by Freya North
Ruth had a feeling that Juliana would turn her nose up at any theatre that wasn’t West End with name-droppable cast, which was precisely why she chose a new Scottish play at the King’s Head in Islington and encouraged the party to knuckle down to a thorough critique and analysis over spicy food afterwards. The next event she pinpointed was a Spanish film, at the Everyman Cinema in Hampstead. To Ruth’s horror, she’d overlooked how kinky Almodovar’s films could be. She feared her plan had backfired when Zac and Juliana bade a flushed and hasty farewell, disappearing down Hampstead High Street towards Zac’s flat at an alarming pace.
Ruth needn’t have worried. Indeed, Zac and Juliana did have sex urgently as soon as they were in his flat. But for both of them, it was little more than assisted masturbation. The film had made them horny individually, but not really for each other. Come quickly. Then go, please. It was like being famished and wolfing down a fast-food-chain burger and fries. You don’t really taste it. It repeats on you later, rather unpleasantly. It staves off hunger without one’s appetite being truly sated. The resulting feeling is of being unfull and unfulfilled. So Juliana took a taxi home, did a little yoga and had an early night. Zac half-watched Newsnight and did some work.
It’s Friday night. Pip has been back in Kentish Town for a couple of hours, has flicked a duster over her flat, done her washing, carefully noted down various messages left on the answering machine and been philosophical over the absence of the voice she unrealistically hoped to hear. She’s prepared herself a herb omelette, some oven chips, grilled mushrooms and a dollop of ketchup and is perched on a stool in her kitchen, flicking through the mail. Tonight seems the ideal time to catch up on paperwork, pay bills and balance her bank statements with her cheque-book and carefully kept auto-bank slips. Hopefully, she’ll soon enough be far too busy for admin and chores.
Which reminds me! The hallway! I bought the paint before I left so I’ll set to transforming it from antique white to funky pistachio just as soon as I’ve washed up.
Down in Soho, Rob and June, Ruth and Jim, Zac and Juliana have formed a cosy little group in a corner of the private members’ club that Jim belongs to. June and Ruth have already spoken two or three times during the day to confirm the subtleties of the sign language and code they’re to call upon.
‘Right, so if either of us sneezes twice, the other has to go to the loo, then the sneezer has to sneeze like mad and excuse herself for the loo, too?’
‘Yup. And if I rub Rob’s knee, it means Juliana or Zac are getting too physical and one of us should do something.’
‘Like what? Spill a drink?’
‘Ruth, you are wicked! But I dare you! No, that’s cruel. Remember, we mustn’t interfere – we can only assist in making the incompatibility as obvious to Zac as it is to us.’
So the six of them are in the bar, sipping drinks and chatting as casually as a stage-managed, ready-scripted June & Ruth Inc. Production allows. Juliana and Zac are sitting opposite one another and there have been no physical displays of affection, or even casual contact. Unluckily for Rob, June has thus had no reason to rub his knee. Both Ruth and June have already had a sneezing fit apiece and have twice convened in the loos to discuss and plot.
‘Compliment compliment compliment,’ June reminds them both.
‘The thing is,’ Ruth remarks, ‘they seem somewhat disinterested in each other – don’t you think?’
‘Maybe it’s on its way out naturally,’ June theorizes. They consider this and see that such a twist would be rather unsatisfactory in the light of their thoughtful machinations.
‘But it must be Zac who does the ditching,’ Ruth stresses, for the thousandth time. ‘He must clear his slate himself.’
Ruth and June’s compliments take many different forms, from paroxysms of delight over Juliana’s Gina shoes, to an ardent interest in what exactly she does in her consultancy, to downright inquisitiveness about her friends and family Back Home. Juliana’s economic answers, polite smiles and compliments graciously but sparingly received, tell Ruth and June little more than they already know. Ruth and June worry that the men are chatting and drinking and not taking a blind bit of notice. Furtive glances over to Zac reveal little. He just nods and smiles and chats and laughs, as ever he does, whomever he’s with.
Juliana goes to the toilet. Ruth leans over to June. ‘I want to hit your ex!’ she hisses. ‘I want to say, “Come on, you dick! She may well look the part but she’s as dull as dishwater!” In fact, he should be telling us that she’s as dull as dishwater; begging us for advice.’
