When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  Are you okay? says Nodge.

  Can I come in?

  Nodge has been watching Top Gear. He has always loved performance cars, though he has never owned one. In fact, apart from a second-hand Hillman Imp, his Hackney Cab is the only car he has ever paid for. He leads Owen into the living room, flicks off the volume and sits back down on the sofa. Owen, still in his coat, lowers himself into the space next to him.

  So what’s up, O?

  Been to the doctor’s.

  Hmmm. And?

  It’s Hep B. It’s sort of an STD.

  Nodge takes his hand, which he feels is trembling.

  Don’t worry. We’ve been safe. And you’ll be fine, O.

  That’s not what I’m worried about.

  Owen squeezes Nodge’s hand and sighs.

  You didn’t sign up for this, Nodge.

  What is it that I didn’t sign up for?

  Could be bad. Liver damage. Apparently it’s been in the blood for the last six months, so it’s quite advanced. Or it could just go away. Sometimes it does that.

  Nodge feels the words rush into his mouth, cannot censor them or choke them back.

  Could you, you know. Die?

  It’s not impossible.

  Now Owen begins to stroke the back of Nodge’s hand in slow, tender sweeps.

  How impossible is it? What are the stats?

  Apparently there’s a fifteen to twenty-five per cent chance.

  Of what? Don’t say survival.

  The other way round. Seventy-five to eighty per cent chance of survival.

  That’s not so bad.

  I’m scared, Jon.

  Nodge puts his arms around Owen and holds him. They stay like that in silence for almost a minute. Then Owen suddenly pushes Nodge away.

  This isn’t your problem. We’ve been a proper couple – what? Six months? You hardly know me. I’m going to need a lot of looking after. And that’s the best outcome. After that, who knows what? You’d be better out of it.

  Nodge’s face is now a stony mask, expressionless, flat.

  I wish I could think of something comforting to say, he says.

  ‘Fuck it’. Try that.

  ‘Fuck it’. How does that feel?

  Doesn’t really help.

  Another minute passes until the silence buckles.

  Look, Jon. I’m going to go home now. I don’t expect you to call me. I have lots of friends who can look after me. I have a mum and a dad who love me and still keep my old room empty. You have no responsibility for this. None. We’ll see if I can go away and get better. Then if you still want me, I’ll come back. Because, I sort of haven’t told you this but I think you are terrific. I really do.

  Thanks. That’s nice of you.

  That’s why I’m not going to put you through this.

  I see.

  Owen stands up. Nodge can see the yellow tinge of his skin now, more clearly than ever. When Owen speaks again there is an imploring note in his voice.

  It wasn’t fair of me. Getting involved with you. At the back of my mind, I knew this was going to be a possibility. I’ve had suspicions for a long time. I was selfish. We should have stayed just friends. But I liked you so much. That’s the only reason. I was weak. I’m sorry.

  Nodge nods, turns his eyes back to the silent screen. Jeremy Clarkson’s mouth working up and down, his paunch hanging over his belt under a lilac shirt, his shock of curly hair greying and stretching wearily upwards.

  So I’m going to go now. And not in a martyr-ish ‘I’m going to go now’ way. It’s simply the best thing to do. I’ll pick up my stuff later. Okay? I just need to get my toilet bag. And my Chanel Anteaus. I’m not letting you have that. It’s still three-quarters full.

  Right.

  Owen goes into the bathroom, and comes out with the toilet bag and the bottle of cologne. He hands the cologne to Nodge, who takes it and stares at it.

  A gift. When you wear it you can think about me.

  Okay.

  Bye then, Nodge.

  Nodge continues to stare at the bottle.

  Never really been my thing. I’m more a Lynx guy.

  There’s a pause.

  Give me a hug, Nodge. I’ll see you in a while. Probably.

  Nodge violently throws the bottle of Anteaus at the fireplace. It shatters, emitting a cloud of scent and scatters shards of glass onto the coir carpet.

  Sit down, he says.

