by Andrea Darby
‘She’s giving you the cold shoulder!’
***
It’s great to wake up headache free, and with the ability to recall last night’s shenanigans with the kind of clarity a peeping Tom yearns for.
Through this crystal-clear cerebral screen I replay the final scene with Mark, wondering whether I misread things, and how much whisky he’d had.
‘Mark, you’re such a great friend,’ I’d said, before leaving, with as much seriousness as I could muster when facing a master jester. I’d tried to verbally underline the last word.
I think he knew what I was really saying. He knew me so well.
‘I’m better than great. I’m frickin’ fantastic, me,’ he’d said, doing a kind of elaborate foppish twirl with his hand, then pointing to himself.
Driving home through twisting moonlit lanes, I’d reflected on what a superb night it had been. I felt so uplifted; more alive, senses stirred. If things had been different, could Mark and I ever be a serious duo, I’d pondered, almost missing a sign and swerving on to a deserted B road, the car headlights exposing mysterious dark shapes as hedgerows. My alcohol-free recollections were pin-sharp, but, for a while, the edges of my feelings were blurred.
The high heels have left their mark so, before breakfast, I soak my sore, pinched feet in the washing up bowl – still in my dressing gown, with bed-head hair and skin streaked with last night’s makeup. I consistently neglect to remove it on late nights, then regret it. My idleness puts brown stains on the pillowcase and probably years on my face.
I get a text from Ashley. He’s looking forward to tomorrow, he ‘might even tidy up!’
Spotting my laptop, concealed under newspapers and documents on the table, I’m compelled to switch it on – ignoring my own pre-breakfast computer curfew.
I send an email to Sheena, ask about her night out. Having a daughter who can babysit’s great, she should make the most of it. I hope the ‘update’ story will help to find Geoff. I’m glad she gave that journalist what for. Mark says most reporters hired on local newspapers these days are young and inexperienced – all part of the cost-cutting. Still, doing a little research wasn’t difficult! I tell Sheena about the auction, that I didn’t drink a drop and was determined to continue curbing my alcohol consumption. I could do with a drink tonight though, as I’m seeing Ashley tomorrow. At his flat. I’m getting nervously excited at the prospect, now it’s so close.
When Sunny tappety-taps on the door and ‘hi, sweetnesses’ me later that day, I don’t bristle in the slightest. Nothing can ruin my mood. I’m determined to relish the elation the previous evening has sparked – my eyes and emotions back to a normal setting – and the anticipation of what the next day may bring.
Eleanor’s in surprisingly good spirits, too, and can’t wait to show off the boho braid Sunny’s given her. It circles right across the top of her forehead and down the back.
‘Reminds me of the crust on a Cornish pasty,’ I say. She giggles, bounding out of the room.
Sunny sits at the kitchen table, despite the muddle, spindly fingers cradling a cup of tea. She doesn’t like being elevated on the chrome bar stools by the island, something to do with feng shui, no doubt. She quizzes me about the auction; tries hard to persuade me to have a foot massage. I decline, reminding her (again) how ticklish my feet are.
‘Why don’t you try this?’ She plucks a tube of cream from her bag, bangles jangling as she hands it to me. ‘It contains peppermint oil and shea butter. It really does work wonders.’ I take it with an appreciative smile.
Sunny’s discussing Mick’s declining health when Eleanor marches in to ask where her striped top is and then, after I inform her it’s probably in the ironing pile, flounces out, declaring that her clothes are ‘never ironed when she wants them’ and I’m ‘proper lazy sometimes’.
I can’t take a passive ride on that particular mood swing, especially as it’s witnessed, yet again, by a straight-faced Sunny. I follow Eleanor upstairs, inform her how rude she’s been, inviting her to do her own bloody ironing.
‘Well, thanks for the tea, but I should be going,’ Sunny says on my return, grabbing her bag. ‘I’m doing a treatment shortly, on a lady who’s just been diagnosed with cancer and suffering extreme anxiety, poor thing.’
‘Oh dear.’ I watch Sunny drift across to the door. ‘Thanks for having Eleanor.’
‘Oh, she’s such a pleasure. Never any trouble … to me.’ I grit my teeth behind a smile.
