“Well, I hope you said hello from us,” Elaine announces. “Can’t have him thinking you sit around idly on your own waiting for him to call.”
“Yeah, he wishes,” I mutter under my breath. I take a bite of grapefruit and avocado. It’s really quite tasty. “Anyway, so what’s this about Ben being too square for you? What’s a guy got to do? I hear he’s already got everything pierced on his body that you’d want to use.”
“It’s just too easy. I need a challenge.”
“You are the challenge, nitwit,” Martha tells her. “Your challenge is to be evasive, and make it less easy for HIM.”
“Like Hide-And-Seek,” I suggest, inspiration emerging from my earlier thoughts.
“Ooh.” It evidently hasn’t crossed Elaine’s mind before. “Like a game, you mean?”
“Yeah, but with you doing the running away, not the chasing,” says Martha. “And I don’t mean running out the back door every time he rings the doorbell out front…” Here she shoots me a warning look. “Just being a bit more coy, a bit less open, a bit more mysterious - generally just be only a bit of your current self, not the whole menu. Be like tapas. Just an interesting bit here and there. Not a free all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“But it seems so dishonest, holding back. I’d much rather put all my cards on the table up front.”
“How’s that working out for you so far?” I ask.
Elaine twirls an olive on a cocktail stick, and concedes defeat with a nod and a shrug.
“I can’t even give it away,” she mutters, and Martha and I crack up, trying not to laugh too loudly over the singer’s rendition of Puppy Love in French. “I started flirting with Joel Hardy thinking he wanted help keeping the barmaids away, offering to let him hide in the office with me any time he wanted, and now he can’t get away from me quick enough whenever I pass. He goes straight to Pole-Ka-Doodle-Doo after work now, to hang out with the guys there. You can’t imagine what a slap in the face that is, that he’d rather hang around pole trolls to avoid my lot. It doesn’t seem to reveal class is his main priority - is it any wonder I then assume men just want it easy on a plate? Is it surprising I feel like going up to the first fit guy I see, and telling him I’ll give him a lap dance if he fancies one ever?”
Martha pats her on the back sympathetically.
“Remember you don’t live in the real world, Sweetie,” she reminds her. “Guys, when you put that idea into their heads, of course they’ll go straight to the nearest strip club, because at least in there it’s expected of them to be having those thoughts.”
“Are you saying I made one of my doormen feel dirty?” Elaine says, in mock horror. “That’s unimaginable. They’re all filthy, all of the time.”
I recall Hurst’s last conversation I overheard about Easter eggs and charity Tug O’ War, and try to guess what was filthy about it. I think it’s probably best not to mention it at the moment, for the sake of her self-image going any further downhill. Supposing Connor felt the same way, about having a sexually flamboyant and predatory female stalker? That it sullied his otherwise ordinary intentions in life, and put images in his head that weren’t his own and weren’t welcome. Probably unusually wise of Joel to bust a move down to Pole-Ka and put it in context, if that was the case. I wonder if Connor found an outlet for his own psychological discomfort.
I wonder several more things idly, but unlike Elaine and Martha are discussing, not about how dirty doormen’s minds are already without the help of the women who attempt clumsily to seduce them. Mostly I’m wondering how Amour De Petit Chien scans into the mini Osmond’s original tune so seamlessly, in the singer’s husky Edith Piaf impersonation. I take a glug of Virgin Sangria, and taste cinnamon and rosemary, and a hint of vanilla. I don’t know if it’s authentically Sangrian - in fact, I think when making Killer Sangria, Jacques at Sin Street uses red wine, Cointreau, sherry, Angostura Bitters and tequila, and I’ve never dared try it. To me it would be the recreational drink equivalent of a general anaesthetic. I imagine it tastes the same going down as coming back up - must feel like throwing up blood, all those pints of red stuff everywhere. I don’t know how customers deal with the amount of regurgitation they put through their alimentary canals every night. Their stomach acids must eventually burn holes right through their oesophagus.
“Actually the only thing more filthy than the staff are the customers,” Elaine is saying, drawing alongside my train of thought. “Every night, they break down the doors of the same out-of-order toilets, and poo in them all over again. Every night, blocked toilets. You’d think they’d have invented some alternative to pub toilets by now. Like a big hole in the ground.”
