When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  Nothing will ever be new. We’re stuck with ourselves.

  No, we’re not.

  Veronica tries to look fierce, but her face seems to only be able to manage one expression, that of seductive surprise.

  I can’t believe that. I just can’t. If that’s true all the work I’ve done learning about psychotherapy . . . it’s a waste of time.

  Psychotherapy is one thing. Making yourself look like a beached trout is another.

  I made a mistake – all right?

  Frankie shakes his head in disbelief.

  Did Roxy have it done too?

  Yes.

  What did she look like?

  Better than me. You’ll be surprised. She loved what they did to her. She said it was ‘empowering’.

  Do you feel empowered?

  China looks up at Veronica. And starts to cry again.

  Not really.

  * * *

  Nodge and Fraser are watching the TV news together at Fraser’s flat. The footage shows the appointment of Masoud Barzani as president of the Kurdish parliament in Northern Iraq. Celebrations throb through the streets, pulsing arteries of joy.

  Looks like it might not be such a disaster after all, says Nodge. I mean if you’re a Kurd it might not be a disaster.

  You’re joking, says Fraser. How many suicide bombings last month? Four? How many killed? Two hundred? Three hundred? Just in May. And because some American puppet gets installed you think it’s all hunky dory.

  It’s as if you want it to go wrong. Just to spite the Americans and show that you were right. Just to get your precious revenge.

  It’s not a matter of whether I want it to go wrong or not. It is going wrong. It’s a bloodbath.

  You want it to fail because you hate Blair.

  That’s right. I do hate him.

  And revenge.

  Yes. And revenge.

  So it’s all about hate and revenge then. That’s the spirit.

  Fraser’s voice modulates into a semi-snarl.

  I don’t know what I’m doing spending so much of my time with a New Labour neo-con sellout, yeh?

  Nodge, stung, is nevertheless determined to appear aloof and says nothing.

  Fraser, watching the pictures of Barzani being sworn in, is getting more and more agitated.

  You can’t just go waltzing into other people’s countries and impose your version of so-called democracy, murdering people in their thousands.

  These people seem quite pleased.

  It’s propaganda!

  Fraser reaches for the television remote and switches off the TV. Then he slumps back on the sofa. He is dressed in his EasyJet pilot’s uniform, a white shirt with yellow and black epaulettes and a black tie. He has a shift starting this afternoon. His bag is packed and by the door.

  Christ. Another shift, says Fraser, dejectedly.

  I thought you loved flying.

  Being on EasyJet isn’t flying.

  What is it, then? asks Nodge.

  Prostitution. Real flying is so different.

  It’s not so bad, is it? After all, we’ve got one another.

  My life’s been one big disappointment, says Fraser. Bargain basement all the way. An EasyJet life. That’s me.

  Nodge turns quickly and catches Fraser glaring at him.

  That remark’s aimed at me, isn’t it?

  You’re not exactly a Piper Cub, are you? More like a bear cub.

  I’m sorry I’m a disappointment.

  It’s not just disappointment.

  What else is it?

  Fraser takes a deep breath.

  For a start, I think our politics are getting so far apart it feels like there’s no bridge anymore.

  Nodge stands up. He is now down to an almost ideal weight, but Fraser still isn’t satisfied, constantly nagging him to work on his muscles.

  I’m sick of you picking at me, Fraser. If you want a more streamlined model, go and get one. Just piss off down the gym and find somebody. You can discuss neo-Marxism with him while you’re doing circle jerks over a picture of Jack Derrida.

  Jacques, says Fraser, frostily. He gets up and opens his suitcase and starts to check his luggage. It is all perfectly neat and folded.

  Do you even love me? says Nodge.

  You’re always asking me that.

  But do you?

  You’re so needy.

  You’re not answering the question.

  Alright then. Not really. I suppose, says Fraser, coldly, closing the bag again. His voice is completely flat. I don’t really. To be completely honest. Love you. No.

  Nodge sits down again on the sofa, winded.

  Oh. Right.

  Now Fraser comes over and looks down at Nodge. His face is hard and set.