With Sunny gone and Eleanor sulking, I reluctantly do some ironing, made slightly more bearable thanks to catch-up episodes of a new sitcom.
I’m sorting some old clothes to fill a charity bag when Eleanor joins me and, clearly feeling some remorse for her ‘you’re a bad mother’ outburst, offers to help choose which clothes to donate.
‘Can Freya come over later?’ Their Zitgate bust-up, that was going to be forever, is clearly already behind them. I nod.
‘You two friends again then?’
‘Course. Bethany’s being weird, though. She’s so moody.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘Says her mum’s not well. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’
‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
Eleanor sighs. ‘Suppose I better do my history homework. We’ve got to do some research on Hitler.’
‘Hitler was a vegetarian, you know,’ I declare, pulling off a flimsy top and flinging it on the large reject pile. I’d picked up that pearl of historical wisdom from Dan, one of the few I’d retained. Eleanor lifts one eyebrow sardonically. ‘And he only had one testicle,’ I add.
‘Please, no!’ she scolds, elongating the words.
I sing, head swaying from side to side as I conduct myself: ‘Hitler has only got one ball, the other is in the Albert Hall, His mother, the—’
‘Mum!’ Eleanor can’t suppress a small grin.
God, I’m turning into my dad.
CHAPTER 20
It’s Monday morning and I feel ridiculously energetic, as if I’ve had a shot of adrenalin intended for a large African mammal. In terms of biggies, the day’s dangerously obese.
The enormity’s not only affecting my mind, thoughts jumping in all directions, but has sparked an urge to do the more demanding domestic deeds I usually find any excuse to evade.
I end up with a white stripe down my blue leggings after bleaching the toilet and manage to dust a family photo off the wall, the glass shattering on the hall floor that I’ve just vacuumed with vigour. Even Pepsi’s stunned by my housework frenzy, sniffing suspiciously as he re-enters his pristine cage.
The train trip passes slowly. I sip rank railway coffee and scan magazines to sedate the butterflies, but my mind wanders wildly, forcing my cerebral sat nav to constantly recalibrate. Maybe it’s the journey triggering them, because the thoughts aren’t exclusively about the day in store. I think about the last few weeks, the news stories, nasty letters and cut-off calls, work, the move, Eleanor, Mark, Sunny, and Dan; always Dan.
Several times, I try to make eye contact with the man sat opposite at our sticky, grey table, but he’s engrossed, fat fingers clicking relentlessly on his laptop keys. I yearn to know who he is, where he’s going. He looks like a Clive. I imagine he works in an insurance office and drives a Ford Focus, probably in silver, maybe dark blue. And he always cleans it at the same time on a Saturday, before checking the football scores.
I comment on the coffee and he flashes a feeble smile. Then his head drops before I can engage him further. He clearly doesn’t want to chat. I have to be content with staring at the top of his balding head, which, as the journey progresses, begins to resemble the face of Jesus – a hairy bit in the centre of two widow’s peaks forming the Messiah’s beard, the bald circle in the centre, his face. Was I having some kind of conversion on the rail to St Pancras? I wondered.
Ashley’s flat is on the third floor of a red-bricked building above a ragged row of shops that smack of desperate times and drastic measures. I enter through a peeling green door between
a boarded-up Italian restaurant and an archaic curtain and bedding shop that promises ‘Every Item Reduced’.
My legs feel weak and wobbly as I climb a set of white stairs, staring down at the threadbare runner. I take a deep breath, pressing firmly on the bell by the door at the top marked with a faded number 3.
Ashley greets me with a wide smile and slightly damp hair that clings to his cheekbones and, looking relaxed, thumbs hooked in the front pocket of faded black jeans, leads me straight into the living room.
It’s surprisingly large and reassuringly untidy, with mismatched furniture and three pairs of near-identical desert boots huddled around a brass floor lamp in the corner. Yet it has a homely feel, the rustic wooden floors covered in a huge black rug, cushions bundled on to a scuffed brown leather sofa and a collection of black and white photos, some hung, others propped against the wall.
