by Fiona Gibson
‘Like the old you?’ Lou suggests.
‘Yes, just about.’ More coffees arrive, and the conversation veers towards Johnny’s allotment and his green-fingered lifestyle these days. Lou wants to ask him so much, but everyone is talking over each other, butting in in that way that old friends do. She places her cutlery on her plate, barely having made headway into her meal.
‘So how about you, Lou?’ Johnny has turned to her.
‘Oh, you know … crappy job, dingy little flat, but I’m working on it – I’m coming up with some kind of plan …’ She stops, realising she hasn’t the faintest idea of what that plan might be, and hoping he doesn’t ask for further details. She senses her cheeks reddening and takes a big swig of coffee.
‘So … you’re still with Spike?’ Johnny asks.
Lou feels all eyes on her. ‘Yeah, still ticking along.’
‘And, er … how is he?’ Johnny asks brightly.
‘Oh, he’s great! Just the same.’ She pauses. ‘Well, you know what he’s like.’
‘Just the same, yeah?’ Johnny repeats.
Lou nods, realising he’s moved slightly closer to her now, and that his woolly sleeve is in constant contact with her bare arm. ‘Yep, pretty much,’ she says, turning to smile at him, hoping to convince her old friend that as soon as she gets back to York, she’s going to put her plan into action. Yet, when his soft grey eyes meet hers, Lou knows he doesn’t believe her at all.
FORTY-NINE
There’s nothing wrong with being in Hissingham Woods with two girls, Barney tells himself – nothing at all. It’s just harmless fun. So here they are, clutching silver reflectors and, well, not doing much else to help, admittedly, but Magda and Amy are obviously quite happy for them to be here. Barney isn’t so sure that Sadie would be happy, but if she does find out – which she won’t – Barney will explain the situation for what it is: just a pleasant outing, all Pete’s idea. No, there’s nothing wrong with watching Magda take pictures of Amy, who arrived in a bluish-green cobwebby top which, after she disappeared behind a tree and whipped off her jeans, now appears to be an extremely tiny, fragile-looking dress. All this is fine, Barney reassures himself, because his babies are here. Babies are wholesome. Nothing untoward can ever happen when they are around.
‘That’s great,’ Magda enthuses, taking shot after shot as Amy moves ever-so-subtly, raising a shoulder, tilting her chin, and sort of collapsing back against a sturdy oak as if suddenly needing it for support. ‘Let’s go further into the woods,’ Magda suggests. ‘There’s a place where this little bit of sunshine comes in between the trees, it’s really beautiful.’ And now, with the reflector trapped under his arm while he pushes the buggy with difficulty along the muddy path, Barney is starting to think maybe it’s not okay, and that they’re stepping into dangerous territory.
Amy is now lying in that wisp of a dress, on a scattering of leaves and twigs as if she’s fallen into a dead faint. ‘That looks really good,’ Pete observes sagely. ‘There’s a lovely feel to it, the way the dress and, er … the browny textures of the ground are merging,’ he continues, as if he sees himself as creative director of Vogue and not a wine importer who buys cheap plonk from God knows where and knocks it out at vastly inflated prices.
Having been relieved of reflector-holding duties – ‘Maybe Pete should do that, being taller,’ Amy points out helpfully – Barney crouches down in the dappled shade from where his children are regarding the proceedings with interest. Maybe it’s educational for them, he thinks, with a growing sense of unease, watching a young woman writhe on the ground like that.
‘Now that’s beautiful, I love the languid, sensual feel of that,’ Pete enthuses as Amy stands up, picks out a few twigs that have become lodged in the holes of her dress and flops her head to one side, as if something’s wrong with her neck.
‘Yes,’ says Magda. ‘It’s like … she’s part of the forest, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ Pete said thoughtfully. ‘She really is.’
‘Like a little fairy.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Or a nymph,’ Magda adds, moving in a little closer.
‘Exactly,’ Pete agrees. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’ Pete is somehow – although only just, Barney suspects – preventing his tongue from lolling out and dragging across the forest floor. What are they doing here?
