In between the munching of wontons, the troubled-generation conversation has evolved from the general to the specific. ‘That failed suicide a few weeks back,’ says Mr Lux’s accountant. ‘The young man. Was it economic or social pressure that made him crack?’
‘He was a writer,’ offers Mr Lux’s shop-floor manager. ‘So it was probably a creative problem.’
Mr Lux clears his throat loudly. Having made his son look like an idiot, he’s now determined to make amends. ‘You know he jumped from Gibby’s newspaper building? And that Gibby actually called for the ambulance?’ His lips gleam with Red Bull and generosity. Here’s the limelight, son! Make the most of it!
Gibby steps back, shielding his eyes from the open mouths and glaring curiosity. ‘No, I didn’t see it happen,’ he murmurs. ‘No, I haven’t seen him since.’
In spite of his effort to downplay his brush with celebrity tragedy, the Lux family becomes the toast of the night. A desirable stellar unit of three: magnanimous employer, sprightly wife, and an odd but heroic son — not to mention their beautiful young satellite in a damaged white dress. By the time the trays are empty of food, many of the work wives are newly aware of Gibby’s kind eyes and his forehead lined with anxiety — rare in a male so young. They cluster around, raising their hands and then letting them fall, wanting but not daring to stroke his soft hair.
Mrs Martinez is the boldest, leaning in a familiar manner against Gibby’s beige elbow. ‘You know, I’ve asked your parents to come away with us on the next Bank Holiday weekend.’
Once again Gibby signals at Lace with his nearly non-existent eyebrows — but this time it’s from sheer alarm. I’m about to be eaten by a female praying mantis.
‘Excuse me!’ Lace is cornered by Mr Lux and his trusted accountant, who are talking in a manly way about taxes and hoping she’s listening. It seems that, over the past weeks, not only her frame but also her voice has diminished. ‘Please let me through, I’d like to talk to Gibby,’ she says, but her words fall unnoticed beside the accountant’s brown loafers and roll away.
Hemmed in by tax talk, she watches helplessly as Mrs Martinez moves in for the kill. (Mr Martinez is safely engrossed in a conversation about large-scale lighting systems for convention centres.) The room is thick with small talk, but Lace has watched a muted television set for so many years that she can lip-read with ease.
‘I have an idea.’ The praying mantis is caressing Gibby’s beige cotton arm. ‘You should come with us. A caravan, with an awning — tight but cosy. Mr Martinez may not even be there! He has a lot of paperwork these days.’
Gibby raises his face to the ceiling, a pale desperate oval in an avid crowd. He’s about to be publicly swallowed whole. Lace leaps into action. ‘Mr Adam!’ she shouts. ‘Mr Accountant! Let me through!’ She flies like a fierce white hawk between the men, knocking Mr Lux’s drink can out of his hand, spraying Coke over all three of them.
She’s too late. Already, Gibby is defending himself to avoid being chewed alive. ‘I can’t go away with you next month.’ He steps back and pulls his rumpled sleeves down over his wrists. ‘I’ve already made plans. With my friend Lace.’
Mrs Martinez looks thwarted. But of course! Even with a ripped sleeve and brown sticky shoulders, Lace is unbeatable. ‘So where are you going?’ She looks spitefully at the two of them. ‘Somewhere romantic?’
‘God, no!’ Gibby’s face is waxy, and there’s a sweat on his forehead. ‘We’re going to a sanatorium. A mountain retreat. We need rest.’
Lace feels her weariness rush out of her. Suddenly she’s outshining the yellow fairy lights; her eyes are brighter than those of the gleaming nodding Mandarin. ‘Yes, we’re going away to rest,’ she says, grabbing Gibby’s arm so that he won’t fall over. The entire room turns to watch as she stands there glowing, propping up a boy the colour of buttermilk. ‘Stunning,’ murmur the men. And the women say, as charitably as possible, ‘They need rest because they’re the Tired Generation’, and the room settles down again, while Lace helps Gibby to the bathroom and holds his hair while he’s sick into a toilet bowl.
She wipes his forehead off with paper towels. ‘Did you really mean it?’
‘I’d like to. If you don’t mind the company.’ Gibby looks much better now that he’s rid himself of predatory women and lethal cocktails. Besides, even he has noticed Lace’s transformation: her relief has lit up the entire restaurant, and because of this he’s also relieved.
