by Sonia Paige
‘He liked it,’ I tell them.
‘Did ya swallow it?’ asks Mandy.
‘I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.’
‘Ya great softie.’
‘Shut it, you two,’ says Debs.
‘Afterwards he turned his back on me. Then he seemed to go out of his way to ignore me completely for a couple of days. As if it hadn’t happened. As if he wanted to create a distance again.’
‘Bastard,’ says Debs.
‘Men,’ says Mandy. ‘They play games. My Dave, one day he’ll be all over me and the next he’ll do a moody. They like to be in control. I can play along with it, but my little Cheryl, she finds it hard. One minute he’s “Who’s my girl? Where’s Daddy’s smile?”, next minute it’s “Get that kid out of my way.” Kids need to know where they stand. Not that mine get much chance of that. With me in and out of here all the time. I won’t even be with them for Christmas. The little one ain’t even old enough to be explained to.’ No-one else speaks and Mandy starts crying again. ‘All I can see is the fucking mess I’ve made of my life.’
Debs crawls out of her bed to sit on Mandy’s: ‘It’s OK, babes, you’ll feel better in a bit.’
‘Go on, Corinne,’ says Mandy, sniffing hard, ‘Tell us more about how you made a mess of yours.’
I pull a face. ‘I’m glad it’s of use to somebody.’ I say. So me telling my misadventures cheers Mandy up. I’m beginning to think it might be cheering me up too. After bottling it up inside for years. People always say, it’s better out than in. I always think, it depends what it is. Anyway, I launch back into my story.
‘My life on the Greek island fell apart soon after that. One day I was lying on my own in the little cove further along the beach, with nothing on, like I used to do, and I heard footsteps on the shingle. I sat up quickly and saw an old Greek man coming towards me. His face was burned dark from working in the sun, and he carried a shepherd’s staff. He looked like something out of the Bible. When he saw my naked body he stopped rigid as if he had been electrocuted, then he turned and fled.’
Debs giggles, ‘He got an eyeful, then!’
‘It may sound funny,’ I say, ‘but to me it wasn’t. It was a moment before I realized it was Lefteris’ grandfather. He’d recognised me. He was crossing himself as he walked away. For an old man like that, it was an assault on his whole life and his values.’
‘Hark at her,’ says Debs. ‘Like you were a saint.’
‘I did what I chose. But no point shocking an old man who’s done no-one any harm. His island. His life. He’d probably walked along that beach a hundred times and I’d brought my fucked-up city liberties and thrust them in his face. I felt ashamed. The sun was still shining, the water was still clear as glass, but I felt dirty. I got dressed and walked back over the rocky promontory towards the beach where I’d left Joris and Sigurd. I felt I had blown my last chance ever to be a nice girl. I could pretend to be one, but it’s always, “If they knew some of the things I’ve done.” I’d achieved freedom. But I wasn’t sure whether I had soared or sunk to get there. As I got closer to the little tents, I was walking barefoot across the hot sand, I looked at the two lazy sun-tanned figures spread-eagled there, and I wondered whether they really cared about me at all, or me for them.’
‘You know what they say,’ says Mandy. ‘Nice girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere.’
I say, ‘Some places you don’t want to go’.
‘I remember that night in the tent. Joris had already had his turn and was watching. Sigurd rolled me over on all fours and dived in from behind, as he had done so many times before. He was growling, in no-messing mood, taking it hard and fast. He made no sound as he came but I felt the tension pour out of him and then we crumpled down together onto the sleeping bag. I could feel his breath on my shoulder, panting gently. Then he kissed the back of my neck and rolled off. In minutes they were both asleep. There I was, sodden with sperm, heavy with the aftermath of sex with both of them. On one side the regular slow breathing of Joris, his body unmoving. On the other side Sigurd’s more restless slumber, hints of unknown emotions travelling through him with unseen twitches, small sudden movements, and sometimes half-formed sounds in the dark.
‘Then a strange thing happened.
‘I heard my mother calling me.
