by Fiona Gibson
‘Er … I think … um …’ She tails off. Ryan can imagine Petra standing over her, lips pressed together.
‘Can you remember where it might be?’ As Daisy umms and arrs some more, Ryan glances outside. That couple has stopped in the park and are standing face to face, clutching each other’s hands, their lips almost touching. ‘I can’t remember,’ Daisy says, ‘but I think I emailed it to Jess or Kira ’cause they wanted to read it …’
Ryan bites his lower lip and opens Hannah’s sent emails file. He feels shifty, sifting through them. ‘They’d better not copy it,’ Daisy adds.
‘No, I’m sure they won’t. Look, sweetheart, I’ve looked through all Hannah’s sent emails and I still can’t see anything here. It’d have an attachment, wouldn’t it?’
‘Er … yeah, I think so.’
‘Are you sure you need it right now? I can ask Hannah when I speak to her …’
‘I really need it,’ she exclaims, and now Ryan sees Petra, studying their daughter, suspecting that the story doesn’t exist and that Daisy’s just made it up to convince her that she’s doing super-brilliantly at school. It would appear, Ryan thinks, that their daughter doesn’t particularly like books which, in Petra’s universe, is tantamount to admitting, ‘Actually, Brahms isn’t my thing.’ People have been incarcerated for less, Ryan thinks darkly.
He carefully rechecks Hannah’s sent emails file. ‘Daisy, it’s not here. I’m sorry. I’ll have another look through all the documents and call you tomorrow, okay?’
‘But I need it tonight, Dad!’ Daisy’s voice wobbles. ‘Mum was testing my reading,’ she adds in a murmur – Petra must have wandered off now – ‘and I couldn’t read psychologist …’
‘Psychologist?’ Ryan splutters. ‘What on earth were you reading?’
‘Just, I dunno, some book of Mum’s. A grown-up one. Mum says the school ones are too easy …’
‘Oh, Daisy, don’t get upset. I promise I’ll email it to Mum as soon as I’ve found it. Tonight, if I can.’
Daisy sniffs into the phone. ‘Okay, Dad.’
Ryan finishes the call, mutters psychologist, for crying out loud under his breath and resumes his search. Yet the only sent emails are to Hannah’s parents, to her friends at work, to Lou and Sadie and a couple of mates from back home in Fife.
He opens her draft file, wondering if Daisy had pinged the email into here by mistake. There’s just one email, to Lou. Ryan pauses, blinking at the screen. Why has Hannah kept a draft?
It would be wrong to read it, and he isn’t the prying type. He’s only lowered himself to that kind of despicable, sneaky behaviour once in his life – when Petra announced she was leaving – and even then, he’d just had a quick pry through her texts, expecting to find outpourings of love to a conductor or violinist and discovered precisely nothing. But this email, stranded in Hannah’s drafts file as if she’d intended to send it, then had a change of heart – why would she do that? Because it’s significant.
Ryan clicks it open and glances over his shoulder towards her studio door, almost expecting her to bounce through it, explaining that plans have changed and she hasn’t gone to Glasgow after all. He sees that Sadie was copied into the mail too, and stares, convincing himself that he’s not reading it, not really. He’s just skimming it. So excited I can’t tell you … counting the sleeps like a little kid. The hotel’s booked … sandwich poking out from under the bed …
Prickling with shame, but unable to close the email, Ryan averts his eyes to focus on the couple who are still standing out there, embracing. His eyes are dragged back to the screen. It’s been a funny old week – loads on at work with a new wedding card range, which I should be finding easy with my own nuptials thundering towards me … but somehow I’m not … Ryan’s back teeth have jammed together. Ryan’s been looking all hurt as if I’m trying to avoid him … Well, things did feel slightly odd, he reflects, the few days before she went away. He put it down to prewedding stress and Hannah having so much on at work. Sometimes, though, I wonder if it’s easier for him and the kids when I’m not around …
Is it easier? Yeah, probably, he thinks bitterly. I mean, here I am, having a fantastic time raking through your private mail … I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’ll turn out fine … I’m scared now that it won’t. The kids are so rude and surly – Ryan does his best but … There’s something else too … found a crushed cigarette packet in the back pocket of Josh’s jeans … It had one in it. One Marlboro Light …
Ryan gawps at the computer. Cigarettes? He rereads it in case his mind has flipped, and he’s concocted the word in his head. But no. Hannah has not only discovered illicit smoking materials in his fourteen-year-old son’s pocket, but also chosen not to say anything about it.
