by Emlyn Rees
I go over to him, biting my lips together, smothering my laughs.
‘Oh Stringer,’ I say, wanting to touch his hair as I look up at him. ‘I’ve been in a pickle all week about seeing you,’ I admit. ‘One of my best friends has gone to California and I’ve decided to go out and join her, but I’ve been so worried about telling you. I thought you’d be offended, and all this time, you’ve been thinking about another woman,’ I tease.
‘So you’re not cross?’ he asks, smiling bashfully. ‘Only we did . . .’
‘Yes, we did,’ I agree. ‘And it was lovely. But it was just sex. And sex can be all sorts of things, but you mustn’t ever take it too seriously. It’s supposed to be fun. Remember that.’
Stringer puts his hands in his pockets and we’re silent for a while.
‘You’re going away?’ he says. ‘When?’
‘Soon. After the wedding.’
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Scared shitless,’ I mimic, ‘since you ask. But never mind about me. You’d better talk me through Karen and how we’re going to get you out of this mess,’ I say, linking arms with him.
And as we walk and he talks away, I feel fine. I don’t feel jealous or relieved or any of the things I thought I would. I just feel close to him like I did last weekend and pleased he can still tell me.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ I say, when he tells me about Karen’s note. ‘She probably feels like shooting herself. There’s nothing worse than waking up and realizing you’ve made a drunken pass at your best mate. Believe me, I’ve done it hundreds of times.’
‘But what if she really means it? I mean, what if she just wants to be friends when she gets back?’ he asks. ‘What if that’s it?’
I look around us. ‘Well, you know what they say,’ I joke. ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea.’ I nudge Stringer in the ribs, but he’s having none of it.
‘Stringer,’ I say, seriously. ‘Of course she fancies you. You’re a god.’
‘You’re not helping,’ he tuts at me, but I can tell he feels better.
‘Have a bit of faith, man.’
‘Do you honestly think she’ll listen to me?’
‘I’d bet money on it. Which is a lot, considering I haven’t got any.’
‘Greg?’ It’s one of Stringer’s staff calling him.
‘I’d better get back,’ he says, apologetically.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be off now.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’ he asks. ‘I’d take you home, but I’ve got all this . . .’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.’
Stringer grabs my arm. ‘Susie. About what happened last week,’ he says.
I smile and look down at his flies. ‘What, that, you mean? I haven’t told anyone. I may have a big gob, but I’m not that indiscreet.’
‘No, I don’t mean that.’
‘What then?’ I ask.
‘I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all,’ he says softly, cupping my cheek in his hand.
‘Go on with you,’ I say, but I can feel myself choked up with sentimentality.
‘No. Thank you,’ says Stringer, pulling me towards him and squeezing me tightly. ‘Friends?’ he asks, kissing my hair.
‘You bet,’ I say, pulling away. ‘Now, go get that girl.’ I prod him in the chest. ‘When’s she back?’
‘Beginning of next week,’ he says.
‘Welt I’ll look forward to hearing all about it.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he says, as we part.
But as I sit on the top of the night bus, looking out over the city, it’s me that should be thanking Stringer. Because he was the one who made me think of my vision. And although, for ages, I thought the vision was about him and having a platonic relationship with him, it was actually about me and giving more of myself than just sex. And I’ve achieved it.
Stringer
Tuesday, 22.40
‘Susie?’ I ask.
‘Stringer?’ Her voice comes down the line, lost against the sound of music.
‘Yes. Hi. How’s it going?’
‘Hang on a tick,’ she shouts. ‘I can’t hear you. The radio’s . . .’
I hear the sound of her putting the receiver down and footsteps crossing the floor at her end. It occurs to me that I’ve never been to her flat, and now that she’s going away, never will. I sigh, looking around my own sitting-room. It’s as spotless as when Karen left it. I force myself to sit down in the armchair. I’ve been pacing the room for the last hour, reciting lines like some out-of-work actor waiting in the wings for the big audition. In all this time, I haven’t managed to get them right once.
‘God, I’m knackered,’ Susie says, coming back on to the line.
