The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  ‘Sure,’ he said, lighting a cigarette and sucking on it as if he was starving, ‘just a few hassles.’ He looked at her and frowned. ‘You know,’ he clarified, ‘the stuff of headaches.’

  Pip nodded. ‘Sometimes this place can be like that – and I’m only here a few hours a week,’ she said sympathetically, giving him a supportive rub between the shoulder-blades.

  ‘You’re a sweet, sweet thing,’ he said affectionately, ruffling her hair. Momentarily, she didn’t like it. She wanted him to only ever think of her as the vamp with the gorgeous cunt, not a sweet thing he could pet. But she let it pass. Those were her own self-doubts surfacing, she chastised, nothing to do with Caleb. She should feel flattered and heartened that he appeared to be so fond of her, that she seemed to be all things to him.

  ‘You know I’m away next week,’ he stated, out of context but with emphasis.

  ‘That’s right,’ Pip said. ‘Shame – I was going to suggest dinner at mine, or a weekend away, perhaps. Maybe when you’re back.’

  Caleb didn’t say anything but he looked down at her fondly. ‘You’ll come back all tanned and gorgeous and I won’t be able to keep my hands off you!’ she said, hoping to lift his mood. ‘I’ll bet you can’t wait to go – just steer clear of the local dusky maidens, if you please!’ He looked down further, engrossed in his shoes. ‘Shiny,’ Pip said, looking too, thinking it sounded a bit daft but so what. ‘Is your friend looking forward to it?’ she asked.

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘The mate you’re going on holiday with?’ Pip said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Caleb, lighting another cigarette immediately.

  ‘Which mate?’ she asked. ‘The one you play squash with? I haven’t even asked you!’

  ‘Jo,’ said Caleb.

  ‘Joe,’ Pip repeated, it didn’t ring a bell.

  ‘Correct,’ said Caleb.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve mentioned Joe?’ she said, trying to remember if he had.

  ‘No,’ said Caleb, ‘I haven’t. Andy’s the bloke I play squash with.’

  ‘Of course. Andy – that’s right!’ she nodded as if she knew Andy well. ‘So which one’s Joe?’

  ‘Jo,’ said Caleb, ‘is my girlfriend.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Oh, how you kick yourself when, months later, you think of the perfect retaliatory quip for a situation which so desperately warranted one at the time. Would you not endure the torment of the whole event again if it meant you could deliver that definitive killer rejoinder? No matter how eloquent a person, it is rare, unless you are a reincarnation of Oscar Wilde, to have the perfect retort at your disposal. A coup de grâce on the tip of your tongue. Unless you have a brilliant scribe working on your behalf, you are unlikely to deliver a soliloquy worthy of an Oscar, let alone Oscar W himself. The ultimate means to reassert your dignity and walk away, head high, with the satisfaction of the moral high ground and the last word is, unfortunately, a talent which eludes most.

  Our heroine is not related to Oscar Wilde, nor does she have any Hollywood connections. Anyway, this isn’t fiction. It’s the here and now and she’s a clown and she’s just standing there. It’s a glorious summer day but a chill has coursed through her making her shudder quite violently. Her heart is thudding, her mouth is agape, her brain is short-circuiting. Disbelief churning with nausea and mixed with a sickening quota of humiliation renders her utterly incapable of any sound, never mind an air-punching speech with a rousing soundtrack and spontaneous audience ovation.

  ‘Shit!’ Caleb is saying, on account of her expression. ‘Pip – I honestly thought you realized.’

  Hit him, Pip!

  ‘Fuck!’ he’s continuing. ‘I feel so bad! You must think I’ve led you on?’

  Don’t you let him talk himself out of his guilt!

  ‘I truly thought you were cool about things,’ he’s saying with a look of deep concern. Actually, it’s more of a mask than Pip can ever paint. Caleb’s expression – a beguiling blend of care, sympathy, sensitivity – is not natural to his personality, nor is it spontaneous to the situation in hand. It’s not an honest reflection of how he feels, it’s not sincere in the slightest. But it is pretty convincing. He learned how to manipulate his face during his medical training. At the same time as studying physiology and swotting up on anatomy. When he was also practising illegible handwriting for prescriptions and the most meaningful way to say ‘hmmm’.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry, Pip. I so didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  This isn’t remorse, it’s contrived and it’s bullshit, Pip. If you still can’t speak, belt him!