  Owen is stunned by this display of violence – he has never seen Nodge lose his temper. Nodge takes his wrist and pulls him down to the couch. Owen, astonished to find how strong Nodge is – and how feeble he himself has become – is powerless to resist.

  Nodge holds him. The aroma of Antaeus from the fireplace gets stronger and stronger, scent molecules gathered into invisible fog drifting towards them.

  That cost me a fortune, says Owen.

  I hate the smell of it anyway, says Nodge.

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  I don’t always say what I think.

  Can I go now? says Owen, weakly pulling away.

  No, says Nodge, firmly, turning the TV back on with the remote. I’m not watching this shit on my own.

  Clarkson pulls away in a GTR.

  Owen tries to stand up again but Nodge pulls him back down.

  It’s for the best. You’ll end up hating me. Let me go, Nodge.

  But Nodge holds on to him, pulling him still closer. Jeremy Clarkson whoops with delight at the torque of his ride. Finally, resigned, Owen puts his head on Nodge’s shoulder. Nodge turns up the volume with the remote. They watch the rest of the programme together, in calm quiet that, finally, to the surprise of both of them, becomes silently joyful.

  * * *

  Veronica sits on a tatty chair with a red vinyl seat scarred by deep, straight cuts at the drop-in centre in Hammersmith. To attend here is a necessary part of her training as a therapist. Some of the people in the room are, she feels, plainly crazy, muttering or waving their fists in the air at invisible enemies. She feels frightened, and ashamed of being frightened.

  Good turnout today, says Peter Oakeshott – he is only ever known as Oakeshott – a middle-aged man with a riotously thick head of salt and pepper hair, looming above her and surveying his dowdy kingdom, a substantial Victorian house with damp spots on the ceiling, a carpet pocked with rips and bald patches and a few sticks of unstable chipboard furniture. Many of the chairs are, like Veronica’s, distressed, stained or fraying as if they have been chosen to reflect the inner lives of those attending the centre.

  There are about twenty-five ‘clients’ although ‘client’ sounds wrong, because Veronica doesn’t get paid. That will come when she qualifies later in the year, with any luck. Towards the rear of the house is the small room, once a pantry, where she conducts her therapy sessions. Her first client for that day is a depressed Czech from Prague called Oleg, although everyone at the centre calls him Leggy, partly an ironic comment on his short fat legs which stretch against over-tight trousers.

  She doesn’t mind Oleg, although he is radioactively lonely. He is sitting on a green wing armchair staring at her mildly, waiting for the clock to erase the time between now and midday. Veronica offers him a noncommittal smile. His expression does not alter in response.

  I sometimes wonder, says Veronica to Oakeshott, lowering her voice slightly, and I know that I’m not meant to think this, but really, what is . . . ?

  The point? says Oakeshott, grimacing as he drinks from the coffee that one of his clients has made him, using barely fresh milk. There are small yellow flecks of sourish cream floating on the surface that make Veronica think of a Rorschach test.

  You have to admit, she says, the number of people who recover are vanishingly small. So far as I can see.

  I’m not even sure what recovery would look like. These are unhappy people. Just straightforward unhappy. Given how poor most of them are, I’m not surprised. I’m not even sure they are really ill. A lot of them just want to talk to s
omeone. Anyone. The postman would do just as well.

  She checks the clock. Oakeshott regards her steadily. His chin is punctuated with straws of long white stubble and he has deep-set, very melancholy eyes that can transform in a moment into sparkles of brilliant joy.

  Sure. This is the high point of the week for some of them, says Oakeshott. Just to be in a house where they know others are in the same boat as them. Just to be warm. Some soup. A little kindness.

  So this whole thing is just a kind of theatre? For appearances?

  Oakeshott works his hair with his fingers, as if trying to braid it into knots.

  On the contrary.

  He leans forward, bringing his face within six inches of Veronica’s. She can smell his toothpaste, cinnamon and liquorice.

