When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  So let’s go shopping instead.

  The waitress brings the bill. Roxy takes her large envelope-size purse out of her bag and flips it open. It is completely filled on one side with credit cards. She registers Veronica’s look.

  They keep offering them to me. Can’t resist packing the plastic. Life’s too short, you know what I mean?

  How many have you got?

  Lost count. Every time I max out on one, I borrow from another to make the monthly payments.

  Is that altogether wise? says Veronica.

  ‘Altogether wise’. What are you, Rumpole of the Bailey? No, it’s altogether stupid. But it’s working for me. So far. Until tomorrow comes, anyway.

  She pays the bill and they leave the café together, then head out into the mall.

  * * *

  An hour later, Roxy is carrying two large shopping bags while Veronica has bought only a pair of woollen gloves printed with tiny yellow daisies, from Jigsaw. Roxy takes a sticky paper bag out of her pocket and offers it to Veronica.

  Sherbet lemon?

  You eat sweets? Veronica holds her palm out in refusal.

  My dad used to run a sweetshop. I never really got out of the habit. Better than smoking, I suppose.

  But you smoke as well.

  What’s your point?

  Roxy rummages in the bag.

  I haven’t had a sherbet lemon since I was about six.

  Try one.

  Sugar is a poison.

  Whatevs, says Roxy, popping the dusty yellow globe in her mouth.

  Are we decided, then? says Roxy, sucking cheerfully on the boiled sweet.

  You mean about . . . ?

  Yes. About.

  Veronica sees her knuckles white on her shopping bag.

  Not quite. I know which way I’m leaning, though.

  Well – what?

  Don’t take this the wrong way, Roxy, but I think I should tell Frankie what I’ve decided before I tell you.

  Of course. Yes. I get that.

  Call me tomorrow. I’ll let you know then.

  You don’t have to.

  No, I will. You’ve helped me, Roxy. Really you have. Thank you.

  * * *

  The frosty light of the next day’s morning wakes Veronica. She surfaces from her sleep slowly, like a diver, rising, fearful of the bends. Blearily, she checks her clock and sees she is forty-five minutes late for work. She stayed up the night before, pacing the kitchen like a feral beast, unable to sleep. Throwing herself out of bed, she gets dressed, as silently as she can, trying not to wake Frankie. She puts on the sweater that Roxy eventually bullied her into buying, a cashmere moss green sleeveless crew neck. It looks good, better than she remembered. Roxy has a knack.

  She does not even have time for her accustomed breakfast of muesli and fruit. She must leave, but to her mounting annoyance, she cannot find her phone.

  After five minutes of fruitless searching, and calling it – the ringer is turned off – Frankie appears at the door, thumbs hooked into his boxer shorts.

  Lost something?

  My phone.

  I think I saw it. Hold on a minute.

  Frankie heads into the en-suite bathroom, where he locates Veronica’s phone poking from a pile of last night’s dirty washing, half-protruding from her dress pocket. He yawns, picks it up, and immediately spots a text message.

  ‘How did Frankie take it? Love Roxy x’

  Frankie, holding up the phone, tries to make sense of the message. He cannot. There is a set to his jaw, a slight narrowing of his eyes. He walks into the living room. Veronica registers his confusion immediately.

  What’s the matter?

  Strategy, thinks Frankie. Basic strategy. Give her enough rope.

  He keeps hold of the phone.

  Why didn’t you tell me, Veronica?

  Why didn’t I tell you what?

  You know what.

  She holds her hands out for the phone, but he clings on to it. Now Veronica’s face falls in a way that makes him feel faintly ill.

  How did you find out?

  How do you think I found out?

  Did you speak to Roxy?

  Does it matter how I found out?

  Veronica nods mutely.

  So – what do you want to do? Frankie asks.

  That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Since I didn’t tell you about it.

  Spell it out for me.

  She supports herself against a wall.

  I want to get rid of it.

  Get rid of it?

  I’ve already made the appointment at the clinic.

  You want to get rid of it.