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Hmmm?’

  The clown with the gorgeous cunt nods her head meekly and prays a tear won’t splash on the doctor’s shiny sodding shoes. Go on! Stamp on them!

  ‘I feel dreadful,’ says the doctor who doesn’t, ‘I really thought you were on my wavelength.’

  Pip looks up sharply, as if he’s accusing her. Kick him on the shin, Pip!

  ‘I mean,’ Caleb continues, feeling slightly appeased, ‘I really thought you were into the whole no-strings-sex thing? You know, friends who fuck?’

  Is Pip clearing her throat? Or is she swallowing down tears? Or is she about to throw up?

  ‘I got you wrong and I’m mortified,’ Caleb says with fairly credible solemnity. ‘Damn!’

  Pip clears her throat. ‘No, Dr Simmons,’ she says quietly. She stares at his stethoscope because she just can’t drag her eyes up to his and she doesn’t want to look at his stupid shiny shoes any longer. ‘I had you wrong.’

  Away she walks. Beyond the ambulances, past the patients taking fresh air, past the visitors steadying themselves with cigarettes, past the staff on breaks chatting on their mobiles or wolfing down snacks. Pip strides out beyond the hospital perimeter. In her slap and motley, her braided hair sticking out at jaunty angles, her pockets aflap with the toy tools of her trade.

  She’s not looking where she’s going, she doesn’t know where she’s headed, but she doesn’t look back, not even a glance. Her eyes are smarting, her vision is impaired, but she doesn’t slow up. Forward. Onward. It’s as if the further she can be from the hospital, the further she will be from the past. She needs to keep walking in the opposite direction and, logically, into the future.

  Dr Caleb Simmons is still in the ambulance bay. He stubs out his cigarette and returns to the wards. He thinks that didn’t go too badly. At least there hadn’t been a scene. He does like Pip and she’s great in bed. But he’s fond of Jo, too, who isn’t that exciting in the sack. And he very much likes Alice, the nurse on Hogarth ward; she comes as a pair (sometimes literally) with her friend the dental nurse from Dalston.

  It isn’t about open-mindedness versus being prudish, modern versus old-fashioned. It isn’t about strength of feeling or depth of love. It certainly isn’t about what is right or what isn’t. It is not a question of ethics. Caleb, actually, doesn’t believe he has done anything wrong. Pip is upset and he is sorry that she is. That was never his intention. He reasons how morality is a highly subjective issue. Sure, Pip is hurting but, he justifies, he didn’t wilfully cause it. Far from it. If only he had known. Anyway, he’s said sorry, after all.

  Still Pip walked. She went through Liverpool Street station, circumnavigated Broadgate Circle twice (completely oblivious to the flamenco group providing complimentary entertainment in the ring), meandered until she found herself on Moorgate and then walked aimlessly around every floor in M&S. Outside, she window-shopped all the ‘3 for 2’ books on offer in Books Etc. and almost felt like crying when she saw Pret A Manger was closed though she was incapable of eating a thing. Finally, she found comfort in the Edwardian grace and greenery of Finsbury Circus. She walked around it a couple of times, steering clear of the City bucks already drinking at the Pavilions bar. Suddenly, gazing at the perfectly manicured bowling green, Pip realized how tired she was, how sore her feet were and how she desperately needed to sit down and take stock. She chose a
bench and sat on pigeon shit without caring. A litter bin nearby smelt unpleasant with a lunch-hour’s worth of leftovers fermenting in the sun.

  She sat there for some time, feeling confused more than sorry for herself, though sorry for herself she certainly soon felt. ‘I thought he was normal,’ she whispered out loud. God, she felt such a fool. She cried. Then she felt even more of a fool. But she couldn’t help sobbing afresh when she thought how she’d never have sex with Caleb again, and that was certainly something to mourn. The rampant fling had been flung away. And not by her choosing. And that didn’t seem fair.

