by Freya North
And Pip takes her lips to his ear. And she’s nibbling. And kissing. And she whispers, ‘God, I don’t half fancy a fuck!’
Zac laughs.
That’s my girl.
And he wonders whether with Pip, whom he fancies the pants off but feels all manner of soft fondness for, making love and having a fuck might well be inextricably linked.
Pip is now snuggled in her own bed, too excited to sleep just yet. She’s undecided whether to indulge in romantic day-dreams of love, laughter and domesticity while she waits for slumber, or whether she should just reach for her vibrator instead.
There’s no reason why I can’t do both. Blimey. What a novelty!
Well done, Pip.
FORTY-ONE
Megan, Fen and Cat were all apoplectic with anticipation and excitement when they each managed to contact Pip.
‘What did you wear? Did you take cabbage?’ Fen shrieked. ‘Cake?’
‘What did you talk about? Did you have a huge heart-to-heart?’ Megan demanded. ‘And what about the leggy girlfriend?’
‘Did you have rampant sex all night long? Who made who holler for mercy?’ Cat demanded to know. ‘And are you walking like John Wayne today?’
Pip answered her support group so honestly and calmly that, although Fen privately thought her sister should have taken cabbage and cake, and although Megan felt Pip ought to have revealed her one-night stand, for the record, and although Cat was slightly disappointed that no fornicating had taken place, fundamentally they were proud of Pip and happy for her, believing all indeed boded well for her future.
Fen phoned Pip again at lunch-time, suggesting Sunday papers round at hers. Cat was there when Pip arrived, obsessing herself with the sports pages and wondering out loud if she was a lunatic to have accepted a job in the States, at Team Megapac’s Colorado headquarters, and a share in her boyfriend’s apartment. Her two older sisters told her what she wanted to hear, that it was a great decision professionally, plus that it gave her a chance to cement her relationship with Ben within the crucial, mundane parameters of day-to-day living. Best of all, they decided, it gave Pip and Fen the opportunity for a cheap holiday to the States and Cat simply must go for that reason alone. The sisters refused to acknowledge out loud the potentially epic link of Colorado, Denver, their mother and her cowboy. Another time. Not now.
Intermittently, during the afternoon, Pip went through the various details of the previous day with Zac; initially when asked, soon enough spontaneously, ultimately somewhat repetitively. Both her sisters noted with delight how frequently she glanced surreptitiously at her mobile phone. Who’d have thought, Pip McCabe, bitten by the love bug!
‘Why not phone Megan,’ Cat proposed, ‘and suggest Thai tonight?’
‘Brilliant idea,’ said Fen.
Pip, though, faltered. ‘But say he calls?’ she said quietly.
Her younger sisters looked at her in horror. ‘Philippa McCabe!’ Fen declared, hands on hips, with Cat similarly posed at her side. ‘I cannot believe you just said that!’
‘The number of times you’ve shot me down from a similar standpoint!’ Cat proclaimed. ‘Saying “Catriona, don’t fit your life into him” or “Cat McCabe, say he doesn’t call – you’ll have jeopardized a perfectly nice evening” or “For fuck’s sake, do you have to gain his permission for every action you take”!’
Pip looked bashful. ‘Listen,’ Fen suggested, ‘if he does call, you can just arrange to see him later or tomorrow or something. God, I mean, the deal is hardly going to fall through on the question of your availability tonight.’
‘It sounds like it’s all set in stone anyway,’ Cat defined. ‘You like. He likes. Happy ever after.’
Pip laughed. ‘I’ll phone Megan,’ she said, hands up in mock surrender. ‘I could murder a bowl of prawn crackers. All I had yesterday was bits of fish finger and cold baked beans.’
‘Yes,’ said Fen, ‘we know.’
‘You told us,’ said Cat, adding ‘about a million times’ under her breath when Pip went into the kitchen to phone Megan from Fen’s line so she could keep her mobile free.
A part of me is appalled for doubting whether to practise what I have preached for so long. Yet there’s another part of me that thinks all these butterflies, the tenterhooks, the adrenalin, are quite good fun, too.
There was no signal for Pip’s phone in the restaurant, nor in their loos, so she didn’t pick up Zac’s text till hours after he’d sent it. It took a little intensive persuading from the girls in her life that no, of course, he wasn’t going to change his mind just because her reply wasn’t immediate.