‘I was lying there between them and I heard her. It was her voice, “Corinne! Corinne!” Just my name, but from a long way away, as if I was in the garden and she was calling me in for my tea. Or for something more serious. “Corinne! Corinne!” It sounded urgent.
I sat bolt upright in the tent and looked around. Everything was black. Her voice stopped, but it had been as clear as a bell. Silence. There was only their breath, and their sleeping shapes, the two men who had befriended me, who knew my body inside out, but hardly knew my name. My mother was calling me. Perhaps she was in trouble. Somebody must be in trouble, her or me. Perhaps it was me. I lay awake for a long time afterwards.
‘In the morning it was my turn to go into the village for supplies. I set off while the sun was still low: there were long lines of golden light cutting across my path and it hadn’t really started to get hot. When I got there I bumped into the American boy – Walt – and he told me he was getting the boat to Athens next day. Then he was travelling on across Europe via Germany. On his own? Yes. Would he like a travelling companion? He sure would. I wasn’t even aware of making a decision. My legs took me to Lefteris’ dad’s shop and I bought a ticket for the boat. Luckily a neighbour was minding the store and nobody from the family was there.
‘When I got back to the tents I didn’t speak to them about it. They never spoke to me about anything, so why should I? I’d bought us all a treat – Greek yoghurts with cinnamon sprinkled on top. It was still early in the day, so even after the long walk back the creamy mixture was cool on the tongue. They were pleased, they didn’t know it was my goodbye present. In the myths they say, beware the Greeks bearing gifts. During the afternoon I gave my sleeping bag a clean and left it to dry in the sun.
‘That night I zipped my tent shut. In the morning when I came out carrying my wicker basket all packed, there was a flicker of response. They seemed surprised. “I’m going now,” I said, pointing to the boat which you could already see, a distant speck out on the water heading our way. Sigurd mimed sobbing and wiped his eyes, then did a headstand. Joris stood up. “Now?” he asked. I nodded. He stood in silence. I looked hard at his face. I stared at his eyes, willing him to look at me. He looked at the boat; he looked at my wicker basket; he looked at my feet; he looked past me along the beach towards the village. Then finally he looked me in the face. His eyes seemed to have cobwebs in them. I tried to reach in with mine like a laser to contact the person behind. He seemed to be struggling with something, as if some thought or feeling had disturbed the level sands of his inner world. Then he said,
“You go now away? You take all the babies, which we not had.”
‘I stared at him. He shifted his sun-tanned frame uncomfortably. Babies? Whoever said anything about babies? That was when I realized why I never came with him. He could have got involved. So could I. And I couldn’t risk that again.
‘Out on the blue water the boat was getting bigger. I didn’t say any of the things I thought of afterwards. I didn’t say “You left Nijmegen because every day was the same but what do you call this?” I didn’t say “Life’s too precious to spend every day with your eyes shut.” I didn’t say “Sorry,” or “Thank you,” or “Fuck you, it’s too late now.” I think all I managed was a pathetic “Oh.” He shrugged and turned towards the sea. He strode through the shallow water then dived in like a porpoise and sliced through the water with his sleek crawl.
‘I set off along the beach and I never saw either of them again.’
I’ve always kept this picture of them in my mind, stretched out flat on their backs in their swimming trunks. Sun bound. Life bound. Creatures of a day.
‘Serve them right,’
says Mandy. ‘Leave them to fuck each other. They was using you. All men use you if you give them the chance.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Maybe I was using them too. When I met them I was a wreck. I had self-harmed. I was brokenhearted. When I walked away along that beach, I was on the road to recovery. Perhaps we all use one another.’
‘You never sliced yourself up no more after that?’ says Mandy.
‘That’s right. You asked me how come I never cut myself again. Well, it was something they did. I can see it clearer now after going back over it, finding the words for what happened. Although they didn’t kiss me on the lips or look me in the eye, there was a sort of love. Or kindness. They wanted me, even if for the wrong reasons.’
Perhaps the simple act of giving attention heals. Sunbleached hour by hour, my body learnt something. That suffering doesn’t have to be a full-time occupation. You can blot it out for a little at a time.
