‘We’ve gone past ourselves,’ she said.
‘Overdone it by a mile.’
‘A kilometre, maybe. Multiply by five and divide by eight.’
There was silence for a long time. Still lying flat Gerry undid the laces of his shoes and toed them off. They clunked onto the floor.
‘Would you look at what these socks have done to me.’
For going away, along with the black pyjamas, Stella had bought him a pack of three pairs of socks to match his shoe size. What she hadn’t paid attention to was the elasticated top. Normally he insisted on loose ones.
‘I’m trying to think of a word,’ he said, screwing up his face. ‘Oedematous.’ He was fumbling at the pale skin beneath his trouser leg. ‘It’s these bloody socks. Leg liquid increases. And it swells – after a hard day’s Art. My socks are leaving Guinness rings on my legs.’ His hand was massaging the ridges. ‘Want to feel?’
‘I can forgo it for the moment. Maybe later.’
He stared at her and said, ‘Later they might be gone.’
‘I’ll be disappointed then.’
‘They’ve made egg-timers of my legs. Look at the way they’ve nipped me.’
She glanced over at the bed and saw what he meant.
‘Don’t blame the socks – it’s you. Your skin’s gone spongiform – you poor thing . . .’ she made a clucking kind of noise with her mouth. ‘Where should we go tonight?’
‘And they itch.’
‘Don’t scratch. It only makes things worse.’
‘Hmmmm?’ He had his eyes closed and was raking his ankles with the pads of his fingertips. He was making little moans of pleasure. ‘The only thing that feels better than this is . . . You know you shouldn’t but when you give in . . . ohhh, when you give in.’
Gerry raised both hands away from the area of temptation and clenched his fists. He stayed like that for a while then said, ‘I liked the sound of that place – the one that said it was good for robust stews. Washed down with a robust bottle of wine or two.’
‘Stop – you’ll draw blood.’
‘I’m not using my nails.’
He held up his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He reached out and touched her. Like the husband in The Jewish Bride.
They made love. Afterwards it began to get dark and Stella switched on the bedside light. The room was warm. Gerry put his arm around her.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘still on the elasticity of skin. Look at the depression your watch leaves.’
‘It’d take the best part of a week for that to disappear – looks like a moon crater.’
Gerry reached out to his side of the bed and began to strap on his watch, embed it in exactly the same depression on his wrist.
‘Now you’ve seen the evidence of my sub-watch hirsutism.’
‘Why do you take your watch off?’
‘Habit,’ he said. ‘So’s not to hurt you. Maybe a scratch . . . The same reason footballers aren’t allowed to wear jewellery.’
‘I didn’t know you cared so much.’
‘I would not beteem the winds of heaven to visit your face too roughly. Or some such.’
‘You know what I love about this?’ She was staring at the ceiling. ‘Not having to think of what’s for the dinner.’
‘You flatter me too much, methinks, m’lady.’ They both smiled.
‘You know what I like, being away?’ said Gerry.
‘What?’
‘You don’t have to remember anyone’s name.’
‘As long as you remember mine.’
There was a long silence.
‘I’m trying my best.’
Stella gave his bare shoulder a slap.
He joined his hands behind his head and propped himself higher on the pillow.
‘I love those guys who give you their name. In conversation. They make themselves a character in their own stories. “And he said to me – says he – Ronnie, don’t be such a fool – take it while it’s going.” And I say “Ronnie, I know what you’re talking about.” As if I knew his name all the time.’
‘Sneaky,’ said Stella.
‘What’ll happen when . . . this stops?’
‘What?’
‘This.’
‘Then there’ll be no more.’ She smiled.
‘I’m not looking forward to that,’ he said. ‘What’ll be the point?’
‘What was the point before sex came along?’
‘I can’t remember a time like that.’
‘When you were eight or nine? Did you not think life was great then?’
‘I think I felt sexy even then. Women undressing on the beach – Irish Catholic towel writhing.’