‘Nice place.’ I shift aside a London bus cushion to sit on the sofa. ‘Smells lovely,’ I add with a wry grin, nodding to the plug-in I’ve spotted by the lamp. ‘Linen and Lilac, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Thanks.’ He doesn’t smile, and I’m not sure he gets the joke. I can’t believe Ashley Baird’s got a bloody plug-in – he’s the one who’s had the conversion! He’d ridiculed my air freshener fetish at poly, swearing he’d remain forever loyal to the humble aerosol and never succumb to the latest gel fragrances I was being lured by – always one tucked in my knicker drawer and several others hidden away when he visited as he found the smell too strong.
‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ Ashley fetches a pair of boots, chucks them by the chair. ‘Good space. And light. Best I could afford round here. Rent’s still hideously high.’
‘I bet it is.’ I wonder what his other home’s like, whether his wife will stay there.
‘There’s a small kitchen through there.’ Ashley points to a door next to a pair of dirt-brown curtains with insufficient gather. ‘And two bedrooms.’
My eyes scan in silence, stomach still tight. It’s like a larger version of his student room, though less messy and minus the lemonade bottles. A camera and other photography paraphernalia are spread across a smeared glass table and there’s a musical keyboard next to a cluttered desk in the corner.
‘I didn’t know you played?’ I say at last.
‘Taught myself a few years ago. I can play a mean Blue Moon.’
‘Any other songs?’
‘No – just the one.’ I chuckle.
While Ashley makes coffee, I survey the photographs. They’re all acting related – striking theatre façades, shiny stages, groups of heavily-painted strangers oozing confidence and loving the camera. I recognise the black-haired woman with the purple lipstick from the café. Lily. She’s in several shots. She seems to be giving the man behind the lens a special, knowing look. Jealousy creeps up on me. Would she be mum to the baby Ashley wanted? She was young, beautiful, talented; good genes. Or would it be one of the other glamorous actresses pictured?
I move to the far wall and there, under a strip light, is a photo of Ashley draped in black with white ruffles around his dark throat, his shadowed face stern and staring at a skull, its eerie crevices highlighted in the glow of an intense spotlight. He looks so convincing as Hamlet, yet so different. I’m mesmerised.
My eyes travel along the wall to a man with a long, dark beard, wearing an over-sized coat and fedora hat. He stares into the camera, shrugging with outstretched arms. His gesture could be directed at me. ‘What you doing here?’ the stranger asks. I shrug back.
I’m startled when Ashley appears. I fiddle with the collar of my chiffon blouse, hand unsteady as I reach for my coffee.
‘Did you take these?’
‘Most of them. My little sideline.’
‘They’re really good. Clever bugger.’
‘Cheers. I’m getting better. I’m doing some photography for a hotel brochure. A bit beyond my comfort zone, but with the acting work looking quieter in the months ahead, it’s worth a shot.’
After coffee, and much indecision and debate, we settle on the idea of lunch in a nearby Turkish restaurant, followed by a guided walk around the area.
I emerge from the dark basement into the brightness of a warm but blustery day feeling light-headed. I’d let myself get carried away with the conversation, the cabernet sauvignon I’d intended to ration, and the cloudy raki the proprietor persuaded me to try. We’d both over-indulged, notching up a massive bill. I’d insisted on paying. Ashley put up little resistance.
I can tell he’s tipsy, too, eyes dulled, gait even more relaxed and limp less prominent as we amble through the town past some stunning period houses with premium price tags and, according to Ashley, celebrity owners. I laugh as his fine hair’s repeatedly blown across his face in the strong breeze. Our conversation turns to Ashley’s run of school workshops.
‘They were exhausting,’ he says. ‘I might take back what I said about wanting children. They’re bloody hard work. I’m sure Eleanor’s the exception,’ he adds. I shake my head emphatically. ‘And my nephew, of course. He’s a star, though he’s really unwell at the moment.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Waiting for a liver transplant.’
‘Aww – no. You didn’t say. Is that the little lion boy?’
‘Yes. I don’t see much of him unfortunately. My sister lives in Yorkshire. He’s had several ops, they thought he’d be OK, but his condition has worsened. They’re waiting to find the right match. There’s an average three-month wait, even for children. You can’t believe it in this day and age.’