June nods, tips her head to one side and taps Zac insistently on the knee. ‘So how’s it going?’ she asks him, repeating herself to force him to break off from an intense debate about Budvar versus Budweiser. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks intently. ‘With Juliana?’
Zac regards her a little blankly. He glances at Ruth who has her glass midway to her lips. She shrugs. ‘Fine,’ he says, ‘cool, I guess.’ Juliana returns before June can probe into long-term potential and Ruth can dish dull water. ‘You OK?’ Zac asks Juliana with attentiveness typical of him but which June and Ruth feel she doesn’t deserve.
‘Sure,’ she smiles, touching his knee.
Hands off! Ruth shrieks to herself, unable to withhold a nudge to June.
For fuck’s sake! June curses to herself, partly because she now has a slosh of Ruth’s Cosmopolitan down her right leg.
When Zac goes to the bar to buy the next round, June and Ruth round on Juliana.
‘I really like your bag,’ Ruth says. ‘So how’s it going with Zac?’
‘Kate Spade,’ says Juliana in a doesn’t-every-woman-own-one kind of way.
It means nothing to June who’s a loyal leather Mulberry girl herself. ‘I love your bag, too,’ she says anyway, ‘and the colour of your nails – so vampy! So, you and Zac – happy?’
‘Chanel,’ says Juliana. June and Ruth nod effusively while wondering what on earth it will take for a direct answer. ‘Zac’s great,’ Juliana surprises them, but continues in the same tone as if he’s her flavour-of-the-month designer nail varnish. Her audience sits agog waiting for more. ‘I’d be bored to hell over here without him.’
Because of Juliana’s flat tone and level gaze, momentarily Ruth and June both wonder if she means here as in London, England, or here as in right now in the bar in Soho, with them.
‘When are you going back to South Africa?’ Ruth asks and it sounds more like an instruction than a question.
‘Actually,’ Juliana says, ‘my ticket is booked for next Friday.’ The ambient jazz masks Ruth and June’s sighs of relief. ‘But I may well end up staying until Christmas now,’ Juliana reveals. June and Ruth are stunned and horrified and unprepared.
‘Work or pleasure?’ June asks, as if dreading the answer.
‘Are the two mutually exclusive?’ Juliana retorts, irritated that there’s a chip in her nail varnish. ‘I don’t think so.’
Ruth and June forget all about their lexicon of sneezes, the symbolism of rubbing Rob’s knees, the coded winks and loaded nudges they’d devised for the evening. When Juliana disappears to the street to search for a signal on her mobile phone, they round on Zac.
‘I hear Juliana might be staying on,’ Ruth exclaims.
‘Until Christmas,’ June consolidates.
‘Yes,’ Zac confirms, ‘she might.’
‘Does that suit you?’ Ruth badgers.
‘Sure,’ Zac shrugs. ‘Why wouldn’t it?’
THIRTY-FIVE
Zac awoke in Juliana’s serviced apartment the next morning. His head ached a little but through general fatigue rather than a hangover.
I’d rather be in my bed, alone, actually.
Why is that?
No reason, really. Haven’t had myself to myself for a while. Plus I’d like to doze off for a couple of hours, fart a fair bit, lounge around eating Frosties straight from the packet and see if Cat Deeley or one of her lookylikey chums are on kids’ TV.
/> Can’t you do that here?
Juliana doesn’t do Frosties. She does wheatgrass and some kind of organic sprouted non-yeast bread. Hers is a fart-free flat. I wouldn’t dare. Ogling Ms Deeley and Co. is out.
Why? Wouldn’t Juliana be amused?
No. Not her style.
Can’t you just doze off anyway?
I’d rather head off home. Have a doze later.
‘God, isn’t it Sod’s Law not to have a party booking on a Sunday,’ Pip bemoaned. ‘I so need something else to think about, to stop me dwelling on the fact that I simply don’t know what to say. What should I say?’ Pip implored them. ‘Think of something. Tell me what to say.’