‘It’s not that,’ Pip reasoned. ‘I just really, truly, don’t want him to think that I’m playing games or subscribing to those daft rules or acting according to the tenets of Sex and the City or Cosmo.’
‘He doesn’t sound that sort of bloke,’ Megan declared astutely.
Pip’s sisters and friend allowed her to go home directly instead of going back to Cat’s for coffee and none raised eyebrows at Pip’s excuse of tiredness. It was nice for them to envisage her scampering home, curling up on her sofa and working through five thousand possible text responses for Zac before sending one and then waiting impatiently for his reply. They’d hear about it tomorrow, no doubt. Maybe even later on tonight.
Actually, when Pip arrived home, she didn’t text Zac at all but phoned him direct, and though her heart thudded in her throat while she waited for him to answer, as soon as she heard his voice, she relaxed.
‘I was toying with the idea of popping round and using your loo,’ Zac revealed, ‘but I guess it’s a bit late now – it being a school night and all.’ He hadn’t read a thing into the tardiness of Pip’s reply. He’d simply assumed she was busy. Why shouldn’t she be? No other reason had crossed his mind. Why should it?
‘Can you keep your legs crossed until tomorrow?’ Pip asked. ‘I stink of garlic, and peanut sauce keeps repeating on me.’
‘How are your sisters?’ Zac enquired.
‘Fine – they’re fine. Cat is now happily ensconced with a bicycle doctor and heading for a job in the States; Fen has finally made her choice between two suitors. It’s a long story,’ Pip remarked. ‘Did you have a fun day? How long did Tom stay?’
‘We just hung out and played, really,’ Zac told her, ‘it was great. Though, dare I add, he was most disappointed that Thunderbird 1 had to dock all day. I told him to keep his fingers crossed for next weekend. And do you know what? He did. Physically. Until he had to hold his fork at lunch. Bless him.’
Pip laughed. ‘I’d better perfect my engine impression, then.’
‘When can I see you?’ Zac asked softly.
‘Would you like to do something tomorrow night?’ Pip suggested.
‘Tomorrow is my day in hell – it’s when I’m having to make the redundancies,’ Zac revealed wearily.
‘Oh,’ flustered Pip, momentarily feeling like she’d been stood up already, or turned down. ‘Right. Well, perhaps later on in the week, then? Some other time. Whenever.’
‘Actually,’ Zac said, ‘on the contrary. It’s going to be such a nightmarish day I’d relish the chance to take my mind off it all. So, if you don’t mind dealing with a stressed-out accountant in the midst of a morality crisis, he’d love to sulk on your sofa for a bit.’
Pip was stunned and flattered. She also felt lousy that she hadn’t thought to offer to share time and space with him in the first place. ‘Actually,’ she told him, ‘I have the perfect cure for you.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Zac all but growled, his mind veering incorrigibly to blow-jobs and all manner of indoor sport.
‘Down, boy!’ Pip laughed, instinctively knowing along what lines he was thinking and not wanting to disappoint him by revealing she had something else entirely in mind.
‘I’ll call you when I’m en route,’ Zac said, ‘it may be later rather than earlier.’
‘Whenever,’ said Pip.
‘Night then
,’ Zac said.
‘Night,’ Pip said.
She had something to add. She made a humming noise just to hold him there while she decided whether or not she was going to say it out loud. ‘I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow,’ she mumbled.
‘Thanks,’ said Zac, touched.
Zac phoned at eight. He was at Pip’s at nine. Her flat was immaculate and she glowed with the effects of a bath infused with expensive potions and hair treated to all manner of costly and time-consuming lotions. Zac looked ashen, his eyes rimmed red, his hair not so much fashionably tousled as slightly greasy and messed from all that tugging. He looked as though he’d dropped a stone in weight in two days. She welcomed him in with a kiss and a beer, and allowed him to slump into her sofa, rub his brow and stare intently at the wall for a few moments.
‘Great colour, Pip,’ he said, looking up at her gazing down at him, ‘good choice.’
‘How are you?’ Pip asked, sensing he was far from good and wondering the best way to soothe him.