‘That’s just curiosity – not sex. For a boy with no sisters.’
‘Say what you like. I was interested. A sneeze’ll be the most physical pleasure I’ll get from now on.’
‘Wait,’ said Stella, ‘if some force was to come along and say – you have to live your life all over again – except that this time you are a eunuch. Would you opt for that?’
‘With some reluctance.’
‘So sex is not the be-all and end-all? There are other things.’
Stella went into the bathroom.
‘The way I feel at the moment I could stay in tonight. Do my crossword.’ She raised her voice so’s she could be heard. ‘But a robust stew has its attractions. Followed by lemon cheesecake. Have you an opinion on this matter?’
She dried her hands and came out. On the bed Gerry had begun snoring.
‘Your fallback position – Gerry – is, in every instance, to fall back.’
Gerry woke. It was dark even though the curtains were open. The only light was a tangerine diagonal on the bed from the sodium lamp outside. Stella, wearing a dressing gown, was in the armchair sound asleep. The novel she’d been reading had slipped to one side and she was curled upright like a prawn. Gerry swung off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. He padded quietly to the sideboard, dipped into the plastic carrier bag, found the neck of the whiskey bottle and lifted it up to the orange light source. Replacements were required as a priority. He’d overdone it. There was enough left to do tonight but tomorrow had to be planned for. If only he’d thought the thing through. With Stella out and about on her own that morning at the Beguine place he could have found a shop, purchased a half-bottle of any variety of whiskey – Scotch, even – and had it back to the hotel and into the bottle and the half-bottle disposed of in the rubbish bin before you could say clang! Nice as ninepins. There was a stainless steel bin between the two lifts. But oh no – he’d never thought. Never planned ahead. Storyboarding ability – nil. He’d been too taken up with where Stella was and who she’d run off with.
Without taking the bottle from the bag he removed the screw top and poured a good dram into one of two clean glasses on the tray. As quietly as possible he screwed the cap back on and tiptoed to the bathroom. He closed the door and switched on the light. As he filled the glass with water directly from the tap he looked up and saw himself naked in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. Sly bastard. The water formed a flat film of silvery white on the surface of the drink. To avoid this phenomenon the water should have been rested. Give it time to sit. To de-fizz. He drank the glass of whiskey halfway down, then put on the white towelling hotel robe. The stuff of it was soft against his skin. He tried to avoid the mirror. A shower would be a good thing. He carried his drink to the bedside table and set it on a folded tissue to avoid the click which might have wakened Stella with a start. At the same time he switched on his bedside light. Clothes all over the place. He ignored them and sat down. If she woke he could call it a reviving drink. Something to uplift his flagging spirits. Just a very tiny one. Because we’re on our holidays. But she remained poleaxed, her head jerking up and then slowly sinking down again. The whiskey relaxed him. He drained what was left in the glass. At this time of the day it was enough. He got out of the chair, went to the bathroom and washed the glass out
, dried it with a tissue. Then brushed his teeth with minty Sensodyne. He upended the cleaned glass on the paper doily, where the maid had set it when she’d serviced the room earlier.
She woke with a start and stared at him as if he was a stranger.
‘So?’ she said. She exaggeratedly widened her eyes, then rubbed her face with both hands. ‘I’ll not sleep tonight. Too many naps in the one day. Must be the change of air.’
‘What’s the storyboard?’
‘For this evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time is it?’
‘I think it’s time for a robust stew,’ said Gerry, ‘but first a shower.’
‘Give me a minute.’
Stella rose and went into the bathroom.
When the toilet flushed Gerry shouted loudly, ‘I think I’ll have a little drinkypoo – a touch of luxury.’
She opened the door and came out drying her hands.
‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear with the flush.’
‘I’m having a drink.’ He held up the glass to her in a toasting motion, ‘To make me feel like Frank Sinatra.’
