As Far as You Can Go

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘No, my mistake it seems. Cassie will be delighted that you’ve found yourself inspired. But will she be so pleased with how?’

  The roof lifts and clangs. Graham can hear the metallic sound in the fillings at the back of his mouth.

  ‘I mean, of course, you and Mara.’

  Graham coughs, a laugh like a splinter catching in his throat. ‘Me and Mara? Are you serious?’ His voice rises as the wind woo-hoos.

  ‘Gracious me,’ Larry says, ‘we are in for a storm.’

  ‘I did what you asked.’

  ‘A bit more than that I believe. I think, in actual fact, you rather took advantage of the situation and forced yourself upon her when she was upset.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I wonder what Cassie will think?’

  The pencil snaps between Graham’s fingers. Tiny dot of graphite like the shrunken pupil of an eye. ‘She wouldn’t believe such crap.’

  ‘It’s what Mara says.’

  ‘Oh, get fucked. Do you think Cassie would believe Mara before she believed me?’

  ‘Well.’ Larry leans forward, his voice too close to Graham’s ear. ‘All the same, it would be better not to mention it – just in case Cassie’s faith in your, er, capacity for the truth is not as touchingly solid as you seem to believe.’

  ‘Oh, you think you know her better than me, do you?’ Graham gets up, deliberately knocking the chair over behind him. His knuckles itch to grind themselves in Larry’s face.

  Larry steps back. ‘So,’ he says. ‘We’ll say not a word and tomorrow you’ll paint Mara.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll paint Mara and if she wants any other attentions from you you’ll provide them.’ Again the roof clangs. ‘Must get that fixed.’

  A trickle of sweat creeps down the side of Graham’s face. His heart thumps. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’ Larry takes a step towards the door.

  ‘I thought I “forced myself upon her”?’

  ‘There’s always another point of view, don’t you find?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that you ought to do anything you can to please her. Poor Mara. She is, her happiness is, my raison d’être. The reason for this whole establishment. And Cassie need never know.’

  ‘You want me to fuck your wife? What’s the matter, can’t get it up?’

  A muscle twitches in Larry’s jaw. Ha. A reaction. But he doesn’t speak.

  ‘So, what, you’re pimping for her now? Listen, we want to leave. OK? You’re sick.

  Larry steps towards him, eyes narrowed. He lifts his finger, about to speak but Graham cannot stop it, anger rushes from his gut along his arm into his fist and smashes into Larry’s face. Blood bursts from his nose. His hands fly to cup it, he brings them away, looks at the shiny red dripping through his fingers and back at Graham.

  The wind gets into the kitchen, gusting grit and rubbish about on the floor, making the fly screen rattle. Fred didn’t come and she could cry with the disappointment. No post and no cheese. She hates the wind. How can you make a decent pizza without cheese? But it’s too late now, dough made and rolled out.

  The door opens and Larry comes in, bleeding from his nose, splash of red on the front of his shirt.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she says. ‘What happened? Sit down –’ She fetches the first-aid box and pulls out a wad of cotton wool. ‘Here. What happened?’ The way he looks at her, her heart sinks. Please let it not be Graham.

  ‘Well,’ he says, dabbing at his nose, his voice thickened as if he’s got a cold. ‘Your boyfriend has certainly got some temper.’

  ‘Oh no. He didn’t} Why?

  His nostrils bubble thin blood, his moustache pinks.

  ‘Have some more cotton wool. Oh God, It’s not broken, is it? Why did he hit you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand it. I merely enquired about his session with Mara this morning and he –’ He makes a hopeless gesture. He’s lost his usual poise, looks quite upset.

  ‘Shall I make you some tea, or –? Oh God.’ Cassie sits down, hides her face in her hands for a moment. She looks up. ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Cooling off, I hope.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I know he’s a bit – a bit wild sometimes, but he hasn’t had a fight for I don’t know bow long. Not since I’ve known him.’

  ‘You did say he wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  ‘No, well, he wouldn’t! That’s the stupid thing, he wouldn’t deliberately hurt anyone, it’s just if he loses it.’