  Look, Veronica – what do you think therapy is? Do you think people wake up one day and they are all better? No. The tangles in their minds are like . . . like great fields of briar, and you are there with a tiny instrument, not necessarily the right shape – a teaspoon, say, or broken twig – trying to sort some of the tangles out. And if by some miracle you did sort some of the tangles out to the extent that they could find a path through the field – in other words, so they were only as tangled up and puzzled as the rest of us – then what would be there? On the other side? Do you think, golden fields? Do you think, blue skies? No. Not for them. Not for us either. You prune, you rearrange, you simplify, but then it all grows back again, sometimes even wilder, more out of control than before. There is simply – perhaps – a lessening of suffering. Temporarily. Or even a break from it. Or there is simply being heard. That’s something.

  So what am I? Just a signpost in a field? A broken twig?

  If that. You are not so powerful as to offer a cure, Veronica. None of us are. And you are benefitting, are you not? You are learning?

  Oakeshott leans back in his chair again, but keeps his eyes on her. Veronica notices Oleg take a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket and blow his nose. He is arranging his clothes as if in readiness for his session, pulling tight the piece of rope that holds his soiled trousers firmly around his swelling, vague midriff. His trousers are mildewed. His shoes, oddly enough, look expensive, and are polished to a high sheen.

  It’s hard to tell if I’m learning anything or not. This is what I have to do in order to get my qualification. So, I do it.

  Is that all?

  I’ve learned something, I suppose. I must have.

  What have you learned?

  Veronica considers this carefully, turning it around in her mind like a parcel that can be unwrapped, inside of which she fears there might be nothing at all.

  That people don’t know themselves. That they are self-destructive. That they will hurt others seriously in order to relieve a very small burden they are carrying. That they are narcissistic.

  Is that what you’ve found from the people you’ve met here?

  Veronica hesitates.

  I’m not talking about the people I’ve met here. I’m talking about myself.

  Ah, says Oakeshott, laughing. Then you are beginning to learn something. So your supervision with Elizabeth Pember has been useful?

  It’s in me that all the lessons are held. I understand that now. It’s in me where all the answers are – if there are any answers. Looking inside myself – it’s like the bramble fields you were talking about. It’s as if I’m walking through the fields, blindfolded, crashing, tripping, then standing and believing that it all makes sense, then crashing and tripping again.

  Doesn’t sound like much fun.

  Actually, it’s exciting. But frightening. And it has side effects.

  For instance?

  It’s having an effect on my marriage, for instance.

  In what way?

  Veronica doesn’t answer.

  Sorry. None of my business. Force of habit. We’re a nosy bunch. I’ll shut up.

  I ask myself, really, what is love? she says, ignoring him. Is it really only a form of . . . narcissism? The good feeling you get when someone else likes you? And when you like being liked? Why do we hitch ourselves to people, as if they were the answer to all our problems? As if they were the answer to even one problem. When maybe they are the problem.

  There is a retching sound. Oleg is bent over and, it seems, about to throw up in the waste paper bin.

  Looks like you might have a postponement, says Oakeshott.

  Oleg looks up and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. It seems he has recovered himself.

  We ready? he calls, cheerfully, as if nothing untoward has happened.

  He gestures towards the therapy room. Veronica is just about to move in his direction when she glances across the room to check the clock, which hangs above the door to the outer hall. There, next to the door, standing in profile staring out of the grubby window into the street, is Tony Diamonte.

  He looks just as handsome as before, but shabbier, much sadder than he did at the funeral.

  Veronica thinks of trying to escape to the therapy room with Oleg, but at that exact moment Tony looks over in her direction. However, he doesn’t seem to recognize her. He pauses as if he, too, is looking for escape. Then reluctantly, as if captured by her glance, he shuffles over towards Veronica. And it is a shuffle, the broken step of the defeated, not the confident stride that she remembers from years ago.

  Hi, Vronky. That’s what Frankie used to call you isn’t it? Vronky?

  Veronica stiffens and almost turns away, but in the end decides to stand her ground.

  What are you doing here?

  What’s everybody doing here?

  There’s an embarrassed silence.

  It’s okay, Veronica. You don’t have to talk to me. I know you never liked me. And I know I made a fool of myself at Colin’s funeral. I was so . . . I was so angry. And so drunk. But it’s no excuse.