‘Poor little thing. And your sister. There can’t be anything worse as a parent than having a sick child. I feel so lucky.’
Ashley nods. ‘I’d really like to meet Eleanor.’
‘I think she’d like to meet you. She’d be star-struck.’
‘Hardly.’
‘So, any news on the acting?’
‘Well, I missed out on a recall for As You Like It, but I’m going up for several other roles so it’s no great tragedy.
‘I thought it was a comedy,’ I say. Miss Giggles guffaws.
‘Oooh, that was bad.’ Ashley narrows his eyes. ‘I’ve been offered a minor role in Macbeth, but that’s not until the winter.’
‘Wow, I did that for GCSE English,’ I gush like a schoolgirl. ‘What part?’
‘Lennox, a nobleman.’
‘I don’t remember him.’
‘Exactly.’ Ashley shrugs.
‘Anyway, I thought you’re supposed to call it the Scottish play, not—’
‘I’m not superstitious.’
‘I am – I think. You’ve had enough bad luck. I’m thinking stage equipment here,’ I say, buttoning my thin cardigan against the gusts.
Ashley speaks in a menacing monotone, eyes widened in a spooky stare: ‘Let’s hope I’m not forever cursed.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ I say.
‘Very funny.’ Ashley pauses. ‘My friend has set up a new theatre group and I’m in his rather trendy take on 1984, starting in two weeks. Got to use your contacts where you can.’
‘That’s great. So the career could be taking off again.’
‘Well, it’s only small theatres, but it’s a six-week tour. Should be fun. It has lots of nudity – not me, I hasten to add.’
I try hard not to imagine that one. ‘I might book some tickets in that case then.’
‘Fair play, he’s banking on people reacting like you, booking tickets once they hear there are fit, naked actors in it.’ He flashes a sardonic smile.
‘Do you come across the same people at auditions?’
‘Yes, there’s one guy – hugely talented, handsome, rugged, booming Brian Blessed voice; you know the type. But, alas, he got food poisoning from the buffet after the last night of a production of Antony and Cleopatra and could be out of action for a while.’ He stops walking, hands held up in surrender. ‘I didn’t make the sandwiches. Honest.’
‘I put laxatives in
Dan’s food once.’ The post-wine slack tongue syndrome again.
‘Really – for a joke?’ Ashley looks bemused, jaw set at an odd angle.
‘Well, sort of. I was fed up with his fussy eating. He’d refused some rice just because I’d put ordinary instead of sea salt in it. So I put some laxative powder my mum had left behind in his dhal. Funny, he could taste the wrong salt, or half a grain of sugar, but not the laxative.’
‘And did it have the desired effect?’
‘Not at first. But after I’d done it a couple more times it did.’
‘Wow. That’s a wicked streak I didn’t know you had.’
‘I read about a woman who put bug poison in her husband’s porridge after he did the dirty with her sister on the rattan sofa in their conservatory. He was really ill for weeks,’ I add.
‘Poisoning – very Shakespearean.’ Ashley forces a chuckle through the shock his acting skills can’t conceal. ‘What other villanies do you possess?’
I titter. Damn that raki! I’d tried to make it sound like a big prank, but I sense his disapproval and regret it.
‘God, you must think I’m some mad bunny boiler type. Don’t worry, I’d never have done the poison thing. I felt bad enough about the laxative.’
‘They say we are all capable of evil thoughts, but only rarely of evil deeds; we can all do good deeds, but very few of us think good thoughts … or something like that.’
‘Shakespeare?’
‘No, my mate Brooksie.’ He flicks a grin. ‘Any other confessions?’
I can’t stop myself. ‘Yes, I also ruined Dan’s best Italian shirt, ironed it on the hottest setting. I stopped short of cleaning the toilet with his toothbrush, though I know that’s a popular one.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Ashley taps an index finger on his lips. ‘So – remind me to never let you cook, or do my ironing. And I might just hide my toothbrush when you’re around.’ I shudder at the thought of seeing his toothbrush again. Why had he mentioned cooking and ironing for him? He glances down at his chest. ‘Actually, most of my shirts don’t need ironing, and this is my only Italian one, by that great fashion designer – Marko Prima.’