‘Are you sure you afford it? It’s hideously expensive, Chummie says.’
Gibby leans nonchalantly back against a condom machine. ‘Remember how long I’ve worked at the newspaper? And how long I’ve lived at home, while — somewhat miraculously — not developing an expensive drinking habit? And how many years I’ve worn nothing other than beige army-surplus shirts?’
Lace picks up an abandoned fortune cookie off the paper-towel dispenser and cracks it open. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.’ She laughs.
The typo is the sort of joke Gibby normally loves. ‘I certainly see beauty.’ He looks at her seriously. ‘But I haven’t drunk any beer. So your beauty must be of the universally acknowledged kind.’ He pulls himself to his feet and peers in the mirror. ‘I didn’t plan what I said to those women, about coming away with you. Suddenly the possibility was there, like a lifebuoy. You — you rescued me.’
Lace fixes her eyes on his worn cuffs. ‘You’ll need warmer clothes if you’re coming along. It’s going to get cold there.’ Is a mutual rescue possible? She feels as if she’s the one who’s just been saved.
WHAT THE BLAZES
A DAMP FRIDAY EVENING. Gibby and his father are arriving home at the same time, from different directions. Mr Lux’s walk is unmistakable. He approaches his house with his shoulders slightly angled to the side, as if reluctant to leave the working day behind and re-enter domesticity.
They converge on the gate in unison: two men meeting in drizzle, under a lamp post. ‘Good evening.’ Mr Lux gives a courteous nod, turns in at the gate and then jumps as Gibby follows suit. ‘Oh, it’s you! Sorry, I didn’t recognise you without your… with your…’ But there’s no plausible excuse for not recognising his son on an otherwise empty street, outside the house in which they both live.
‘That’s all right.’ Gibby slaps his father awkwardly on the shoulder. The tone is set: one of a business-like formality. Any minute now, they’ll start swapping stock-market tips and lamenting that the weekend will be too wet for golf.
‘After you, I insist.’ Mr Lux stands back like a courteous host.
The house is a dark bulk before them, but the kitchen window blazes with light. It throws a dangerously sharp square on the path, which Gibby instinctively skirts around. In the centre of the window, in the centre of the room, Mrs Lux is pirouetting under a naked bulb, holding something aloft in both hands.
‘What on earth is she doing?’ asks Gibby.
There’s a sharp intake of breath behind him. ‘There’s no need for such high wattage in there! It’s not as if she ever reads!’ Mr Lux rushes past Gibby and through the front door, as if attending a minor emergency.
Interrupted in her brightly illuminated task, Mrs Lux’s arms fall slowly to her sides. Her reaction time has slowed dramatically since her days as the captain of an amateur badminton team, back when she still played the sport rather than watching it on twenty-four-hour cable. ‘Is it dinner time already?’ Her eyes have the dazzled blindness of a rabbit in headlights. ‘This came for you,’ she says to Gibby, blinking, holding out an envelope.
‘You were trying to read my letter through the envelope?’ Gibby snatches it. It could have been worse; she might have steamed it open, Stasi-style.
With a sharp click, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, meaning that Mr Lux has gone into instant damage-control mode. There’s a shuffling sound. ‘I’m climbing the step ladder now,’ he says in a stern voice. ‘No one touch the light switch until I’m done.’
‘Honestly, Mu
m,’ says Gibby, ‘you have to leave my private mail alone.’
His mother’s voice snakes through the dark. ‘They use such sturdy paper, those people! The envelope’s so thick you could use it as a doormat.’ She sounds peevish. ‘Aren’t we always being told to save precious resources?’
‘Exactly!’ Mr Lux’s voice booms down from somewhere near the ceiling. ‘This sort of high-wattage, in a domestic abode? What’s the point of being married to the owner of a major lighting company if you ignore his expertise?’
Gibby retreats to the living room, muting the grunts of Polish shot-putters in a stadium in Korea. The letter is brief and more upbeat than he’d expected, its tone almost congratulatory. One last place, secured by you! Looking forward to… Contact us only if… See you on…
He lies back amidst the tapestry cushions, clutching the letter. Empty gin glasses roll and clink around him. He gives a huge sigh of relief; if he were a different sort of person, he’d whoop. The thought of Lace heading off by herself into the unknown —
‘There’s nothing in the freezer except ice.’ His father appears, holding the confiscated light bulb gingerly in a paper towel. ‘I’m going to Curry in a Hurry. Shall I get you something?’