  I was going to have a talk with you after I came back from Spain. But since you’ve forced it onto the agenda.

  Suddenly, Fraser softens. He sits next to Nodge on the sofa. He wafts Acqua di Parma. His elegantly lined face shines from scrubbing.

  I’m sorry, Nodge. I didn’t mean to be so brutal about it. But it’s best to be honest. Things haven’t been right between us for a long time. If they ever were.

  He tries to take Nodge’s hand, and Nodge lets him, but returns no pressure.

  No worries.

  Fraser narrows his eyes and looks sideways at Nodge.

  You’re taking this suspiciously well.

  You know me. Stoic through and through.

  Solid Nodge.

  Solid. Yeh.

  He pulls his hand away from Fraser’s. Fraser sighs and stands up.

  Should I take my stuff right away? says Nodge, staring at the carpet. His eyes are in danger of overflowing and he wipes them with the back of his sleeve.

  No hurry. Sometime before I get back. Fraser is checking his bag again, locking it with a small key.

  Every trace of me will have gone when you return. You’ll never know I existed.

  No need to be melodramatic. But thanks.

  Nodge gets up from the sofa and turns to look at Fraser, who is picking up his neat Delsey Chatelet polycarbonate carry-on. Despite its bright whiteness there’s not a speck of grime visible on it.

  Fraser walks over and kisses him on the cheek.

  I knew you’d understand.

  Nodge wipes off the kiss with his hand.

  You think you’re better than me, don’t you, Fraser?

  It’s not that.

  But you’re really the same as me in the end. A taxi driver. In the sky.

  Don’t be bitter, Jon. It’s not a good look.

  I’m not bitter.

  Really?

  Really.

  Fraser seems to consider this for a moment.

  Well, in that case – could you feed Harvey for me while I’m away?

  Nodge almost spits out a laugh, but controls himself. Instead he nods casually.

  Sure. No problem, Fraze.

  Thanks. Really. You’re being very grown up about this.

  No point in crying over spilt milk, is there?

  And don’t give him any of the vegetarian stuff, will you?

  Thank god you’ve got over that one. A vegetarian dog. Christ almighty.

  I didn’t mean that he’s started eating meat. I would never let that happen.

  What do you mean, then?

  He’s gone vegan.

  It’s good that you’ve still got a sense of humour, Fraser, at a time like this. Reminds me why I liked you in the first place.

  No, I’m deadly serious. Harvey is vegan now. If you don’t believe me, look in the larder. There are cans marked ‘Benevo’. That’s what you have to give him. The ‘grain-free vegetable feast with mixed herbs’. Not the crunchy nuggets.

  You’re serious.

  He won’t even touch meat anymore. Took a long time to train him up. But he’s there, I think.

  Nodge considers this carefully.

  Well then, Fraser. You should be proud.

  I am. Thanks, Nodge. You’re a
mensch.

  He leans over and tries to give Nodge a hug, but Nodge remains stiff in his arms.

  No problem, says Nodge. I hope everything goes well for you.

  Thank you.

  Nodge nods. Fraser pulls up the handle of his bag and engages the wheels.

  One more thing. Could you post your keys through the door before I get back?

  Sure thing

  No hard feelings?

  No hard feelings.

  Fraser takes one last backward look – at Harvey rather than Nodge – then leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

  Nodge sits and begins to weep. He cries for maybe ten minutes.

  He sees Harvey in the corner of the room. Harvey bares his teeth and drools. Nodge smiles mirthlessly at him.

  Some minutes later, he dries his eyes, reaches for his phone and dials.

  Hi. It’s Nodge. Yeh, good. Yeh, long time no see.

  Listen, do you fancy coming to the match at Loftus Road on Saturday?

  No, Fraser won’t mind.

  * * *

  Three days later Fraser returns home from his shuttling to Ibiza. As he pushes open the door he sees Nodge’s keys on the floor by the doormat. He smiles. He will miss Nodge’s reliability. Though not much else, to tell the truth.

