by Andy Jones
‘No!’
Eileen nods. ‘Turns out you’re not entirely useless, after all.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Cooked me supper, bottle of wine, took a Viagra with his rhubarb crumble. Very nice it was, too.’
‘The crumble?’
‘All of it, love.’ Eileen shifts on her cushion and winces through her dentures. ‘I’m not as limber as I used to be,’ she says, and I cringe inwardly at the imagery my mind conjures up.
‘How long’s he been asleep?’ I ask.
‘He’s been flat out since two,’ Eileen says, and she can’t resist a cheeky smile. ‘What time is it now?’
‘Almost four,’ I tell her.
‘You look worried, love. Is something up?’
Even after Eileen and Douglas had finished their rompathon, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about Verity, fluctuating between excitement and despair and hope and frustration. I thought about Trudi Roberts, and Sadie, and Holly, and Yvette, and Kaz, and the woman with no name. I thought about El and Phil and their promiscuous dead friend. And it didn’t help me sleep.
The p24 antigen test identifies a protein from the surface of HIV particles. This protein is detectable from approximately ten to thirty days post-exposure. I had unprotected sex nineteen days ago – briefly unprotected, but unprotected nevertheless. Another test, the HIV antibody test, detects infections contracted three months and more ago. I found a private clinic on Harley Street which offers both tests for £110 – they call it the ‘peace-of-mind package’. Cheap at ten times the price. There is a plaster in the crook of my elbow where the nurse took my blood; she said the results take two to three hours. I’m still waiting.
When I told Dad about cheating on Sadie, I felt lighter. I experienced the same catharsis confessing to Ben and then to Doug. I’m getting a taste for candour, and after I tell Eileen about my afternoon, she kisses and hugs me, and I lose the plot and break down crying.
The nurse had a clipboard. Is this your first time? she asked. How many sexual partners have you had in the last twelve months? How many in the last month? Do you use a contraceptive sheath? Have you ever had intercourse without a contraceptive sheath? Are you an intravenous drug user? Have you had surgery? A blood transfusion? Have you had unprotected anal sex as the insertive partner? As the receptive partner? Have you had sexual exposure in Africa? Southern Asia? Eastern Europe? Any tattoos or piercings? Have you employed the services of a sex worker?
The nurse classified me as very low risk. Asked why I wanted the test. ‘Peace of mind,’ I said, with something resembling a laugh. The nurse jotted a note on her questionnaire. Blood and urine were taken. The membranous tube inside my penis was swabbed with a cotton bud. My genitals were inspected for warts. I was tested for chlamydia, gonorrhoea, hepatitis B and C, herpes simplex virus, human papillomavirus, urinary infections, non-specific urethritis, syphilis, HIV-1 and HIV-2. I paid extra for a throat swab.
Eileen checks her watch. ‘You’ll stay here until they call,’ she says. ‘I think there might be a Columbo on.’
Douglas emerges from his bedroom a little after five, limping a little and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
‘Hello, trouble,’ he says when he spots me on the sofa.
‘Morning,’ I say.
Doug and Eileen exchange a look, and – with not inconsiderable discomfort – she moves along the sofa to make room for her man.
I apologise all over again, but Douglas is more interested in putting his feet up.
‘Ye meant well,’ he says. Then, indicating the potted plant, ‘What’s this?’
‘Passion flower,’ I tell him.
Eileen looks aghast. ‘Is that a joke?’
‘Meant to help you sleep,’ I tell her.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Good. Maybe have a little pot of that later, Douglas?’
‘Aye,’ says Doug, with something resembling relief. ‘Aye.’
I say I’d best be leaving, but Eileen says I’ll do no such thing and the three of us settle down to watch a quiz show called Pointless. Six o’clock comes and goes, and the clinic still hasn’t called with my various results. Maybe they found something and they need to double-check.
Douglas goes to the kitchen to prepare supper. He’s cooking pizza with allotment-grown tomatoes and fresh basil, and Eileen tells him to make one for me.