Gibby smiles. ‘Nothing, thanks. I’m going to work soon.’
‘You look bloody happy about it.’ Mr Lux peers at him. ‘You’re not going to work at that paper forever, are you?’
‘No, but I like it there.’ Gibby sits up, making remote controls fly like bullets. ‘I get time to think about my other work.’
‘The inventing?’ Mr Lux looks even more dubious. ‘You do realise how many people there are in the world wanting to become famous inventors, don’t you?’
‘Actually, no,’ says Gibby. ‘Do you?’
Mr Lux humphs. ‘Hardly anyone makes it. It’s a fool’s game, like — like writing books or something. Nothing but trouble. Trouble and heartbreak. Where would I be, if I’d followed my dreams?’ He pauses for effect. ‘Without all this, that’s where.’ He looks around at the solidity of his sideboards and drinks cabinets. His raincoat is hitched up on one side and his hem drips quietly onto the twenty-per-cent wool-mix carpet that covers his respectable living room.
‘Is my glass in here?’ Mrs Lux shuffles in on her worn-down moccasins.
‘There are quite a few glasses.’ Gibby reaches between cushions and under detachable armrests. ‘Will you recognise the most recent?’
‘I’ll be off then.’ Suddenly Mr Lux is gone, leaving damp shoeprints behind him. He and Mrs Lux often operate like this, one entering and the other exiting like a slightly forced Edwardian farce.
‘Don’t forget the onion bhajis!’ Mrs Lux shouts to make sure she’s heard over the blaring of the TV, not realising that it’s muted. The only reply is the slam of the front door. She sits down heavily beside Gibby. ‘Your father’s a bit temperamental on Friday evenings, don’t you think? As if he’s the only one who’s had a hard week.’
Gibby pats her knee. ‘He’ll be back soon, with bhajis. Don’t you worry. You married a reliable man when you married Adam.’
‘He’s handy, all right.’ Mrs Lux’s lined face relaxes for a moment before she catches sight of the letter again. She clutches his arm. ‘You’re not sick, are you? The sender’s name on that envelope, it looks medical. I thought you said you were going to a resort?’
‘They’re very serious about health over there. “Wellness”, they call it.’
‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if something was wrong?’ Her grip is surprisingly strong. ‘I miss the days when we used to talk. Remember how we’d talk and talk, about anything and everything?’
‘Did we?’ Gibby tries hard but he can’t remember a single occasion on which his mother told him anything of significance. At last — ‘You were very good on traffic safety, and Stranger Danger. You were good at teaching me to brush my teeth.’
Whooshhhh! The television roars into life like an Aston Martin. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, the Grand Prix’s starting.’ His mother hunches forward over her row of empty glasses, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘It’s going to be a nerve-breaker!’
‘Enjoy.’ Gibby trudges upstairs to change his shoes. His bedroom floor vibrates with V8 engines, temporary excitement, and desperation.
AT FIRST HE THINKS it’s déjà vu. The figure stands on the ledge, head bowed, arms by its side. Then it raises its face to the misty moon, palms raised in a final salute.
‘Oh god!’ Gibby can hardly believe what he’s seeing. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ He sprints around the corner of the building — and finds himself in a blaze of light, facing a horde of cameras. There are piles of cables, huge umbrellas, and a bearded man bellowing into a loudhailer.
‘What’s going on?’ Gibby is so taken aback that he actually barks at the nearest stranger. It is, after all, his place of work — and two jumpers in a month is too much to take.
‘We’re shooting an erotic thriller.’ The girl glances at him from under her NYC baseball cap. ‘The character up there got involved in a sadomasochistic cult, and now he’s about to commit suicide.’
‘I see!’ Gibby sounds like a headmaster. ‘And when is this masterpiece due to be released?’
‘Next year. You’ll see it on television.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Gibby tartly.
‘Check!’ The girl’s hand flies to her ear as if a bee has stung her. ‘Camera D in position. Check!’