Barney’s knees click painfully as he straightens himself up. He’s old enough to have dodgy knees, yet is behaving like a teenager, going into the woods with girls. He needs to get away now, be responsible and remove himself and his children from this wood nymph photo shoot situation. Magda takes a few more pictures, and just as Barney is about to say something, she announces, ‘Well, I think we’re done for now … I’ve got everything I need.’
‘That’s it?’ Pete asks, unable to conceal his disappointment.
‘Yes, the pictures look great. We should get something to eat, don’t you think?’
‘That’s a great idea,’ Pete replies, and Amy murmurs in agreement.
‘I’m not really hungry,’ Barney lies. With all the multi-tasking this morning, all he’s managed to cram into his mouth are the remains of Milo and Dylan’s baby porridge, which tasted like food for the ill. No wonder they often spit it out.
‘Well, I am,’ Pete remarks. ‘I’m starving. Breakfast was hardly forthcoming this morning, was it, Barney …’ Barney presses his lips together and chooses not to answer.
‘We could go to the pub,’ Magda suggests as they amble back along the winding path to the place where Amy left her jeans. She disappears behind a tree and comes back fully clothed, now a little less nymph-like.
‘I’d better not,’ Barney says quickly. ‘In fact, I should get the boys home for lunch, it’s almost one …’
‘That’s in the schedule, is it?’ Pete teases.
‘No, I’m just saying …’
‘I thought you packed those jars of sloppy stuff in there?’ Pete adds, indicating the baby-essentials bag, which now has a few leaves stuck to it.
‘Er, I don’t think I did actually …’
‘I’m sure you did,’ Pete says, grinning infuriatingly, clearly delighting in winding him up. ‘Chicken and sweetcorn casserole, wasn’t it, and some of those little biscuit things.’
‘No, I don’t think so …’ Everyone looks at him expectantly. But he can’t go back to the Black Swan, not for a second visit in twenty-four hours. ‘Sorry, I really need to get home,’ he says firmly.
As they reach the edge of the woods, he senses Magda glancing at him. ‘Well, maybe we all could meet up some other time,’ Amy says lightly. Barney feels better out here in the sunshine – less trapped with the clear blue sky above him.
‘That’d be great,’ Pete enthuses, flipping his phone from his pocket in one swift movement. ‘What’s your number, Amy?’
Barney hovers as she tells him, gripping the buggy handles, and Magda bobs down to bid the children a fussy goodbye.
‘I’ll see you around, Barney?’ she adds, straightening up as they prepare to part company.
‘Yes, I’m sure you will.’ He forces a small grin.
‘I work Mondays and Fridays in the café. I’ll show you the pictures next time I see you, okay?’
‘Yeah, great …’
She gives him a warm smile. ‘Your babies are lovely but it must be such hard work. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Well, y’know.’ He shrugs, feeling his cheeks burning, and is relieved when they finally part company with the girls.
‘Poor single dad,’ Pete murmurs as they stride back towards Barney’s house.
‘Shut up.’
‘Poor Daddy, managing to look after two babies all on his own with no woman to help him.’
‘Fuck off, David Bailey,’ Barney splutters, bursting out laughing despite himself.
They reach Barney’s front door and awkwardly ease in the buggy. ‘Honestly,’ Pete adds, mimicking Magda’s soft, wispy voice, ‘
I don’t know how you do it.’
FIFTY
The drive to Glasgow in the band’s converted ambulance has been horrendous. Spike’s lower back aches and he has a crick in his neck. He’s often thought how much he’d enjoy being back here, checking out his old haunts. Yet now, with his aches and pains, plus a lingering wine/beer/Père Magloire hangover and the horror of Harry’s erratic driving, all he wants is to be in bed. Glimpsing his reflection in the ‘superloos’ at Glasgow Central station, he decides he doesn’t look super at all. His face is clammy and beige, like one of those chicken fillets Lou left for him in the fridge back home.
