Something Good

by Fiona Gibson

  “He wants me to make him a stained glass window,” Jane added.

  “Oh, right. The place is about to fall down around his ears, but he must have stained glass, designed by you, of course….”

  Jane laughed as she pulled on her coat. “Who else would he ask? Anyway, he’s probably sick of the boring practical stuff—the plumbing and electrics and all that. He wants something…indulgent.”

  Sally’s mouth twitched as she suppressed a smirk. “Yes,” she said brightly, “of course that’s what Max wants.”

  Jane strode past St. Matthew’s church. Its windows consisted of tiny, wizened panes, many of them cracked or missing. Jane yearned to get her hands on those windows. She’d restore them, carefully removing each damaged segment and cutting replacements in colors that virtually matched the original glass.

  Hannah was in St. Matthew’s right now, in the draughty back hall—home to her theater workshop, the only activity she’d stuck with over the years. She’d come home with rumpled scripts poking out of her bag, but rarely let Jane see them these days. Jane and Max had sat together, watching all the productions—Calamity Jane, Grease, Bugsy Malone—like any ordinary couple.

  Soon the familiar streets around London Fields gave way to dingier terraces. There was a dilapidated dentist—its crude plastic sign read “entist”—and a junk shop, its jumbled contents threatening to escape through a half-open door. Jane paused, hating that she had to stop and consult her A-Z so close to home, despite Max’s directions. Drizzle dampened the pages as she peered at the tangle of streets.

  She memorized the next few turns, passing a dingy-looking Turkish restaurant, its window obscured by crooked Venetian blinds, and a huddled pub with a spiral staircase that coiled down to a sinister-looking club. And finally, here it was: Max’s street, a curving terrace of once-proud houses, now weighed down by age and neglect. Jane stared up at Max’s house. Its roof sagged gently in the middle, as if it had been sat on. The windows were grimy, their frames peeling, exposing blackened wood. This was the worst-looking house on the street. Why had he taken it on? He’d told her that he was planning to do most of the renovation work himself. He’d fitted out the cycle shop, all those years ago, transforming an unpromising kebab shop into a thriving business. Spokes had been voted Best London Cycle Shop in Your Bike magazine for its “nonelitist atmosphere” and “friendly, personal service.” Max had done all that. He wasn’t one of those DIY bodgers who severed electrical cables or pierced themselves with drills. Yet this was too much. How would he find the time to fix it all up?

  Jane hurried up the stone steps and tried the old-fashioned brass doorbell, knowing it wouldn’t work. She rapped on the glass, tried the handle and pushed the door open. “Max?” she called. “It’s me.”

  Frantic hammering was coming from upstairs. Jane stepped into the hallway, breathing in chalky air. The walls were municipal green paint over woodchip. Now she understood. She remembered the excitement she’d felt when she and Max had found their perfect house. She’d hurried from room to room, ignoring hideous pansy-patterned wallpaper because she’d known it was right. Max had given her that raised-eyebrow look—code for, this is it, isn’t it? Inside Jane’s belly, their baby had flipped. She’d signalled back, yes, this is it.

  “Where are you?” Jane shouted.

  The hammering stopped, and someone called down, “Veronica?”

  For a moment, Jane panicked that she’d marched into the wrong house. Someone else lived here—some stranger, with a woman called Veronica. She shrank back toward the front door.

  Max appeared on the landing. “God…hi,” he blustered. “Is it that time already?”

  “Am I too early?” Jane asked stiffly.

  “No, of course not.” His dark hair was flecked with dust, his jeans ripped at the knees and splattered with paint. He never seemed to age, not really. He had a boyish face, was always laughing or chatting—engaging with people. Everyone liked him: his staff, his customers. And, Jane assumed, this Veronica person.

  “Come up,” he said. “I’ll show you round—not that there’s much to see.” Max laughed uncomfortably. “Anyway, you found it.”

  “Easy,” Jane fibbed, wondering if she should ask about Veronica—whether he was seeing anyone—and decided it wouldn’t be right, interrogating him the minute she’d walked in. Max’s love life was none of her business.