‘Look, you’re not the only one who has to work.’ Not looking up at the teetering figure, Gibby shoves past her and strides towards the door.
‘And… action!’ he hears, followed by a mighty megaphone roar. ‘What the HELL is that chubby boy doing in the shot? Get him out of the way, now!’
He glances over his shoulder, sees a row of white faces like satellite dishes pointed in his direction — and then two gorilla-like men in puffer jackets looming towards him. He dashes towards the side door. Surprisingly his new high-tops live up to the advertisement: They’ll catapult you everywhere you want to go!
He bounds over the wet asphalt, pushing actors aside like skittles. ‘Out of my way,’ he cries. ‘I’m late!’ He swipes his card, the door opens, he flies inside, it slams closed behind him. On the other side is pandemonium; he has singlehandedly disrupted the making of commercial rubbish! On the inside, the only sound is the high whining of the fluorescent lights. For most of us this noise is almost imperceptible, but Gibby has to cover his ears. He has no time for an Episode, not now. He starts up the stairs. He was telling the truth, he is late — but not for work.
Nicolette is waiting in the stationery cupboard that used to be a staff kitchen, so it’s bigger than usual. ‘Did you see the film shoot?’ She looks up from where she’s lying on a scuffed mat. ‘The director’s quite famous, apparently. Though I’ve never seen anything he’s done.’
‘Where did you get the mat?’ Gibby shuffles nervously. At least the light in here is dim: just a sliver of moonlight, and the reflected glow from an adjacent building.
‘Brought it up from the gym. I’m not going to lie on the floor where everyone walks, am I!’
In fact hardly anyone walks on this floor. Stationery cupboards are the dinosaurs of the workplace: erasers, highlighters, whiteout markers and even ballpoint pens, all doomed to fall like lemmings off the cliff of the obsolete. But Gibby breathes deeply, fills his lungs; the smell of fresh paper reminds him of Christmas, of coloured wrappings and brand-new books, and it calms him down. ‘God, what a strange evening.’
‘Your parents again?’ Nicolette smoothes her auburn hair in an understanding, though slightly distracted way. ‘You should move out.’
Gibby sits cross-legged beside her. She smells of spearmint gum and rose-petal soap, an old-fashioned smell that doesn’t really match her appearance. ‘I feel responsible for them. Don’t you, with yours?’
Nicolette rolls her eyes. ‘I left home three years ago. I don’t think about them much.’ Suddenly, she’s
half-lying across his knees. ‘I’ve only got half an hour of my break left, you know.’
Gibby feels the pressure mounting and he bites his lip. ‘You want me to — um, take charge?’ God, he feels odd. If he had to pick a word, it would be divided. Half of him is still caught in the lights outside: the soft-skinned white boy, the freak, scorned by porn-producing hipsters. And half of him has been left still further behind, perched on the soft beige sofa, unfolding his near future from the envelope. ‘Which leaves — none of me!’ he exclaims. ‘How can I be here, if all of me is somewhere else?’
‘Shut up.’ Nicolette covers his mouth with her small pink-nailed fingers. ‘Watch this.’ With her one free hand, she undoes her buttons, one by one, revealing a black satin bra. ‘I shouldn’t wear black under a white shirt. It’s a no-no. But I thought you might appreciate it.’
She pushes him down so he’s lying on the floor, and wriggles up onto his chest. At such close range, her teeth look very small and pointy, almost like milk teeth. Gibby stares, mesmerised, at her chewing gum sitting in the middle of her tongue like a light-green frog on a lily pad.
‘Let’s get your shirt off, too,’ she murmurs.
‘Leave it on!’ Gibby snaps out of his trance. ‘You can unbutton it, but leave it on.’
‘Kinky!’ Somehow Nicolette has shed her skirt, and her legs glimmer palely against the mat. The only barrier between Gibby and — what, oblivion? — is a set of satin underwear.
She feels good under his hands; her skin, covered with freckles, is smooth and firm. But this isn’t enough. ‘Take off my bra!’ she orders. Clearly, she’s realised that someone other than Gibby has to take the initiative, particularly since she has to punch back in for work in twenty-five minutes.
Gamely, Gibby obeys. The hooks are slightly stiff, and he’s not practised at bras, especially in dim light.
Suicide Club, The Page 13