A sudden sadness hits me. I say, ‘They helped let a scab grow over a wound. Even their lack of words helped. Because of them I started to get better. Them and being in Greece.’
‘That’s the best excuse I heard yet for shagging two at a time,’ says Debs.
‘Are you shocked?’ I ask her.
‘Fuck off! It’s just hard to imagine, looking at you now.’
‘She’s all right,’ says Mandy, ‘It’s only the demon drink, she’d clean up all right. Eh, Corinne? You can’t be over forty, eh?’
‘Not much,’ I say. ‘Some of life’s experiences sweep through you like a clean wind, others leave their marks on your flesh. You don’t get to choose which.’
‘Here, hang on a minute,’ Mandy pipes up. ‘Did you say your mum called you? I know it was a druggy mind-flip and that, but I thought you said she never wanted you?’
‘She didn’t.’
‘So what she go calling you for? What she do that for? How come you got her tracking you down all shagged out in a tent in Greece?’
I open my mouth and shut it again. I don’t have an answer. I look at Mandy and look back at the silver ring on my little finger. I rub it with the fingers of my left hand. Eventually I admit, ‘I didn’t think of it like that.’
Seeing it like that changes everything. Or nothing.
There is a jangle of keys and the door opens. Beverly comes back in. She walks to her bed and sinks her head in her hands.
‘You OK, Bev?’ asks Mandy.
‘It’s true, what I thought. Doctor told me I’m pregnant.’
Wednesday 19th December 11.45 am
‘It has been the most spectacular phenomenon of TV cookery,’ the not-so-young man effused as he handed the waiter his black serge coat and his rolled-up Union Jack umbrella. He checked his Rolex, sat down and lent forward across the table. ‘It is a privilege to meet the Goddess in the Kitchen! For the best part of thirty years you have blessed us with your heavenly recipes.’
Mimi Divine acknowledged the adulation by rearranging her still-handsome face into one of the six smiles she used on television, the one that signalled fake modesty when a dish had turned out particularly well. She dabbed at her perfect hairdo and picked up the menu. ‘Even goddesses enjoy a day off. The food was passable here last time I came.’ She scanned the list. ‘I’ll have the Vichyssoise. Light food for an early lunch is always best I think, don’t you, er…’ She titled her head slightly. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Hugh Forbes-Williams. Please call me Hugh.’
‘Hugh,’ she gave a perfunctory smile. ‘Sorry I couldn’t fit you in for lunch a bit later.’ As he beckoned the waiter, she looked out through the window onto the Essex Road.
The cold cloud-filled sky hovered low over the street. People in macks and overcoats hurried by on a pavement edged with dirty slush. One figure, a young man with a pale face and long brown dreadlocks, was wearing only a battered red windcheater over jeans. He dragged his feet slowly past, then turned and walked back again. Mimi watched him.
Hugh followed her eyes. ‘I think it’s trying to rain,’ he said. ‘It has ambitions in that direction.’
Without bringing her eyes in from the window, she said ‘I’m still intrigued to know why someone from margarine wanted to wine and dine me. I’m past the age when such invitations were frequent. You know I never use margarine in my recipes. And you know the Corporation’s position on advertising.’
‘I expect you scarcely imagined how big it would become,’ Hugh continued, ignoring her remark. ‘Your show. From those first days, the photospreads. With you always watched by your little blond daughter. That was an inspired trademark touch.’
Mimi winced slightly. ‘Oh, that.’ Her manicured fingers dismissed his remark, then moved to her neck to fondle the necklace resting on the Grecian-style swathed drapery of her red dress..
‘Such personal appeal,’ Hugh continued, ‘both of you. The whole nation envisioned having such charm and such food to come home to, and held its breath. Especially in the 60s, when so many traditional values were under attack.’
‘Of course, all of that was before your time,’ Mimi remarked.
‘But your early work is legendary.’ Hugh tried to catch her eye.