  Veronica looks him straight in the eyes. Which, she sees, are an extraordinary shade of deep chestnut.

  No. I didn’t like you.

  I can’t blame you.

  She checks her watch. Even now it has gone past twelve and she has her excuse, she can’t quite leave.

  I’ve got an appointment.

  Sure.

  He turns to walk away. Something makes Veronica speak again.

  How have you been?

  Tony turns back. He scratches the back of his hand repeatedly with a dirty fingernail. Veronica notes red welts there.

  Low. Very low. To be honest. I mean, after I stopped seeing Frankie and the boys. The gack got hold of me. I expect you know that. I didn’t care about anything, really. Except the next score. The salon went down. I lost my flat.

  I heard rumours. But – Jesus, Tony.

  Found myself sleeping rough for a while. Then an old acquaintance of mine – not even a proper friend – gave me a part-time cutters job in his shop. Trusted me. Even though he knew I’d been hooked and was dossing on park benches. I won’t forget what he did. Took me a long while to find my way back. After that I stopped. Was clean. Bumped into Nodge one day at a football match and I was feeling good, been steady for a good six months. I’d made enough contacts to go freelance. ‘The Pirate Hairdresser’. But Colin – that knocked me back a bit again. Just for a few days. Well, a few weeks. A few non-stop weeks. Since then I’ve been trying to find my way out of the hole. It was that or lose all my clients. No. It was that or lose myself once and for all. I would be finished. So in the end I got the message. I have to take responsibility. That’s what I’m doing. Haven’t touched a drop since the funeral. Christ, I can’t think of that day at the church without cringing. What sort of a mug am I anyway? Look, I’ll just go away. I’m sorry if you’ve had to see me. I’ll find a different drop-in centre. I don’t want to embarrass you. Or myself. Any more than I already have done.

  Veronica tries to work out if he is gaming her, glances at his eyes again. Sees momentarily in them a light that is guttering.

  No need for that, she says.
/>   This place keeps me on the straight and narrow. Oakeshott is a saint.

  He’s a good man.

  What you doing here anyway? You never stuck me as particularly nuts.

  I’m training as a therapist.

  Of course. Of course you are. That’s good. Good for you then.

  They fall into silence again.

  Do me a favour, will you, Veronica? Don’t tell Frankie that you saw me like this. I’ve got a little scrap of pride left. A little bit. Maybe one day it will be . . .you know. At a normal level. Whatever that is.

  He starts to fidget with his gold necklace, with its charms, the horns and the hand. Veronica remembers that it was meant to fend off evil spirits, some kind of Calabrian folktale.

  I won’t say anything.

  Thanks. Thank you.

  Don’t mention it.

  Maybe I’ll see you down here again.

  You never know.

  * * *

  Nodge is sipping his cup of tea outside the London Taxi shelter in Notting Hill Gate. A little green pastoral hut, it looks like it was transported from the Tyrolean Mountains. Big Eddie Fox is leaning against the door eating a sausage sandwich. A black man, he is only five foot four but with enormous shoulders and a tiny head. Mikey the Wrench – so-called because he once attacked a drunken fare who wouldn’t pay up with a wrench that he keeps in the front of the cab – is circling his cab restlessly, trying to keep warm. Nodge balances himself against the bonnet of his classic 1989 black Fairway. He is thinking about Owen who has a doctor’s appointment today, he isn’t sure where. Somewhere around this neck of the woods, he seems to remember.

  Mikey wanders over. He’s wearing a tweedy flat cap, which he’s always compulsively fiddling with. His big, round, lugubrious face looms out from under the frayed, greasy peak.

  All right, Nodge?

  Mikey. How’s the trade?

  Shit.

  You always say it’s shit.

  Because it always is shit. Minicabs are taking all the trade. Won’t be any black cabs left in ten years. Mikey kicks a pebble across the tarmac.

  They’ll never see us off. They can’t find their way around anywhere without spending half on hour with their nose in an A to Z. The Knowledge is still the gold standard.