When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  No cabs available from any of them. He seems genuinely disappointed on her behalf.

  There is a pinboard with cards and leaflets from various local services – plumbers, electricians, cleaners – pinned to it. Roxy drags herself up and inspects it.

  What about this? ‘Executive Limo Service – Best Rates’.

  I’ll see how much it is. If they’ve got anything.

  She hands over the card and Colin rings the number.

  They have one available.

  How much?

  A hundred pounds.

  I’ll get the night bus.

  I’ve got a spare room.

  Don’t get any ideas.

  Roxy sits back down on the sofa and scans the room. It is all very standard. White plaster, oatmeal carpet, PVC-framed double-glazed windows, painted radiators. There are glass doors overlooking a wrought-iron balcony. Not much on the walls except the pinboard and a poster of St George and the Dragon stuck on with Blu Tack.

  Nice poster.

  It’s sort of research. For the video game I’m designing.

  What’s that then?

  It’s called Dragon Bane. I’m a big fan of dragons.

  The room is dominated by an outsize TV connected to a DVD player, an NTL satellite box and a PlayStation games console. There are two cheap-looking red beanbags in front of it.

  Tidy.

  I pay a cleaning lady to come in every other day when I’m not here.

  How can you afford it?

  Same way as I can afford the flat. I work hard.

  Me too. But I get paid jack shit. Hey, have you heard this one? ‘My boss told me to have a nice day. So I went home.’

  Right. Oh yeh. I get it.

  Roxy walks over to a bookshelf next to the TV. It is entirely free of books. There are simply video games and DVDs, mainly horror, and collections of QPR games from the past few seasons.

  Show me the spare room, she says.

  Colin leads her to the second bedroom, which contains a single bed covered with a white duvet and waffle cotton pillowcases. There is nothing else in there whatsoever – not a clock, or a painting, or a chair. Roxy notes that there is a lock on the door and a key in the lock.

  I’ll think about it. Got anything to drink?

  Lager.

  That’s it?

  I’m a man of simple tastes.

  I’ll fetch.

  Roxy goes into the kitchen area, finds a couple of murky glasses. In the fridge, she sees a small pack of Kraft cheese slices, half a bottle of milk, yellowing on the surface, an open can of baked beans and a wrap of half-used Kerrygold butter. There is also a Marks & Spencer’s Roast Chicken and Roast Potatoes for One. The only other contents are fifteen cans of Hofmeister lager, beaded with condensation.

  She returns to the living room, hands him the beer, and knocks back half of her glass on the spot, then lights herself a mentholated cigarette. She starts to pace around the room, examining the television, then checking the video games. There are at least twenty of them. Diablo II. GoldenEye 007. Call of Duty. Mortal Kombat.

  This is Moral Kombat: Special Forces, right? I thought that wasn’t out until the end of the year.

  I’m on the inside corridor.

  Got any PVP games?

  A few. Mainly I play PVE.

  You play with yourself?

  She winks.

  It’s a bit of an obsession, says Colin, smiling shyly. It’s what I do for a living. It’s what paid for all this.

  Roxy casts her eyes around the room, thinking how welcoming it could be if it had even some hint of adornment or decoration.

  You sell video games?

  I design them.

  He takes an unmarked box from the shelf.

  This one is called Death Smash. I did it. Mainly me, anyway. It never went into production, but Sony liked it enough to give me a job.

  Sounds like fun.

  You’re just saying that, right? You’ve got no interest whatsoever.

  I’m interested.

  Roxy continues scanning the shelves.

  You’ve got Wipeout.

  Of course.

  I love Wipeout.

  You’ve played it?

  I’m a wiz.

  Okay.

  You sound doubtful.

  I don’t want to come across as, you know, a big head. I was office Wipeout champion at the Sony Christmas Party. And there’s a lot of pretty handy players at Sony.

  You played computer games at your office Christmas party. No snogging?

  All men. Desk warriors. Fancy a game?