The clinic calls at seven minutes past six. And when the nurse tells me I’m not dying and that bits of me aren’t going to turn green and drop off, I’m not nearly as relieved as maybe I should be. When the nurse said I was low risk, she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already suspect. Rather, it felt appropriate to put myself through the whole humiliating rigmarole out of due diligence and contrition. Even so, it’s good to know I’m going to live for a little while longer.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
We go around the circle, introducing ourselves. From the left . . .
Agnes: silver hair, owlish spectacles, gouty fingers. Jim: married to Agnes, red-faced, mostly bald, walking stick. Helen: shoulder-length dyed-brown bob, glasses on a beaded chain, make-up clumped in the fine hairs on her cheeks. Vera, our host for the evening: miniature, Chinese, boyishly short hair one part black to three parts grey. Maureen: ‘call me Mo’, bifocaled, stripy-socked and woollen-skirted. Cora: an Ad-Land granny, pinks and browns and thick white curls. Agnes, Jim, Helen, Vera, Maureen, Cora – average age somewhere in the high sixties.
And then there’s me.
‘Tom,’ I say. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Tom,’ says everyone.
‘Did he say Tom?’ asks Cora. ‘My husband was a Tom.’
Mo pats Cora’s hand and winks at me. ‘That’s right, dear.’
‘I never liked the name,’ says Cora. ‘Puts one in mind of cats.’
Eileen said I should have given Verity flowers, knocked on her door and said I was sorry. I’m beginning to think she was right. Because there is a piece missing from this puzzle and its name is Verity.
On Friday, via the Internet and a reconnaissance trip taking in several coffee shops and two libraries, I compiled a list of seven book clubs in and around Verity’s neighbourhood. I called them all, but only one was reading The Secret History.
Helen explained that the group would be meeting on the coming Monday, which left me – an avid non-reader – with just three days to wade through six hundred and twenty-nine pages of literary fiction.
I spent the weekend cooking, reading, eating, reading, running, reading, drinking, reading, sleeping, reading. I finished The Secret History two hours ago, skim-reading the last fifty pages. And it’s looking like I did it all for nothing.
‘Have you had a chance to read it?’ asks Mo, tapping her copy of the novel.
‘Just about managed,’ I say.
‘Tom called on Friday,’ says Helen. ‘And he was quite undeterred when I informed him we would be congregating this evening.’
‘Blimey,’ says Jim. ‘Fast reader.’
‘I had a quiet weekend,’ I say.
‘Did he say he’s local?’ asks Cora. ‘Are you local?’
‘A few miles east,’ I say. ‘But I hope you won’t hold it against me.’
‘Why would I do that?’ says Cora.
There’s a little laughter and the interview atmosphere softens. Vera excuses herself to the kitchen to make tea, open wine, fetch glasses. Jim asks what I do for a living, and everyone’s very impressed when I tell them. Everyone except Cora, who gets the idea that I make televisions. No one bothers to correct her.
‘Look what I found,’ says Vera, carrying a tray of drinks into the room.
Verity, bringing up the rear with a tray full of mugs and glasses, doesn’t blink when she sees me. Everyone makes a fuss of her as she works her way around the circle, kissing cheeks and squeezing hands.
She’s got a preppy thing going on for book club. Ankle-length chinos; flat brown brogues; plain, baby-blue polo shirt. Her hair is tied back in a neat ponytail and the only thing she’
s missing is a pair of glasses.
‘Verity,’ says Helen, ‘this young gentleman is Tom.’
‘Not local,’ says Cora.
‘Read it in three days,’ says Jim.
‘And this,’ Helen says, ‘is the lovely Verity.’
She looks beautiful.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, desperately doubting the wisdom of this entire gambit.
Verity smiles politely, as if this is the first time we’ve met, as if we’ve never kissed, as if I didn’t have a half-naked estate agent hidden under my bed.
‘Drink, Tom?’
‘I’ll take a small wine please, Vera.’
And as I do so, my hand is shaking.
‘Tom was saying he makes commercials,’ says Mo. ‘Verity’s a . . . what is it, Verity? I can never remember.’
