“You’re not drinkin’ your champagne,” says Milt. “Would you prefer the sweeter sort, hon?”
I nod. What’s another hundred and eighty dollars among friends? I like these friends. They don’t keep counting every penny like my mother always did, or waste precious time and energy worrying about rainy days, or acts of God, or accidents, and all that other dreary, cautious, life-negating stuff which kept my poor father in its grip. His life was so damned dismal. Twenty years of working overtime, crawling to his customers, smiling when his feet hurt, getting out a hundred shirts or sweaters for some swaggering tin god who then walked out with nothing; folding them all up again till lunchtime, then spending his short break running errands for my mother, or eating a Spam sandwich on a bench. And any measly pound he saved went straight into some piggy-bank or death insurance policy, was never splurged on fun-things.
Sometimes, I worry that I’ll turn out like my parents. I mean, genes are powerful, aren’t they, and I’d hate to hem my life in with Post Office savings books, or long-service awards where they reward you only for dying still in harness. Men like Wayne and Milt don’t bother with all that. They’re free to win, free to buzz off where and when they want, free to waste their money, tear up airline tickets. Free to live.
The eighth course has just arrived: Poussin ala Casablanca – honey-basted, garlic-roasted hen, served with prunes and apricots. I dip my bare hand in the dish, relish the greasy warmth as I fish around for fruit. Who wants forks? Who wants clocks? There’s enough of those at Beechgrove ticking out the steel-toothed timetable. No one gives a fig here. It must be three a.m. at least, but new guests are still pouring through the door, the music even wilder now, the new champagne cork popping. I think we’re all affected by the drink. Misty’s pawing every waiter she can reach, the female wrestler nibbling at Gabe’s ear, as if it’s a last and special course, and two old boys are almost nodding off.
Suddenly, there’s a click of castanets and six Moroccan belly-dancers burst into the room, their naked stomachs undulating to the fanfare of the music, their fringed skirts whirling out to reveal honey-basted thighs. The whole restaurant is applauding, clapping to the beat. The plumpest of the dancers shimmies over to our table, offers her hand to Norah’s dear old gent. Up he gets and joins them, trying to writhe his barrel stomach as deftly as their taut ones. Next it’s Eddie’s turn. Some black-eyed Jezebel scoops him onto the dance floor, shows him how to snake his hips. Merry-Lyn leaps up on her own, untucks her satin blouse, displays her bare and wiggling belly to rapturous applause.
“Come on, doll,” shouts Wayne, lurching to his feet with his mouth still full of prune and trying to drag me with him. “Let’s boogie.” I hesitate, glance around the table. Both Milt and Norah have the same crestfallen faces. I don’t want anyone unhappy, anyone left out. I prise Milton from his cushion, then wobble round to Norah’s pouffe.
“Toomey, now’s your chance! All those PE classes must have taught you something. Up you get! You need some exercise after all that sitting watching telly.”
I’m amazed to see her follow me, though perhaps she’s just relieved to escape from all the food. I leave her with a dancer in a spangled, feathered yashmak, go back to fetch the gorgeous guys at the far end of the table whom I’ve hardly exchanged a word with yet. Now we’re all up – Misty and the wrestler, Gabe and Shorty, a drunken Doc still brandishing his skewer, even the fatsos showing off their flab. We dance a sort of conga, weaving in and out of tables in a long and snaking line, the belly-dancers leading us, the other guests applauding, the waiters stamping their feet to the rhythm of the dance.
Suddenly, two strong arms are round my waist and I’m lifted right up on the table, Milt deposited beside me. We stare at each other in a sort of shock, then move towards each other, join hands, both hands, start dancing down the table which is groaning under our weight. Everyone is cheering. We’re the royals, the king and queen, higher than the rest, receiving all their homage. Mustapha cooks for royals. Yeah, he’s there, too, doing his obeisance, clapping his fat hands. The music spins faster faster faster as we dance up and down, round and round, until I’m not me any more, just a two-headed whirling blur with a bulge in its back pocket and a pounding thudding heart.
Chapter Thirteen
“What’ ja say your name was, kid?”