He inhales deeply and sits back on her swivel chair, a wave of sadness washing over him – for his son, who’s been such a mardy arse lately and is secretly smoking, deceiving him, wrecking his health. And for Hannah, too: the sunniest girl he’s ever met in his life, who changed his world when she strode into Nell’s one damp evening and he knew, despite his intense shyness in those sort of situations, that he simply had to speak to her.
And he has to speak to her now, this instant. ‘Han?’ he barks as she answers the call.
‘Hi, darling! How’s things?’
‘Er … good, good …’ Ryan realises he hasn’t a clue what he wants to say, or how he should say it.
‘… so good to be back here,’ Hannah is enthusing, sounding excited and shimmeringly alive. ‘And the train journey, what a laugh, met this guy called Felix … tons of champagne and truffles, can you believe it? That anyone would bring truffles on a train?’
‘Ha … no,’ he says flatly.
‘… and we’re so out of touch with Glasgow,’ she goes on, ‘that we decided to come to his bar, that’s where we are now – hang on, it’s a terrible signal in here, I’m going to take this outside …’
‘Sounds like you’re having fun,’ Ryan says grimly. Unwittingly, he has slipped into disapproving parent mode. God, what’s wrong with him? This is the woman he loves, sounding happier than he can remember, enjoying a night out with her best friends. You don’t want to marry me, he thinks as her voice bubbles on. You want to escape.
‘So what are you up to tonight?’
‘Oh, er … nothing much. Petra picked up the kids, I’ve just been pottering about, this and that …’ Wondering what the hell to do about my son’s nicotine addiction …
A small pause. ‘Well, um … have a nice evening. I’d better go back. It’s still hard to hear, you keep breaking up …’
So would you, Ryan thinks, if you were me right now. ‘Okay,’ he mutters. ‘Have a great night, give my love to everyone.’
‘Yeah, will do. Love you, darling …’
‘Love you too,’ Ryan croaks. By the time he’s finished the call, he’s forgotten all about Daisy, eagerly waiting for him to email her her story so she can show it to her mother and feel proud. Because right now, Ryan feels crushed. Right now, with his children gone and his beautiful future wife in a cocktail bar owned by some guy she met on the train, Ryan Lennox feels utterly alone.
What should he do now? A long night stretches before him. With a sigh, and suddenly feeling heavy and old, he heads back downstairs to try and chip that toffee off Josh’s carpet.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Hey, hairy boy, you okay?’ Spike pauses, finding it hard to form the right shapes with his mouth. He grips his mobile, wondering how best to put it that he doesn’t appreciate this new ‘amusing’ nickname Astrid’s come up with.
‘Er … I’ve been trying to call you,’ he says. ‘I was thinking, now your meeting’s over, at least I’m assuming it is, maybe I could come over …’
‘Oh … I’m not sure,’ she replies.
‘Really? Well, we could go out then. There’s still plenty of time. Charlie says there’s this band on, don’t know how good they’ll be, but he’s put my name on
the door and I’m sure I can get you in—’
‘No, sorry, I’m really tired tonight. I think I’ll just stay in.’
‘But it’s Friday night!’ he exclaims. The realisation that Astrid is considering throwing away this prime opportunity sparks a flash of instant sobriety.
‘I know, hon, but I’ve been working a lot this week, you know? I just feel like lounging about, to be honest. I’m sorry. I know it sounds boring.’
She doesn’t sound sorry at all, Spike decides, momentarily distracted by a vision of Astrid lounging about in her neat, tasteful living room wearing not a bulky marshmallow dressing gown but that … French thing. What’s it called again? A chemise. ‘Well …’ he drawls, closing the polystyrene carton on the kitchen table which contains his sausage remains, ‘I think I’ll go anyway, just to check them out. Okay if I pop by to see you later on? About half-ten?’
Say yes. Please, please, say yes.
‘Um, no, Spike. Not tonight. I’ve told you, I’m really shattered.’