  Jane climbed the bare wooden stairs and followed Max toward an open door at the far end of the landing. Through his thin gray T-shirt she could see the contours of his lean back and shoulders. His lithe body had stunned her the first time she’d seen him naked. She’d wanted to stop what they were doing with their hands and mouths and study him, tracing every muscle and bone. She’d had an urge to draw him, and later she had, although she’d destroyed her sketches soon after the thing had happened, ripping them into confetti scraps. She hadn’t known then that cycling had made him taut and lean; that bikes consumed him. Later, after Hannah had been born, he’d spend hours disassembling gear systems amidst her toys on the living room floor. He’d finally come to bed, smelling of metal and oil, after Jane had drifted into half-sleep. Sometimes she’d wondered if he’d have been keener to come to bed if she’d possessed pedals and gears.

  Jane followed him into a bedroom that overlooked the street. It was huge and airy, filled with light and possibilities. “It’s lovely,” she said, and it was, despite anaglypta walls and a ripped lampshade dangling cock-eyed from the center light.

  Downstairs, in the shabby melamine kitchen, Max spooned instant coffee into chipped mugs bearing the Spokes logo. “It just felt right,” he said, pulling up the chair opposite Jane. “I spotted it in the estate agent’s window—the one at Limehouse station—and I couldn’t believe the price….”

  “Max,” Jane said, “what really made you move? I mean, why now?”

  He looked down at his mug. “Thought it was time I got on the ladder….”

  Jane spluttered. “What, the property ladder? When did you ever care about stuff like that?”

  He shrugged. “I told you, I couldn’t let this place go.”

  “You wanted a project?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.” He smiled sheepishly. “So, d’you think Hannah will like the big bedroom?”

  “Won’t you be sleeping there?” Jane asked.

  Max stood up, strolled across the kitchen and swilled out his mug at the sink. “I tried sleeping there the first couple of nights. It felt too big, too—”

  He turned from the sink, and looked at Jane. She studied his face; the deep brown of his eyes, the softness of his lips. It wasn’t right, the way his eyes still drew her in. She tried to focus on the melamine cupboards.

  “Too empty, Max?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Jane swung round. A woman with great swathes of fair hair and red lips stood at the kitchen door, grinning broadly. “I can understand that,” she added. “Single guy—must feel a bit lonely in there, eh, Max?” She strode toward Jane. “Veronica Fox, neighbor of Max’s, three doors down. Been helping him out, making sure he’s eating properly.”

  “Eating properly?” Jane spluttered.

  Veronica frowned, then quickly corrected her face and lowered her dainty rear on to a kitchen chair. She was wearing a fitted suit in pinky-purply tweed—the colors of heather—that clashed rather nastily with the ageing tangerine cupboards. Over her shoulder was slung a burgundy mock-croc bag. “Terribly busy, isn’t he,” she ventured, “with the bike shop?”

  “Yes, he is.” Jane forced a smile.

  “And so clever, building it up from scratch. That’s dedication for you. I like a man who knows what he wants.” She smirked suggestively. Jane’s smile had congealed. Max, who had gone rather pink around the cheeks, was fiddling with the kettle flex.

  “Like some coffee, Veronica?” he asked.

  “No thanks. You know I don’t take it.”

  “Oh, of course.” He dropped a tea bag into a mug but made no move
to fill the kettle or switch it on. His teeth were jammed together; Jane could sense the tension in his neck. Clearly, Veronica was no stranger here. Max knew that she didn’t “take” coffee.

  An awkward silence settled around them, as if a teacher had marched in and caught them smoking. “So, do you like living around here?” Jane asked, floundering.

  Veronica grimaced. “All I could afford after the divorce. It’s lovely, though, isn’t it, Max? My place?”

  “Yes, um, it is,” he muttered. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead.

  “Had it gutted, soon as I bought it. Threw money at it, Jane, the way you have to in order to get the job done. You’re down London Fields way, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, opposite the park.” Jane glanced from Veronica to Max. Were they seeing each other or what? Surely he’d have told her? It wouldn’t bother her—Max’s private life was his business—but still, she felt hurt. He’d always told her about his dates, his short-lived relationships; they’d chortle over the women’s eccentricities from the safety of distance once it was all over. Jane had especially enjoyed hearing about the woman who worked as a life model—spent the best part of her week stark naked in front of strangers—yet had insisted on wearing a button-up nightie to bed. “Well,” Jane said, “nice to meet you Veronica, but I’d better get back. Hannah, my daughter—”

  “Yes, I know about Hannah.”