“Ata …” No. I can’t pronounce it. Milt probably couldn’t either. It’s only now I realise that he hasn’t used it once, not through all ten courses or our Royal Progress to his room. His room! I was so stupidly naive I assumed we were whizzing to the rooftop bar.
“A … Abigail,” I stutter. I’ve got her on my mind. He’ll expect to see her, expect to take my clothes off, throw me on the bed. No, not bed. Not now. I’m too hung over, don’t want to …
“Gale?”
I nod. Gale will do. There’s quite a strong one blowing through my head, a sickening sort of churning in my stomach. It started in the lift. I realised then I was trapped with him – alone. Not Milt-and-Wayne-and-Ed-and-Gabe-and-Shorty, who was glamorous and witty, sophisticated, dishy, but one small balding man with sweaty hands. It was worse still when the lift doors glided open and I saw, not bar or disco, but rows and rows of bedrooms. I should have said “no” then, but I was in a sort of daze, and by the time I’d worked out what to do, his key was in the lock and he was ushering me in, hot arm around my waist. “Go right ahead, honey. There’s the light. Hey! Watch your step.”
Yes, I was so uptight I tripped, sprawled headlong on the carpet. I tried to laugh it off, but the laugh came out all wrong, sounded close to tears. He seemed nervous, too, helped me up, offered me a brandy. I shook my head. I’ve had enough – too much.
We’re still standing by the mini-bar, saying nothing in particular, but a bit too close for comfort. I back away a little, try to gain some breathing space. He doesn’t look that well himself. His eyes are dulled, with puffy swollen lids; his headache stamped in frown-lines.
Suddenly he moves. I jump.
“Mind if I take a bath, Gale?”
I shake my head, though I’m not sure what he means. Am I to share the bath, get in with him, scrub his back, soap his private parts? I kick one shoe off, ram it back again. What in God’s name am I doing? If I don’t look out, I will land up in bed, and won’t know how I got there. I sidle to the mirror, start fiddling with my hair. I need more time, time to make excuses, time to cure my gut-ache. I shut my eyes, as a sudden wave of sickness rolls across my stomach. When I open them again, Milt has disappeared. I hear a key turn in a lock, the roar of running taps. He’s locked me out.
I sink down in a chair. I should be glad he’s gone, doesn’t need me as his bath-attendant, but I feel somehow still more jumpy on my own. The room’s not the sort which makes you feel at home. It’s very high and formal, done up all in browns, with that chilly, solemn air you get in some museums, and a silence as thick and heavy as the carpet. Milt’s turned the taps off now and I can’t hear anything except the odd complaint and gurgle from my stomach, the repeated nervous clearing of my throat. Odd for him to shut me out. Perhaps he was just desperate for a pee, or wearing dirty underclothes and preferred to peel them off in private. Or maybe simply shy. I feel shy myself, stupid, tied in knots. One part of me wants to run away, keep running till I’m safely back in England. The other part’s so woozy and laid back, I hardly care what happens. I was all right in the restaurant. So long as we were one big crowd, I was as bouncy as the music, as bubbly as the champagne. Now bubbles, grease and panic are curdling in my gut, warning signals throbbing through my head.
I get up again, weave across the room, sit down the other end. A different stretch of mid-brown hessian wall stares blankly back at me. The pictures are all brown as well: old prints of vintage cars. God! It seemed exciting when we were whisked into that limousine, a chauffeur-driven Cadillac (not vintage, spanking new) which had been summoned to the restaurant by King Milt. I wasn’t even sure where we were off to – maybe to a nigh
t club, or for a spin beneath the stars. It was enough that it was me – yes, Carole Margaret Atalanta Joseph, swaggering out on Milton’s arm, watched by that whole admiring crowd: dancers blowing kisses, waiters bowing, waving; Mustapha pressing sweetmeats in my hand. A Moroccan girl dashed forward, looped garlands round our necks. The king and queen betrothed, sent cheering on their honeymoon.
