The guilt I feel is instant when I take the bottle of perfume from him. Leaning forward, I give him a peck him on the cheek.
“Very thoughtful, Keith, thank you.”
An uncomfortable silence slips between us, and I get the feeling Keith is waiting for me to say or do something else. Perhaps he wanted more than a peck on the cheek? Well you’re not getting more than that matey.
“Er... you should have waited at the house. I wouldn’t have minded. You could have got yourself a cup of tea or something.” I know he does sometimes; I only use the old spoons for tea making, and the better ones have now got pale tannin stains on them.
Keith shuffles his feet and looks over his shoulder as if checking that nobody is standing there. “I don’t think Kerry likes me.”
“Well, she only moved in a week ago. Give it time, eh? She doesn’t know you like I do. Anyway, don’t sweat it, Kerry hates all men.”
“Today, when I came round to walk Sukie, she wasn’t at work.”
“No, she phoned in sick with a migraine.”
“Oh. I tried to talk to her, but she just glared at me.” Again the upset filters into Keith’s voice. Again he rubs his wrists, rotating them in the loose grip of his palms, each in turn, five rubs of the left then swap, five rubs of the right, then swap again. The sound of skin rubbing dryly against skin sounds over-loud in the darkness.
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“That, with the wrists. It’s a bit irritating.”
“Is it? Sorry. Nervous habit, I guess.” He stops, but looks as though he’s itching to carry on, like his hands look lost with nothing to occupy them. “When I was leaving she said there was no need for me to come and walk Sukie anymore. She said that she’d been talking to the woman next door and that the woman was going let her out for you in future.”
“Oh, did she?” Interfering cow. “Listen Keith, there’s no way I’m letting my nosy neighbour into my house. You can walk Sukie any time you like. If you still want to, that is?”
“Yes. If it helps you out.”
“Right then, leave Kerry to me.” Other words streamed into my mind but remained unspoken, words such as, how dare Kerry try and control my life; if I weren’t considering the possibility getting back with Steve I’d go out with Keith properly just to spite her.
Keith looks pleased like someone just told him they would sort out the playground bully. In a way, I suppose I’ve just done that very thing.
“I’d best get off to work then,” Keith says, hoisting the satchel that Poppy helped him choose onto his shoulder. “Arthur’ll have a fit.” With a spring in his step he bounds a couple of paces then turns. “Pictures? Saturday?”
I feel Keith’s silent stare as I take a step toward him. My hand goes to my neck, and I find myself subconsciously running the chain Steve bought for me in Florence through my fingers. “Er... not this week. Thing is, I’m seeing Steve.” I had thought a silent stare had only one level of intensity that silence was silence and that was that. The silence of Keith’s stare proves the theory wrong.
“Oh... I thought...” Again the tone of upset enters Keith’s voice. I notice his right arm lift slightly, his left hand opening in readiness to intercept the wrist. Perhaps thinking better of it, perhaps seeing me look, he lets the arm flop back to his side. His shoulder twitches as if resisting.
“The following week, though, maybe. We need to talk see, me and Steve, about the house and all that.”
“Oh.”
“We’re still friends aren’t we, yeh?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Keith practically shouts his agreement.
Trying too hard to mask his disappointment. The bottle of perfume still in my hand, now hot, feels like a prize unwanted and undeserved. I would like to give it back but know it would only make the situation worse, make me feel even guiltier than I already do. Giving it back would just prove what an ungrateful cow I really am.
“It was silly really, y’know, how we split up – me and Steve. Like he said, it was just a kiss. I don’t think he’d go off with anybody else properly, not really.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, a week on Saturday, then.” I turn away, certain that Keith is still looking, the weight of his imagined gaze adding to the weight of my conscience.
Have I led him on? I never meant to. I just wanted to help him. Bring him out of himself. Help him to get a life. I never promised anything more than friendship. In fact I told him many times: just as friends. Couldn’t have been more clear, could I? Oh, if only there was something, some sort of spark.
The thoughts which stream like an argument in my mind continue all the way to the door, until I slip the key into the lock, when another thought pushes them aside: Kerry. There is no way I’m letting Kerry control my life.
