by S. E. Lynes
I opened the door and stepped out.
“Hi there,” I called across to her as she got out of the car.
She blew a kiss and waved – like celebrities do on the red carpet – and emerged from behind the car. She was wearing a white woollen coat I hadn’t seen before with high spike-heeled boots. Here on my driveway stood a woman who would not have looked out of place at a law firm cocktail party or an elegant dinner in the world of high finance.
I looked down at my tartan slippers, covered in crusted baby food, at my apron, spattered with sauce. Thank God I’d thought to have a shower while Isla had her nap. At least I was clean. What kind of boast that was, I don’t know. I reached behind me to untie my apron but found I couldn’t unpick the knot. She was opening the back door of the car, pulling out a bunch of flowers from the seat.
She sashayed – she could do this, even on gravel – toward the gate, pushed through, kicked it shut behind her. She shook back her hair. It was super straight, shining with a high gloss even in the falling light. As she came forward, I could see she’d put on lipstick, the same colour as her hair, setting off her polished appearance to a kind of dusky, autumnal perfection. Yoga girl, high-polished executive: she had, I realised, a chameleon-like quality.
“Hey, babe.” She kissed me on the cheek and handed me the flowers: three exotic, bird-like plants, bright, spiked heads like cock’s combs. “These are for you.” She bowled into the house.
I closed the door against the cold night. “Let me take your coat.”
But she had already taken it off and was hanging it on the hook. She smiled and walked across my path, into the living room.
“Oh, you’ve lit a fire, how lovely.”
I made my way back to the kitchen, laid the flowers on the counter and began to wash the last few pots in the sink. I should have offered her a drink but irritation had taken hold of me and, if I’m honest, powerlessness had made me resort to this pettiness: not offering her a drink yet. She was so early. Why? And why come at all when her husband was so sick he couldn’t make it? Under the same circumstances I would never have come. I wouldn’t have wanted to leave Mikey alone when he was ill. Valentina must, I realised, have been nothing short of desperate to come ... here, to this wee house in the middle of nowhere, for what? We weren’t exactly the bright lights, Mikey and I, the big ticket, and yet here she was. Since I’d met her, I’d thought I needed her friendship more than she needed mine but that night I thought: maybe not.
She came to stand next to me at the sink, put her arm around me and kissed me on the cheek. I could see us both reflected in the black window: her, taller in high heels; me, a dwarf, in slippers. I moved away, went to get the nibbles, came back with bowls, a packet of nuts and a bag of crisps.
She was leaning back against the counter, her rather formal black dress opaque and fitted, showing off her yoga teacher’s body every bit as much as her swimming costume did. I turned back to my task, tried not to notice that I was sucking in my stomach, tried not to admit to myself how pathetic that was.
“I hope I’ve got a vase big enough for those lovely flowers,” I said, pouring out the nuts. “They look like they’ve been carved from wood. What are they, by the way, they’re beautiful.” And expensive, I thought but didn’t say.
“African lilies,” she said, turning to open the glassware cupboard, reaching out two flutes. “There’s a spectacular florist off my road. I always ask for Rachel. She gets whatever I want for me.” She pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her face and winked. “Can I do anything?”
“There’s a couple of bottles of fizz in the fridge. You could open one of those.”
“Now there’s a job I can do.” Her delivery dripped with suggestion, and it made me smile the way your naughtiest friends do sometimes. I couldn’t help but watch her as she strode over to the fridge and flung it open – she had the unapologetic bodily confidence of an actor and my God her stomach was as flat as a chopping board. “Shall I bring these olives out too? Oh look, you’ve done little rolls of – is that Parma ham? God, I love Parma ham, yum.”
“It’s bresaola, actually,” I said. “It’s got rocket and Parmesan inside. Just a recipe I found.”
Black against the white light of the fridge, Valentina tipped back her head, pinched a roll from the plate and lowered it whole into her open, waiting mouth. She closed her eyes and gave an indecent groan. “God. That. Is. So. Good.” She swallowed, opened her eyes. “Where’s Michael? Not had another heart attack has he?”