  One hundred per cent. Anything for a laugh.

  They boot up Wipeout and each take a PS controller. The music starts, surging through Colin’s powerful audio system – ‘Firestarter’ by The Prodigy. The cresta run of lights and images, the thudding electronic music, the swerving and swaying of the virtual spaceship pumps up Colin’s adrenaline, as the number counters climb at the bottom of the screen. Girders and virtual fences frame the action. Billboards over the causeway advertise Red Bull. The soft gasping of an electronic voice speaking unintelligible words, the tapping of a drum synthesizer. Lap speeds after lap.

  Colin is surprised at how adept Roxy is. Although he wins easily she scores 200 points in the first game, and 220 in the next. She is still knocking back lager, has helped herself to a second glass. An ashtray half full of menthol stubs sits on the oatmeal carpet.

  I haven’t had this much fun in ages, Colin says, truthfully. He cannot quite believe that he has a woman alone with him in his flat. Maybe the new century is going to work out well for him after all.

  I definitely have, says Roxy, but she has to admit that she is enjoying herself. The flat is lovely, smells brand new, smells of money, in fact, and Colin, she thinks now, isn’t so bad looking really, although his acne scars are a turnoff.

  She spots an old Nintendo N64 player gathering dust behind the PS.

  You’ve got GoldenEye, right?

  I think so, yeh.

  I used muck around a bit with that with my kid sister.

  Do you want a game of that then?

  Yeh, why not?

  I’m pretty good at this one too.

  Colin plugs it in. After a few seconds of fiddling with the connections and controls, the James Bond theme pumps out of the speakers. Colin selects multiplay. Roxy chooses ‘Natalya’ as an avatar. Colin is Bond himself, and the screen splits horizontally into two.

  There’s a ‘slappers only’ setting, says Roxy, mock outraged.

  That means no weapons.

  Yeh, I know, Colin. What did you think I thought? says Roxy, now speaking in a poor Russian accent, blood rushing to her head, making her giddy. Tell you what. If you beat me you can shag me.

  What did you just say?

  That’s the liveliest I’ve seen you look all night.

  I don’t think I heard you.

  I said, ‘If. You. Beat. Me. You. Can. Have. A. Shag.’

  Colin says nothing. A swirl of embarrassment and excitement stirs in his gut.

  Aren’t you going to ask what I want if you lose?

  I won’t lose.

  Ask me anyway.

  What do you want then?

  You have to pay for the limo to take me home.

  This isn’t fair.

  The risk of losing a hundred pounds is too much for the chance of having sex with me?

  I don’t mean that. You’re not going to win. Honestly. I’m really really good at this game. Anyway, that would be paying you to have sex. I don’t want to do that.

  I don’t intend to have sex with you, Colin. I intend to beat you. I just want to get home. And something else.

  What?

  If I win, I want that phone. For keeps.

  Colin laughs.

  I design these games for a living.

  You could always let me win.

  Definitely not if it’s going to cost my J-phone. Forget the bet. Just stay in the spare room. It locks, so you’l
l be safe.

  I’m not scared of you, Colin. I could probably beat you up quite easily if you tried anything. Okay, I’m ready to play. Set it up. I want to earn my limo and my phone. Come on. Anything for a laugh.

  Still, Colin hesitates.

  You’re drunk. You’re going to lose. Let me pay for the limo. I can afford it.

  He reaches for the phone.

  Scared? slurs Roxy. Come on, let’s have a go.

  They settle back into the beanbags, grasping their controllers. Colin, true to his boast, is good, fast to react and intuitive, but Roxy is faster, picking up weapons, sniper rifles, ammo, donning armour and moving from location to location with such pace Colin is unable to match her. Colin swears, his face turns red, his tongue protrudes between his teeth as it always does when he concentrates.

  They chase one another across bridges, through lakes, inside military bases and out of manholes, up and down ladders, down endless narrow corridors. But within minutes, Bond is dead, Natalya continuing to casually pepper him with bullets as he lies prostrate on a warehouse floor in Leningrad. The screen blurs with a curtain of blood.