CHAPTER
31
While I enjoyed a soak in the bath I tried to forget Kerry’s disapproving look. Having spent an hour getting ready, I’m ready to descend the stairs for a night out with Steve. I don’t feel any guilt for letting Kerry down, because I haven’t, and I won’t. I do feel a slight pang of guilt for wearing the Passion in Twilight that Keith gave me though. But a gift is a gift. It belongs to me now, to use when and for whom I like. The whom in question is me; I’m wearing the perfume for me, not Steve. From now on I do what suits me, bugger what anybody else wants.
The Monday through to Saturday since bumping into Keith at the park entrance seems to have passed awfully slowly. I’ve not seen Keith once in that time, no chance encounters in the park and not one occasion when he has stayed back after his shift to just say hi. Maybe he’s gone moody on me. He still takes Sukie out though. Oh well, let him be that way, I’m not bothered. Truthfully though, surprisingly, I am. There is something about him that I miss. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I suspect it is the fact that he practically idolised me. For him, I was the centre of the universe. I had little idea at the time how special that made me feel. When I talked he listened; he really listened.
Steve sent flowers on Tuesday with a note that simply said he was looking forward to Saturday. I could tell at once that Kerry disapproved. The look on her face said it all. But since I had a go at her about Keith, told her to mind her own business, she seems to have done just that. Maybe Keith’s just backed off.
That’s a good thing.
It can only do him good in the long run.
A game show tune plays from the television in the living room. Suddenly all goes silent. From my position at the top of the stairs, I hear Kerry release a heavy sigh.
“Not watching that crap,” Kerry says to the now blank screen when I enter the room. I check the mirror to make certain my bum doesn’t look big in the short black dress I’m wearing, and put my handbag on the sofa. Kerry shuffles away from it, as if the femininity of it has invaded her space.
Kerry’s eyes run the length of me, climbing from my painted toenails to the tip of my nose. “Looks like a boring Saturday night in for me then. Alone, as usual.”
Go on, let’s have it. I just knew Kerry wouldn’t be able to resist.
“I still can’t believe you’re giving that shit another chance.”
Bingo! I can’t help but smirk, my inward humour allowing me to smoothly ride over Kerry’s abrasiveness. “Steve’s alright really. It’s me, I was just being a jealous cow.” I take the brush from my bag, and the contents spill down the side of the cushion when the bristles catch on the handle.
“Go on, you carry on preening; I’ll pick this lot up.”
Despite being pissed off, at least Kerry’s doing her best to be nice. “Thanks,” I say, striding to the mirror above the fireplace.
“I suppose I’ll be moving out then?”
I don’t answer at first, as I watch Kerry through the mirror, loading my handbag one item at a time, examining each item: lippy, mascara, mobile phone, tissues... I look away concentrating on my hair when she reaches for the bottle of wine she opened ear
lier. Not the Barolo, that’s Steve’s, I’d told her.
“Even though you promised I wouldn’t have to.”
“It’s early days yet,” I say, catching Kerry’s eye as I rhythmically brush my hair to an even straighter more lustrous quality than usual. Kerry’s eyes slide down to my legs. Go on Kerry, look, but don’t ever dare try and touch.
“I want to be certain he really cares this time,” I tell her, feeling a need to defend my actions despite all I’ve said to Kerry about not interfering. I know Kerry needs reassurance that she won’t end up on the street. Am I a user? I ask myself, quite unexpectedly, shocked at the very idea that I just might be. Is it possible that I used Keith just to make me feel better about myself? Kerry’s only been here just over a week and now Steve’s back in the picture despite me assuring her that he wouldn’t be. Through the mirror I watch Kerry neck the wine then pour herself another glass.
“Is it serious then?”
“Like I said, it’s early days. I’ve not decided where this is going, yet, if anywhere.”
