Heartbreak Hotel

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘No way!’ This response was always gratifying. Nolan’s eyes widened with awe, with a new respect; she felt a small shift of power between them. ‘You worked on any horror pictures?’

  She nodded. ‘Bognor Vampires. Swimming with Zombies.’

  ‘You must be kidding! I got them both on DVD.’ Nolan closed his eyes dreamily. ‘You know my favourite bit of Bognor? When the bloke’s in the shed, that actor, what’s-his-name, he thinks he’s safe, and then the vampire bursts through the door and claws out his eye. All the gore and stuff down his cheek, and his eye’s on a string, like, swinging.’

  ‘I did that.’

  ‘You did?’ Nolan’s look of astonishment was followed by a look of pure devotion.

  Amy nodded. Never, in her whole life, had a man gazed at her like that. ‘It’s just prosthetics,’ she shrugged.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘First you prep the skin with moisturiser. Then you cover the eye with medical masking tape and lay these thin rolls of wax to make the socket.’

  ‘What about the blood and gore?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Hang on, we get to that.’

  ‘And pus?’

  ‘And pus.’

  The car was forgotten. They sat down side by side on the grass verge and talked about horror movies. Somewhere, a bird was singing. Somewhere, a clock struck three. Voices murmured in the garden of Myrtle House; there was a burst of laughter. The high brick wall, however, sealed the two of them off from the ignoramuses. They were alone. The back lane – potholed, weedy, lined with garages in various stages of dilapidation and a few parked cars – was suddenly dear to her. What did she care that her bum was damp? That she had a stomach ache, due to the lavatories being occupied that morning and no chance of a crap? Burrs were stuck to the sleeve of Nolan’s jacket but she didn’t dare do something so intimate as to pick them off.

  At one point his mobile rang. He looked at the name, paused, and clicked it off.

  ‘That was my mum,’ he said. ‘I should talk to her but, know something? I’m not.’ He put the phone in his pocket. ‘She’s on all these meds – sometimes I think it’s her who’s the zombie. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think there’s anything much wrong with her. Thing is, she’s on the internet all day, spooking herself with symptoms. She’s got cancer, she’s got Crohn’s disease – she works herself up into such a state she’s back on the Prozac. To tell the truth, she just needs to get out of the house a bit more.’ He stopped. ‘Why am I telling you this?’

  ‘You got a dad?’

  Nolan shook his head. ‘It’s just the two of us.’

  ‘Maybe she’s frightened. If she got well, you’d leave.’

  Nolan scratched at a scab of mud on his jeans.

  ‘Sorry,’ Amy said. ‘That was out of order.’

  Nolan looked up at her. ‘No, you’re right. I’m twenty-eight.’ There was a silence. She felt him sucked away from her, swallowed into his own imponderable future. She had to haul him back.

  ‘Want to know how to make up a mummy?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ The black caterpillars shot up. ‘I don’t think she’d let me.’

  ‘Not your mummy. A mummy.’

  Nolan burst out laughing. They sat there, slumped against the wall, shaking with laughter. She had set this up; she was quicker than him, she had realised this.

  ‘First you paint the skin with gum. Then you layer on these thin strips of gauze –’

  She stopped. A car roared down the lane. Gravel spurted as it jerked to a halt beside them. It was a black, open-top sports car; in it sat Bella, one of the students, her blonde hair tousled.

  ‘Wow,’ said Nolan. ‘A BMW.’

  Bella switched off the engine, opened the door and swung round her long tanned legs. ‘Am I early?’ she asked.

  Nolan looked at his watch. ‘Blimey, it’s four o’clock.’ He struggled to his feet.

  Bella flashed Amy a smile. ‘Sorry. My turn now.’

  Bella’s family owned half of Wiltshire. No break-up had been involved in her decision to enrol on the course – who could break up with somebody as beautiful as Bella? The reason was that her parents had bought her the BMW for her twenty-first, on condition she learned how to look after it. Amy had overheard this at breakfast, along with a drawling description of the family’s Tuscan hideaway where Bella had spent the summer snorting coke and skinny-dipping in the infinity pool.

  She turned to Nolan. ‘I know fuck all about cars.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ he replied, smoothing down his hair. There was something subservient about the gesture. Amy had already lost him.