‘I feel like shit,’ he laughed sarcastically, ‘which is hardly surprising as I am now known as King Shit, too.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose and drooped his shoulders. ‘It was foul. Vile.’ He looked up at her and shrugged. ‘Not nice to be loathed. But even worse having to do something that you really don’t want to do – but having absolutely no viable alternative.’
Pip looked at him and sucked her bottom lip thoughtfully. She felt as though she was hovering. She was. Because she wasn’t quite sure what he’d like, what would help, what she could actually do. She thought he might like some space. Some peace and quiet. But then she thought he’d very probably like her to act on her instincts. So she knelt down on the floor, placed a hand on each of his knees and looked up at him. ‘Poor you,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can help.’
He looked at her and shrugged. ‘I could honestly sob,’ he revealed, his honesty quite startling, his voice hoarse. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose again, so hard that he left a mark. ‘I don’t even wear a sodding suit,’ he declared, ‘I can’t physically wriggle out of my day. A couple of times today I thought of you, Pip – dispensing your merriment and care to the sick kids. That’s one fucking tough job – however rewarding. At the end of each session, the fact that you can wipe your face off, change out of your daft gear – I’m sure that really helps you rebalance?’
‘Absolutely,’ Pip said, ‘and sometimes, I can’t wait to put on my slap and change into my motley – even the hospital foyer can be tough enough.’
Zac nodded. He yawned. He stretched. ‘What a fucking horrible day,’ he said.
‘Would you like a baked potato?’ Pip offered.
He hadn’t thought about food. Actually, he realized he hadn’t even considered food since last night. And back then, he was still full from a tea-time finger-food extravaganza when dropping Tom home so he hadn’t actually eaten since then. ‘That sounds great.’
‘I’ll put them in the oven now,’ Pip said. ‘They’ll take an hour. Which gives us plenty of time to take your mind off things.’
Zac smiled at her. What a gesture. He raised an eyebrow at the thought of slipping out of the clothes he was in.
‘Down, boy,’ she whispered, coming close and kissing him, ‘you’ll have to build up an appetite for that. I had something else altogether in mind.’
She puts the baked potatoes in, disappears into her bedroom and clatters around in there. She returns with a bag and a towel.
‘I like the way you’ve decorated the room,’ Zac says, ‘that one wall in terracotta is striking. And the skirting through there looks great.’
‘Not too ice-creamy?’ Pip asks.
‘God, no,’ Zac says, ‘it sits brilliantly. It’s odd – it isn’t like you’ve added colour, it’s as if all those neutrals simply hid the colour before.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Pip says, wondering if Zac has any idea just how incisive his remarks are, ‘I think they did.’ She tucks the towel around Zac. ‘OK, Mr Cruel Bastard Accountant,’ she announces, ‘let’s get down to the serious business of silliness.’
Into Zac’s lap she tips the contents of her bag. It’s her collection of slap.
‘Whoa!’ Zac exclaims. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘We’re going to wipe that frown from your brow and give you something to smile about. You’re going to see just how therapeutic clowning can be,’ Pip tells him, ‘by being one yourself. Until the potatoes are ready, of course.’
Zac is puzzled, intrigued and not averse to anything that will take his mind off his day.
‘What’ll we call you?’ Pip asks. ‘You have to build your make-up around your persona, not vice versa.’
‘Mr Cruel Bastard?’ Zac says.
Pip raises her eyebrow archly. ‘And what would the children make of that?’
‘OK,’ Zac concedes, ‘how about Zippity Zac?’
‘Pity Zac? Still sounds a little maudlin to me,’ Pip says.
‘Zig Zac?’ he suggests.
‘Excellent. Now, tell me what sort of clown you’d like to be?’
‘A, um, clown kind of clown?’ Zac tries.
‘Auguste or White Face?’
‘Who or what?’ Zac asks.
‘Essentially, there are two types of clown – well, three if you count the American Character clown, Mr Chaplin being its definitive. Basically, White Face’s lineage harks back to Pierrot and Harlequin. Graceful and shrewd – the French call them “Clown débonnaire”. The physical emphasis is on the eyes. In contrast, Auguste clown means “clumsy” and they’re characterized by their daft cheerfulness and charm. They’re colourful – the crowd’s favourite. Physically, the emphasis is on the mouth, the smile.’
