Games People Play

by Voss, Louise

  Ted laughed, and winked at my bosom. ‘Oh, like that, is it? Parents go out, you decide to have a party – you’re a one, aren’t you? I’m not as late as I thought then, if no one else is here yet.’

  He wiggled on the spot in time to the music on the radio, elbows bent into his sides, digging the toe of one pointy, expensive-looking shoe into the carpet. I watched, wanting so much to have someone to dance with that I almost cried.

  ‘No one else?’ I asked.

  He looked a little impatient now. ‘Well, you don’t normally have a party with only one guest, do you? I’ll have a gin and tonic water, love, ta.’

  Suddenly I realized what had happened. He was supposed to be at the same party my parents were at, four doors down, but he’d heard the music floating through the window and simply got the wrong address. I opened my mouth to correct his mistake, but I was so longing for company that the thought of him leaving sent me almost into a panic. I noticed that his suit was very well cut, and his watch gold. He might not be very good looking, but I was pretty sure he was rich. You could just tell. I liked him. Perhaps it was my loneliness and desperation for change, but at that point I decided it was more than likely, were he not already taken, that I would marry him.

  ‘Lemon and ice?’ I asked in a high little voice, even though I knew my parents’ kitchen contained neither of those things, nor indeed any gin or tonic water.

  He nodded, taking a cigarette from a silver case in his inside pocket and lighting it, still twisting his hips on the carpet as he inhaled. Grabbing my handbag on the way, I ran into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, breathing heavily. I quickly took out my compact, checked that my mascara hadn’t run, and reapplied my lipstick.

  I took one of Papa’s bottles of ale from the fridge.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, carrying it back into the front room. ‘We have run out of gin. I can offer you this, or a Campari, or some…’ I spotted the bottle he’d brought ‘…wine?’

  ‘Ale’ll do me, thanks,’ he said, stretching out his arm for the bottle and neatly taking its cap off, having produced a Swiss army knife from his trouser pocket for the purpose. ‘Are you expecting many?’

  For one brief moment I thought he was asking if I was expecting many children, or was pregnant with twins or something, and I was angry at the personal nature of the comment. ‘No! Just – Oh, I see. No. In fact….’ I blushed. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.’ I would have to be truthful. ‘This is not the party, actually. I think you want the Murrays at number twelve, they’re having people round tonight. I thought you were friend of my parents…Sorry.’

  I looked down at the carpet. Ted laughed, in a lovely free sort of way. He took a swig from his bottle, then he tipped my chin up towards him with his spare hand.

  ‘You’re a pretty girl, Gordana. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ I said, ashamed that I was a spinster.

  I studied his face; it was sharp, thin-lipped, and he had great black shadows beneath his eyes – but his eyes were brown and soft, like a dog’s. He had wrinkles on his forehead, and too much of it was exposed by the thinning hair. When he let go of my chin, I could still feel the press of his warm fingers against my skin.

  He looked at my party outfit. ‘Are you going to this party, then?’

  I shook my head. ‘No invitation for me.’

  Ted laughed again. He looked quite sexy when he laughed – not like Paul Tyler, who’d laughed with discomfort, like there was something sharp stuck in his throat. I decided I would like the experience an older man could offer. Not to mention the cash. Paul had never given me anything – hadn’t even offered to buy me new stockings when he laddered one with his clumsy fingers in his hurry-hurry to pull up my skirt.

  ‘Are you married?’ I blurted, brave with alcohol and the easiness of his laugh.

  ‘No. Are you?’ he replied, moving closer to me. He didn’t smell of entrails either, like Paul did. Which was also a plus.

  ‘No—’ I stopped. I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell him about Ivan, not yet. Not when Fate had brought him to me like this.

  ‘You’ve got a strange accent, as well as a funny name. Where are you from?’

  ‘Yugoslavia.’

  ‘So, since you’re all dressed up with nowhere to go, how about coming to a dance with me tonight?’ He said it with such a natural confidence, no stammering or blowing smoke in my face or staring at a spot on the floor, like Paul would have done.