  ‘Loses control?’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’

  ‘He seems to do so with remarkable facility.’

  ‘No, not usually,’ she says. ‘Something must have made him mad –’

  Larry shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what I could have said.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, wringing her hands. ‘I don’t know what else to say. He is very uptight just now. We had a bit of a – Look, what about a brandy or something? There’s some in the pantry?’

  He dabs at his nose again and winces. ‘Good idea. If you’ll join me.’

  ‘Well –’ Last thing she wants is a brandy, but what the hell.

  She pours it into a couple of glasses. Is about to say cheers but it doesn’t quite seem appropriate. The hot gold makes her cough.

  ‘I suppose that’s it then,’ she says. ‘I mean – you’ll want us to leave.’

  He sips his brandy, pinches the bridge of his nose, gazes at her for a moment. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Well –’ She bites her thumbnail, a little wad of raw dough gets in her mouth, she pinches it between her teeth and swallows it. ‘Maybe we should.’

  ‘Give up?’ He looks disappointed in her. ‘And you were doing so well. You’ll have lasted even less long than the others.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, not wanting that. She finds that she feels oddly competitive with these strangers. ‘But surely you won’t want us to stay, now?’

  He gazes at her. His eyes are kind, sad, grey eyes, lines of experience and even suffering around them. ‘What was your aim, in coming here?’ he says.

  ‘You know. I told you.’

  ‘Have you reached a conclusion? About you and –’ It’s as if he can’t bear to say the name. He dabs at his swelling nose.

  ‘Not really,’ she says, and sighs. The brandy has burnt a trail from her tongue to the pit of her stomach. She feels the muscles in her shoulders give a little. Larry is not angry, not with her at least. ‘I think, maybe after a few more weeks we might – well, I. feel maybe we were getting somewhere. He’d told me the truth about something I needed to know and horrible though it is I feel better about it. It’s always better to know the worst, isn’t it?’

  He coughs out a small laugh. ‘Is it?’

  ‘And – I think he’s getting into some painting.’

  ‘He was painting just now.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘So. Would you like to stay?’

  ‘Don’t think he will!’

  ‘But you?’

  She looks away. His eyes are almost too intense. The thought of home, Patsy, her own bed, her garden, almost makes her giddy with longing. But she does hate to give up and Larry would be disappointed in her. She doesn’t want him to be disappointed. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I – I suppose I would prefer to give it a bit longer.’

  ‘He could go and you could stay?’ Larry suggests.

  ‘No, no, if he wants to go, I’ll have to go with him.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he’ll stay. We’ll have to see, won’t we? Mara would be sad to see you go – and so would I.’ He reaches out his hand and takes hers for a moment.

  ‘Would you?’ She blushes violently and pulls her hand away.

  ‘You know, the substance I mentioned earlier –’ he says, ‘this is precisely the sort of thing it might prevent. It might settle him down.’

  She bites her lip. ‘No �
�’

  He leans forward. ‘There are no side effects,’ he says, ‘if that’s what’s worrying you. That’s the wonder of this new generation of pharmaceuticals, they are precisely targeted. Smart-Ceut will be the brand name. No side effects. A subtle behavioural enhancement, a calming effect – we’re on the brink of a revolution. In ten years’ time, you won’t think twice.’

  ‘But he’d never take it.’

  ‘You could administer it yourself. Put it this way, I think probably it’s the only way to get what you want. If you want to stay –’

  ‘I do want us to stay, at least for a while.’

  ‘Then it might prevent,’ he indicates his nose, and half smiles, ‘further incident.’

  She stares at him. ‘Is this some sort of condition – for us staying?’

  ‘Good gracious no! What do you take me for?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t really think that, I –’

  ‘I’m simply trying to help you to get what you want.’

  The circles of dough on the table are rising flabbily, cracking at their edges.

  ‘I couldn’t do that though.’

  ‘Here,’ he reaches into his trouser pocket and brings out a small phial of white pills. ‘Easily soluble,’ he says.