  She snapped shut the bonnet of her Punto. It was acned with calcified bird shit. ‘I’ll drive this back to the car park,’ she said.

  Nolan was running his hand along the shiny flank of the BMW with the reverence of a farmer assessing a prize bull. ‘Bet it has plenty of poke,’ he said to Bella.

  Bella adjusted the strap of her sundress, which had slipped off her shoulder. ‘Yah. Last week I drove from Wiltshire to Notting Hill in ninety minutes.’

  Amy inspected her through narrowed eyes. Posh totty, buffed and polished, glowing with entitlement. Too rich to feel the cold in her skimpy retro-frock.

  Amy got into her car and inserted the key. Nolan’s face appeared at the window. ‘Sorry about your lesson,’ he said, squatting on his haunches. ‘Got a bit carried away with all that blood and gore.’

  Amy thought: This is my only power over him. Suddenly she said: ‘Want me to make you up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll do you a make-up, I’ve brought my kit with me. You can have a bullet wound to the head. Or how about a road-crash victim?’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘You kidding me?’

  ‘No.’

  His face broke into a smile. ‘You bet. How about after work tomorrow?’

  Amy had lied. Her make-up kit was in London – why would she bring it to a course on car maintenance? Like many honest people, on the few occasions she blurted out an untruth she did so with total conviction.

  Her heart pounded. What was she going to do – drive back to London to collect it, a round trip of over seven hours? She stood immobile in the car park. A greyhound, its neck tied with a spotted handkerchief, loped past and raised its leg against a motorbike. At this very moment Bella would be moving in for the kill. Amy pictured her bending over the open bonnet, her breasts two shadowy globes. Nolan’s arm was around her shoulder as, heads close, they inspected a gasket. Woozy with petrol fumes, Bella leaned against him . . . Suddenly, cupping her chin with his grimy finger, he turned the ravishing trustafarian’s face to his, their lips blindly seeking each other . . .

  Amy rallied. Don’t be feeble. A man wearing a bobble hat whistled to the greyhound and climbed into a pickup truck. Suddenly she had an idea. One of her colleagues, Ellie, lived in Wales. Somewhere beginning with two Ls; she remembered Ellie chatting about it to Michael Sheen, who came from Port Talbot, while doing his make-up.

  Ten minutes later Amy arrived at the bypass, the only place where those on the Orange network could get a signal. Several of the other guests stood in the lay-by, next to the recyling skips, shouting into their mobiles. Among them was Rosemary, the wind whipping her skirt around her sturdy, pallid legs.

  ‘Don’t be so pathetic, Douggie!’ Rosemary yelled. ‘Just bung it in and switch on the cycle for Wool and Synthetics . . . What? . . . How would I know, I haven’t seen the blithering machine, have I? It’ll have numbers on it, on the front!’ She rolled her eyes at Amy. Men. ‘What? What?’ A lorry thundered past. ‘Course you have to defrost it first, just stick it in the microwave. What? Well, get your little friend to do it, that’s her job now . . . What? . . . I’m not being sarky. And remember it’s Hannah’s birthday on Friday, don’t forget to send her a card. You do know how to stick on a stamp, don’t you?’ There was a crash of glass. ‘I can’t hear you! I’m at the bottle bank, it’s a Transition To
wn, everybody’s bloody at it, bottles flying everywhere, they’re recycling-mad . . . What? You don’t know her address? Your own bloody daughter?’

  Rosemary switched off her mobile and turned to Amy.

  ‘He’s moved into this bedsit, you see,’ she said. ‘He’s as helpless as a kitten. Well, tough titties – he shouldn’t have left, should he? She’s got her own flat but there’s no room for him there, she’s got a child, she doesn’t want him cluttering up the place.’ Eyes glittering with tears, Rosemary shoved the mobile into her handbag. ‘I bet he’s not taking his pills. I used to lay them out for him, you see. His blood pressure’s probably going through the roof.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be the helpless one, can’t work a car, all that. Hence this course. But it’s not me, it’s him, the nincompoop.’

  Rosemary turned away abruptly and strode across the bypass, holding up her hand like a sergeant major and causing an approaching car to slam on its brakes.