‘Production designer,’ she deadpans.
‘Small world,’ I say.
‘Certainly is,’ says Verity.
This is as far as my clever scheme extends; beyond this point I have no plan. I was so focused on getting here and getting the book read that I hadn’t considered what I was going to do next.
The following two hours are a crossfire of literary jargon and allusions that mean as much to me as the technical specifications of a kitchen boiler. I spend the entire time stealing glances at Verity, trying and failing to think of clever comments or some witty, subtextual way of making everything all right between us. So far, however, my major contribution has been to say I thought Bunny was an interesting name for a boy.
My current strategy consists of waiting until the meeting has finished, following Verity outside, getting down on my knees and begging.
‘So,’ asks Verity, ‘what do you make of it all, Tom?’
‘I liked the ending,’ I say.
After a pause, during which it becomes clear that this is the full extent of my literary criticism, Verity asks, ‘Would you say it was a happy or sad ending?’
‘Sad?’ I try.
‘Hmm. And you liked that?’
‘Well, I suppose everyone got what they deserved . . . in the end.’
‘Interesting,’ says Verity, and she takes a swallow of her wine. ‘Are you a fan of Tartt?’
‘It’s my first one.’
‘Which authors do you normally read?’ asks Helen.
All eyes on me.
‘I just finished Tropic of Capricorn, actually.’
I might be imagining it – wishful thinking, probably – but something appears to yield in Verity’s expression. A minuscule uplift at the corners of her mouth, a tightening around the eyes?
‘Miller,’ says Vera. ‘I’ve never read him.’
‘Rather bawdy,’ says Helen.
‘Might have to try that one,’ says Jim, raising his eyebrows. ‘Any good?’
Jim’s well-meaning banter induces a feeling of weary sadness, and I hear myself sigh out loud. ‘Not really, Jim. I found it all rather depressing, to be honest.’
Mo regards me over the top of her bifocals, as if neither of the options presented by her eyewear can bring me into clear focus. ‘How so, Tom?’
Rather like Tropic of Capricorn, Verity’s expression is hard to read.
‘It’s just so bleak and pointless,’ I say. ‘He spends the whole book drunk, miserable and entirely controlled by his . . . penis.’
The word – like the entity it represents – is out before I can stop it, as if it has a mind of its own, as if possessed by the ghost of Henry goddamned Miller.
‘Penis?’ asks Cora.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, from behind my hands. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘Quite all right,’ says Helen. ‘We’re all adults. Besides, we can hardly critique literature if we’re going to embargo its building blocks.’
‘Hear hear,’ says Mo.
‘Penis?’ says Cora.
Mo strokes Cora’s hand. ‘That’s right, dear.’
‘The thing is . . .’ I say. ‘The truth is’ – and I look directly at Verity – ‘I think I found Tropic of Capricorn so depressing because it reminded me of myself.’
The room is silent but for the sound of seven people leaning forward. And if this is my plan, I’m not convinced it’s a good one.
‘And this reminds you of you how?’ asks Mo kindly.
‘I’ve slept with a lot of women,’ I say, and everyone leans back, as if retreating into the safety of their chairs.
I nod gently, as if to confirm this revelation, as if I’m granting myself permission to continue. ‘All the time I was reading Henry Miller,’ I say, ‘I was thinking how sordid and pathetic and . . . and hollow his life was, but . . . well, that’s me all over, isn’t it?’
Jim nods as if, yes, he knows exactly what I mean. Vera’s mouth is puckered into an expression that could be born of several attitudes, but I’d put my money on disapproval. Helen twiddles her glasses chain. Mo smiles. I don’t know what Verity is doing because I don’t dare look at her.
‘And then I met someone,’ I go on. ‘And then . . . and then I ruined it.’
‘You did the dirty on her?’ asks Agnes.
‘How many did he sleep with?’ asks Cora.
‘No,’ I say, ‘I didn’t do the dirty. I didn’t cheat on her or lie to her or anything like that. Things just sort of . . . caught up with me.’
‘Mistakes make us human,’ says Helen, looking at me then glancing, briefly, at Verity.