I rip my garland off, a flimsy thing of coloured crêpe, toss it on the floor. I should have stopped the car, made up some excuse: I was tired, or sick; just married. How could I, when I’ve been so wild all evening – gorging, boozing, flirting – leading poor Milt on, syphoning off his power? Didn’t I owe him something in return? And if I hadn’t paid him back, some other female would have leapt to take my place. Merry-Lyn was eaten up with jealousy, Misty planning murder. I could see their green-eyed glances as that limo purred away. That’s partly why I went. It’s so heady to be envied, to be playing star for once, instead of just an odd face in the crowd scenes. Now, I’d gladly swap with them. Misty’s probably tucked up safe in bed, Merry-Lyn enjoying a last quiet filter-tip.
I need a smoke myself. I search my handbag. Damn. The packet’s empty. I’ve been smoking Wayne’s Superkings all evening, with the odd cigar thrown in. I shut my eyes, feel Wayne’s rough tongue again prowling down my cleavage. He was half the trouble. His throaty voice and greasy fingers were a constant kind of foreplay, working on me, softening me, until I was delivered hot and ready into Milton’s den. Everything was working on me – the wine, the food, the music; those dark romantic waiters, the other gorgeous heart-throbs in our crowd who danced crotch to crotch with me, told me I was …
All vanished now. No music, no champagne, no giggly whispered compliments. Just dumpy Milt and me. No – wrong. Just me. I check my watch. He’s been ages in that bathroom, and there’s still no sound from it: no water gurgling out, no reassuring shout to say he’s almost through. I could just sneak away. It seems a God-sent chance – just three steps to the door and out. He wouldn’t even see me, and I’d be safe downstairs before he realised that I’d gone. But then what? I’ve no money for a cab, feel far too flaked to start trudging back on foot.
I pace up and down, fingers twitchy, desperate for a fag. Milton smokes. He shouldn’t. It’s top of his Forbidden List, but he said he had to keep just one vice to cope with all the other damn restrictions. He’s probably got a pack or two stashed away somewhere in this room. Dare I take a look, check the drawers? Better not. He must be finished soon, then we can sit and have a smoke together, cool the whole thing down. I could say I’m underage. I am for drink and gambling, so why not sex as well? No, he’d never swallow that, when I’ve been drinking more than anyone all evening, and made everybody laugh recounting my fiascos at the gaming tables.
I fidget to the window, pull aside the curtain. We must be at the back of the hotel, or stuck down some side alley. Everything looks dark and almost sinister. I shiver, move away. Ten more minutes crawl. What can the guy be doing in that bathroom? Perhaps he’s shaving, wants to be smooth and silky for the kiss. I feel a sudden rush of panic. I don’t want a kiss. Well, I wouldn’t mind if it were nothing more than that – just a kiss and cuddle as payment for the meal, to set my conscience straight, but not the rest, not the whole seduction bit. If I’d had more experience, I might know what to do. I mean, am I crazy to stay jittering here when I’ve got this chance to leave? If I don’t fancy walking back, I could always hide downstairs, try to snatch some sleep in a bar or lounge or somewhere. If I don’t act now, this instant, he’ll be back beside me, breathing down my neck, and I’ll kick myself for dithering. Anyway, I ought to check on Norah. She hurt her leg dancing. It didn’t look much, but you never know with Norah. I put her in a cab – should have gone back with her.
I snatch my coat and bag up, dart towards the door, grab the handle – stop – body facing one way, head and eyes the other. It seems so mean just to ditch the guy, run away without an explanation, without even thank you or goodbye. He paid for Norah’s cab. My hand slides from the handle, my coat slips to the floor. I leave it there, continue with my pacing. It’s hard to make decisions at the best of times, let alone at this godforsaken hour which is neither night nor morning and when I’m feeling sick and groggy and can’t concentrate on anything except blessed cigarettes. I’m nothing but a craving now, got to have a fag.