“Mikey? He’s upstairs. He’s settling Isla.”
She nodded. “What a gem. I left Red rocking Zac in his car seat in front of the television.”
I was staring at her, I realised, at her dress, her lipstick, her hair. “You’re very ... poshed up,” I said and turned away, embarrassed. “You don’t look like you.”
She looked down at herself, threw out her hands as if to apologise.
“Sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong. You look lovely. I mean, I’m only worried the food won’t measure up to your expectations. It’s a glorified stew really. And I haven’t even made pudding, I’ve only got some supermarket ice cream.”
“Listen.” She swaggered towards me, twisted the cork out of the Prosecco with a pop and began to pour. “I am sick of spending my whole time in a yoga kit or in clothes covered in food, sick, snot, you name it. I saw this dress in the wardrobe tonight – it must be a couple of years since I’ve worn it and I thought fuck it, you know? I’m wearing that sucker.”
“Well, I’m sure Mikey will be impressed.”
She handed me a glass, tapped her own against mine. In her eyes, something flickered. “Men never notice this shit, Shona. It’s women. We notice each other. We appreciate each other, don’t we? If I’ve worn it for anyone, I’ve worn it for you, babe.” She leant forward, kissed me again on the cheek. It was not quite a peck – something slower, more purposeful.
“Well, I feel like a total scruff.” I stepped back, a little flustered.
A creak from the stairs. Mikey. He appeared then in the hallway, seemed to aim his smile at me, only at me, like a secret gift. The roots of my hair tingled.
“Girls,” he said, striding across the open hallway to us. I could smell the citrus eau de toilette he hardly ever bothered wearing. His slick, black hair was pushed back from his face, he’d changed into dark jeans and a dark sweater which suited him and, when he squeezed my shoulder and kissed me briefly on the mouth, I felt a rush of inappropriate and rather ill-timed lust.
He turned to Valentina and air-kissed her on both cheeks. “Pleased to meet you properly.”
“Nice to see you on your feet, Michael,” she drawled.
He stood back, clapped his hands, asked “So what were you girls gossiping about?” He was grinning, a little hyper, I thought. Valentina and I were both looking at him, holding our sparkling wine as if we were at a private viewing, Michael, the work of art, looking back at us with a kind of proprietorial satisfaction, as if we were the ones for sale, not him.
“This time you get to meet Valentina properly,” I said, realising as the words left my mouth that Mikey had just said that.
“Oh I don’t know,” she said, fixing Mikey with a stare. “I think Michael’s was the mother of all icebreakers.”
“Call him Mikey,” I said. “You know us well enough now. No one ever calls him Michael.”
“Really?” She moved back to the glass cupboard and searched out another glass, quite at home. “I like Michael.” She held up the bottle of Prosecco and looked intently at him. “Or would you prefer beer?”
“Don’t call me beer, that’s a terrible name.” He leant against the countertop and crossed his feet, making no move to get it himself.
Valentina laughed, heading already for the fridge. “Very drole.”
Mikey laughed after her. My God, they were both as bad as each other – two incorrigible flirts, met their match.
“Sorry,” he said, wat
ching her dip her face to the light of the fridge. “Beer’s great. Thanks.”
“I can only apologise for my husband,” I joked while she pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. She strutted back, opened the bottle and handed it over. She didn’t ask if he wanted a glass. Not that he would ever drink bottled beer from a glass but that wasn’t the point. He might have wanted one. It was only then that I had to fight a flash of irritation at her – what? Over-familiarity, I suppose. I found it fake – this, hey let me get you a beer, mate. We’re all too relaxed for glasses, mate. G’day. Ripper.
“Shona.” Valentina had returned to my side and was bending close so she could murmur into my ear. “Why don’t you tell me what you need doing and I’ll do it while you go and do whatever you need to do, eh?” She held up her palm. “Not that you need to do anything, you look cute as you are.”