  Jane felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. Max was pretending to examine the contents of a wall cupboard, even though it appeared to house only an iron.

  “Yes, well, she’s at a friend’s, but she’ll be home soon, and I really must—”

  “Doesn’t she have her own key?” Veronica asked.

  “Yes, but I like to be there.” Jane stood up and swiped her coat from the chair. She gripped it before her like a shield.

  “You work at a day care, don’t you?”

  Christ, Jane thought, what other details did she know about her life? Why not rattle off her bra size while she was at it? A 34C aren’t you, Jane? Yes, thought so. Perhaps you could do with a bra that would offer a little more support, hmm?

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said.

  “I’m in nutrition,” Veronica announced, as if desperate to impart this vital nugget. “If you ever need any supplements…you are a bit pale, Jane, maybe a touch of iron deficiency? Not anemic, are you?” Veronica arched an overplucked eyebrow.

  “Actually, I feel fine. I feel great.” Jane grinned ferociously.

  “Ever get dizzy when you stand up?”

  “Never,” Jane blurted, even though she was, in fact, feeling dizzy right now; something to do with this blasted woman’s overconcern with her mineral levels and Max’s bodily sustenance.

  A cell phone started trilling inside Veronica’s bag. She marched out of the kitchen to take the call. Jane tried to make eye contact with Max but he’d turned to the counter and was stirring Veronica’s tea with great vigor. “Want to show me where you’d like this window?” Jane asked quickly.

  “Silly girl,” Veronica snapped, clacking back into the kitchen and thrusting her phone back into her bag. “Zoë,” she added, glancing at Jane, “my daughter. Brain of a flea. Trapped at the hairdressers, silly kitten.”

  “Trapped?” Jane pictured a child held hostage by fierce stylists brandishing hair dryers as weapons.

  “Had enough to pay for the cut but not the color. I’ll have to nip over to Upper Street, sort her out. Lovely to meet you, Jane. Heard lots about you. Max has filled me in on his past.”

  Has he? she wanted to ask, but Veronica had already swept out of the kitchen and was letting herself out of Max’s house—a house that, clearly, she knew intimately—and clattering down the steps.

  Jane looked at Max. “My neighbor,” he murmured. “Come on, let me show you the window.”

  Max led her to the living room, which he’d omitted from his initial tour of the house. Tucked away at the back, it was shrouded in shadow. The graffiti—enormous aerosoled letters—shone like ghosts through thin white emulsion. “It’s this one,” Max said, indicating the smaller of two windows: a skinny rectangle overlooking an unloved garden.

  They took measurements and talked colors and shapes. Veronica’s gleaming smile shimmered in Jane’s mind, like a gaudy flower it was impossible to ignore. “You know it’ll take me a few weeks,” she said

  “Yes, of course. There’s no rush.”

  He kissed her goodbye at the door, his customary peck on the cheek. “Good to know she’s making sure you’re eating properly,” Jane teased him.

  Max frowned. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing!”

  “She’s just a neighbor…”

  “I know, she said…three doors down.” Jane bit her lip.

  “All right,” Max said, “she’s weird, but what can I do? She shows up with these meals and cakes and some kind of flapjack with sunflower seeds in…”

  Jane spluttered. “It’s not normal behavior.”

  “What’s normal, Jane?” Max sighed.

  “Well,” she said, aware of the words tumbling out before she could stop them, “no man’s ever thought, ‘Oh, look, poor single mother, better pop round with a roast chicken dinner…’”

  He chuckled softly. “Maybe you don’t look like you need feeding up.”

  “You’re saying I’m fat,” she teased him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Next time I come,” she called back, heading down the front steps, “I’ll bring you a casserole.”

  “You can’t cook,” he yelled down the street.