  Amy punched in Ellie’s number, praying that she would be at home. Nearby, a bearded man fed newspapers into the mouth of a skip. Some item caught his eye; he pulled out the newspaper and sat down to read it.

  Ellie answered the phone. Yes, she was at home. Yes, Amy could borrow her make-up kit. Amy arranged to drive to Llandeilo the following morning to pick it up. She would have to miss the lesson – Maintaining Your Vehicle’s Bodywork – but too bad.

  Amy walked back along the high street. The church clock struck six. Swallows still swooped in the sky but soon they would be gone. She felt a surge of exhilaration. How chancy it all was; how fragile the moment that might change one’s life! If Ellie had been away on a job . . . if Neville hadn’t spotted a clump of mint growing in her front garden . . . Already she was racing ahead of herself; nothing might come of this – indeed, it probably wouldn’t. And yet she felt flooded with joy, smiling at a pink-haired woman who was locking up the magic crystals shop. Amy strode along the pavement breathing in great lungfuls of the invigorating Welsh air. Even her stomach ache was gone.

  At dinner Rosemary, eyes puffy from crying, was knocking back the wine. She said that a man had tried to pick her up when she was standing at the bypass, talking on her mobile. ‘So thrilling – at my age, too. He stopped his van and asked me how much I charged.’ She gave a shrill laugh. ‘They obviously like the older, more experienced woman here.’

  Voda, who was collecting the plates, asked: ‘What sort of van?’

  ‘Blue, covered in rust.’

  ‘Thought so.’ Voda nodded, her earrings swinging. ‘That’ll be Gareth. He’s got brain damage from sniffing the paraffin.’

  Rosemary put down her glass. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said.

  Nolan

  Something had been unleashed in Nolan. He had never talked about his mother like that – certainly not with his mates. They talked about cars and motorbikes and getting stoned on the various illegal substances that were swilling around the council estates of Knockton and the badlands up in the hills. They used to talk about girls, of course, but various pregnancies, and the ensuing shackled domesticity, had put paid to that. The erstwhile hellraisers could now be seen at the playground, acne still inflaming their cheeks, smoking a furtive cigarette while their toddlers ran amok.

  No, mates didn’t talk like that. But then this girl appears out of the blue and suddenly the words pour out of his mouth. Until that moment Nolan hadn’t even known the words existed. Was that because Amy had spoken the truth? If she got well, you’d leave. Now he thought about it, several of his romances had been sabotaged by some medical or emotional crisis in Shirley’s life. He remembered a cancer scare putting the kibosh on a weekend in Aberystwyth with Cath. He had gone out with Cath for six months; to celebrate, she had booked them into a fancy hotel in Aberystwyth – en suite jacuzzi, the works. Instead, he’d had to drive his mother on a mercy dash to Hereford hospital where a contemptuous nurse had diagnosed a mild case of vaginal warts. The ensuing row with Cath – she accusing him of being a mother’s boy, he accusing her of being hard-hearted, she demanding he pay the lost deposit, he accusing her of meanness, she accusing him of being a loser, him accusing her of kicking him when he was down, he was busting himself to find a job . . . even now he shuddered to think about it. And a year later she got married to his best mate.

  It was six o’clock; work was over for the day. Nolan stood at the kitchen sink, washing his hands with Swarfega. Outside, swallows swooped low over the rooftops. He was exhausted. Teaching was harder work than he had imagined; the trouble was, none of the students had a clue. To them, a car was simply something that got them from A to B. They seemed to have no curiosity at all about what went on under the bonnet. Of course they made polite noises, they were by and large a pleasant bunch, but some of them had already drifted off to join a rival group making jewellery. He had seen them in the garden, heads bent over their work, chattering away as if released from prison. One of them had come over and touched his arm. ‘It’s no reflection on you, honestly. It’s just that we’ve realised why we weren’t interested in the first place.’

  There had been no sign of Amy all morning. He had scanned the necklace-makers, of course, but he hadn’t expected to see her there – he had never met a girl who took so little interest in her appearance. This was something of a surprise, considering her job; perhaps all her efforts went into making other people beautiful. In fact, she wasn’t bad-looking – a round, merry face; freckles; flyaway reddish hair cut into a fringe. But she dressed like a tomboy in jeans and T-shirt, her feet grubby in flip-flops. This was a relief; he didn’t have to make an effort. If he had a gang, which he didn’t any more, she would be an honorary member.