He waltzed past her into the bathroom and diluted the whiskey straight from the cold tap. Again the silvery milk-like surface. He came out and took the armchair and sipped his drink.
‘The first of the day,’ he said. Stella was tidying the room, lifting clothes and shoes and newspapers and magazines off the floor.
‘Except for the wine at lunchtime.’
‘Wine doesn’t count. Like gin and tonic. Soft drinks all.’
‘Get me the News,’ said Stella. ‘Preferably in English.’
She threw him the remote control. He found the BBC channel.
‘I hate the way they’ve succumbed to that ticker tape streeling across the screen. Coat-trailing.’ Stella settled herself, sitting on the bed.
He threw the remote to her. ‘Another thing copied shamelessly from the Americans. The mute button is two from the top.’
He went into the bathroom carrying his drink.
‘Fly me to the moon,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Just don’t sing it.’
He closed the door and sat down on the toilet. It was fractionally lower than at home, which meant that he panicked in the last few millimetres of his descent. Out of control. His knees were more bent. Nearer the floor, he was. He drank off his whiskey and half turned and set the empty glass on the cistern. When he finished he stood and flushed, whipped back the shower curtain. The tap ran, cold at first, then he mixed in the hot. When it was a perfect temperature he pushed down the plunger and the water hissed down from the shower head.
He took off the dressing gown and hung it on the back of the door. Gingerly he stepped into the bath, holding onto the metal handles. For a long time he stood letting the water pummel the top of his head. Then he lathered his hair with shampoo from a replaced hotel miniature. Stuff he detested, it was so heavily scented. The perfume equivalent of Mantovani’s cascading violins. Totally ineffective against dandruff. He opened a replaced miniature of conditioner and set it on the rim of the bath ready for use. Partners. Salt and pepper shakers. Oil and vinegar. Shampoo and conditioner. Gerry and Stella. He was just turning and stooping to pick up the conditioner bottle . . . and there was nothing. It began because there was nothing. A swipe in the air. When there should have been something. Some purchase. Nothing except pure air. Flying to the moon. When one strong magnet is aimed at another they refuse, they skid off each other. No contact. No purchase. Frictionless railways have been based on this principle. They bounce away. Like his heel and the enamel surface. Like his wife and himself, skidding off each other. YA FUCKIN BASTARD. Not touching as much as he would like. Down. Not touching at all – even in the slightest. HOLY FUCK. I’m going down. How many promontories, bone ends, cartilaginous dislocations will be broken, damaged, bounced off hard enamel. What was the line about Jupiter and Mars? So many pounds plunging in record time. In the blink of an eye. Vivid in the mind as a road crash. Like losing your virginity. Contact has been made. A gonging sound. That was it. A gong shower. He’d seen such a thing. Bony contact. When the realisation was fully on him he roared. Whether it was on the way down or when he hit the enamel he wasn’t sure. But he was there, the right way round with the water from the shower hissing onto his feet, his jaw throbbing, his knees and thighs reddening. His cock askew at ten past two.
‘STELLA!’ he yelled above the noise of the shower.
In the distance, ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve fallen.’ She burst open the door and came running to the bath and half screeched, laughing at the sight. He just lay there stunned, his heart pounding. Hammering.
‘Are you all right?’
He reached out and checked each limb. Sought out his coccyx. It seemed okay. The water was slicking the hairs on his legs into straight lines. Stella turned off the shower and suddenly it was easier to hear.
‘No laughing matter. I could be dead and gone.’
‘But you’re not,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
He pulled himself up into a sitting position, moved, felt no pain. Nothing broken.
‘I’m okay.’ She was laughing. ‘No thanks to you. I’m going to sue this place. Where’s their rubber mat? Every bath should have a rubber mat. For the elderly.’
‘But you deny you’re elderly.’ She took a white folded towel from the rack and opened it to him. He gripped her hand through the dry surface of towelling and she raised him to his feet. He clung to the stainless steel handles and hoisted himself over the side of the bath, groaning.