  What was it, Jane thought as she strode home, about single men living alone that had women fretting about their nutritional intake? The rain had come on again, and was becoming steadily heavier. Veronica’s darling daughter’s new hairdo would be ruined, after all that expense and a mercy dash to Upper Street. Spotting the bus at the stop, Jane pelted toward it and clambered on, plopping herself in the only space available.

  Beside her a man was coughing vigorously into a stained hankie. Trying to shut out the hacking noise, she figured that Max had moved barely two weeks ago. That woman was a bloody fast worker. A terrible image formed of her heather-colored suit cast onto the floor of Max’s front bedroom. I thought, Veronica was saying—no, purring—that if I pretended to leave—made up that crap about Zoë at the hairdressers—then we’d get rid of her quicker. How they’d laugh as she ran those long elegant fingers all over his smooth chest and—

  “Got a spare hankie?” the man asked, thrusting his bulbous face into Jane’s airspace. He smelled of lager and cheese and onion crisps.

  “No, I haven’t,” she replied quickly.

  “Rotten day. Coming for a drink at the Blue Parrot—cheer yourself up? You don’t half look pissed off if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I’m fine,” Jane said firmly, rummaging through the chaotic assortment of receipts and scribbled notes to herself that crowded her bag. She was aware of the man’s stare as she pulled out a pen and her notebook. She flicked to the page where she’d jotted down Max’s window’s dimensions and a jumble of notes:

  north facing overlooking back garden large trees overhanging shadowy colors strong not too dark room needs max light. curves, leaves, petals? reds & oranges plants stems curvy & loose.

  “Curvy and loose?” the man read aloud. Jane snapped her notebook shut. “Just how I like my women,” he leered. “Is that a camera you’ve got? Not a tourist, are you? If it’s the Tower of London you want you’re on the wrong—”

  Jane stood up and lurched to the front of the bus. This was the breed of man she attracted these days: drunk with oniony breath and foul hankies. “Hey, love,” he called after her, “I’ll be in the Blue Parrot, seven o’clock. Write that down in your little black book.”

  Were women like Veronica hassled on buses? Of course not, Jane thought bitterly. They didn’t “take” buses.

  4

  For several
hours now, Max had been working like crazy to finish painting the smallest bedroom. He often worked like this—urgently, without thinking—and didn’t mind when his arms ached and his shoulders hurt. He worked this way at the shop, switching to mundane jobs in the evening that he could tackle without engaging his brain. Stuff like fixing punctures or attempting to clear space in the workshop. Work was useful. It stopped his mind from wandering toward other, more troubling territories.

  Now his energy had withered, leaving him stranded with a three-quarters-painted room and a throbbing callus on his thumb. At least Jane had approved of the house, which made him feel marginally better. He’d known she would. She loved bright, airy spaces; it saddened him that she’d gone from one tiny, dingy house to another, when her work—at least her stained glass work, which Max considered to be her proper job—was all about light. The moment the estate agent had shown him into the house, Jane had popped right into Max’s head. It was pathetic, after all this time, the way she invaded his thoughts. He’d have to get a grip on himself.

  Max rested his roller in the paint tray and rubbed his hands across his jeans. What about Veronica, barging in and ranting on about Jane’s iron levels? He wasn’t accustomed to bargers. It had unnerved him at first, the way she’d invite herself in, presenting him with a carton of milk and a wholemeal loaf before he’d even started unpacking. She was attractive, of course. Model-attractive, if you liked that sort of thing. Why the interest in him—a skinny bloke with an overly large nose and decrepit house, not to mention an ex-wife and daughter? “We’ve all got baggage,” Veronica had told him a few days after their first meeting. “They’re part of your history, Max. Your past makes you what you are today.”

  It had amused him, her habit of talking in self-help soundbites. Of course, Jane wasn’t history. She was anything but. “I guess you’re right,” Max had said. He’d thanked her for the bread and milk and wondered when she might leave. She’d arranged herself prettily on a kitchen chair. He hadn’t fancied her exactly, but there was something about her inane chat and frequent bursts of sparkly laughter than made him feel lighter somehow. Which, after four hours of unpacking his sorry array of belongings, was precisely what he’d needed.