‘Probably a misunderstanding,’ says Jim; and Mo, Agnes and Vera mutter polite approval.
‘Yes and no,’ I say, and risk a glance at Verity. She is staring right through me, it seems, and I look away.
‘Maybe you should talk to this girl,’ says Helen. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘I was quite a one myself,’ says Cora, taking hold of my hand. ‘Is three an awful lot, do you think?’
Any other Monday, I’d shit myself laughing. But not today.
Verity rises from her chair and drops The Secret History into her handbag. Without looking up, she mutters ‘excuse me’ and leaves.
The front door clicks quietly closed, and everyone turns to face Tom. Cora still has hold of my hand, and if I were to obey my instincts and bolt after Verity, I’d likely yank Cora clean out of her chair and quite possibly into her grave. I unpick Cora’s fingers from my hand, thank everyone for their hospitality and walk as casually as I can from the room.
When I get outside, Verity has vanished.
I jog the full length of the road but there’s no sign of her. I’m about to kick a lamp post when I get the sense that I’m being observed. I turn on the spot and see six faces in Vera’s front window. The book club waves. I wave back and plod around the corner to where I parked Doug’s car.
I’m squashed behind the wheel, deciding whether or not I should drive to Verity’s flat, when there’s a tap on the window.
Verity opens the door and climbs into the passenger seat.
‘I think they like you,’ she says.
My heart is beating like I’ve just finished a ten-mile run instead of a slow trot up and down the street. ‘And what about you?’ I manage.
Verity pretends to think about this. She smiles. ‘I think you’re okay.’
‘Eileen said I should have brought you flowers.’
Verity considers this and then wrinkles her nose. ‘I like your way better.’
What I want to do now is reach across and hold Verity’s hand, but it feels as though it might be presumptuous. I know I should simply be grateful that we’re speaking, but I can’t think of what to say next because all I can think about is reaching across and . . .
I reach across and take hold of Verity’s hand. She doesn’t recoil or scream or slap me. But the night is still young.
‘That girl,’ I say. ‘She was my estate agent and I slept with her. Once. Before I met you.’
‘And now we’ve all met each other.’ Verity smiles, but I sense she is still reserving her final judgement. My hand feels conspicuous
in hers now – heavy and clumsy.
‘She had a set of keys and she let herself in.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I slept in the porch. She left while I was running after you, locked me out.’
‘No! You’re kidding.’
I shake my head. ‘And I broke my toe trying to kick the door in.’
Verity laughs, an out-loud burst that appears to take her by surprise. It should be contagious but I don’t join in.
She squeezes my hand. ‘Any more surprises?’
‘Well, you should probably know that I slept with Kaz, once. And Holly, a few times.’
Verity smiles and nods.
‘You knew?’
‘I guessed.’
And I screwed some anonymous drunk woman I picked up on the tube. But I don’t think that’s relevant. Honesty, I’ve realised, doesn’t mean exposing every nasty detail. Only every important one. Sadie, for example – she never needed to know about Holly. That was me selfishly soothing my conscience and disregarding how it would make Sadie feel. What I should have done was admit to myself a damn sight sooner that Sadie wasn’t the one for me. And then I should have admitted it to Sadie. Do I intend to tell Verity about my bet with El? Do I hell. And what about Susan Chambers? A drunken kiss that could have gone further but didn’t. I can justify that triviality in at least three different ways and I’m fine with it. Honestly.
Still holding hands, we stare out of the car windscreen, and the sky has begun its slow fade to black. At some point it must have started raining and it’s just dark enough to see the droplets in a dancing haze around the street lights.
‘I like the librarian thing,’ I say.
‘All I need is a pair of glasses, don’t you think?’
I laugh loudly and abruptly. ‘Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. There’s something else I should probably tell you.’
Verity turns to look at me.
‘I don’t like the Ramones,’ I say. ‘Or the Pixies, or the Supersuckers. I tried, but . . . not my thing, I’m afraid.’
Now Verity laughs. ‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘I just like the T-shirts.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really.’