  Resurrection duly occurs and the game continues. The sounds of bullets, ricochets, slamming steel doors and guttural noises of fear and exertion. You get ten lives. Colin sweats behind the sight of his virtual sniper rifle, but Natalya’s KGB pistol, karate technique and knife work is too much time and time again. She wipes him out, 10–0.

  I guess your dinner jacket was slowing you down, Mr Bond.

  Roxy puts down the control and turns to Colin. She puts out her hand.

  J-phone.

  He is astonished, decides that he must have subconsciously been giving her an easy ride.

  Trial run. Best of three.

  Roxy seems unperturbed.

  Fine. But then you’ll give me the phone, right?

  Yeh. Alright.

  She beats him again, albeit by a smaller margin, 10–3. She cackles and whoops each time as she takes him down.

  You’re a useless twat, Mr Bond.

  I never lose this game. Never. Colin seems puzzled and sad.

  I played it almost non-stop with my sister for the whole of 1998. And I haven’t lost my touch.

  You’re quite the gamer.

  Not as good as my sister.

  They play one more game, which Colin loses again, going pale with the effort. Then Roxy begins to yawn. Colin looks resigned, but also faintly awestruck.

  Come on, I’ll get your coat and phone for your limo. You’re tired.

  Give me the phone then.

  He wearily takes it out of his pocket and hands it to her. Roxy laughs.

  I was only joking. I’m not going to take it.

  You’re not?

  I just enjoyed seeing you sweat.

  A deal is a deal. It’s fine. Have it. I can get another one easily enough. You can send me a picture of you when you get home.

  She takes it, stares at it for a moment, then hands the phone back to him.

  I was never going to take it, Colin.

  Colin nods, put down the phone, picks up the landline and starts to dial the number for the limo. Roxy sees his disappointment, so plainly etched on his pale face, and feels a rush of unexpected tenderness.

  You know what. I can’t be bothered to go all the way back to Finchley.

  Really?

  Really.

  Okay. Great.

  Colin doesn’t know what to do or say next. Roxy is leaving him beached with her changes of direction. He settles for, Well then. You know where your room is. Sweet dreams.

  He smiles at her weakly, then starts to move towards his own room, shoulders slightly slumped.

  Aren’t you going to give me a goodnight kiss?

  Colin leans in to kiss her on the cheek. She grabs him round the neck and slides her tongue into his mouth, then pulls away.

  You know what? I can’t even be bothered to slog all the way to the spare room. Yours is closer.

  For the second time that night, Colin is under enchantment by fire, this time burning deep and invisible within.

  * * *

  In the morning Colin awakes beside Roxy. She is still asleep. He gazes at her, luxuriating in the opportunity to watch a woman’s face unobserved. At the age of thirty-one he had slept with only three women in his life. This is the fourth.

  He is suddenly astonished that only three months before, he had found it necessary to take refuge and solace in church and prayer. Now – right at this moment – he is willing to believe that his good fortune is the result of his own efforts. No divine intervention has been necessary. Jesus sits on his shoulders lightly now, like a flimsy cloak that can be slipped on and off according to changes in the weather.

  Roxy shifts between the white sheets. There is a slight acidic smell. The covers are half off her upper body. She is overweight, and pale, and has skin that, like Colin’s, bears the residue of acne, although much more faintly. This is revealed by her face powder having rubbed off during the night. Her lipstick is smeared, her mascara has run. Underneath the foundation he sees a faint universe of freckles.

  She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

  Her eyelids flicker and Colin flinches and averts his gaze, worried that he might be branded a voyeur. Her eyes open, and he risks a glance. The white is marked with veins. The cornea is a mishmash of brown and blue, like a million others, but somehow her own. She sees Colin looking at her.

  Her face contorts into a mask of horror and astonishment.

  Who the FUCK are YOU?

  Colin starts and his face takes on a fierce blush. He begins to stutter apologies.