It was a kind offer, one I didn’t want to refuse. If I could splash my face, I thought, I would be all right – better anyway than this ridiculous, fraught woman I seemed to have become.
“That would be great actually,” I said. “The table needs setting but don’t let him charm you into doing it all. He knows where most of the stuff is. Although you probably know better.”
“Off you go.” She kissed me, again, on the cheek, her hand light on my waist.
I made to go.
“Stop,” she said, catching me by the arm. She refilled my glass, to the top. Above it, bubbles winked and vanished.
I headed up the stairs.
“Now then, Mikey,” I heard her say behind me. “Shona reckons you’ll charm me into setting the table.”
FOURTEEN
I went into the bedroom, shut the door and leant against it. My intention had been to change but instead I threw myself onto the bed and, for some reason, found myself blinking back tears. I jumped up, shook my hands in front of me, as if scalded. Dry your eyes, Shona. Dry them right now. Change your clothes. Get a life.
I slid open the wardrobe door and drained half the glass of Prosecco. Less than two glasses and already I was feeling it. What would my pals at work say? Girl fae Govan gone soft. Jeanie would be horrified.
Three or four minutes later, I was still rooted to the spot, still staring at my clothes. No matter how many times I closed and reopened the door, nothing new materialised. I hadn’t bought anything in ... could it be a year? I couldn’t remember, nor could I have said in that moment what I even liked. What suited me? Pass.
I pulled on some black jeans and, at the sight of the slack fold of post-childbirth belly pooling over the top, downed the rest of the fizz. My head spun. My belly was no longer my own. It had never been a washboard but now it had mutated into an amorphous, off-white, porridge-like mass.
The sound of laughter came from the kitchen. At least they were getting on – no awkward silences.
I dug through the wardrobe and found a loose top that was at least a bit shiny. It was the best I could do. Not like I shop in Dolce & Gabbana. Maybe, I thought now, maybe I should buy something new from time to time. What virtue could there possibly be in feeling like this?
At my dressing table, I applied a little kohl to my puffy eyes, some red lipstick I’d had since I was a student, which I then wiped off since it made me look like a corpse. I decided I looked as all right as I could, that, once I was sleeping all night again, I would look more like I used to, more like myself.
Reflected in the mirror behind me, the bed looked so white and so soft. Downstairs, those two were getting on fine – they would hardly notice if I closed my eyes for ten minutes. Fearing I might never get up again, I didn’t lie on the bed but I did sit on the edge and close my eyes. I could leave them to it, I thought in that moment of sheer exhaustion, I could stay here and not have to serve any food, not have to make conversation, not have to make any kind of effort at all. I could float away, into oblivion. I could pop, into nothingness, like a bubble from a glass of fizz ...
“Hey.”
I opened my eyes. Valentina was leaning against the bedroom door.
I felt my cheeks flush. “I was just coming.”
“You look lovely.”
“I don’t.”
“You do, don’t be silly.” She had brought the bottle up with her. She poured me another glass, sat down next to me on the bed.
“I’m drunk already,” I said.
“That’s impossible.”
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Ah. Maybe you are a bit drunk. But that’s good isn’t it? No point drinking if it doesn’t make any difference, right?” She put her arm around me. “Michael, sorry, Mikey’s adorable! Got yourself a keeper there, mate.”
“Thanks.”
“Better than my loser layabout. About time I traded him in.”
“Really?” I said but she was standing up, holding out her hand to pull me up from the bed as I had done for her the first time we met.
“Shall we head down? Don’t want to keep the master waiting.”
“Sure.”
I let her guide me out onto the landing where I stopped and took another drink. A faint headache had started but I ignored it. Drinking was a bad idea. But drink was what I wanted. I wanted, I decided, to be drunk.
Valentina moved so quickly that by the time I reached the kitchen she had already settled herself at the little table beside Mikey.
“We decided there was no point setting up in the dining room,” she said, shaking the empty bottle at Mikey, who wordlessly made his way to the fridge for another. “Besides, it’s super cosy in here.” She wrinkled her nose, patted the chair next to her.