  She takes them, rolls the phial, looking at the contents tumble inside.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘I couldn’t.’ She tries to hand them back but Larry’s hands are behind his back. The blood is drying on his moustache.

  ‘Hang on to them, for now.’ He smiles. ‘In case you change your mind.’

  ‘Well, OK.’ She takes them and puts them in her pocket. Later she’ll go out and chuck them in the dunny.

  ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ She finds Graham lying face down on the bed. She slams the door but not in time to stop a rush of dust blowing in, lifting the rug from the floor. Rogue gusts penetrate the room, the roof lifts and bangs back down. ‘I can’t believe you punched Larry! Why?’

  He rolls over on to his side. ‘Because he gets on my fucking tits,’ he says.

  ‘But what did he do? What did he say?’

  He looks at her mutinously.

  ‘You’re nearly forty, Graham!’

  ‘I am not nearly forty,’ he says.

  ‘Thirty-seven next year. Near as damn it. When are you going to act it?’

  He seems to contract into himself as she watches. He sits up, cups his hurt hand in the other. ‘I suppose he came squealing to you?’

  She sits down on the bed, sighing. ‘Let me see.’ He lets her take his hand. The knuckles are reddened and swelling. ‘You’re hopeless,’ she says, anger fizzling out. ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘Course I fucking do.’

  ‘Gray.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Thought you were homesick?’

  ‘I am but – Oh God, you’re hopeless.’ She strokes his long fingers, the little black hairs on the backs of each, on the back of his hands that have always turned her on. The circlet of black hairs round his wrists, the beautiful hairs on his arms that feel so good around her. ‘I only started on pizzas because Larry said Fred was coming. They’ll be horrid without cheese,’ she says miserably.

  ‘You want to stay?’

  ‘A bit longer? Just till Christmas maybe. See how we feel then?’

  ‘Dunno.’ He grabs her thumb and squeezes.

  ‘I love you,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you ever say it to me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here, would I?’

  He pulls her down. She lets herself be pulled, a twinge in her belly, as he strokes his index finger across her lips, forces it into her mouth. His finger tastes gritty, grit is everywhere, the window rattles. He kisses her. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he breathes, feathering the tip of his tongue against her upper lip. She kisses him, hijacked by desire. She puts her legs round his thigh and presses herself against him. But he stops and sits up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thirty-six is a lot different from forty,’ he says, reaching for his tobacco tin.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  They sit in silence while he makes a roll-up against his knee.

  ‘I did a painting today. Sketch for,’ he says, flicking his lighter.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘England. Derbyshire. Hills and walls. Wanna go back, Cass.’

  She takes hold of his hand again, grit between their skins. Tries to read his face, his eyes. He won’t look straight into hers. Her heart sags. She drops his hand. ‘It’s Jas, isn’t it? You want to see her.’

  ‘No.’ He sighs out smoke. ‘How many more times? It’s you Cassie, you. With Jas I didn’t – it didn’t mean anything. It just happened.’

  She gazes at him until he looks down and flushes. ‘The sad thing is,’ she says, ‘that I believe you. Poor Jas.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Is it, is it likely to happen again?’ She tries to make her voice brisk.

  He shakes his head. ‘It was a mistake. I was being a prat. Not thinking. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You never do think though, do you?’

  He does look more sorry than she’s ever seen him. His eyes have a shine as if he might be close to tears.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘So you will, you will be – your word – true?’

  He nods, looking at her with a spark of hope.

  ‘And we’ll stay?’ she says.

  ‘Do we have to?’ He smiles at her, the sort of smile that could charm a door open but she hardens her heart.

  ‘Larry’s going to give us one more chance. He’s being really decent about it.’

  Graham snorts.

  ‘What?’

  But he shakes his head.

  ‘If you want,’ she pauses and takes a deep breath, ‘us, then I think we should take it.’ She picks up his hand again, strokes his fingers. Raises his hand to her mouth and sucks the end of his middle finger. Taste of salt and paint and skin. The sexy feeling rises up inside her again like a tide.

  ‘Eh?’ she says. She stands up and takes off her shorts and knickers – slight rattle of pills from the pocket. He watches her, eyes hazed. ‘Eh?’ she says again.