  Suddenly Nolan was weak with a longing for his youth, when things were simple, when his mother danced with him around the kitchen. When he had a gang, as hopeful as himself. When anything was possible – he would be a Formula One driver, he would take the world by storm. He would walk tall; men would look up when he entered the pub.

  Now, as he pulled off the kitchen towel, he thought: How can I be a grown man when there’s no world for me to be a grown man in? Just now he had a job, just for a week, and then what?

  It was a brief moment. Nolan was an optimist, he mustn’t think these thoughts. He dried his hands. Amy was due at his house at six thirty. As luck would have it, his mother Shirley had gone out for the evening. She had an appointment with an aromatherapist in Leominster, and was then meeting her sister for a curry. But would Amy turn up? Maybe she had been summoned by a famous film star! I’m not going in front of the cameras unless Amy does my make-up. Call the girl here! At this very moment Amy was bowling back to London, her engine overheating due to that familiar Punto problem, a blocked rad – a problem he had meant to address before he was diverted by talk of horror movies. And then Miss Long Legs had arrived in her BMW and it was too late.

  At that moment the doorbell rang.

  Shirley

  Shirley was already in a bad mood by the time they arrived at the Jalalabad. During the massage she had listened to her sister, in the next cubicle, boasting about her children’s achievements at school. Julia had then gone on to talk about her relationship with her husband, how they were still besotted with each other after twenty years of marriage, how he had bought her a set of Ann Summers underwear for her birthday. Her voice had sunk to a whisper, then she and the aromatherapist had burst into giggles.

  And now they were sitting at a table opening their menus, she and Julia – Julia the slim sister, the pretty sister, the sister who still had great sex with her husband, the sister tanned from her holiday in Thailand. When Julia dropped her napkin, two waiters dived for the floor.

  Shirley ordered three poppadoms for herself, for starters.

  Julia raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure you should?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  It esca
lated from there. They were sisters; they knew each other’s raw spots. Soon they were hissing at each other across the table, ignoring the waiter who was hovering nearby, ignoring the glances of the other diners. Later, Shirley couldn’t remember the breaking point; it would be one of three or four, they were always the same. All she remembered was pushing back her chair and saying ‘I don’t need this.’

  She got up with a stagy flourish, a toss of her head – an actress, just for a moment – and stalked out into the street.

  Driving home, seething, her stomach rumbling with hunger, Shirley thought: Serve her right if I crash! See her face then! It was only seven thirty but already dark. She opened the glovebox with one hand and rummaged around; as she suspected, she found nothing but wrappers. Panic rose in her throat but she told herself to calm down. Soon she would be home and Nolan would give her a hug. All the pent-up tears would come tumbling out; Nolan would understand, he was on her side, he hated that stuck-up bitch too, he would defend his mother to the death. They would get stuff from the freezer – chicken tikka, rogan josh – stick it in the microwave and have their own Indian meal. She’d been mad to visit her sister, it always ended in tears. In fact she’d been mad to go out at all – what was the point when she had everything she needed at home? Besides, she never had anything to wear.

  Shirley pulled up outside her house and switched off the engine. A profound feeling of relief spread through her. Lights glowed through the lounge curtains. Nolan was home. How surprised he would be, to see her back so early!

  She walked up the path and let herself into the house. A murmur of voices came from the lounge. Opening the door, she peered in.

  A young woman was bent over Nolan. He sat slumped in the armchair, his head flung back. His face was covered in blood.

  Shirley screamed.

  ‘Hi, Ma.’ Nolan sat up. His cheeks were crusted with gore; one eye hung down his cheek.

  Shirley screamed again. A sharp pain shot across her chest and she fell onto the floor.

  Buffy

  Buffy gazed fondly at his guests as they sat down to dinner. Several of them wore their new earrings; they glinted in the candlelight. Day two and things were going swimmingly. Who cared if some of them had abandoned car maintenance and taken up jewellery-making instead? Anything to keep them happy and Nolan hadn’t seemed to mind. If Buffy had learned anything in life, it was that nothing goes according to plan.