  We’re not ready, are we? You said so yourself.

  Slowly the information sinks into the core of Frankie’s self like lava, hardening as it cools into jagged, brittle knowledge.

  Oh.

  Yes.

  You’re pregnant.

  What?

  Now Veronica, suddenly, realizes she’s been gulled. She grabs the phone out of Frankie’s hand.

  Yes, of course I’m pregnant. You know that. Don’t you?

  I do now. You just told me.

  They stand facing one another, unmoving, as if whoever makes a gesture first is conceding ground. Then Frankie takes her hand. Veronica starts to cry.

  Do you want it? Frankie strokes the back of her hand, seeming to feel the slow pump of blood in the snake of blue vein.

  She looks back up at him, her eyes shot with desperation and confusion.

  Do you?

  If you want it, then you should go ahead.

  But do you want it?

  Of course I want it.

  He pauses.

  As such.

  Veronica feels an invisible hand clutching at her heart.

  What does that mean?

  It’s just that . . .

  She pulls her hand away. Frankie now can’t meet her eye. She sees that he is ashamed.

  I’ve just quit my job, Vronky. We’ve got no income. Apart from yours. Which will stop when you . . . you know. Or reduce at least. I’m going to be working like a slave for the next couple of years to set myself up. I won’t be able to support you properly. You and the . . . you know.

  I can support myself.

  Of course you can. Of course.

  He tries to take back her hand, but she pulls it away. Instead, he sees she is compulsively fingering the golden key that she now always wears around her neck with the other hand.

  And if you want to do that, I’ll find another job instead of starting my own agency. Or I’ll go back and grovel to Ratchett.

  But?

  But. You know. Bad timing.

  She nods, sadly.

  You’re right. Of course you’re right. Bad timing.

  Don’t make me feel awful.

  I don’t want to. That’s why I wasn’t going to tell you.

  There is a silence. Now they sit down on the sofa together, both staring at the floor, a gap of several inches between them.

  I’ve already made an appointment at the clinic, says Veronica.

  Another silence.

  Okay then, says Frankie. I’ll come with you. We’re in this together.

  They sit mutely, trying fiercely to tune their way into the bandwidth of the next moment.

  I’ll make us a cup of tea, says Frankie, eventually, unable to think of what else to do or say. The air is bruised, stifling.

  There’s no need to feel guilty about this, says Veronica. I’m not ready myself to have a kid. Not for a couple of years.

  Okay then.

  Okay then. Good.

  Good.

  * * *

  Valentine’s Day. Colin and Roxy sit together in a restaurant crowded with couples facing one another over starched white tablecloths. There are single red roses in a glass vase on each one.

  Colin is wearing the suit that Roxy has convinced him to buy that day. It is soft, unstructured and forgiving. He is rarely so formal – at the office his uniform is chin
os and football shirts – but this outfit somehow lets him feel comfortable, despite the slight starchiness of the surroundings.

  He looks across the table at Roxy who is examining the menu. He imagines that this is what it must be like to feel happy. He feels something he has rarely felt before – self-confidence. He feels his new suit on his back like a superhero cape.

  Now he, too, examines the menu, all in French. His tongue protrudes as it always does when he is trying to concentrate.

  Do you want me to translate? asks Roxy.

  I’m not stupid, says Colin.

  They have English ones. I only have to ask.

  Since when did you learn French?

  I’ve waitressed enough to know my way around a menu.

  He stares at the menu a bit longer.

  What’s perseilles?

  Sweetbreads.

  He stares a bit longer.

  What’s sweetbreads?

  Lamb’s pancreas. Head to tail eating. All the rage.

  Why would you want to eat all the crappy bits? I was fed enough of that shit as a kid. Olive would stew it up. Ox hearts. Pig’s liver. Gross. I’ll have the beef en daube.

  That’s . . .

  I know what it is.

  Roxy drinks from her glass of Prosecco, included in the set price. There is lipstick showing on the side of her glass. Her teeth make a clicking noise on the edge as they connect with the rim. This irritates Colin, but he brushes the emotion away.