  He switches on the lights, and it is at that moment that a strange smell, pungent and nauseating, drills into his nostrils. He drops his bag and rushes through to the kitchen. Where he sees four empty cans of Pedigree Chum on the worktop, and an empty gold bowl on the floor with ‘Harvey’ inscribed in pale pink lettering.

  Harvey looks up at him, ecstatic. There are still scraps of meat at the edges of his mouth. He jumps up at Fraser, but Fraser angrily pushes him away, wagging a finger at him. Then he picks up a rolled-up copy of Gay Times and starts to swipe him viciously round the head.

  Bad dog! Bad dog! Stupid mutt!

  Harvey whimpers piteously, looks sorrowful and slinks away. Coldly, Fraser picks up the cans between finger and thumb, rinses them, and drops them in the recycling bin. He tries to think of something else to do, but he is too angry.

  Instead, Fraser stares out of the window for a very long time, while Harvey whimpers in the corner. Fraser clicks his fingers and Harvey pads over.

  Fraser leans down and whispers into his ear.

  We’ll pay him back. Won’t we, boy? Won’t we? Yes, we will. Yes, we will.

  2005: Sacrifice

  Do we really have to go? says Colin without looking up from the screen of his iMac.

  You’re so boring, says Roxy, puffing testily on her cigarette. If I’d known how boring you were, I’d never have married you.

  You knew exactly how boring I was. You just didn’t care.

  Colin still doesn’t look up.

  Can you stop playing that fucking computer game?

  This fucking computer game is why we’re now living in this fucking enormous house in fucking Harpenden.

  I don’t like it out here. It’s dead. I’m a London girl. I should never have let you talk me into it. This is creepy. Old people all over the place grinning like they’re happy.

  Maybe they are happy.

  How can they be? When they’ve got one foot in the grave. Anyway, there are no shops, nothing here. Just grass and trees, two pubs and a bowling green that’s so perfectly cut it makes me want to die.

  Grass and trees are nice. Everybody likes grass and trees.

  I don’t want nice. I want a bit of excitement.

  You agreed to it. You don’t have to work at that shop anymore. You’re a lady of leisure. Stop complaining.

  I thought it would be . . . I don’t know. Different. Like on telly. All with a golden glow. Soft at the edges. And I miss work. I didn’t think I would, but I do. At least I got to see people.

  Go to the party then. There’ll be plenty of people there. Frankie collects friends like football cards nowadays. I don’t have to come, do I? It’s just Frankie showing off his bling. You and me aren’t joined at the hip. Anyway I went to that last party you made me go to, the School Disco. That was just embarrassing. Dancing to Human League records in a black tie and a pair of shorts.

  It was fun!

  Dressing up like teenagers? In uniforms? I’m a bit young for nostalgia. You and I have very different idea of what fun amounts to.

  Roxy glares at him.

  I’ll go by myself.

  Okay.

  She reaches over and closes the lid on the laptop. Her voice softens.

  I’ll have sex with you tonight if you come.

  Colin looks up from his computer.

  You think I’m that easily bought?

  Of course. So are you coming to the party?

  Colin says nothing.

  I’ll sort you out some clothes then.

  * * *

  The first of the guests are yet to arrive at Frankie and Veronica’s for their summer barbecue. Margaritas sit on multiple trays in the hall by the front door. Inside the main room Frankie finishes arranging the canapés on the new kitchen table. They bought it earlier that week on impulse from Skandium in Marylebone High Street. It was beautiful displayed in the shop, all curves and oak designed to resemble a falling teardrop, one flat oval plane connected by a stem into a smaller plane on which it stands. It seemed worth its £3,000 price tag.

  Now, as he adds another plate of foie gras on bruschetta to the spread – there are quail’s eggs, artisan cheese, rustic baguette, French butter, cornichons – Frankie considers ruefully how long it will take for the table to just become part of the background static of his life, a barely noticed element of the stage set. He considers how China will scratch it, and how all the money he spent on it has actually been spent on the idea of it. Reality itself decays more quickly than the organic fruit that is piled into a Heals’s hand-turned ceramic bowl at the far end of the table.