I cross the brown expanse of carpet to the chest of drawers, ease the top drawer open. It’s empty. I ram it shut again as I hear a sudden rattle from the bathroom door, stay pressed against the chest, pretending to examine the picture just above it – a brown Bugatti with a biscuit-brown chauffeur, brown half-moon, brown clouds. My heart is like a hammer. Stupid fool I am. Of course I should have left. Supposing Milt’s stark naked, grabs me, goes too far too fast? I can hear his footsteps now, closing in on me. Anything could happen. After all, I hardly know the guy. He could be sort of weird – even violent or perverted or have some deadly thing like AIDS. Christ! I never thought or AIDS, and after all those grisly warnings about going to bed with strangers, avoiding casual sex …’
I swing round to fight him off. He’s not naked, nothing like. He’s wearing pyjamas, the sort my father sold, in no-nonsense thick striped blue, with a Black Watch tartan dressing-gown on top. They look quite wrong together. The colours clash and the stripes upstage the tartan. The pyjama legs are trailing, fall in folds around his feet. What hair he has is wet, and plastered to his head. His hands are dirty still, despite the bath. Money stains indelibly, I see.
“N … Nice bath?” I ask.
“Yeah. Had some trouble with my plumbing, though.”
“Oh?” What does he mean? His bladder? Or he’s got the runs like Toomey? What’s wrong with this damned country? Everybody’s got the runs: Norah, Misty, Milt.
“I’ve been mixin’ all my pills, Gale. Real dumb. I could kill myself like that.”
“Yes?”
“Like a bath yourself?”
“No thanks.” I’ve had two today already. Jon hardly bothered washing – too keen to get stuck in. Milt seems slightly dazed. He’s not even looking at me, just staring at the wall. Does he fancy me or doesn’t he, plan to make a pass or not? The suspense is almost worse than the seduction. My own insides aren’t right, still burbling and protesting. My whole body feels off-keel, as if someone’s taken it to pieces and put it back all wrong. I wriggle on my chair, chew my thumb, chew my hair, try to think of some big momentous subject which will totally distract him from minor things like sex.
“It’s … er … quiet up here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Sure is.”
Perhaps he’s inexperienced himself. No, he can’t be – not a high roller with free girls. Maybe that’s the trouble. They do all the work and he’s waiting for me slip off the dressing-gown, undo the pyjama cord …
I can’t. I daren’t. Those AIDS advertisements have all come screaming back now – gruesome tombstones inscribed with four dire letters; posters plastered everywhere: “Don’t Die Of Ignorance!”
If I’m going to die, I’ve got to have a fag first – though I suppose I’ll have to earn it, like those fawning call-girls do. I smooth my skirt down, force my mouth to smile, make my voice sound husky. “Milt, I’m simply gasping for a …”
Help! He’s taking off his dressing-gown himself. I freeze. He’s blundering towards me. I cross my arms, cross my legs.
“Which way do you sleep, Gale?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Facing the wall or facing the window? I like face to wall, so if you choose face to window, we’ll be back to back. That’s not friendly.”
“No,” I say. “I suppose it’s not.” I take a deep breath in, try to sound less panicked. “Look, Milt, why don’t we just … ? I mean, I’m not that sure I really ought to stay. My friend …”
He’s yawning. Honestly. He’s not even trying to disguise it, turn it into a cough or gasp of passion. I can see the gold fillings in his far back teeth.
Another, lesser yawn and now he’s climbing into bed, face to wall.
“I’m sorry, kid, but I’m not feelin’ all that great. I gotta get some shuteye. Okay?”
No, it’s not okay. I know I don’t fancy him, but to be dismissed like that, rejected … I was the one who was meant to say “No, thanks”. All right, he’s ill – I’m sorry – I’m not feeling all that wonderful myself, but does he have to just crash out? Couldn’t we be ill together, swap sympathy and symptoms, chat a while, at least? I can’t just switch off like that, settle down to sleep in a strange bed with a strange guy, and with these hurt and angry feelings curdling in my head. Who does he think he is, for heaven’s sake, in those unspeakable pyjamas and so boorish and insensitive that he can simply shut me off? I should have stuck with Wayne, or be safe in bed with Norah. More fun to sleep with her than some insulting hypochondriac. I mean, the way he calls me “kid”, as if I’m some silly little chit.
I stalk into the bathroom for a pee, stay sitting on the toilet-seat, trying to calm down. The guy’s old, unwell, harried by his doctors, just swallowed half a chemist’s shop of pills. Why should it surprise me if he can’t or won’t perform? I didn’t want him anyway, should feel sheer relief. I’m let off, reprieved, rescued from a tight spot, maybe even rescued from my grave. So why be so upset?
Sin City Page 20