I’m just about to reassure Kerry that she won’t be homeless, that if and when Steve moves back in, she can take as long as she needs to find somewhere else to live, when the look on her face stops me. It’s a hard expression to sum up; the sort of expression that seems to say something along the lines of, that lump I found, I’m afraid it’s malignant cancer, or, I’m sorry madam, there’s been a terrible accident and your husband and child have died.
Kerry puts the wine glass on the table and rummages down the side of the sofa cushion. At first I think she’s tucking something down there, but then she pulls out an envelope. “I’ve no choice then, but to show you these.”
She offers me the envelope she pulled out. I look at it questioningly before taking it. Nothing written on the outside, and the flap is just tucked under. The look of pity tinged with anger on Kerry’s face stands as an ominous warning to what I might find inside. I part the envelope, and my thumb touches the glossy smoothness of photographic prints. I draw them out. Slowly. I keep one eye on Kerry who’s looking back at me while feeling around for other items spilled from my bag. My jaw literally drops as I take in the picture. I don’t actually want to look at the rest, but nonetheless I flick through them like a hand of cards. If they were playing cards, they would the worst I’ve ever been dealt in some sort of fixed poker game of life. My hand trembles, my lip quivers. I can feel tears building way at the back of my eyes, but I’m determined not to cry. And how do I manage that? Get angry instead. Not for this am I crying, not for pictures of Steve fucking some woman. Not for pictures of Steve fucking her and laughing into the lens of the camera as if he’s laughing directly into my face.
“The lying shit,” I say, surprised at how calm I sound. “Where’d you get these?” I screech at Kerry as I skim them onto the table. Some shoot across the glass and land on the carpet and as if by design, the most vulgar of the shots, the one depicting the very thing that I have always refused to do, sits atop the pile.
“WHERE. DID. YOU. GET. THEM?”
Kerry flinches, seemingly alarmed by the volume of my yell.
“Found them on the mat when I got in. I wasn’t going to show you, but...”
I draw a breath so deep that I feel my nostrils flare. “Open a bottle of that Barolo, I feel like getting pissed.” I put a CD on the player as Kerry marches purposefully into the kitchen. The sound of Tesla, loud and gritty enough to make the windows rattle, raw enough to take the edge off my hurt, blasts into the living room like contained thunder.
“I told you, men are all shits,” Kerry shouts above the volume as she returns with the bottle of wine, Steve’s wine, the one he bought in Florence as an investment. “Cheers Steve,” Kerry adds. “Knew I could rely on you to come up trumps. All men are shits.”
“No,” I tell her, but it’s barely audible above the music, and it doesn’t register. I’ve not said it for Kerry’s ear. “Not all of them.” I lift my arm to smell the scent of Passion in Twilight on my wrist. “Anyway, Kerry,” I say in a louder voice, “I don’t really want to talk about men right now.”
“Suits me fine, love.” Kerry replies, swaying her hips to the clash of symbols as she struts Tina-Turner-like around the room. “Ban all talk of men forever for me.”
When the track, Hang Tough, crashes to a finish, the telephone fills the resounding silence between tracks. It may well have been ringing all the way through. Even in the silence, it takes a moment to register. I pause the CD and stare at the phone a moment before picking up the receiver.
“Sal…?” Steve’s voice, and he sounds as calm as anything. Unusually, there’s no hint of annoyance from the fact that I’m late. “That you Sal? Or is it Kerry?”
“No. It isn’t Kerry.”
“Sal, what’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up? Fuck off Steve.”
“Sal?”
“Just do one, will you. I’d sooner be with somebody like Keith, any day, than be with a wanker like you.”
“What? I thought we were okay. We discussed it. You said yourself that you overreacted, that it was just a kiss.”
“Just a kiss! Just a... Fuck off, you lying shit. I’ve seen the photos.”
I slam the receiver down with such force that I feel the after-shock of it tingle in my bones. The telephone rings again mere moments later. I can hear the speaker emitting Steve’s voice as it hovers above its cradle before I drop it home, cutting him off. I then remove it before it has a chance to ring again.
“Good for you,” Kerry says, giving me a reassuring smile as she pours two fresh glasses of wine. “Anyway–”
“Don’t!” I raise a hand to stave off Kerry’s inevitable all men are shits, comment. Emptying the wine down my throat, I hold out the glass for a refill. Kerry pours the wine, emptying the last of the bottle into the oversized glass.