I had planned to eat in the dining room. But what did it matter? What did any of it matter? Who cared where we ate?
“Let me get the food,” I said, stumbling, righting myself. “I need to eat something.”
We ate. I had no idea whether it tasted all right or not, as if my taste for food had disappeared along with my taste for clothes. Did I even have an opinion on anything any more?
“This is delicious, Shona,” said Valentina, turning then to Mikey. “She is amazing, your wife, isn’t she?”
“Actually we’re not married,” I said. “Not officially.”
“So you can still escape?” She laughed and stroked my arm. I sensed she was pulling me somehow into a conspiracy, two against one.
“I don’t want to escape,” I replied, reaching across the table for Mikey’s hand. “What’s a piece of paper anyway? It’s not about ownership. Love isn’t possession, is it?”
“Shona tells me you teach yoga,” said Mikey, raising my hand to his lips, kissing my fingertips then, on glancing at Valentina, laying my hand back on the table, letting go. He was right – we shouldn’t flaunt our happiness in front of her.
“That’s right,” Valentina was saying. “Salute the sun and all that bollocks.”
“Can you do the lotus position?” Mikey was grinning now, flirting again. I would tease him about it later.
“Not in this dress.” She returned his grin. “And you work offshore, I believe.”
“I do.”
“Which platform?”
He laughed and took a slug of wine. “Now, now, Valentina. Don’t even pretend you’re interested. I think we should move on to red.” He stood up. I realised the second bottle of fizz was empty, that Mikey had already brought the red along with three larger glasses, and that he was pouring wine into these glasses. I finished my Prosecco, knew I was drunk but that I could get much drunker.
“What I bet you would be interested in,” said Mikey to Valentina as he sat back down, “is how many terms for masturbation there are on an oil rig.”
“Mikey!” I almost spat the rest of the fizz across the table. “I am so sorry, Val,” I said, turning to her then back to Mikey, who was tittering into the back of his hand. “Behave, will you?”
But Valentina was laughing hard, a real guttural sound, almost a man’s laugh. “And you’d be right. That is much more interesting.”
We had coffee in the lounge. Mikey made it, brought it to us on a tray. I must have lit the fire. I know I laid it sometime in the afternoon and that the next day, when I woke up, it was burnt out but I can’t remember being in its warmth, can’t remember seeing it. The heat must have sent me to sleep before I touched my coffee cup. I woke up later, thirsty. I was in my bed, in the dark, Mikey’s fingers tracing their way up my belly.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Late.”
“Where’s Valentina?”
“I called her a taxi. She’d had too much to drink. She’s gone.”
“Oh dear. Oh no. I feel so rude.”
“Not as rude as I feel.” He pulled back my bra, ran his thumb over my nipple. It hardened, sent electrical currents down the length of me. I was still wearing my clothes, I realised, only because he was pulling them from me. I arched my back to help him, dipped my head as he drew away my top with the flourish of a conjuror. Slowly, he planted kisses over my belly, working his way down, taking possession. I ran my hands through his soft hair. He kissed – lower, lower, slid my underwear down, let his fingers trail over my skin. Lips to my thighs, his hands slid beneath my buttocks, raising me up. I scrabbled to get a grip on the pillows, on the bedstead and, for the briefest moment, opened my eyes. In the doorway, Valentina was watching, expressionless. I blinked. She was gone.
Light filtered blue through the curtain fabric, the clank of the radiators warming, stuffy air. I rolled onto my side. No Mikey on the other pillow. Was he offshore? No, he wasn’t offshore, of course he wasn’t. The dinner last night. Valentina. The drink. Oh God, the drink. The tang of stale alcohol, my tongue paper in my mouth. How much did I have? Too much, yes, but still ... enough to feel like this?
In slow deliberate centimetres I struggled into a sitting position, arms aching with the effort. My head spun, a wave of nausea washed over me, so strong I had to lie down again.