  ‘I would love to!’ I cried, instantly forgetting all about the child asleep upstairs. I couldn’t believe that this was the first time in five whole years anybody had asked me out.

  Ted looked at his watch, sticking his wrist right out of his sleeve like he was punching an invisible person.

  ‘Right, let’s go then. I was thinking of heading down the Roxy anyhow. This drinks party sounded a bit of a bore, to be honest. I only said I’d go because Cliff Murray – I work with him – tells me his daughter’s a bit of all right. But now I’ve met you …’ He tailed off, with one of his eyebrows raised up high.

  I blushed again, so very delighted. ‘Janice Murray has nothing special,’ I said, although I had always been envious of Janice’s willowy figure and high-and-mighty expression. Privately I suspected that Ted would have loved her. Tough luck, Janice! I said to myself smugly. I actually gathered up my keys and handbag, fetched my cardigan from the back of one of the dining chairs, and was all ready to go. When I finally remembered, that remembering hit me hard with its sudden, cruel reality. I put my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh! I can’t. I can’t come out with you tonight.’

  Ted didn’t look disappointed enough, in my opinion. He lit another cigarette.‘Why not, then? Jealous boyfriend? Parents going to call the police if you go out?’

  I closed my eyes, the crushing weight of all of this responsibility ripping through my body like a labour pain. I thought perhaps maybe not to tell him and leave the house anyway, but the potential humiliation of being found out later was too great. Ivan was bound to wake up and yell about something or another.

  ‘I have a kid. He’s asleep upstairs. Ivan. Five years old.’

  Ted just laughed again. ‘Had you forgotten?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ I said, crossly. ‘I just …Oh, it does not matter. Here, here is your wine back. Number twelve. Janice Murray is the person with the nose in the air, you won’t miss her. Have a good time. It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.’ I was practically pushing him towards the front door, thrusting his bottle back at him, determined not to let him see the fresh tears which were springing up fast.

  Ted turned and put his hands on my shoulders – not in a perverted way, but in a kind way which made it unavoidable that the tears spill down my face. ‘Poor kid,’ he said. ‘You, I mean, not the baby. Where’s the father?’

  ‘Gone,’ I said, not meeting his eyes, feeling his hands almost burning into my shoulders. ‘Didn’t want to know.’

  ‘His loss,’ Ted said. ‘I like you. Do you reckon your mother would babysit one evening, and we can go dancing then?’

  ‘She might, I suppose.’ I gave a sob. I was so tempted to bury my face in his jacket that I felt pulled like a magnet towards him. He’s a stranger, I tell myself. Don’t be so forward. But it felt natural. And he’d told me he liked me! Paul Tyler never said anything with nearly so much affection.

  ‘Well then. Shame about tonight, but how about we go back into your front room and have a little dance there instead? I haven’t finished my drink yet.’

  Ted never made it to the party that night. When my parents returned, they were too drunk themselves to notice the excessive number of cigarette stubs in the ashtray, the two empty glasses left on the floor next to the settee, or the fact that the settee cushions were flattened in the middle in an unmistakable hollow caused by two people, one on top of the other. But the next morning, they noticed how bright-eyed I looked, how willingly I played with Ivan, whis
tling ‘Tonight’ from West Side Story, and even offering to go to the shop when we ran out of tea.

  Me and Ted had been married for nearly three years when, in 1968, Sandie wed the dashing young dress designer, Jeff Banks, and the pair were the most hip young couple of the Swinging Sixties.

  ‘I could have had him,’ I lamented to myself as I looked at Ted and sighed. I loved him, but there was no way he’d ever get in a pair of those groovy tight striped trousers like the ones Jeff Banks wore. Ted thought men with facial hair were all damn Commie hippies. But at least he was rich, and I would never have to work in a factory again.

  And I really did love him.

  Chapter 9

  Rachel

  I wake up, again, on the morning of my twenty-third birthday. This time there is a wintry daylight outside – I’ve really slept in – and there are tears running down my cheeks.