“Ah, yes, people used to drown in those swill pits when they were drunk,” says Martha, dunking her potato skins in balsamic dressing. “That’s why toilets were invented in the first place.”
“I’m really glad my starter isn’t the same colour as yours,” I remark.
“It needs to be less like a toilet, more like a… like a poo chute,” Elaine frowns into middle distance, then goes back to spiking olives.
“A water slide for poo?” Martha smiles, all round-eyed innocent suggestion.
“A poo flume,” I correct her. Elaine’s serious scientific face lasts about two more seconds before none of us can see properly through tears of suppressed severity of humour.
“Will you be giving the customers complimentary rubber rings to ride the poo flume, or will they have to bring their own?” Martha asks, with heroic effort. Elaine is now bright red and tears stream down into her olives as she tries not to scream with laughter. My sternum feels like it’s about to break as I hold in my own giggles, threatening to explode out of my chest.
“I’ll have to check,” Elaine agrees, trying very hard to keep a straight face, and fumbling for another olive, which jumps off the plate and rolls away among the Sangria glasses. “The height and weight restrictions.”
“What, for every poo?” I ask, and Martha drops her fork, holding her sides tightly as if afraid of popping her coat buttons off. “And don’t forget you have to blow a whistle and wave a little flag, if you see anyone going down it standing up, or head first.”
I barely finish the sentence because now for at least a minute none of us can speak, eat, drink or wield cutlery. I have to push my chair back from the table so I can hold my aching tummy in, with both arms wrapped around myself.
“Shotgun first go on it,” Martha manages to blurt out, and Elaine snorts loudly and covers her face in a humiliated red napkin. “Wiccans and vegans first.”
“Shotgun not second,” I put in, my ribs hurting as if I’ve just punctured a lung. “Not before a good ten minutes, anyway.”
Elaine waves her hands in surrender.
“Stop, stop,” she hisses, wiping her eyes in almost futile dabs of the napkin. “Oh, God, I can’t go anywhere with you two. You’re both little devils. I’ll get all sorts of funny looks now at licensing meetings.”
“God, yeah,” Martha agrees, composing herself. “What are you going to say to them all? I mean, sooner or later they’re going to want to know more about it.”
“Yeah, what if Health & Safety rock up wanting to check out your poo flume in action?” I ask.
“Health & Safety, my arse,” says Elaine primly.
“Duh? I think that’s kind of what they’d be hoping for,” Martha points out.
“I see you ladies are all having a nice time?” the waiter interrupts, checking up on us with a broad grin, and we all agree and compose ourselves and sip our drinks, trying to dry away the remaining tears.
“I am going to have the last laugh on this,” Elaine warns, nibbling an olive in a much more ladylike fashion, as he strolls away. “I am going back home later and sending off my application to patent The Poo Flume, you wretches.”
“You may be having the last laugh, but I’m still having the first go on it,” Martha reminds her. “I’ll be waiting with my rubber ring, you can count on it.”
I just chuckle and take the wedge of cheesy garlic bread that Elaine offers, glad of something to chew on, in case I inadvertently prolong the scatological discussion with more comments. My phone joins in and I get it out to check my SMS inbox again.
Two have arrived simultaneously. One is from head office and says: Sorry - just unsubscribed you from Twaddle now. Apologies for interruption on your lunch break. The one that arrived just prior to it is a blog update from Alice, so I read it anyway, to take my mind off Elaine’s proposed new lavatorial theme park in Crypto.
People reveal more about themselves in bed than just their nakedness. They reveal their vulnerabilities. They establish trust on new levels. They show their lack of self-control. They can be more quickly overcome. There is a lot in the saying, Keep Your Enemies Closer. I was vulnerable once, and it made me cynical, and yet wise to such manipulation. I won’t be taken in again. I am always on top of The Game. Don’t fear for me. Fear for him.
I close the update but don’t delete it. Now she’s not in front of me, I’m reading the text in my own internal speaking voice, as if it’s my own thoughts. From what I recall vaguely, it all rings fairly true as well. Says a lot about my insecurities around Connor.