‘Steady. Watch yourself,’ said Stella. He stepped onto the bathmat. She enveloped him in the towel. ‘You’re shaking.’ She led him into the bedroom. ‘Here, lie down.’
‘Could ruin the holiday, that kind of thing,’ said Gerry.
‘Are you okay? No pains?’
‘Lucky – no breakages – just sheer luck.’
‘Maybe we should stay in.’
‘I’m all right. Nothing a robust stew wouldn’t cure. With a robust bottle of wine.’ He began drying his hair.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It was just nerves.’
Gerry lapped the towel around his middle like a skirt and inched up onto the bed. He lay back on the pillow.
‘It’s a kinda crucial event.’
‘What?’
‘The first time you fall in the shower.’
‘Don’t go morose on me, Gerry.’
‘The next header is into the grave.’
The lift door slid shut and, being alone, they kissed. A peck. On the mouth. Gerry wore a raincoat and his navy scarf – she, a mustard jacket with a faux fur collar. He frowned and preened a little in the mirror.
‘My hair’s sticking out.’ He tried to claw it down into place. ‘In the panic, I forgot.’
‘Forgot what?’
‘Conditioner.’
‘The paparazzi will know. It’ll be all over the papers in the morning.’
‘And my sore chin.’
‘We’ll discuss it during Ailment Hour. Oh, I forget to say – the day before we left I met a woman in the bank and I was telling her about Ailment Hour. She said she and her husband did exactly the same thing only they call it the organ recital.’
‘I like that.’ Gerry laughed. ‘Organ recital is good.’
It was dark and he still felt a little staggery going down the hotel steps. He steadied himself on the handrail and immediately felt it sticky.
‘Ahhhhh shit.’ It had been painted black. He untacked his hand and looked at it. Blackened fingers and a huge black mark on his palm. Like some kind of police fingerprint procedure showing whorls and loops and creases. He held up his hand to Stella. It was only then he saw the warning sign chalked on the steps. PAS GEVERFD. Presumably ‘wet paint’. The warning plastic tape drooped uselessly to the ground. The girl on duty at the desk seemed momentarily confused when he held up his blackened hand to her as if taking an o
ath. Or was it a high-five gesture?
‘Paint remover? Or any margarine?’ How on earth would she know what margarine was? And if she did know, would she have the faintest notion of its ability to remove gloss paint? She phoned the maintenance people while he washed his hands in the bathroom across the hall from the desk. Again and again soaping and wiping with paper towels, sniffing at the marks to see if they had diminished. But it was no use. It was still there and tacky to the touch.
Stella had come in through the revolving doors, out of the cold. She stood to one side of the lobby as if the problem had nothing to do with her. Gerry was now leaning on the marble counter, waiting.
It was nearly five minutes before the maintenance man arrived with a rag and a plastic bottle of white spirit. The outside of the bottle was splashed and stippled with different-coloured paints. Gerry looked at it – smelled the whiff of it from where he stood. The thought of going out to eat, reeking of this stuff, did not appeal. He didn’t want to offend the guy so he took the bottle and went into the bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror he unscrewed the top. If he used this it would linger on his hands all night – like the way smoked fish lingers. Worse than that. No, thank you. He screwed the top back on the bottle and washed his hands, trying to rid them of the smell of even handling it. He held the bottle in a tissue and returned it to the guy. When he joined Stella and they walked out onto the street he apologised for not taking her by the hand.
‘I’m still tacky,’ he said.
‘You always were.’
She hooked onto his arm and they walked slowly, close enough to try to keep warm. The pavements looked like they were beginning to freeze – areas of grey sparkle – and shops exhaled warmth, creating a small local fog outside each doorway.
‘This is not my night,’ said Gerry. ‘A black mark. Hands stinking of paint thinners, grey hair all over the place, bruised chin, slight limp.’
‘Och, God help you.’
Midwinter Break Page 9