‘Busy day?’
‘Busy bloody life,’ she says. ‘I tell you, mate, this jumping ship to the States malarkey isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘You’re not thinking about changing your mind, are you?’
‘Definitely not. Just my possessions. It’s staggering, the amount of tat I’ve managed to collect since I’ve been in this place. I’ve filled up enough bags to keep Oxfam busy for a decade, and I’m not even half-way there yet. And that’s only my clothes. I can’t even bear the thought of chucking away any of my other stuff. And then there’s Torvill and Dean . . . Don’t suppose you’re interested in looking after them, are you? It’s just that I can’t bear the idea of shoving them down the toilet like Mum suggested . . .’
‘I take it we’re not talking about the eighties ice-skating icons here?’
She sniggers. ‘Don’t be silly, you daft pillock. They wouldn’t flush. Their skates would get caught in the U-bend. No,’ she hurries on to explain, ‘Torvill and Dean are my goldfish. They’re ever so nice and well-behaved. Fully house-trained. They wouldn’t give you any trouble, I promise.’
‘Fabulous as they sound, I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline your kind offer. The last goldfish I had died before I got it back from the funfair.’
‘Shame.’
‘How about Jack and Amy?’ I suggest. ‘Might make an interesting wedding present.’
‘Now, there’s an idea.’ She pauses for a moment and I don’t fill the space. ‘Is everything OK, Stringer?’ she checks. ‘You sound a little bluesy.’
I sigh, looking round the flat. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a little.’
‘Karen’s not back, then?’ she asks, guessing the real reason for my call.
‘No. Not a word. I tried her parents a few minutes ago, but got the answering machine.’
‘You’re going to have to sit tight and wait then, aren’t you? She’s got to come back some time. I mean, there’s all her stuff for a start and, as I now know from personal experience, a girl’s not easily parted from her tat.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘’Course I am. Now, more importantly, have you decided how you’re going to play it with her yet?’
‘I’m not sure. I tried working it through in my head, but it never quite rings true.’ I consider my failure and conclude, ‘I’ll probably end up simply telling her the truth.’
Susie tut-tuts at me. ‘Christ, no. Don’t go doing that. Not the whole truth and nothing but. That’s crazy talk. You go telling her you’re head over bloody heels in love with her and she’ll probably run a mile.’
‘But why?’
‘No fun in it, is there? Nothing to chase if you’ve already got it on a plate. Truth comes later. Trust me on this one, Stringer. You’re new to this, so take the word of an old hand.’
I laugh, despite myself. ‘If I can’t tell her the whole truth, then what do I tell her?’
‘Don’t tell her anything. You already know you fancy each other, so stop arsing about and cut to the chase. Give the girl a snag. That’s all she needs to know. She can’t be all embarrassed about what she said, or worried about you and me, if she’s got her tongue stuck down your throat, can she?’
I hear the noise
of a key in the lock of the front door. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.
‘That her?’ Susie asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, good luck to you. And as you boys say,’ she adds with an evil cackle, ‘give her one for me.’
I can almost hear Susie grinning as I put down the phone.
I’m standing when Karen comes in to the sitting-room, a gym bag over her shoulder and a clutch of mail from the hall table in her hand. Her hair has been cut: short, above her ears. It shines like silk. She’s wearing black trousers and a grey cashmere top.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she says, dumping her bag on the floor, looking me apprehensively up and down.
‘It’s Stringer, actually,’ I tell her. ‘But you can call me Greg.’
She allows me a watery smile, but her eyes remain timid. She walks over to the sideboard and puts the letters down, staying hunched there for a moment, before turning round to face me. ‘I think I owe you an apology,’ she says. ‘Did you get the letter I left for you?’
I’m about to speak, to tell her that she doesn’t need to say sorry and to tell her why, when I stop myself. Instead, I remember Susie’s advice and simply say, ‘Close your eyes.’
Karen looks doubtful, the corners of her mouth trembling slightly, as if torn between joy and pain. ‘Why?’