What on earth did she mean? Her sisters had no idea. It made no sense to them. How could Pip McCabe ever not know what to say? She always knew what to say. What on earth were her sisters meant to say to that? She had stolen their whinge. Whenever they’d inflicted it upon her, she’d come out with four or five expertly constructed phrases, of which one or two would be pure lines of comedy to lighten the tone, make them giggle and see their situation as more daft than traumatic. But now it is Pip McCabe herself, their sister and mentor, who doesn’t know what to say and she’s pleading for their assistance.
‘I don’t know,’ Fen said softly, confused.
‘What do you want to say?’ Cat asked.
Pip looked crestfallen. ‘Dunno,’ she mumbled glumly. ‘It all seemed crystal clear back home. Now it all feels ominously murky.’ Cat poured her another cup of tea from the pot, Fen snapped off a finger of KitKat for her. ‘It’s not just that I felt brave and optimistic at home,’ Pip furthered, ‘but I had all these word-perfect soliloquies which I composed and learnt by rote whilst striding about.’ She sipped and munched. ‘To tell you the truth, down here, they sound not just out of place, but whimsical and deluded.’
The sisters sat at Fen’s kitchen table, or what could be seen of it under the scatter of Sunday papers.
‘I tried them out in front of the mirror last night,’ Pip confided. ‘I sounded like a cross between Gwyneth Paltrow at the Oscars and a six-year-old. Ridiculous. And what a sad way to spend Saturday night.’ The sisters stared at the same crumb for some time. ‘I returned to London with such optimism,’ Pip rued, flicking it away dismissively. ‘I was bursting with declarations. Most importantly, I had the guts, the incentive, to go for it.’
‘So you do know what to say?’ Fen clarified. Pip nodded.
‘But you’ve lost the inclination to say it?’ Cat asked.
Pip shook her head. ‘No, not that,’ she explained. ‘I’d love to. But I’ve lost the confidence. In fact, perhaps I’ve never had it.’
‘Just phone him,’ Fen said, offering Pip her land-line.
Pip started surreptitiously checking her horoscope in the various Sunday supplements, a pastime she had often ridiculed her lovelorn friends for doing.
‘Why not just turn up there?’ Cat suggested, trying to read her own stars, upside down.
‘And say what?’ Pip sighed wearily, wondering what zodiac sign Zac was.
‘Fucking hell, Pip,’ said Fen, ‘it’s not as if you have to get all nuptial! Forget declarations and poetry – just say “hullo” to the guy.’
‘If he blanks you, he’s a prat,’ said Cat, ‘and if he says “hullo” back to you, you can follow it with something else. Like “How are you?”’
‘Hullo, how are you?’ Pip let the words hang. Then she started to laugh. She wasn’t quite sure why and nor were her sisters. Soon, though, they were all giggling. ‘You’re right,’ Pip chuckled, ‘you’re both completely right. I’ll do it.’ Cat punched the air triumphantly, Fen gave Pip’s forearm an encouraging squeeze. ‘First, though, I’m going to finish the skirting-boards. I’m turning my hallway into the inside of an ice-cream cabinet,’ she enthused. ‘Pistachio walls and lemon sorbet skirting.’
‘Whatever,’ Fen chided lightly. ‘Just get in touch with him, all right?’
‘And no Gwynnie-style melodramatics,’ Cat warned. ‘Just say “hullo”.’
It’s about letting go.
That’s what Pip is telling herself as she prises the lid off yet another tin of paint and stirs the lickable colour to loosen it.
It’s about letting go.
She remembers the first time she let go on the trapeze – her first flight unchaperoned. She’d hovered and dithered and hyperventilated on the platform and thought ‘Fuck this, what and why am I putting myself through this, I’m a perfectly good juggler and clown, I don’t need to do trapeze, too.’ Second thoughts, she realizes now as she pours a little paint into a tray and strokes the bristle brush over it, second thoughts are normal and understandable.
It’s about letting go. It’s about not needing to hold on.
And did you let go, on the trapeze?
I did.
And?
I flew.
Any regrets?
I flew! Of course I had no regrets! I flew! It was so nerve-racking it was utterly exhilarating. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak, the sensation sapped me of physical strength for hours after. Days, I think.
It was worth it.
Ah. But I had a safety net.
You have a safety net still – one that many would envy, that some don’t have and never will. Your beauty, your health, your friends. Your home. Your family.