When The CD’s volume fills the room, I notice Kerry plunge her hand down the side of the cushion. She looks up, and appears a little startled.
“Just checking to see if I missed anything,” she yells, before putting my bag on the floor by the side of the sofa, shuffling across, and patting the seat for me to sit.
“Another?” she says swinging the empty bottle by the neck.
“Yeh, why not. Open another.”
CHAPTER
32
I watch Steve, and wonder where he is meeting Sally. The city-centre heaves with revellers. Steve moves amongst them as they swoop from bar to bar, most of them already drunk beyond reason, or well on their way. A bunch of twenty women stagger towards him, their dress totally inappropriate for the cold-night air. Most of them are young, but some are much older and look quite out of place. Must be a hen party, I think.
“This’n’ll do,” shrieks one of the middle-aged women.
Her husband, assuming she has one, is very fortunate to get rid of her for the night.
The woman grabs Steve’s arm, almost falling as she does so.
“Oooh,” she voices, laughing hysterically as she pulls herself upright. “Me night in shinin’ arma. I wouldn’t mind playin’ badminton wi him; I’d handle his shuttlecock, alreet.”
Geordie, I realise, an accent I like when it’s spoken softly, but which here sounds like a foghorn on steroids.
One of the other women laughs, then asks: “Why do they call it shuttlecock?”
It sounds rehearsed, like she’s the straight-girl of a double comedy act.
“Because Rocket penis was already taken,” the foghorn screeches; she then howls with phlegm rattling laughter.
“Don’t fancy yours much, mate,” a man behind me calls out, as another of the group grabs Steve’s free arm. She’s younger, not so aggressive, quite nice looking, actually. Steve looks up in my direction, no doubt looking to acknowledge the one who called out. He probably won’t recognise me, having only seen me the time he crushed Father’s fishing-flask, but just in case, I turn and pretend to look in the dark shop window.
/> “Come on now, girls,” Steve says.
“Girls,” the Geordie foghorn screeches. “Nobody’s called us that in years. Eh, I like him but.”
The attractive one leans in to Steve’s ear. “It’s me mate’s hen night,” she says, coherently, obviously not as drunk as foghorn. “Just give her a kiss and we’ll move on to the next bloke.”
“Just a kiss?” Steve says. He shakes his arm free with an abrupt snarl. “Just a kiss! Just a fucking kiss! Do you women actually believe there’s such a thing as just a kiss?” There’s anger in his voice and he glares into the eyes of the attractive, younger detainee. She blanches slightly and steps back.
“Leave this one, Dennee,” Geordie foghorn shouts, “He’s a reight nutta.”
Steve stands on the spot as they move on. A nearby bouncer shouts, “lucky escape there mate.”
Steve gives him a half-hearted smile and partial wave and starts walking. I follow at a safe distance, wishing he’d gone with Geordie-foghorn instead of meeting Sally. I haven’t even got a plan. I’m just looking for a little dirt, I guess. He passes the bars with flashing neon that sell only wine or expensive bottled-lager, supposedly foreign but made in England under license with English water and English ingredients. He walks past bars where the speakers are so loud it’s a wonder the occupants’ ears don’t bleed; it’s the kind of volume that deposits a mosquito that buzzes against your ear drum into the night and the day beyond. He walks past the places where bodies form a barrier ten people thick before the bar, where waving a twenty above your head presumably means getting served a little quicker; in which case you’re likely to come away with the change from a tenner (work your change out first, that’s the trick). Just try and get their attention after they’ve ripped you off, when others are pushing you to the back of the throng, spilling your drink and risking a fight as it spills down the neck of the biggest, meanest bloke in the bar. He walks past the cop-van and the burger-van, the kebab shop, the pizza take-out, the curry-house, the taxi rank and the chip shop, all of them getting ready for the eleven pm chuck out. Tonight, Steve looks like he wants none of it.
Imperfect Strangers Page 19