What worries me is that if I accused him of horizontally manipulating me, to find out my vulnerabilities or anything else, he’d admit it. I think his main challenge is that the whole act of any sexual chemistry espionage is my basic vulnerability, and starts with my suspicions why any guy would smile at me.
But for some reason Connor’s sneaked a Hell of a lot past me already. And I don’t know how he’s done it. It’s like I can’t remember any of the turning points now, when I could have said no, or shut the door, or walked away insisting that things be done formally, or not at all. Alice’s last blog entry is a reminder of myself and my moral stick-to-my-guns attitude, even though I’m aware that the context for her disposition is entirely different. Where did I get lost and start doing things HIS way? What’s his control over me?
“Hey, Miss Daydream,” Elaine says, flapping a napkin at me. “You’ve drifted off again. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine, just checking some shoes I was watching on iBay,” I shrug. “I think I’ve gone off them now.”
“That’s a good idea, you know,” Elaine says, and Martha nods, although she looks at me a little wryly but doesn’t voice anything to the contrary. “I’ve put stuff in my Watch space and looked at it every day until I don’t fancy it or I decide yes, I’m having it. It’s a good way of pretending you own it already for a while until you make up your mind. They should make a special Watch space webpage that looks like a wardrobe, for stuff from the clothing section, then you could really imagine having it and picture it in your real wardrobe for a while until you make your mind up…”
“Here she goes - Mrs. Entrepreneur again,” Martha grins.
“That’s actually a good idea, though,” I remark. “Not like food porn, or harmony trios that can’t sing.”
“Or poo flumes,” Martha mutters, rolling her eyes and then nearly choking on an ice cube as a giggle tries to escape. Elaine starts looking thoughtful, then gets out her own internet phone, and looks up the iBay feedback address, composing an email immediately. Martha grins at me, taking another sip of Virgin Sangria to wash down the rogue ice-cube.
You’ve got to wonder, I think to myself. One moment I’m lying about text messages on my phone, the next my friend is selling her design improvement ideas to an online auction empire. Bizarre. Definitely other powers at work, outside of the predictable forecast range of personality disorder dominoes.
I take advantage of Elaine’s inspiration to finish the last of the olives, before the waiter comes to clear our starter plates away and brings another fresh jug of Virgin Sangria.
“Would you ladies like an aperitif?” he says. “Lunchtime special is free.”
“We’re driving,” the three of us say in unison.
He nods and retreats with a smile.
“What do you reckon it would have been, tequila with the worm in?” Martha says under her breath.
“Absinthe,” Elaine suggests. “Or Benedictine.”
“No, I got a better one.” I point at the very top shelf above the bar, in a small alcove under the zenith of a stone arch, with room for a solitary feature bottle and some trinkets. “Spanish Fly.”
“Awesome,” Elaine nods. “Dangerous Sports Club Dining.”
“I wonder if that’s the real thing?” Martha takes her phone out, tilts it to camera mode and zooms the image to photograph it. “Nice bottle.”
“Three doormen died on holiday in Mexico drinking it,” I recall aloud. “Was about nine years ago, I think. Zombie Necrophiliac’s Viagra.”
“Way to go,” Elaine sighs, pouring us each more Sangria’d cranberry juice.
“Hmmm,” I sigh in agreement.
Ian Dyer isn’t the only possible rookie who had to travel for multiple targets. I don’t think I’d be up for the drinking competition scenario again. A bit too up close and personal. I don’t like interaction at that social level. But everyone has their holiday abroad personality separate from the rest of them. Even me. As if they don’t carry it around on them the rest of the time - it waits for them overseas, as they get off the plane at their destination, like a demon-possessed UV-activated sun-block. Suddenly it’s all about the gung-ho in everything you do.
“That would just be the crappiest turn in today’s social culture, don’t you think?” Martha announces. “Getting a spiked drink when eating out at lunchtime. How chuffing lame would that be?”
“That, I think, would be the final argument for the right to bear arms in this country,” Elaine says, nodding, as our main dishes arrive.