  People were starting to stream out of their offices for the day. Pip didn’t notice. She wasn’t aware of what the time was, nor did she care how she looked, sitting there. A splash of colour amidst all the navy and grey sensible work suits. Actually, not so much a splash, more a splodge – her make-up was smeared and streaked from her tears. People stared; some slowed down, others hurried past. Some wondered initially if the clown was providing some form of street entertainment. But there was no begging bowl. And there was nothing particularly funny about her. Just odd.

  Only one person actually stopped. Sat down right next to the clown, on some pigeon shit, too. Sat beside her and put a comforting arm gently across her shoulders.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. He was on his way to the pub for a swift half or two with a couple of colleagues. They loitered. He motioned for them to go on ahead.

  Her face was striated with rivulets of murky green, streaks of inky blue and smudges of red. Most of her clown white was now a miserable grey. Most of her lipstick had smeared around her mouth, like someone who’d gorged at Pick Your Own berries. Or had been in a fight. Well, in a way, Pip has been in a fight with a pick your own. She picked on someone not of her own calibre. And just then, she believed, she’d lost.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the good Samaritan asked again.

  She wiped her nose sonorously against the back of her hand, transferring a bruise-like welt of make-up in the process.

  ‘Pip?’

  She looked up. Bloody hell, it was Zac Holmes. She stared at him. His face was creased with an expression of utter concern and he was doing the caring shoulder squeezing and ‘hey hey’ing with great commitment. He was so solemn that, momentarily, Pip wanted to giggle. However, the abiding emotion was one of gratitude and a feeling of safety and, accordingly, she laid her head against his arm and let her tears subside. Zac didn’t intrude. He allowed there to be silence. And if the passers-by wanted to speculate as to his relationship with the crying clown, let them. And if his colleagues took the piss later, or didn’t bother to wait for him at the pub, then so what. They were only work associates, merely the least dull amongst those he worked with.

  For Pip, sitting in the middle of an area of London alien to her; sitting on bird shit in her clown doctor’s uniform, her face a disaster area that could frighten children, her life a far cry from the control she so arrogantly assumed she’d instilled; it all seemed suddenly to make perfect sense. She hadn’t told a soul about Dr Simmons. But one person knew of his existence. That person, Zac Holmes, was the very person sitting next to her, in pigeon poo, too, being liberal with his maternal clucking and sympathetic back rubbing. The back rubbing was soothing. Rhythmic, steady; just the right amount of pressure. She felt lulled and her breathing regulated.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed, ‘bollocks.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Zac asked. Pip looked up at him and nodded. ‘Look, my office is that building just over there – why not go in and take five. Or rip up a newspaper. Or make a phone call. Or have a good yell. Or just wash your face?’ Pip nodded and let Zac lead her away.

  ‘Welcome to Hell-hole,’ Zac said of his office with a hint of embarrassment. ‘They’re mostly the same around here – beautiful buildings buggered up by hanging ceilings and truly diabolical lighting, space subdivided into as many work pods as possible. If it’s not liquid lunches giving me a headache, it’s the sodding ambience here. I have a headache most days. See?’ He pulled out a packet of Nurofen from his pocket to verify. ‘Anyway, Clowngirl, second left for the ladies’ loo. Off you go. Shall I get you a drink? Would you like the strange liquid from our machine which might be tea, or there again coffee? Or a plastic cup of plasticky water? It’s from that world-renowned well of purity – the Dell Valley Spring. Not that I can find Dell Valley on the map. Or the Internet. Not that I’m a sad bastard for researching it. Anyway, what’ll it be?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Pip croakily. Zac felt that was a matter for some conjecture but diplomatically, he said nothing. She went to the ladies’, he looked around his floor. There was no one around. Just as well, really. The company was threatening a batch of redundancies soon and Zac’s derisory comments concerning their vending machines and office ergonomics could surely amount to something sackable.

  It is not an easy task to remove stage paint with water alone. In fact, water alone actually is not recommended. Cold cream is the best antidote; Simple Soap will do, but it’s a lengthier process. Water doesn’t really work. Pip, however, had more sense and respect for her skin’s sensitivity, than to resort to the industrial pink liquid soap in the wall-mounted dispenser. She’d winced on seeing her reflection and had momentarily cringed at the thought of the spectacle she must have provided to everyone she passed from St Bea’s to the bench. Oddly, though, she wasn’t mortified that Zac had seen her so; when she saw the state of her face, she was extremely glad he had come across her and laid his company’s facilities at her disposal. When Pip emerged, she looked something akin to an art teacher at the end of the school day. If it wasn’t for her clothing, she might not attract even a second glance.

