All the Rage

by A. L. Kennedy

  ‘Mark.’

  Bite the tongue and don’t say ‘Yes, dear.’ It’s such a cliché.

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘Go and find something out.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go and find something out.’

  And Mark did indeed step lively, as if he were seeking more up-to-date information and could be ordered about and relish it. The crowd was hungry for distraction and a theatrically craven husband drew attention. He could feel the pity and amusement lap towards him as he trotted on, a tide of nasty satisfaction.

  Stare if you want. Take a picture, I don’t mind. I still know what you don’t – that there are opportunities for a mature and fulfilled enjoyment in my situation.

  He switched through to the other platform, the one in shade. It was deserted and his body lifted, was stroked by being out of sight.

  I’ll give it ten minutes, have my own precious break.

  There was no reason to do more: at mysterious intervals a man came and, in a perversely quiet voice, told the crowd of would-be passengers that their train would arrive in twenty minutes. He had done this several times in the last three hours. Should Mark be able to locate him, the man would doubtless repeat the twenty-minute claim, because this was precise and therefore not frustrating and seemed to promise a not unreasonable wait.

  The electronic indicator board sometimes showed their train and sometimes others, none of which appeared. Mark had decided he’d take the rest of the day in soft focus and so wasn’t wearing his glasses. This meant the shiny, tiny letters and fictional times simply flared together into uncommunicative blocks. He preferred them like that.

  In his absence, Pauline could consult the board. She had her glasses.

  Doesn’t like them, because she’s decided they make her look old.

  They make her look like her mother, which isn’t old.

  It is much worse than old.

  And meanwhile they weren’t without the useless kind of trains, non-stopping anonymous trains: long, high blurs of weight and violence that gashed the air and ravaged past, leaving him breathless and tempted.

  Suicide as an alternative to marriage.

  Well, I wouldn’t put it that bluntly.

  No.

  But there is a tug as they roar on by, the illusion of longing.

  A voice from who knew where – it was a woman’s – would give them notice through the PA system before the tearing intrusion of each express, but nevertheless he couldn’t quite prepare enough. They made him feel undefended, almost naked.

  If you stand too near the edge you’ll be drawn off by sheer velocity and crushed. I read that somewhere.

  The trains were so plainly unsurvivable and disinterested. They were attractive. Marvellous.

  The impact of another troubled the fabric of everything briefly and he wished he’d been closer for it, over with Pauline. She wouldn’t have stood too near. She was, in fact, probably sitting as he’d left her with knees tight together and ankles tucked into one side as a lady should. Their case was taking her weight.

  It has a hard shell.

  Inside it, their belongings didn’t mix – his shirts and underpants in a tangle, Pauline’s laundry compressed into subsidiary containments. They had separate sponge bags, too.

  Got to keep those toothbrushes apart.

  There was no café for him to visit and find her placating treats. The whole trail of those evicted from the previous, ailing train had been ushered along barren walkways, down steps and far from the station proper, which had been mean and small enough in itself. Not even a vending machine. No apparent staff. Mark couldn’t imagine where the twenty-minute man could be keeping himself before he emerged to murmur about fake arrivals and departures.

  Mark drifted until he was standing in one of the broad alleys that led back to the crowds, the platform, the wait. He was quite a distance from Pauline and safely unobservable.

  Probably.

  He glanced through to the phoning and pacing of his fellow castaways. The bustle was thin at this point.

  But you’re there, aren’t you? By yourself. That’s you.

  He’d noticed the woman earlier, taken note.

  And I’m looking at you.

  She was in her late forties and her spine had settled into something of a slump, but she had an optimistic wardrobe. There were flowers, lots of flowers: a light skirt, thin blouse, mildly bohemian, hoping to conceal that she was fatter than she’d like. Mark knew it would be a safe bet that she’d have a messy flat and would sneak bits of food in the kitchen before she came out to eat properly with a guest. Flat shoes, but good calves. Goodish curves. Accustomed to being unappreciated.

  But you have my undivided attention.

  And if he thought it louder.

  You have my undivided attention.

  Sure enough, she turned, tugged by his awareness, and he did what he wasn’t allowed to do – no longer wanted to do, if he was truthful – and faced the woman and was nothing for her.

  That’s you. By yourself. And this is me. By myself. And I’m nothing.

  I am very much nothing: not serious, not long-term, neither heartfelt, nor heart-breaking, not intrusive, not a burden, not anyone who’ll ever know you and therefore be irritated or repelled.

  I will be good and easy and meaningless.

  Mark smiled.

  I’m nothing.

  He considered himself.

  And I have a nice arse.

  I have an excellent arse. Frequently complimented.

  Early forties – forty-four is early forties – but thirty-nine to look at and with more-than-satisfactory legs. They give me the height, the perspective. One could say they lead the eye. Up. And I’m keeping my hair well, dark and thick.

  Plus, I have kind eyes.

  And no glasses, which means that I’m currently loosening her edges, Vaselining over my appreciation of someone who would benefit from blurring.

  Late forties for a woman is catastrophic. She has my sympathy.

  And this me, this nothing – she could have that, too.