‘There he is again,’ said Mimi. ‘He seems to be limping.’ She watched the figure in the red windcheater pass slowly by the window.
‘She must be grown-up now, your daughter,’ Hugh persisted. ‘Maybe children of her own… I wonder, has she followed in your footsteps at all…?’
Mimi turned to him and looked at him as if she couldn’t see him. ‘My daughter? Oh no, my daughter…’ Her hand froze at her neck. ‘My daughter… she has her own life. Did you order?’
The young man in the red windcheater continued to walk to and fro along the pavement outside as they started their meal. In the middle of her Vichyssoise, Mimi glanced out of the window again: ‘He’s injured. He has his arm in a sling. I could have sworn he didn’t before. Poor dear. Extraordinary that he seems to keep walking past.’
Hugh’s small eyes darted towards the pavement and back. ‘Some people don’t seem to have homes to go to. As I was saying, so much of your success derives from the way your show has developed and changed. So that the hoi polloi can look into their TV and see a mirror of their times. And that, I think, is where Lifespread Margarine could really come in.’ He sucked on a mussel and the innards slid down his throat.
Mimi’s dark red fingernails clasped her glass of wine and she took a sip. ‘I have seen it on the supermarket shelves,’ she said, ‘though of course for many years it has been difficult for me to do my own shopping. The price of success. One gets all types of people approaching one with all sorts of problems. Not all culinary, I must confess… As if being famous gives one some kind of magic wand…’ She looked out of the window again.
‘If I may say so,’ Hugh raised his voice slightly to gain her attention, ‘I think you do. Have some kind of wand. Where you lead, millions follow. Your example could have an effect that is little short of magical.’
‘My example?… There he is again…’ She put down her spoon and dabbed at her mouth with the orange linen serviette. She noticed it clashed with her dress and set it aside.
Hugh continued, ‘We feel that if you used margarine in some of your recipes it would show your concern for the health of your viewers. I don’t say our brand, I know the Beeb can’t be seen to advertise. But the sheer fact of your using margarine of any variety would benefit so many people.’
‘Don’t you see that it is precisely because butter has connotations of luxury that it appeals?’
He smoothed his hair and leant forward again. ‘One word: cholesterol… And in these times, don’t you think something a little more economical? It would help you to keep the common touch.’
‘I never had the common touch,’ she snapped. ‘Delicious food, on my own terms. That’s always been my byword. Now I know he didn’t have that on his head before.’
The young man with the long brown locks limped
slowly past the window nursing the arm in a sling. This time his bowed head was bound round with a white bandage.
Mimi gave a dramatic sigh. ‘What is he up to?’
Hugh persisted. ‘All the same, there is a need to keep abreast of the times. More and more people are turning to margarine.’
‘I’, she replied, ‘I am not turning to margarine.’ She looked past his right ear and beckoned, ‘Excuse me.’ When the waiter approached she lowered her voice. ‘There is a young man outside who seems to be in trouble.’
‘I’ll see to it, madam.’ He went to the counter and conferred with the woman at the till. She disappeared into the kitchen.
After a few moments there emerged a tall thin woman with greying hair in a fashionable bob. She strode across the restaurant with a clink of gold bracelets and a scowl on her face, and walked out of the door onto the pavement. ‘The police are on their way again and if this goes on…’; her terse words to the young man came faintly through the open door as it went through the last stages of controlled closure on a time-spring. Then the door shut. The rest of her sentence and his reply were inaudible, though the exchange could be seen in dumb show through the restaurant window. Finally the young man shrugged and walked off. As she came back in to the restaurant, the woman made a bee-line for Mimi’s table:
‘I’m so sorry about that. I hope he wasn’t bothering you. I’m afraid we get used to a little local colour, being in Islington…’
‘He wasn’t bothering me,’ said Mimi, ‘but he looked distressed.’
‘Some people are just attention-seekers,’ said the woman. ‘Theatricals. Allow me to bring you each one of our speciality chocolate and hazelnut mousses. Courtesy of the house. To make up for your inconvenience…’ She strode off to the kitchen, her jaw set hard.