Because sitting in a meeting or doing a voiceover – ie talking into a microphone – must be completely fucking exhausting … ‘So you don’t want to see me at all tonight?’ Spike asks coolly.
‘I’m just not in the mood, okay?’
Brilliant. Spike senses his entire body slumping with disappointment. His greasy supper shifts in his stomach; maybe he should have had a stir-fry after all. ‘Is it … something to do with me?’ he murmurs.
‘No, no, no … it’s just stuff. I’ve got a lot on at the moment, Spike, and after we talked about Lou, I hoped, well … you might give it some thought.’
Spike opens his mouth, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. ‘So you’re giving me an ultimatum to leave Lou? Is that it?’
‘God, Spike …’ Astrid laughs bitterly. ‘Of course not. Look, maybe it’s not really about Lou. It’s just … our setup, you know? I mean, it’s not really a relationship, is it?’
‘Isn’t it? What would you call it then?’
‘I dunno. Just … a thing.’
Grabbing the bottle, Spike fills his grease-smeared wine glass with Croatian red and takes a big sip. ‘I thought you liked it that way. I thought you were enjoying our … thing.’
‘Well …’ Astrid pauses, ‘I was for a bit. But I just think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.’
‘I don’t understand!’ Spike rages into the phone. ‘It’s like you’ve gone off me, all of a sudden, with this hairy boy business …’
‘What?’ Astrid exclaims. ‘You’re offended by me calling you hairy boy? It’s just a joke …’
‘Yes, I know that, but it’s not very flattering, is it?’
‘But you are hairy,’ she says in a gentler tone. ‘You’re one of the hairiest guys I’ve ever met, and it’s … it’s nice, I like it …’
‘Well, obviously you don’t,’ he splutters.
‘I do! I did. Hairy is, um … great, Spike. It’s just, I’ve been thinking about us, mulling it over and –’
Spike doesn’t know what Astrid’s been thinking because he hangs up on her and snatches the cigarette that’s been trickling smoke from the conch ashtray. Hairy boy. How his life has plummeted since that brief flurry of attention, following that one hit record so long ago. Letters galore, flooding into his record company; scrawlings of love – some pretty lewd – and even the odd pair of knickers or bra stuffed into a jiffy bag. Then … nothing.
Gripping his wine glass, he makes his way unsteadily through to the bathroom and observes his tense reflection in the mirrored cabinet. His lips are stained black from the wine. He grabs Lou’s spotty white flannel, wets it under the tap and rubs it vigorously over his mouth. Sod Astrid, he thinks angrily. She’s been playing him along, knowing full well how much he’s looked forward to this weekend – even selling his guitar, for God’s sake. Well, two can play games. Balancing his glass on the toilet cistern, he whips off his T-shirt and peers down at his chest.
What is it about it that Astrid finds so offensive? Sure, it’s hairy, but the hair is concentrated around the right area – ie, the chest zone, and not creeping upwards towards his shoulders or round to his back. Nothing he can do about that. Yet … there is, isn’t there? Women aren’t hairy because they go to great lengths to get rid of it. Well, Spike will too. He’ll show Astrid Stone what he’s capable of, and then she’ll be bloody sorry.
A wave of nausea hits him as he flings open the cabinet door. So Astrid wants smooth? He’ll give her smooth. How hard can it be to wax your own chest? Teenage girls do it. Well, not their chests, admittedly, but their legs and underarms and other areas he can’t allow himself to think about. And chest skin isn’t delicate. Spike’s is probably as tough as rhino hide. He’ll whip it all off, then he’ll go round to see Astrid and surprise her – forget that band, they’ll probably be crap anyway. And Astrid will either be astounded and ravage him there and then, or find it hysterically funny or possibly even touching that he’s done this for her. Either way, it’s win-win.
Packets and cartons tumble out onto the peeling lino floor as Spike rifles through the cupboard. There it is: Silken Glide ready-to-use cold wax strips for sensational smoothness. Perching on the loo, Spike studies the blurb on the back of the lilac box. Precautions: not suitable for use on face or head. What kind of idiot would try to wax their own head?