So how is Pip going to do it? When? And is she going to do it? She’s stared at the phone a few times. She’s even dialled Zac’s number, from both her land-line and mobile phones, though she hasn’t dared activate the call. She’s restricted her number and dialled his land-line and mobile phones, hanging up before connection. Yet she won’t sit down for fear of becoming glum and confused, maudlin and useless.
There’s only one thing for it.
He can’t object.
She’s going to play him at his own game.
She’s off to Hampstead.
A little friendly stalking.
THIRTY-SIX
Pip McCabe has a great big daft grin on her face but not a scrap of slap. Her eyes sparkle naturally, her cheeks are flushed and her nose tip is reddened by the autumn chill that’s slithered into town. Her exuberant grin bestows a shine to her features in general. She is practically skipping down Hampstead High Street, having to remember not to giggle out loud or people will stare. All the heartfelt if histrionic speeches she so fastidiously devised and memorized during her stay in Derbyshire, are no longer necessary – though Pip’s enduring commitment to their importance is putting the spring into her step. The only cliché she’ll allow herself is that which has brought her to Hampstead – that actions can speak louder than words. And she’s off to find Zac. That’s her gesture and she really needn’t say a word – mime will do.
As she bounds towards his road, she feels that a weight has been lifted from her shoulders and the fog which so obscured and distorted her awareness has dispersed. Now that she knows what she wants, what makes her tick, what has made her behave as she has done; so now she sees Zac in his true colours, not the garb she had previously dressed him in. It is as if she has suddenly awoken to the world at large being in full colour, whereas previously, with eyes protectively half-closed, she’d seen only tonal degradations. Behind all this life-altering awareness is an immediate drive to simply embrace. To surprise him. To beam at him, panting no doubt, but just say ‘hullo’.
I know Zac! That’s the point – now I know him. He treats like with like – which is why he is so affable, so lovely to be around. If I laid some heavy declaration on him right now, he’d bat a load back at me. If I just bounce up to his front door, grin and brandish my best ‘Hullo, cupcake!’ he’ll grin back and say ‘Hullo, Clowngirl’ or something.
And he would.
She’s right.
Zac really would.
She has him to a ‘t’.
We know he would, too.
He’d be startled and delighted and he’d grin as good as he’d get.
/>
Unfortunately, though, it is Juliana and not Zac who answers the door to Pip’s rhythmic chiming. Unfortunately for Pip, Zac is right behind Juliana. Unfortunately for everyone, it all happens so fast that Pip booms out her ‘Hullo, cupcake!’ before realizing the target of her affection is actually behind his sodding gorgeous girlfriend.
Hullo cupcake hullo cupcake hullo cupcake.
The three of them are gobsmacked but rooted to the spot.
‘Oh,’ Pip says because she can think of little else to say.
‘Pip?’ Zac exclaims, bewildered.
‘Cupcake?’ Juliana probes. ‘Huh?’
Pip can’t very well say ‘Sorry, wrong number’ or ‘Fancy seeing you here’ or ‘I was just passing’. In fact, all she can say is ‘Oh’, but it seems that she is only capable of that the once, and now she stands stock-still, mouth agape, staring concertedly if unintentionally at the nape of Juliana’s neck where a rather beautiful diamond nestles.
‘Won’t you come in?’ Zac says because he can’t think what else to say and they can’t stand in the doorway all day.
‘Do,’ says Juliana terribly graciously, as if it is her flat. As is all that goes with it – Zac included.
‘Oh,’ Pip says casually, waving her hand around as if there’s a fly or a smell to waft away, ‘I was just passing, that’s all.’ Her toes curl at the sound of it. ‘I mean, I was just wondering if I could use your loo.’ Her toes have practically looped the loop. High declarations of love and intent are one thing, ‘Hullo, cupcake’ is quite another. ‘Can I use your loo?’ is something else entirely.
Juliana baulks a little; the girl’s quirkiness offends her in much the same way as Zac’s ex’s lurid finger food. Where are these people’s sense of decorum, of refinement? Zac, though, laughs a little. It is both implausible and yet somehow typical that Clowngirl would suddenly front up on his doorstep calling him a cupcake and asking to use his loo.