  He ambled forward to lean in the last shade of the passage, on the blind side from his wife.

  You could have it all and it’s a lot, it’s really something.

  He smiled again, folded his arms.

  My arms around myself, because you have not held me and yet I do need to be held. It’s such a shame for both of us.

  And the woman smiled.

  That’s right. You’re made for nothing, you are – made for it.

  She kept him in view when he moved and then as he halted.

  And he knew absolutely that he should be business-like here, should claim her, because she would love it. Because how unlikely and beautiful it would be for anyone – but perhaps particularly for her – that a stranger should be jerked to a stop by who you are and then swiftly driven to helpless and expert improprieties.

  Every one of the possible acts was prohibited, but he did rush harmlessly through thoughts of how thin the woman’s bra and blouse were and how they would give her away once he’d talked her horny.

  Private tits, quiet tits, tits that will never be shown to a jaded nation.

  But she’d show me.

  She wouldn’t want it stated. Our conversation would be pleasantly oblique. We’d talk about this journey, other journeys, other passengers, anything really, it wouldn’t matter as long as I kept the music of it rubbing forward and no chance for her to doubt. I needn’t say anything filthy, just keep a hunger in the smiles, the right catch in the eyes, and by the time our train came I’d get her on board and then have her in a toilet.

  Done it before.

  She wouldn’t realise it had been sordid until tomorrow, maybe the end of the week. Today it would be passion and romance.

  And then tidy up and out into the carriage. I’d suggest that we sit apart afterwards, because of what fun that would be: acting like she’d never met me, when I’m still a ghost between her legs.

 
; Those red plush silk and shaky minutes between her legs.

  I could tell her if she’s good that we’d do it again past Swindon.

  Maybe not a lie.

  Maybe give her my genuine number and save hers. Hook up, if we felt like taking longer and she didn’t live ridiculously far away.

  Although there is much to be said for women who live ridiculously far away and the trend towards exponential fare increases for public transport. And petrol’s hardly a bargain.

  We could improvise.

  She would let me.

  Sometimes people want nothing. It is a necessity.

  But then Mark gave her an altered smile.

  And this is to say that I would if I could.

  And it is such a pity I can’t.

  Have this instead – the sting of possibility. It’s a much neater present, a nice one: the way that your body will rouse and insist where I would have kissed it.

  You know the places. You do.

  Mark let his hands fall sadly and, because he considered this polite, he whispered his knuckles against the woman’s as he passed her, headed into the glare and walked to offer Pauline interwoven lies.

  ‘Well, you won’t believe it, but they said another twenty minutes.’

  I really did go and speak to someone and serve you as you wished.

  ‘Sorry, darling. It’s outrageous.’

  I am not 40 or 50 per cent turned on.

  ‘I could go back. If you want, love.’

  I wouldn’t like to scream until it hurts me.

  ‘But I don’t think it would be much use, and the sun’s giving me a headache. I feel a bit out of it, actually . . .’

  I am not thumbing through random memories of working inside other women until I felt the sweat run, the insect tickle of being entirely waylaid.

  ‘I am sorry.’ And he kissed her, squeezed her hand in his.

  She withdrew from the pressure and pursed her lips. Mark took pains to understand her point of view.

  That’s sixteen years of history between us in one motion – and having no kids and her needing her glasses more badly than I need mine. Varifocals.

  That’s me having, thus far, decided not to be dead yet and this causing a further difference of opinion.

  Their history wasn’t uniformly bleak. Nobody’s ever was, not without significant rewriting. For three years he’d been relatively happy and as faithful to Pauline as a rescued dog. Then he had rather reverted to type and it was hugely regrettable and he did feel bad about it, but equally he’d never let her know. He hadn’t insisted they share an open marriage and hadn’t been prone to regular confessions. He hadn’t confessed at all.

  Because I was nothing. So I had nothing to confess.

  I washed thoroughly after them, extra soap and water for the hands, the betraying hands, and I used mouthwash and set aside a holdall of specifically adulterous clothing – like a gym bag. Salted money away for the costs. I suppressed my traces.

  She didn’t know.

  Not a clue about the girl I met in a hotel car park during a late-night fire alarm, the girl on an overnight train to Berlin, a woman who’d slept with Mick Jagger – him or Keith, definitely one of the Stones: being with her was like trying on a vintage coat – and a woman who’d been crying at a party, a conference waitress, multiple attendees of multiple conferences, the wife of a friend – which was stupidly risky – the wives of strangers, the assistant in a chemist’s shop after hours. During hours would have been silly.

  The pin from her name badge scratched my cheek.

  It was a little bit relentless.

  But consistent – all nothing.

  Then he’d woken on a Sunday early, been dressed and spruce at breakfast, as if he’d had an appointment. Indeed, he’d taken advantage of the day’s suggested shape and tone – it seemed spruce and forthright, somehow – and had claimed – why not – that he was suddenly needed at the office and would nip out while Pauline set forth to tend the weeds.

  Plants – she tends the plants.

  She kills the weeds.

  As far as I’m aware, she does it that way round.