  But then – he reassures himself – he can afford it. The buy-to-let market is booming, there is no end to it. Since his first property in 2003 – a dilapidated bedsit – he’s bought three flats and two houses and hopes to carefully grow the portfolio, caution always being Frankie’s watchword in business.

  The formula is simple. The banks are falling over themselves to lend. You get the loan on a phone call and a nod, do the paperwork, wait for the building to rise in value, borrow against it, rent it out, trouser the income, then either acquire a new building, or buy yourself a Merc. Or, as in this case, a new kitchen table.

  But he is careful. He knows markets can get out of control, can fall as well as rise. He’s been offered a big old detached house near Askew Road that’s been broken down into tiny units for multiple occupation – always the most profitable way of squeezing the most income out of a place – but it’s a risk. Anyway, even in this climate, the banks don’t like to give mortgages to multi-occupancies.

  Maybe he’ll give it a pass this time. Keep his head down. No point in being reckless. He’s been extravagant enough lately, spending heavily on the new basement for their house, a hundred K even using the cheap East European builders who have come in on a wave arriving at Victoria Coach Station over the last couple of years since the border restrictions were dropped. The Poles did a good job. It’s a whole extra bedroom, although all they have in it at the moment is a camp bed. But it’s extra space.

  Suddenly, he has the heretical thought, So what? Sometimes he thinks space is like an addiction. You collect emptiness.

  He dismisses it. After all, his big summer party is about to begin. No time for negative thinking. The karaoke machine he bought from Argos is plugged in and ready to go.

  He yanks up his three-quarter length canvas trousers – he’s lost weight since he started jogging to work – and checks the hall to make sure there is plenty of space to hang coats. The hooks are empty except for his Von Dutch trucker hat, which he removes and throws into the cupboard under the stairs, where it will stay, along with his Telecaster guitar and amp, also consigned to the under stair for the day. He
was thinking of giving the guests a rendition of ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’ but bottles it – three months of lessons have not been enough to bolster his confidence sufficiently. He takes one of the Margaritas and necks it. Just right.

  His mountain bike hangs off the wall on a hook, so it’s out of the way, but his micro scooter – and China’s – are cluttering the space, so he takes them into the back garden, where Veronica is putting the finishing touches to a floral arrangement on a table while China plays with her plush Crazy Frog on the AstroTurf which covers the garden to save on the trouble of maintaining a lawn. China trips over a tent rope and falls, and although Frankie is sure she isn’t hurt, she starts to cry and Veronica rushes to pick her up, although Frankie is closer. Veronica gives Frankie a reproving look. She puts China over her shoulder and rubs her back in a circular motion.

  There there, she mutters, softly. There there.

  China stops immediately. The front door bell rings.

  It’s all kicking off, says Frankie, and skips towards the door, leaving Veronica to return to the flowers, putting finishing touches to the stage set.

  * * *

  Colin rests his drink on the Stokke chair standing in the glass gazebo that adjoins the kitchen at the rear of the house. Nodge faces him, holding a glass of white wine. The whole ground floor is crammed with guests. Many others have spilled out into the garden. The increasingly drunken babble is deafening. ‘Don’t Phunk With My Heart’ by the Black Eyed Peas is on the CD player.

  Very homogenous, isn’t it? says Nodge, sipping on the Chablis. The guests, I mean.

  What do you want to do? says Colin, now on his fourth bottle of lager, having accepted two of the Margaritas Frankie pressed on him when he and Roxy arrived. Bus in a load of Imams?

  Never really got on board with the multicultural society, have you, Colin? says Nodge, mildly.

  Oh, you’re very multicultural, says Colin.

  Always nervous among crowds, Colin is taking refuge in the drink. He looks across at Roxy, who is talking animatedly to Veronica. Veronica laughs at something she says and Roxy joins in, bending double. They glance in his direction. Colin feels sure they are laughing at him. He sees Frankie approaching, so plainly this day overflowing with a sense of himself and his life.

  Meaning what? says Nodge.