  The waiter approaches and they order. Roxy has bone marrow and Colin the boeuf en daube.

  What shall we talk about? says Colin.

  Tell me about when you were young, says Roxy.

  Not much to tell. My dad was a drunk. I already told you. My mum got ill after he died. I spent most of my twenties looking after her. Grew up on the White City Estate. Went to the same school as Frankie and Nodge.

  You’ve done well for yourself then. You all have. Made a few bob.

  Don’t really care about money, tell you the truth. I just like watching football and playing games. And designing them.

  Roxy tears at a bread roll and smears it with a quarter of an inch of butter.

  It’s not good for you, that much butter.

  The sight of the spare flesh dangling off her arms bothers him. Why can’t she be slim, like Veronica?

  I like it, though, says Roxy, stuffing the bread into her mouth. I just generally fucking love eating. What’s your favourite food?

  Pizza. Curry. Fish and chips.

  Result!

  She holds her hand up and Colin weakly high-fives her.

  We’ve got so much in common. Also, you can’t beat a Maccie D sometimes. How do you stay so slim?

  Nervous energy.

  Veronica said you could be nervous.

  You been talking to Veronica about me again?

  Only in a nice way.

  How do you know Veronica anyway? You only bumped into her at the Millennium night thing.

  We went shopping together. The other day.

  How come?

  She wanted some advice.

  Shopping advice?

  Yeh. Shopping advice.

  So what did she say about me?

  Roxy finishes the roll. Colin notices the crumbs splayed around her plate. His is spotless.

  I told her how you’re different from how she and Frankie think you are. They think you’re all messed up cos of your mother. But I think you’re brave and quiet and shy and hardworking.

  Colin stares at her. Crumbs snow her lapels.

  I’m lucky to have met you, he says. I’ve never . . . been with anyone like you.

  What – a fat girl from Theydon Bois?

  You’re not fat. That’s not to say that . . .

  I couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds?

  She laughs.

  Well you can fuck right off, she says, not unkindly. This is what you get when you get me, you lanky streak of piss.

  He looks around at all the other couples in the restaurant. Many of them aren’t talking. A few are squabbling.

  They ramp up the prices on Valentine’s night, he says. Special Valentine dinner. Yeh, special. Specially more expensive.

  I don’t care, says Roxy.

  You’re not paying, thinks Colin.

  At the end of the meal, when Roxy has finished off pudding and cheese – obligatory because included in the bill – they get ready to leave. The bill arrives and Roxy seizes it.

  No, says Colin.

  It’s not the twentieth century anymore, says Roxy. Thank kew, she says to the waiter, that was lovely.

  Thank you. Let me leave the tip then.

  He fumbles in his wallet and finds two pound coins and a fifty-pence piece which he places on the plate next to the bill, which, he can now read, amounts to £103.50.

  Roxy stares at the change. Colin just smiles.

  What do you see in me? he says, softly.

  Roxy shifts her gaze from the change to Colin. Finding she is lost for words, she rummages for a response.

  Three guys stranded on a desert island find a magic lantern containing a genie, who grants them each one wish, says Roxy. The first guy wishes he was off the island and back home. The second guy wishes the same. The third guy says: ‘I’m lonely. I wish my friends were back here.’

  I wish, says Colin, you would stop telling stupid jokes every time I try and say something serious.

  Soz, says Roxy.

  What’s soz?

  Don’t you text?

  Not really.

  * * *

  Frankie, sitting stiffly in the waiting room of the abortion clinic, looks up from his cushioned seat at the receptionist. She is attractive, he notices, then feels ashamed that he has noticed. She is dressed in a quasi-medical style, almost military, a white blouse with blue trim on the pockets. She wears a telephone headset and is made up palely – pale lipstick, heavily powdered, no eye shadow or liner – to suggest, he presumes, seriousness of purpose. Her hair is hygienically scraped back. She wears reassuringly angular glasses that bestow seriousness and authority. When she turns her head, Frankie notices a tattoo behind her multiply pierced ear, a burning heart. It excites him.