  I dreamed I was on Centre Court at Wimbledon, racket in hand, but I couldn’t seem to move. Instead of an opponent, tennis balls were firing at me out of the ball machine, flying straight at my head, bang, bang, bang, right between the eyes, pummelling me into the ground until I began to slowly collapse beneath the barrage. Dad was yelling at me from the stands, something about ‘footwork!’, fury etched between his eyebrows; but it was no good, I couldn’t get any of those balls back, or stop them from hammering me. The capacity crowd jeered and slow hand-clapped.

  Gordana and Mum were sitting in the front row, on the opposite side of the stadium to Ivan. For reasons which I was unable to fathom, they wore matching designer wedding dresses. They looked disappointed in me. Then, to add to the dream’s humiliation, I wet myself on court; just like I did in my first ever umpired short tennis match, seventeen years ago, as a red-faced six-year-old too embarrassed to ask for the toilet in case Dad shouted at me.

  Even though I was awake most of the night, it still takes me a few seconds to remember what happened at the club with Elsie and Gordana, but as soon as it does, I can’t stop the worry settling back on my shoulders again like dandruff.

  I climb wearily out of bed and put on a tracksuit, but even though the sleep clears from my eyes and my brain slowly unfogs, I still can’t shake off the impression of being under attack from those balls. They smacked into my forehead, but the sound it made was the sound of balls hitting a wire fence.

  We had some hail yesterday, but today it’s downgraded to rain, which is hurling itself at the window, rattling the glass, and I think sourly how it always seems to rain on my birthday. The trouble with being born in October.

  I open my bedroom door, noticing that Anthea hasn’t touched the snack I left out for her. The milk has gained a textured patina of dust on its surface, and the edges of the sandwich have curled into a dry sneer.

  At that moment, I hear the sound of footsteps in the gravel of the front path and – even in the current crisis – I automatically do some nimble crossovers sideways along the landing and down the staircase to see if it’s the postman. My right hand is holding an imaginary racket high above my head, as if I’ve just been lobbed from the top of the stairs. (After a recent, particularly galling defeat at a challenge in Miami, Dad and José went into a lengthy confab, the result of which was that they decided it was my on-court movement which was to blame. As a result, they encourage me to execute crossover steps practically everywhere I go.)

  I get to the bottom and wait expectantly by the letterbox, realizing that I’m not old enough to be completely blasé about birthdays just yet. For a moment I wonder if perhaps this was the reason for my sleepless night, rather than pre-tournament nerves, or worrying about Dad, but then I decide surely not. I’d be announcing that I still believed in Father Christmas next. But I could remember it well: that breathless anticipation of gifts and attention, candles and cards.

  I wonder what Mark will give me?

  A few envelopes thud on to the tiled floor, but right away I can see that they are mostly circulars and bills. I pounce on a plain white envelope, and a square yellow one, and leave the rest of the post on the hall table. Nothing from Mum – she is usually late with my present. The yellow envelope contains a card from my friend Kerry, and the white, one from Gordana and Ted – I recognize Gordana’s neat writing. When I rip it open a voucher flutters out: fifty pounds, for the big art shop in the local shopping centre! I am delighted.

  Gordana knows how much I love to draw, and she’s always encouraging me, although I always say that I never have time for it. This is not strictly true: there are endless hours of spare time at tournaments, waiting around for matches, or, if I’ve been knocked out, for the rest of the squad to finish so we can fly home again. I keep meaning to take a sketchpad and pencils in my hand luggage, so I can use the time constructively, but the truth is I’d feel embarrassed suddenly to whip out a pad and crayons. It would seem…pretentious, I suppose.

  I realize this is daft, and vow to be braver. Drawing is the thing I enjoy most (after playing tennis), so why not? I hear Gordana’s voice in my head: ‘Who cares what anyone else thinks?’ and I know she’s right. Although the thought of my fellow players squinting critically over my shoulder makes me cringe…

  I put the voucher into my purse just as Dad appears on the landing in his dressing gown; his hair is sticking up, and his big yellow toenails loom down at me over the lip of the top stair. He looks grey and shattered, closer to sixty than his forty-four years. He comes slowly downstairs, ruffling my hair wordlessly as he passes, and I notice that he smells strange: of sickness perhaps, although it feels more like fear and fatigue; anxiety trapped like stale sweat.