  I . . . I . . . I . . .

  Her face morphs into soft mockery.

  Got you, she says.

  Colin risks a smile. Roxy puts her hands over her eyes. Colin sees she is wearing a heavy silver ring with an inlaid jade stone on her left index finger, and two plain lighter hoops on the same finger on her right. He thinks of her momentarily as exotic.

  My fucking head hurts like a cunting bitch.

  She says nothing else, but instead quickly pushes the sheets off her and bolts towards the bathroom. Naked, her flesh shakes and wobbles. She reaches the bathroom without closing the door. Colin hears the sound of retching.

  Out of embarrassment, and for want of anything constructive to do, he retreats to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Sounds of retching from the bathroom continue for several minutes. He brews two cups of tea, then tentatively pushes open the bedroom door to see Roxy sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her head. She looks up.

  I’ve brought you a cup of tea.

  She takes it, sips it and frowns.

  More sugar. Three. Heaped.

  Colin goes back to the kitchen and shovels in white Tate & Lyle from its stained paper bag. He returns and she is hiding under the bedclothes.

  Are you feeling better?

  Better out than in. She emerges blearily. Colin hands her the mug of tea again. It is inscribed with the legend ‘Y2K – The End of the World Is Nigh’.

  He sits on the bed a foot away, holding his own mug, blue and white hoops. He stares out of the window at nothing in particular. He is wearing blue boxer shorts. The only decoration in the bedroom is a QPR poster and a small photograph of his mother, black and white, taken thirty years before she lost her mind, and another poster of a dragon, this time with Bruce Lee superimposed.

  This is what you might call a real bachelor flat, says Roxy, scanning the room and making a loud slurping sound as she sucks on the tea.

  I’m not very good at decoration. Furniture and pictures and stuff like that. Knick-knacks.

  Where were you living before you moved here?

  With my mum on the White City Estate.

  She still living there?

  She died.

  Roxy looks up.

  Oh yeh, that’s right. Veronica told me. I’m sorry.

  That’s okay. She was old. Been ill for a long time. To
be honest . . . I mean I was sorry when she went. But after the initial shock, I’ve felt much better about myself somehow. Olive – her name was Olive – was, you know . . . difficult.

  I know how that goes.

  Do you?

  My mother’s a bitch too.

  Colin stiffens.

  Olive wasn’t a bitch. She just ended up confused. Didn’t know what she was saying half the time.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .

  It’s okay.

  What about your dad?

  Dead years ago. Yours?

  A drunk. Never see him.

  Mine was too. Billy. Billy Burden.

  At least he’s dead. I suppose that’s something. Mine’s still out there, in a gutter somewhere.

  Colin looks away.

  You shouldn’t talk that way about your parents.

  Why not?

  Now Colin is chewing on his fingernails. Roxy pats the space on the bed next to her.

  Come and sit next to me.

  He shifts over, still holding his mug. His hands tremble slightly.

  So you’re an orphan then.

  Never thought of it that way, says Colin.

  Roxy puts her mug down, still naked, and wraps her arm round his waist. She smells faintly of vomit, but Colin does not recoil.

  That was nice last night. So far as I can remember.

  Yes.

  I’m talking about beating you at GoldenEye, of course.

  I don’t remember that.

  Three times.

  Still escaping me. Did we play video games?

  Roxy strokes Colin’s stomach gently with her palm.

  Can I tell you something?

  Yes.

  You might not like it.

  Go ahead.

  When I first saw you I thought you were a bit of a freak.

  Oh.

  Your shoes were wrong for your trousers. Your hair looked like you’d cut it yourself. Without a mirror. Your face looked scared. The way you stood – it was stooped. And you’re a tall enough guy. Why are you trying to make yourself small?

  I never realized I did that.

  Tell you the truth? Veronica warned me against you. She said you were a bit damaged.

  Colin feels a ping of hurt in his chest, which registers in his face. Roxy sees it, and regrets what she has said.