He squints at the instructions. Briskly rub the strip between your hands to warm and soften it … Spike briskly rubs. Now peel the two plastic layers apart and place one, wax side down, firmly onto your skin. Spike presses it onto his chest, just above his left nipple. Rub firmly and repeatedly, following the direction of the hair growth. What direction is that? Spike’s chest hair doesn’t seem to have a direction; it sprouts in unruly whorls, not unattractively he notices now, gazing bleakly down at the strip. He decides to rub in all directions, so at least some of his strokes will be right.
Now pull the wax strip back on itself as quickly as you can, in the opposite direction of your hair growth. There it is again. If he doesn’t know its direction, how can he be sure which way to pull it off? Yet the longer he dithers, the more firmly the strip will glue itself to his skin – perhaps requiring a humiliating trip to the doctor’s to have it removed. Gritting his teeth, Spike plucks a corner of the strip between his thumb and forefinger, pausing for a moment while sweat prickles his brow. He takes a deep breath and pulls hard, letting out a cry of anguish as pain sears through his body and the hairs are ripped out. ‘Jesus,’ he gasps, eyes watering, chest stinging like fury. He glances down at the newly-waxed area. It’s bright pink, eerily shiny and almost hair-free. There’s no way Spike can face waxing another section. He isn’t a small man, and his chest hair extends upwards from his pubic region to just beneath his neck. It would take hours to wax it all, and involve acute pain. Spike has a newfound admiration for women who have Brazilians.
No, he’ll have to abandon the project, he decides, glancing down to see that the waxed section has now sprouted angry red pimples. Great. So that’s supposed to be more attractive than natural man-hair, is it? Spike tosses the box of remaining wax strips into the bath in disgust.
He’ll just have to live with it, he decides. Maybe, when he’s sober and steadier of hand, he’ll be able to muster the courage to rip off the rest, or perhaps he’ll just let the bald bit grow back and hope it merges in with the rest of the forest so Lou doesn’t notice anything untoward.
And what about Astrid? What will she make of it? Replaying their phonecall, Spike doesn’t believe she no longer wants to see him – not really. She was probably just in a mood, that’s all. Hormonal, or playing a game to test his keenness. Next time she glimpses him naked, she’ll probably laugh her head off and it’ll help to break the ice.
Spike needs another drink, but even more than that, he needs people around him. He’s spent too long by himself, eating vile, greasy food, getting drunk on brandy and Croatian plonk and waxing himself, and Lou’s only been gone f
or about five hours. If he carries on in this manner, by the time she comes home on Sunday, he’ll be hospitalised.
He pulls on his T-shirt and jacket and walks purposefully out of the flat, focusing his thoughts on the gig Charlie mentioned. Spike’s chest is stinging, and he’s left the used wax strip draped, like evidence at a crime scene, over the side of the bath. But, looking on the bright side, he tells himself as he quickens his pace, the night can only get better.
THIRTY-FOUR
Father and son have stopped to listen to a busker playing guitar outside the Metro station. It’s a bustling Friday evening in Glasgow, and most people are more interested in being out, and getting to where they want to be, than in a skinny teenager with choppy red hair strumming a Bob Dylan song. But Johnny and Cal have stopped and are playing the ‘how much to throw in the guitar case?’ game.
‘He’s really good, Dad,’ Cal says. ‘I reckon at least ten quid.’
‘I can’t give a tenner to a busker!’ Johnny exclaims with a grin, basking in the comfortable ordinariness of being out in the evening with his son. They’ve been to the cinema, the vast multiplex with all the escalators that Cal still enjoys riding up and down on, even at twelve years old. If this were a normal Friday night, they’d be heading back to Johnny’s flat where Cal spends most weekends. They’d get up early, pick up some shopping and maybe, if Johnny was feeling generous, Cal would be treated to a strawberry tart from the posh new patisserie where everything comes in a fresh white box. Not this one, though. It’s Cal’s mother’s birthday tomorrow – her 36th – and Rona wants to spend it with her son.
‘Yeah,’ Cal says, ‘but we said that instead of giving small amounts to different buskers, we’d save up for the best ones.’
‘Why did we say that again?’ Johnny asks.
‘Because otherwise we’re giving the same to the good and the crap ones and that’s not really fair, is it? He’s worth a lot more than that old lady with the squeaky accordion you gave a quid to.’