Spike splashes cold water on his face, wipes it dry with his sleeve, then fishes out his wallet from his pocket and counts his money carefully beside a washbasin. £32.47. It’s not a lot, admittedly, to see him through the rest of today, and Saturday night, plus whatever tomorrow might throw up. But he’ll manage. If Lou isn’t up to anything – and Spike now feels utterly confident that she isn’t, which makes him wonder why he endured that stomach-swirling journey – then he can probably sneak into the girls’ hotel room tonight and kip on their floor. Surely they wouldn’t mind. He can also borrow a bit from each of them for the train fare back to York – spread the cost. In fact, the prospect of being among Lou and her friends as they lie on their beds, painting their nails and indulging in all that lovely girlie grooming makes him feel momentarily better.
Spike glances around the superloo, scanning the row of cubicle doors. Satisfied that he’s in there alone, he pulls up his plain black T-shirt and inspects the waxed area just above his left nipple. The spots have died down, thank God. The rectangle is still creepily bald, though – just the one strip, as if someone had started to mow a lawn and given up when the rain came on. Picking up his rucksack from the floor, and trying to summon up a sense of positivity, Spike struts up the stairs and out onto the bustling station concourse.
Outside, he pauses to light a much-needed cigarette and takes in the lively street scene before him. Glasgow feels buzzy and youthful, and Spike senses his crippling tiredness subside as he makes his way towards Puccini’s, an old-fashioned Italian café. They’d all hung out here – the Garnet Street Girls, that twat Johnny and a gaggle of art students who’d cottoned onto the fact that you were allowed to dawdle over one cup of coffee for an entire afternoon. Spike pushes open the heavy wooden door, inhales the aroma of coffee and pizza and steps in.
Puccini’s looks just as he remembered. There are still plastic red-and-white checked tablecloths, pleasingly mismatched wooden chairs and oil and vinegar dispensers on each table. Three of the dozen or so tables are occupied by people at various stages of lunch. ‘Okay if I just have a cappuccino?’ he asks as a waiter approaches him.
The man nods and motions for Spike to sit at the nearest table. Disconcertingly, although Spike has placed his order, the waiter continues to stand over him with his small grey pad, his hair slicked close to his almost spherical head. ‘Um, actually, I think I will have something to eat,’ Spike mutters. He takes a quick look at the menu. ‘A small margherita pizza please, and a cappuccino.’
The waiter nods and returns to the kitchen. Christ, what was that about? Perhaps he’s a bit smelly from being trapped in an ambulance with those prepubescent musicians. While he waits, Spike weighs up his options as to what to do next.
He could head straight round to the girls’ hotel – he has the address – or call Lou and find out what they’re doing right now. Yet if he alerts her to the fact that he’s come all this way, and she has been up to something with that fuckwit Felix, she’ll have a chance to cover her tracks. A sense of unease creeps over him as he fears he’s made a terrible mistake. After all, Lou has never done anything to make him distrust her. Oh, there was that one time in her kitchen in Garnet Street, when he’d glanced in and seen her in a horribly intimate clinch with Johnny – but surely that hadn’t meant anything.
Spike’s pizza arrives, the dimples in its cheesy topping forming rock pools of yellowy oil. He hacks into the burnt crust, then abandons his cutlery, tears off a hunk and gnaws at it. Whilst mildly more palatable than that sausage last night, it’s a pretty poor excuse for a margherita. His coffee, too, is unsatisfying, becoming oddly grainy as he reaches its murky depths. Spike starts to crave one of Lou’s stir-fries with prawns, noodles and leafy bits which she flings so artfully together. Having gamely choked down what he can, Spike abandons the remaining half of his pizza and requests the bill.
At least the place is still cheap – £7.60 for the pizza and coffee. As the waiter turns to squirt the next table with something chemical and presumably germ-zapping, Spike slips a hand into his jacket pocket.
No wallet. He tries his other pocket, then the inside ones and the pockets of his jeans. ‘Shit,’ he whispers, bending down to open his rucksack on the floor and rifle through its contents as surreptitiously as possible. One pair of Levis, one T-shirt, one pair of fake Calvin Klein boxers. Toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and roll-on deodorant tightly wrapped in a plastic bag. And that’s it. Spike is sweating now as the waiter prowls the vacant tables.