“I thought you said the end of Buy One Get One Free promotions in supermarkets would be the final argument for the right to bear arms?” I remind her.
“No, that was because the Monopolies Commission said Buy One Get One Free promotions were the same as armed robbery. So I said it might as well be armed robbery if they stop them altogether, as people will still want to get their free stuff somehow, and will just nick more off the shelves anyway.”
“Did you understand any of that?” Martha asks me.
“I think she resents being expected to take a gun shopping with her in order to get her free stuff,” I translate.
“Not like you, then,” Martha jokes.
“Well, quite,” I say, honestly. “How do you think I got anything in ‘Kitty, Kitty’ today?”
Banter is a weird thing, I tell myself, looking down at my plate and quite pleased to see genuine exotic fruit salad, and not incognito Ploughman’s Lunch. Sometimes out comes the caterpillar of a lie and it flies away as a butterfly of truth. And sometimes humour is the disguise of confession. Interpretation is all in the comfort zones and psychological disposition of the observer. To anyone neutral eavesdropping, we’re three women who don’t get out much because we draw attention to one another and find far too much to laugh about in public. To anyone who knows us, we’re three mums sharing toilet repartee. To a paranoid schizophrenic, we’re a historical research witch, a man-eating businesswoman, and a girl concealing a gun under her clothes.
And to some extent, they’d all be right.
Lunch concludes without any more interruptions, and thankfully without any spiked drinks or suspicious co-diners. The burlesque singer is the only entertainment, and fully-clothed in skintone body-stocking and sequins, does an enormous feather-fan dance, which seems to be a senior citizens’ favourite.
We go to Cobbler’s shoe shop for a twenty-minute browse, and it’s interesting how my two friends’ different tastes reflect their strongly independent personalities, not influenced by one another, or popular fashion. Elaine likes things that are elegant, practical, brown or neutral, suede, classic - while Martha favours tomboyish ankle boots, lace-ups, brogues, and patchwork hi-top trainers. I’m not sure that what attracts me in footwear, says anythin
g about my personality. Except how fragmented it is.
“Those are very you,” Elaine comments, as I pick up a triple-strap patent red Mary Jane platform stiletto. It would look good with jeans and a skateboarder vest - mind you, girls of another disposition might also think it suited to a red thong and a shiny pole. I’d be just under six foot tall in it. I consult my mental shoe database to try and remember if I’ve already got anything similar, but find it difficult, because all I can see in my mind’s eye are the shoes I tried on before going out with Connor. It doesn’t help that there’s a shelf of the latest Zombie shoe styles just above these ones, and one of them has the same print on it as one of his tshirts. I’m conscious of deliberately not picking any of them up. As if I don’t want to become his accessory. Would rather maintain my distance.
“What sort of shoes would you wear on a date, Elaine?” I ask her. “When you’re not on the back of a motorbike. Does it depend on the guy, or do you wear what you like regardless of his style?”
“God, Lara, never dress to fit with a guy’s taste, you’ll end up wearing just those red shoes and a hotel hand-towel,” Elaine chuckles. “He’s supposed to be learning about you and your style, not the other way around. Men are all beasts until the right lady comes along to raise their standards.”
“On my first proper date with Aaron, I wore green wellies,” Martha chips in, wandering past with a purple hiking boot. “I’d been digging lambs out of a ditch all morning after a flood, so I met him for lunch in the pub, in my dirty mac and a bit of lipstick, along with my mud and grass stains.”
“Very sexy,” Elaine teases. “I bet he couldn’t wait to get them off you.”
“Damn right. It was lunch followed by a hot shower together.”
“I just dress depending on my mood, to be honest,” Elaine admits. “If I’m feeling ladylike, it’s ladylike. If I’m feeling a bit sexy, it’s, well, ladylike but with better underwear and slightly higher heels on. If I’m feeling very naughty, it’s the same again with added stockings with suspenders hidden underneath, sexy perfume and lip-tingle lipgloss. It’s all in the subtle. Not the obvious, like - Heaven forbid - Sadie’s glow-in-the-dark feather bikini and musical stripper shoes.”
Death & the City Book Two Page 23