‘Please,’ I ask her, ‘just do it.’
She does. She closes her eyes and straightens up, folding her arms across her chest. I stay where I am, looking at her. She’s so close, but suddenly she seems an impossible distance away. ‘Well?’ she asks, tapping her foot impatiently.
Then I do it. I cross the gap between us in what feels like a single stride. Gently, I lower her arms and take her hands in mine. She opens her eyes and I allow us a nanosecond’s eye contact before closing mine and leaning down and kissing her. I don’t know how long the kiss lasts, but when I come up for air, we’re still pressed tight together and there’s an insane light dancing in her eyes. From her grin, I can only assume the same light is dancing in my own. I don’t know who starts it, but the next thing is we’re moving towards her bedroom. At her doorway, I stop, letting her go first. I watch as she walks to the bed and turns on the bedside lamp. She sits down and, not taking her eyes off me for a second, starts to unbuckle her belt.
‘Karen,’ I say, suddenly nervous, the dread of a hundred similar situations coming back to haunt me, ‘there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
Her fingers hesitate in their task. ‘What?’
I shake my head and, with it, the demons from my mind. ‘Nothing,’ I say, walking over to join her. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not any more.’
Matt
Thursday, 21.50
Sky is sitting in the armchair opposite. She’s twenty-three years old and stunningly attractive: long, raven-black beaded hair, five ten with captivating grey eyes. We’re in the living-room of my house. I’m on the sofa and next to me is Chloe, who’s been helping me interview prospective lodgers to take Jack’s old room. I’ve just finished explaining to Sky about the house’s more idiosyncratic features: the pool table, and original bar fittings from when this place was still a functioning pub.
‘It’s just so much fun,’ Sky exclaims.
‘I think that’s probably just about everything covered,’ Chloe says stiffly, checking her watch. ‘Any other questions, Matt?’
‘You mentioned that you’d be doing yoga in the garden, if the weather was good,’ I say.
Sky beams at us. ‘Oh, yes. I love the feel of the sun on my bare skin. That’s why having access to a walled garden will be so good.’
‘I see,’ I say, and I do, I see her out there in my mind’s eye perfectly. ‘I’ve always been interested in taking up yoga myself,’ I tell her, ignoring Chloe’s groan. ‘Being a successful lawyer is all well and good, but sometimes I do wonder if I’m neglecting my spiritual side.’
‘Oh, please,’ Chloe mutters. ‘The nearest you’ve ever got to spirituality is communing with a bottle of whisky.’
‘Maybe you’re right, Chloe,’ I say, frowning profoundly at Sky. ‘Maybe I’m not capable of reaching out for a higher plane.’
‘Oh, no,’ Sky says, concerned. ‘You’re perfectly entitled to your belief, Chloe, but I think that everyone has it within them to set out upon the road to spiritual enlightenment.’
‘Perhaps . . .’ I begin, before deliberately reining myself in. I shake my head dismissively. ‘No, it would be too much to ask . . .’
‘What?’ Sky enquires, leaning forward.
‘I was just wondering, if you did move in here, if you might be able to teach me the basics, you know, just to get me up and running . . .’
‘Of course I would,’ she says, beaming again. ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure than to help you find yourself.’
‘Right,’ Chloe butts in, getting to her feet and making a show of checking her watch again, ‘we’re going to have to draw this one to a close now’ – she fixes me with a glare ‘aren’t we, Matt? We’ve got someone else coming in a few minutes.’
I pick up the list from the sofa beside me and run my eyes down it. ‘No, no,’ I contradict her, ‘I think Sky’s the last.’
‘No,’ Chloe corrects me, ‘she’s not.’ She smooths down her trousers and shoots Sky a quick, razor-edged smile. ‘I’ll show you to the door,’ she says.
‘Oh, OK.’ Sky picks up her Indian tapestry bag and stands.
I stand, too, and walk over and shake Sky warmly by the hand. ‘I’ll give you a call,’ I say.
‘Great.’ She wavers, self-conscious under Chloe’s glare. She smiles awkwardly. ‘I’d better get going, then. Nice meeting you both.’