‘You’re essentially a White Face,’ Zac says, ‘so I think I’ll be Auguste. What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a fine choice,’ says Pip. ‘We can really play with colour. Also, traditionally, White Face gets to boss Auguste about. So that suits me! They often come as a pair.’ She and Zac regard each other and smirk.
And so she began to transform Zac Holmes into Zig Zac and to take his mind well away from the traumas of his day. He sat still, covered in a towel, and was grateful for Pip demanding he close his eyes. Eyes shut, it was actually very soothing having someone smear and rub and paint one’s face. Especially when her touch was so light that it doubled as a caress.
Pip made Zac keep his eyes closed longer than was probably necessary because she could indulge in an in-depth gaze at his face; admire his cheek-bones in her own time, run her fingers across his neat eyebrows, marvel at the veritable pitchforks for eyelashes. She analysed his lips; she vaguely remembered an article in some glossy or other which ascribed great significance to the shape and plumpness of a man’s lips. Well, Zac’s top lip was as full as his bottom lip and Pip decided that this must point to balance. And kissability. And before she smothered him with slap, she indulged herself with holding his face and kissing him.
‘How did you get into the whole clowning thing?’ he asked her, eyes closed, and mumbling slightly because he presumed he ought to keep his features as still as possible.
‘I think I was probably born one,’ Pip answered, ‘always felt my métier was to make others laugh.’ Zac nodded. ‘Keep still,’ she said.
‘What about my hair?’ Zac declared suddenly. ‘I can’t go into work tomorrow if you’ve dyed it green.’
‘Keep still and hush up about work!’ Pip chided, poking him in the ribs. ‘Just wait and see!’
‘Shall we do something on Friday night,’ Zac muffled, ‘with my brother and his wife Ruth, whom I think you’ve met?’
‘Cool,’ said Pip, ‘that’ll be fun. Can you open your eyes for me?’
Zac did so and as Pip concentrated on the intricacies of Zig Zac’s facial features, Zac Holmes feasted on her face. ‘Can I kiss you, please?’ he asked.
‘No fucking way!’ Pip laughed. ‘With all
that stuff on your face? Absolutely not!’
‘Is that nail varnish on your sofa – and, God, on your carpet, too?’ Zac asked.
‘Yes,’ said Pip. ‘I’m going to wait for the January sales and do something about it then. Now bloody keep still. Actually, I’m just going to see to the spuds – no peeking while I’m out of the room.’
Zac didn’t sneak a look. He quite liked the sensation of the make-up on his face. And the smell of baking potatoes drifting in from the kitchen. And the sound of Pip cursing ‘Ouch, shit!’ as she checked their progress. And in his mouth, the lingering taste of her kiss. His appetite was growing.
‘Did you peek?’ Pip asked, hands jauntily on her hips.
‘No,’ Zac said, ‘I promise.’ Pip had to bite back laughter at the juxtaposition of his earnestness with his new face. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said though she didn’t really need him to. Zig Zac was nearly done. All that was needed was a hat (she used the one Django termed his ‘daft Alec hat’ which she’d found in the pea-green candlewick bedspread). A little daub of red just there. A light dusting of talc to his forehead. Voilà. ‘You can look now,’ Pip said.
Zac rose from the sofa and went to the mantelpiece. ‘Fuck!’ He was staggered. ‘Oh my God!’ he laughed. ‘Look at me!’ He turned to her.
‘No one,’ she declared, ‘but no one,’ she stressed, ‘would ever guess that you are a cruel bastard accountant who spent all day firing people!’
‘Genius!’ laughed Zac. ‘If only Tom could see me!’
‘We could do it again, sometime,’ Pip shrugged, ‘we could do Tom, too.’
‘And then hit Hampstead High Street,’ Zac laughed, ‘the three of us.’
‘Why not?’ said Pip, who was serious.
Zac thought about it. Why not indeed?
‘Keep the hat,’ Pip said, knowing that Django had a whole collection of panamas, daft Alecs, the odd fez, and berets in every colour available. ‘When you feel it’s all too much, plonk it on, think like Zig Zac and just take time out for a while.’