  ‘Yeah,’ he breathes.

  ‘Take off your jeans,’ she says. She watches him kick out of them and and sit back on the bed, puffing at his fag. His beautiful cock rises as she leans over and puts her lips to it but he smells wrong. Not suckable today. Instead she sits astride him, takes his fag away and puts it on the jar-lid ashtray. She pulls her T-shirt over her head. Given up wearing a bra in this heat. A gritty trail between her breasts. She cups them in her hands and lifts them towards his face. He blinks, long dusty lashes, eyes darkening.

  ‘Fuck me then,’ she says.

  ‘Is that an order?’ His voice is husky but he looks sad almost. He lifts a hand and touches each of her breasts, gently, reverently almost, stroking as if he’s never seen them before.

  ‘Your skin is amazingly fine,’ he says.

  ‘Come on.’ She gets off him and lies down. She unbuttons his shirt, kisses the skin on his neck and chest, the familiar taste, the vibration that passes between them still there, stunning. More passionate than for ages; he sinks his teeth into her shoulder and sucks on her neck so there will be blossoms there tomorrow for everyone to see but that’s OK, why shouldn’t they make love and why shouldn’t they have love bites? She bites him back, bites and sucks at his throat as he jerks, shuddering and groaning into her, then his hand comes down and he touches her until she rises up under his hand and as she comes the roof crashes down, crashes and reverberates. She lies in a soft, dazed trance, then giggles.

  ‘I think the earth just moved.’

  ‘I love you,’ he says.

  She breathes in sharply. ‘Me too,’ she says, smiling into his precious peppery skin. A faint foreign oily smell from Mara’s shed. But this is it. She simply cannot lose him.

  She can almost hear Patsy’s voice. ‘What is it about him? There ar
e so many other lovely guys. Lovely grown-up guys.’ More or less what everyone has said. But lying here beside him she knows why. Because she will never fancy anyone the way she fancies Graham; because she will never find a better lover than him; because she really likes him (most of the time) and because when she imagines the children she wants to have, they are his.

  It’s not a choice. That’s simply how it is.

  Twenty-one

  His knuckles smart. He’s drained, feels like some kind of husk. What is going on? Cassie’s gone to cook the pizzas, he should follow her but he’ll just have another smoke first. How’s he going to face them? He rolls another cigarette, clicks the lighter and holds it in his palm, sees his tiny bleared reflection. His mind goes back to when Jas gave it to him. It was his birthday, she’d said nothing about it. No big deal, he assumed she’d forgotten. Fair do’s. He never remembered hers. They were in the pub. She’d lit his fag with it. ‘That’s nice,’ he’d said, taking it from her. A chunky chrome Zippo, heavy in his hand. ‘Oh, have it,’ she’d said and then laughed. ‘Happy Birthday, you prat. Bought it for you, didn’t I? Don’t lose it.’ And amazingly he hasn’t.

  He pulls on his jeans, a clean T-shirt. His other one, screwed in a ball on the floor, is covered in body paint. He kicks it into a corner. What’s he meant to do? Waltz over? Oh yeah, shag the wife, deck the husband and then sit down and have dinner with them. What a situation. Could sound funny. When he tells it. When he gets back. If he tells it. But this is now. His stomach growls. He is starving. He hears a car drive up. Fred maybe. Thank Christ for that. That’ll help. Maybe a bit. He puts his hair back with a rubber band, sticks his feet into his sandals and goes.

  The wind blows dust in his eyes and he puts a hand up to shield them, dust drying his mouth. Fred’s there in the kitchen when he gets in, bags of stuff on the table, salad, a warm smell of pizza, bottles of red wine.

  ‘You’re in the nick of time,’ Cassie’s saying to Fred. ‘If I get them out I can shove some cheese on and shove them back for five minutes. Hi, Gray.’ She smiles at him, her sexy, gappy, gut-scrunching smile. He’s almost floored by a surge of guilt, goes over to kiss her or touch her or something but she shakes him off. ‘Want to clear the table and set it?’