To affect a relaxed demeanour, he continues to sip from the coffee cup, even though there’s nothing in it apart from some tarry residue. He keeps on pretending to sip until the waiter disappears into the kitchen.
This is it. His only chance. Spike stands up slowly as if he might be about to stretch. He looks at the exit, just a few strides away. Then, taking care not to make any sudden movements while slipping his rucksack onto his shoulder, he glances anxiously towards the kitchen door. It’s still closed, and the waiter’s in there, probably plating up another slab of oily dough. Spike springs for the exit, flying out into the street past a newspaper vendor and a large group of old people who veer back as he charges past. ‘Oi!’ is all he hears as he darts down a side street, which stinks of garbage, and up a small ramp and down again into the bowels of a multistorey car park.
Spike leans back against a concrete wall, his breath coming in painful gasps. His wallet. His soft black leather wallet, a present from Lou, with £32.47 in it. Gone, just like that. He must have dropped it, or maybe someone nicked it. He wants another cigarette – his body is crying out for nicotine – but he fears that the waiter is prowling about in the labyrinthine car park and might smell it and track him down.
Spike bides his time until it seems safe to leave, then makes his way out, checking the street first in case that waiter’s out there. He walks briskly with his head down, telling himself that of course his wallet is sitting waiting for him in the superloos at the station. All he has to do is retrieve it and everything will be fine.
FIFTY-ONE
Sadie really needs to phone Barney. Apparently she kissed the face off some stranger last night – she knows that this is what Hannah and Lou really mean by a little peck, a bit of innocent fun – and she needs to hear her husband’s voice to reassure her that her life isn’t over. Just talking to him for two minutes will stop her from freaking out that he knows what she’s done, that images of her attached to the face of some man in glasses haven’t been transmitted on Sky News.
Right now, though, it’s impossible. Together with Lou, Hannah and Johnny, she is on a walking tour down memory lane, and every time she hangs back to try and make the call, someone cajoles her to stop dawdling and keep up, to check out that bar they used to drink in and see how posh it is now and oh look, Sadie, there’s that hairdresser’s where they put the thick yellow tramlines through your hair, remember, when you’d just wanted coppery highlights? And you wore a hat for a week until you could afford some home colour to dye it yourself?
Lou is equally keen to peel away from the group, not to call Spike to check up on his fresh vegetable consumption but to talk to Johnny alone. What was it like, she wants to ask him, splitting up with Rona when they had a child? As they walk in the sunshine, Lou keep stealing glances at him as he banters with Hannah, reassuring her that those kids will come round and accept her,
and how could they not be delighted to have such a cool stepmum? The more Lou thinks about it, the more she’s convinced that she really does need a plan. Hannah is getting married – despite her doubts, Lou doesn’t believe for an instant that she’ll call off the wedding – and Sadie has a family of her own. But what does Lou have? A duff job and Spike on the sofa. If Johnny managed to part from the mother of his child, why can’t Lou disentangle herself when all she and Spike have to tie them together is a sixteen-year history and some crappy furniture? He cares for her though, she reflects as everyone heads into a charity shop. He really must do. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sold his guitar to pay for this trip.
Lou glances around the shop. She usually loves charity shops and this one is a cut above the rest, an explosion of colour with everything presented with care. Old vinyl records are displayed on a wall, and vintage clothing is artfully hung beside retro kitchenware and jewellery. Yet Lou is distracted. Johnny turns from a rail of jackets, catches her eye and smiles. Lou smiles back, conscious of her ears reddening as if he can read her private thoughts. How the years have changed him, Lou thinks as he moves on to the old Levi’s and checked shirts. He’s filled out just a little, softening his lanky frame and the sharper angles of his younger face, and it suits him.
They leave the shop, and Johnny touches Lou’s arm and points across the street. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘That’s the barber’s where one of the staff rushed out and asked you to marry him, remember?’ She laughs, having long forgotten the incident. Things like that don’t happen to her anymore.
They stop off for coffee, the rapid-fire catch-up between the girls and Johnny having slowed down to a more mellow pace. ‘So Johnny,’ Hannah says, putting an arm around his shoulders, ‘what happened with you and Rona?’