  I told her a chef – controversial, but adored by female readers – had forgotten to tell us that he was dyslexic/thick/on a bender – I wasn’t listening at the time so I’m unsure of my final choice – and would fail to provide 900 pithy words about something or other I couldn’t recall. I didn’t think it related to cooking. Probably he was attempting to reposition his persona. Pauline is fascinated by B-List hubris and so this entertained her.

  I said it was best to show my face, go in and deal with the minor disaster, catch up on my expenses – they’re more like begging letters now – and be the chap on hand for any further emergencies. We lived in straitened times, even then, and I needed to seem flexible and willing.

  I also did honestly want some fresh air.

  No, I didn’t.

  I wanted to keep an appointment I hadn’t made.

  He’d caught the Tube.

  Piccadilly Line: convenient and it’s my favourite shade of blue.

  He’d stepped into an empty carriage.

  And she followed.

  That was you.

  That was you, Emily.

  That was you.

  She’d sat opposite, a tiny clumsiness in her movements that lit him, put him on alert, even though she’d been unremarkable in many ways.

  Sweet Jesus, that was you.

  An over-large biker jacket had made her seem round-shouldered.

  As if she was shy about having breasts.

  Emily.

  That was sweet and you.

  Her costume fought ungracefully to combine revelation with concealment. She’d made a series of unimaginative and self-punishing choices in red and mainly black: holed black tights and layers of equally wounded T-shirts, short denim shorts and high-lacing boots with industrial soles. One hand was curled intently round a can of cider.

  Didn’t know your name, but that was sweet and you.

  Mark had watched her face, its flickers and hints as it flirted with insecurity, or gave him little signs of pride – the happy and personal victory that was her cider, the wish to be challenging.

  Lowered eyes and faking that I wasn’t there for you, but I already was. Immediately.

  And then she made a small retreat into hurts, or the threat of hurts, their memory, and into some variety of fear. He’d shivered with a vast and irrational compulsion to disclose and remove every wound for her.

  Sweet you.

  Now and then she had the expression of someone preserved in an untouched space, of dispassionate observation. Her skin was pale as paper and not especially clean and clearly the cider was there to help her up out of the night before, to remove a disreputable pain, but there was so, so much strange purity there, too. He would come to define this sanctity and distance as her principal characteristics. That morning they simply caught him, along with the rest. She was twenty-two – not genuinely young – but the grace of childhood hadn’t faded on her.

  Like all the proper ones – the real alcoholics, before they blow – she had this weird perfection, was flawless because of her flaws and made them a beauty.

  She was angelic.

  Stupid word.

  My angel.

  Shining with each of the obvious violations.

  She was self-inflicted.

  He had known how catastrophic she would be, a coma patient could have realised that Emily was dangerous. He hadn’t been deterred.

  Quite the reverse.

  The first thing she’d said to him was ‘Perv’. But she’d made it sound affectionate – warm and for him in the empty carriage – and they’d stayed where they were, discarded any prior plans and ridden out to the terminals at Heathrow – not particularly speaking, only being with each other, rocking onwards inside the shudders of the carriage. The seats around them gently silted up with voyagers and their unwieldy bags and then mostly emptied as people Mark felt
were entirely unnecessary left for exciting, or happy, or business-related destinations. By Turnham Green she’d come to him, switched places and sat at his side.

  On their way back into town – the line had returned them, as if it approved of Mark’s intentions – he’d taken her hand, completely unsure of whether she’d consent. He hadn’t a clue how to play her.

  She stole my game.

  But by Covent Garden he’d risked standing and leading her out and away through the station and up to the fast-breathing world.

  There I was with Emily and the sky not the same as it had been and the structure of myself softly altering and rampaging.

  He’d found them a fairly quiet bar where he drank cider with her – he detested cider – so their mouths would taste the same.

  I knew wherever she lived would be appalling and indiscreet, so I picked her a hotel.

  Without bags, unwieldy or otherwise, I got to enjoy an amount of lying at the check-in desk. They sold me a pair of toothbrushes to replace the ones we hadn’t lost in a spurious suitcase that hadn’t been misdirected to Tenerife. I held both the brushes together in one hand, made sure they touched as we strolled to the lift.

  All concerned were under no illusions about what we were going to do.

  She didn’t seem to mind and didn’t seem not to.

  Three weeks after my fortieth birthday and I got myself a twenty-two-year-old.

  Or she got me.

  Beyond the fantasy luggage, I didn’t lie about anything else when I was with her. I made it a rule from then on. I told her about Pauline. I told her I’d have to leave way before the morning. I told her about my habits. I told her about me.

  It was a first.

  Nothing changed.

  Nothing was absolutely changed.

  Almost immediately, his enthusiasm for the others dissipated. He had a handful of repeat offenders, but he simply didn’t ring them any more and, as a consequence, they drifted. He’d been a man who was mainly attracted to passing trade and he let it pass.

  He had Emily.

  It was a devotion of sorts.

  There were slippery, sick days when she didn’t answer his calls. She never explained why. He decided to assume the problem was related to technical issues and bought her a new phone. It was pink, which made it a joke, but he also meant it very much and didn’t want her to lose it – hence the ghastly colour. Before he handed it over, he’d stood in the shop and nestled the thing beside his cheek.