every single cell in her weary body pleaded with him to argue with her. It had been a while since any man had captured her interest even vaguely as much as he had, and she wanted so badly to be wrapped up and hugged and loved.

  “There was never a worse one, my dear. I thank you so much for sharing and… for the offer… but, no. You need your bed and I need my beauty sleep a lot more than you do. Let’s get you home and tucked up.”

  Rejection added to her absolute fatigue. She’d hoped to have seemed less needy than this, and there it was: indisputably, she’d made him an offer, and he’d said no. Added to which
, their paths were fated to weave together at all the future significant points in their children’s lives. Awkwardness was not an option.

  “I’ll not argue with that, old man,” she smiled, taking back the bold and feisty handle on which she’d momentarily lost her grip.

  And within five minutes she was standing down in reception waiting for the taxi he’d had the front-desk staff call for her.

  Alasdair sat back on his chair and poured himself a drink, which he downed in one. He poured another and stared into the space in front of him, wishing with a bitter passion that he was not the man he was and that his fate was not simply to disappoint any woman stupid enough to get near enough to him to allow herself to care.

  He was, he knew without one iota of doubt, bad news, and bad news was simply one thing that delicate, strong, lovely woman he’d sent home did not need.

  5. Megan

  “So, with a double score, that’s ten plus one plus one plus three equals 15, times two, ‘quim’, Burlington Bertie, I believe I have 30.”

  “Uh huh, uh huh, well, erm thanks for the ‘u’… we have one plus one plus three plus five, ‘suck’ for ten… and the triple? How could you not see that coming? Unless I am mistaken, this sees me with a winning score!”

  “I’m out, I’m out… I give up. You truly are the dirty Scrabble master,” she typed, her fingers running so speedily now during their games, that the tips were becoming a finely calloused. “Come claim your reward.”

  “Hmmmm. Now remind me what the prize choice was, why don’t you? Didn’t one of them involve you getting a on plane over here, so I could spank that sassy ass of yours? Hey, didn’t it? Didn’t it, WG?”

  “Okay, well… your options were, a picture of said sassy ass… arse, dontcha know… as photographed wearing shorts in Monmouth last year… A sneaky cleavage shot, me headless in my bestest, cleanest bra… Or… or… Honestly, Boyd, whatever you fancy. Anything. Tell me?”