  He wonders if he’ll ever grow up. He wonders why he cannot take his mind off sex, even at a time like this. His mind summons answers, muddled together, half articulated.

  Potential new beginnings.

  Gestures towards paradise.

  Momentary escapes from the rest of the shit.

  Yet he loves Veronica. But he is made of meat and genes and chemicals. How can he help what he feels? Good and bad – it’s all relative in the end. Has to be. What you can get away with. Perhaps. Or not. He wishes he were a better man and wrenches his eyes from the receptionist.

  The reception area could itself be an estate agent’s, not a place to prevent, to cut short, the development and growth of life itself. There are black fake leather sofas with tubular steel frames, wooden Venetian blinds, a low glass coffee table with magazines and a bowl of fruit and a vase of flowers arranged on it. In the corner is a pot plant, looking like a monster’s fingers emerging from the loamy depths. Veronica has informed him that this is aloe vera.

  Polished dark wood floor. Official-looking certificates on the wall abutting non-committal prints of indeterminate landscapes. Milky light comes through large panel windows. There are leaflets and pamphlets, magical texts to reassure that this is impersonal, normal, clinical, safe, unreal. Explanations about manual Vacuum Aspiration and Safe Aftercare.

  Mr and Mrs Blue? says the receptionist. We have to take care of the formalities.

  Frankie rises from his seat. Veronica has already filled in the health checks. She has confirmed she has no high blood pressure, no history of heart or kidney or liver disease, that she doesn’t take any number of medications and drugs, that she hasn’t got asthma, etcetera.

  Frankie approaches the desk. The receptionist hands Frankie a piece of paper. He examines it mutely.
<
br />   Surgical Abortion under local anaesthesia:

  £850

  Settlement now due.

  He looks down at Veronica. She is shrunken into herself, as if half her normal size. Her pre-natal condition is in no manner obvious. Her dress is gingham – a little girl’s dress. Is that a slant of light from the window marking her face?

  He looks again and sees that they are tear tracks.

  We agreed, he thinks, haranguing her in his head. We talked it through and you agreed.

  He stares back at the bill. It is broken down into discrete parts.

  Consultation, ultrasound scan, haemoglobin blood group, chlamydia and gonorrhea tests, surgery, theatre fees, ultrasound during surgery.

  It was for the best, you said. Leave it a few years and then. Not ready, you said. And I’m going to be too busy setting up the agency, I said.

  We agreed. Didn’t we?

  Well, didn’t we?

  He tries to stem the conversation pounding in his skull by examining the other occupants of the waiting room. There is a black woman in a pinafore dress who is idly reading a copy of Chat. There is a sad-faced young girl, maybe sixteen, staring at the floor, not moving, with what appears to be her mother sitting stern-faced next to her. There is a middle-aged woman, who seems cheerful and unconcerned, reading a copy of the New Yorker with the stain of a coffee mug rim on the cover. Frankie can smell something medical, antiseptic. It reminds him of Veronica’s pathology lab. The same smell as of death.

  It’s the common sense thing to do. They do thousands every day across the world. It’s routine. It’s not a . . .

  He withholds the word from himself, then lets it form.

  Baby. It’s just a collection of multiplying cells at this stage. It’s not real.

  He replaces the bill on the desk, takes his wallet out and opens it to expose the flap of credit cards. He looks inadvertently at Veronica and sees that she appears to be staring at his credit cards, then she switches her gaze to his face. She sees that he sees her and her expression which is obscure, unreadable, disappearing even more deeply behind a veil.

  He looks back at the woman sitting behind the reception counter at the clinic, her scraped-back hair seeming to produce an artificial and permanent smile. She is holding out her hand to take his credit card. He reaches for his Amex Platinum, his pride and joy, available only to selected customers.

  He is paying, on credit, for this thing to happen. That which he uses to pay for beer and food and clothes and toilet paper.