  She approached Zac a little shyly. ‘Thanks,’ she said, with a coy dip of her head against her shoulder, which wasn’t wholly unintentional.

  ‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t take you to meet the Queen looking like that, but I will escort you wherever it was you were headed.’

  ‘That’s precisely it,’ Pip confessed. ‘I had no idea where I was going – just where I was coming from.’

  Zac nodded sagely, slightly confused at the solemnity of Pip’s tone but feeling it was rude to pry. ‘Hot liquid?’ he offered. ‘Plastic water from the Dell Valley?’

  ‘Perhaps the plastic water,’ Pip said gratefully, ‘and a couple of painkillers.’ She looked around her. How could people work productively in such an oppressive and cramped environment? ‘Which is your desk?’ she asked Zac when he returned, surveying Pod-land.

  He looked a little embarrassed. ‘Well, it’s over there actually.’ Pip looked ‘over there’ and to a side of the floor where there were three or four single offices with smoked glass doors and not a pod in sight. ‘In one of them.’

  ‘One of those,’ Pip corrected automatically. ‘Are you the boss?’ she asked, almost accusatorily.

  ‘No no!’ Zac denied breezily.

  ‘But you are a bit of a hot shot?’ Pip pressed. ‘You’re not one of the proletariat working in Pod-land with no natural light?’

  ‘I do have an office to myself,’ Zac conceded, ‘and a window.’

  ‘May I see?’ Pip asked. It seemed preferable to stay here than to be outside, having to decide which direction to take. It was much better to be with Zac than to be on her own. It was good not to have the time to think about Caleb. She was going to change the subject in her mind and soul. Forget all about it. About him. For a while, at least.

  ‘If you really want to,’ Zac said with a perceptible shuffle. ‘It’s just a boring old office, though.’

  Pip had to nudge him to lead on. ‘You lucky sod!’ she exclaimed. ‘You have two sash windows, a high ceiling, ornamental coving, corporate art and a coffee percolator!’

  ‘I work hard,’ Zac shrugged, thinking that Pip probably didn’t know a Herman Miller Aeron chair even when she was swivelling on it; certainly not that it cost a thousand pounds.

  Pip noted the photos of Tom at various a
ges on the window-sills and Zac’s desk. And then she noticed the clock above the door. It was nearing 7.00. She’d left the hospital almost three hours ago. And her stuff was still there. It was one thing taking the tube home looking like an art teacher at the end of the day, albeit one dressed as a clown; it was quite another to have to break into one’s flat because the house keys had been voluntarily left at work. And, of course, there was no way she could turn up at either of her sisters’, or Megan’s, because they would want to know why. And who.

  ‘Are you all right, Pip?’ Zac asked, discerning that she wasn’t actually looking at his magnetic paper-clip pyramid but was simply staring, deep in thought, probably to the nub of the matter – whatever the matter was.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, unconvincingly. She was as unlikely to tell Zac all that had happened that afternoon, as she was to ask him if she could perhaps take refuge in his flat for the night so that she didn’t have to return to St Bea’s.

  ‘Finished snooping?’ he asked, thinking he’d quite like a pint now, either with dull colleagues or the paint-stained clown. The pint was the point and he was thirsting for one. It had been a long day. Awkward clients with complex accounts. And then Clowngirl turning up, quite literally on his doorstep, sobbing as if she couldn’t stop. Well, she had stopped now. In fact, she’d brightened up discernibly. ‘You can rummage through my drawers, if you like,’ he said, ‘or join me for a pint? Or that lemony-blackcurranty stuff.’

  ‘That sounds like a fine idea,’ Pip said. Zac opened his drawers. Pip laughed. ‘I meant the pint,’ she explained. Zac had hoped that’s what she’d meant – but hadn’t wanted to tempt fate. Having a drink with Zac, thought Pip, would give her more time not to have to think about keys and St Bea’s and the bloody doc and his roving cock.