Chloe walks Sky out to the front door and I wave at her as she sets off across the road.
‘Reaching out for a higher plane,’ Chloe sneers, coming back in to the living-room and giving me a withering look. ‘Reaching out and making a grab for her tits, more like.’
‘You’re too cynical.’ I tell her, doing my best to appear offended.
She drops down on to the sofa next to me. ‘She was an airhead.’
‘Just because she’s got a different outlook on life from you, doesn’t necessarily make her an airhead.’
‘She was thick as a brick,’ Chloe continues to rail, goggling at me. ‘She’s called Sky, for Christ’s sake. What else do you need to know?’
‘May I remind you that it’s customary for parents to name their offspring, so you can hardly blame Sky for that, can you?’
Chloe hisses through her teeth. ‘You astound me sometimes, you really do. Anyway,’ she adds, ‘I thought you were meant to be all cut up about H?’
‘I am.’
‘But you’re still considering letting Sky move in on the grounds that she might indulge in a bit of nude yoga with you in the back garden?’
‘I can think of worse qualities in a lodger.’
Chloe chooses to indulge me on this issue. ‘Like . . .’
‘Well look at the others we’ve seen,’ I protest. ‘They’ve hardly been ideal, have they?’
‘Keith was all right . . .’
‘No, Chloe. Keith was not all right. I think we can safely assume that Keith was probably on day release from a nearby mental institution. Apart from his disturbing interest in the view of the cemetery from the attic, his overriding concern was’ – I consult the notes I’ve been keeping – ‘and I quote: “Have you got a cellar? Only I’ve got some stuff – private stuff – that I’d like to keep down there if you have.”’ I look up at Chloe. ‘Like the polished skulls of his previous landlords, no doubt . . .’
‘OK,’ she concedes, ‘Keith was a little weird.’ She checks her own notes. ‘How about Alice, then?’
I just stare at her. I don’t even bother raising my eyebrows. Alice’s first question on seeing the living-room was which nights would she be able to use it for her Church of the Possessed Apostles seminars.
Chloe examines her notes again. ‘William,
then. He was nice enough. Good sense of humour, I thought.’
‘You’d have to have with a face like that.’
‘Ian?’
‘He smelled.’
‘Of what?’
‘I dread to think’
She examines her notes yet again. ‘Dick?’
‘I never trust anyone named after the male sexual organ.’
‘Maddy?’
‘Mad.’
‘Julia?’
‘Peculiar.’
‘Jonah?’
‘Unlucky.’
Chloe chucks her notes across the floor in frustration. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Sky it is. But don’t come bleating to me in a month’s time when it doesn’t work out.’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’ I ask
‘For the simple reason that your motives for getting her to move in aren’t exactly honourable, Matt. You want her in so you can shag her.’
‘And learn yoga,’ I add.
‘Right. And when you’ve shagged her – assuming she’s even remotely interested – and learnt yoga, what then?’
‘Shag her again?’ I suggest.
‘And then?’
‘Just what’s your point?’ I ask
‘My point, Matt,’ she slowly spells out for me, ‘is that you can’t sit there like you were this afternoon, whining like a wounded puppy about being on your own, and then go saddling yourself with a deeply dippy hippy who you couldn’t develop a meaningful relationship with in a million years. She’ll drive you nuts and you know it. Not to mention holding you back from meeting someone else . . .’
‘Fine,’ I say, depression swamping me, ‘so if not Sky, then who? We’ve interviewed eight people today. And that was the A-list. The other people who rang up either couldn’t string a sentence together, or tried to Scrooge me on the rent.’
Chloe leans forward and picks up her notes. ‘All right,’ she says, taking out a pen, and switching in to marketing mode. ‘Let’s do this scientifically. If the calibre of interviewees is poor, then what we need is a differently phrased advert. Let’s make it as specific as possible, and hopefully that way we’ll get you the kind of lodger you want.’ She pats me on the hand. ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘this will work. Describe your ideal lodger to me and I’ll draft the ad.’