  ‘Is your migraine better, Daddy?’ I ask, following him into the kitchen. I haven’t called him Daddy for years.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he says, more like a grunt, and fills the kettle.

  ‘We missed you at the party last night. Gordana was really worried.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘You know Elsie – well, you know what a nosy old bag she is? She – er – thinks she saw some people turn up here early yesterday morning. I mean, maybe she was mistaken and it was next door, but—’

  ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ he says, his back to me. His dressing gown is frayed and striped in black and red.

  He’s had it as long as I can remember, although the black stripes have got lighter and the red ones darker, as if they’re trying to swap places.

  ‘You let Jehovah’s Witnesses in? Elsie said they were here for a couple of hours!’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. Gordana is quite a staunch Catholic, and it has always been a source of sorrow to her that her son is the biggest atheist this side of Hades. Whenever any Jehovah’s Witnesses have had the temerity to mount our doorstep in the past, the whole street has heard the sound of Dad banging the front door in their faces.

  ‘Decided I might as well hear what they had to say,’ he says sheepishly, with a weary shrug.

  I stare at him, speechless. ‘No wonder you had a migraine by the afternoon.’

  ‘Yeah. Tea?’ He reaches down three mugs, and throws in teabags.

  ‘Yes please. But Elsie said that you got in their car?’

  He tuts furiously. ‘That bloody woman needs to get a life.’

  ‘Did you get in their car? What, have you been converted or something? Is that what all this is about?’

  He turns to face me, eyes bulging, dressing gown open to the waist to reveal his scrubby black-haired chest. I know he’s my dad and everything, so obviously I’m not looking at him in that way, but I really can’t see why women fall over themselves to get to him. Mum, OK, maybe that’s understandable – it was twenty-four years ago, and he was young and successful and had all his hair then. But it’s a mystery to me why they still go for him. And right now he’s looking as rough as I’ve ever seen him.

  ‘Rachel! Will you please stop interrogating me! Turns out I went to school with one of them – we used to be quite friendly actually. That’s the only reason I let them in. Then when I said I had to go to work, the
y offered me a lift. I knew I’d be drinking at the party later, so I accepted the lift, rather than taking the car to work and having to leave it there. Then I felt ill in the afternoon, so Anthea came and picked me up again. It’s really no big deal. I can’t understand why everyone is making such a fuss.’

  I wonder who ‘everyone’ is. ‘I didn’t see you at the club yesterday,’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘Rachel! ’ he snaps again, in the tone he used when I was a kid and kept using an incorrect grip for my backhand volleys. ‘I really don’t see why I have to explain myself to you, or anyone else. I was there yesterday, I just had a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so I was in the office most of the time, until my head got too bad to continue. Now, if you could just shut up long enough for me to have my breakfast in peace, I’d really be most grateful.’

  He hands me a mug of terracotta-coloured tea. He always makes it too strong, and I always have to add more milk.

  I add more milk. ‘It’s my birthday today,’ I say, trying to sound just huffy enough.

  He has the grace to pause. ‘Oh, Rach, sorry, of course. I did remember, just what with the… migraine and everything, it slipped my mind. Sorry, darling. Happy birthday.’

  He enfolds me in a reluctant hug, and I have to hold my breath as my head gets pressed into his shoulder.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say in a muffled voice. ‘Gordana and Pops gave me a voucher for the art shop.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ he replies, away in his own world again. We pour and eat cereal.

  ‘Are you well enough to come to Zurich today, or should we cancel your flight?’ I venture after a few minutes.

  ‘No, I’ll come. As long as Anthea doesn’t mind. And I’ll have to get some sleep today, I’m shattered.’

  This was odd, too. I’ve never once heard Dad even ask Anthea’s opinion on anything, let alone seek her approval for any of his actions. My heart sinks slightly at the thought of him and his black mood travelling with me; but it’s a relief, too. If he’d said he wasn’t coming, then I’d really know something was wrong.