by Unknown
“Well, which one?”
The man to Sarah’s left was quintessentially British. Rotund, red faced and full of red wine.
“Err…” Sarah stumbled.
“My darling”, the old chap began, “There are over sixteen thousand different white wine grapes. All different, all white in colour of a sort and all highly drinkable. I doubt the vintners of this world would be impressed if you were not a little more picky. You’re far too pretty not to be selective.”
Sarah blushed, “A Sauvignon Blanc, Chilean, if you have it”. Dicky and her had enjoyed that at Sheekey’s the week before.
“That’s better”, the chap mused before turning back to his Financial Times. He smiled raised his glass and merely pressed the edge against her wine glass.
Sarah liked it here, she liked this city. Perhaps this was the place to finally get things straight.
Sarah found a corner and pulled out her phone. She went to the folder marked junk.
The only emails that remained of the endless stream sent last year were from Stewart. “Thank you for giving me a last goodbye. I understand it all now and I will leave you to live your life.”
Sarah realised two things. One, no one in London spoke like this and two, Stewart sounded like a boy. She went to take a swallow of her wine and realised it was gone. A waiter was over before the glass had touched the table.
“Madam?”
Sarah didn’t even take a breath, “Better make it a bottle”.
“Of course”, and he walked off. No judgement, and no sigh. He was a good waiter. Like a good barman he never criticised just poured the measures stronger and stronger until caput.
Sarah waited before the bottle arrived, mulling over the first slamming she had just read. She felt empty and guilty.
Stewart had done nothing but love her, adore her and need her. She and him were childhood friends, first kissers, first partners in bed and everybody loved them. That was until the end when the only person who didn’t ‘love it’ was Sarah herself. She tried to end it but the barriers put up by ‘mutual friends’ and families alike seemed to stick her in a rut. She loved him and always would but she wanted to go to London, he didn’t.
She wanted a spark that could illuminate a firework display like Dicky did, not just a cigarette.
She began again, the second glass disappearing even quicker than the first. Here responses were half cocked to Stewart, promises she would remember, always treasure, maybe even stay in touch. She hadn’t and knew she wasn’t going to, not since the calling of London.
Since she applied for the job Stuart had never liked her working, working the hours she did. He didn’t like the company she kept, people who were worldlier and more important and clearly wealthier than him. She remembered back to when they had watched some old films together, him saying she would end up like the protagonists who dared to move to cities when they were country girls at heart. Death in a whirlwind of drugs and drink if she went to London.
She went back to the conversations.
Sarah watched the wine swirl around the rim of the glass. The busy pub was now gone to her, she was back in that day, in that very moment. The worst thing was, this was email. The ingenuity of man had conjured yet another way to end it with someone impersonally. First letters, then text, then Facebook and now email.
Stewart “I'll leave you now. Goodbye.”
Sarah “I know all of one thing, this isn’t helping”
Stewart “It's not meant to help, and I am going now”.
Sarah “I will never forgive myself if that’s what you want to hear”
The truth was that Sarah didn’t think they had come that far, anywhere at all in fact. Of course she would always love him but she was being stifled, suffocated even.
She had come here to The Surprise to write some kind of an apology, some explanation. She wasn’t a writer but was pretty sure this was what they referred to as ‘writers block’. The pen wavered over the paper and there it stayed doing fuck all. This was not being able to think of anything, in fact it was the reverse. She was thinking of everything. Everything she had ever thought from childhood math classes, sex, alcohol, trees in winter, men pissing against lampposts, Blackburn Rovers, weird paninis, New York, Topshop, teeth, Goldfinger, tampons, lager, lakes, typing, sugar, Lacoste.
Sarah drank another glass of wine and decided not to write a response. It was paltry, a pithy way of clearing her guilt. She didn’t even feel that guilty, not really. Now she was a London girl, Stewart was a thing of the past like a tattoo from a gap year. Yes it would always be part of her but it was faded now, it didn’t hold near enough the same resonance as it once did.
A little drunk, Sarah dialed up April first who answered less and less these days, then Dicky. This was a first, he only ever called her. That was one of the ‘conditions’. A week previously they had spoken of going to a concert. He had said to ‘message him’ if she was free. Considering she hadn’t gotten anywhere near the apology she had wanted to write she pressed dial.
The phone rang twice.
“Dicky, its Sarah.”
There was only silence and the sound of him moving away from a conversation.
“Why the hell are you calling me?”
Sarah was a bit shocked but her state of inebriation masked it, “The concert you mentioned. Well my plans changed.”
“You’re not coming are you?” Dicky spat.
“I guess not now, why?”
Dicky had gone silent after that. It was the way he had snapped at her, the first time in fact.
“Ok, sorry, its just I am there with clients so didn’t want it to be…well…you know…its been quite a while now between us and I don’t know if we could mask it”.
It had been, some months indeed. Months of doing things around London and doing things to a man she would never have dreamt of. There was something funny about his tone though like he didn’t want to be caught there. It was odd really, he had never seemed to care before, and Sarah had always proved to be more than discreet.
Something was troubling her though. Perhaps it was just the wine she said to herself finishing the bottle. Alcohol. Makes most people lie more than ever but occasionally provides a very telling insight, a truthful one. And those truth’s usually hurt.
*
Jamie Oliver was prattling on about lemon zest again when Lucas finally spoke.
“Fucks sake”, he said having checked his phone, still nothing. He was Lucas, he didn’t play ‘the game’. Well he played ‘a game’ but not waiting for contact from a member of the opposite sex and counting kisses on the end of messages.
The phone was laid to rest again next to the bottle, a Macallum, a treat it being a Wednesday. It was also just past noon. In all fairness it had been sitting there for an hour now, untouched. The fact that it had remained as such was because there was something highly wrong, almost illegal, about drinking before midday.
Lucas reached forward and unfoiled the bottle. The glass he used was the same as ever. More of a brandy glass with the slim short stem and the gratifyingly large bowl.
‘Drump’ sounded the cork as it was removed from the bottle, followed by the hissing crack as it kissed the ice.
“Yes” was all he said when he swallowed. Then he checked his phone again. Still nothing.
After they had met at the pub they had continued on into the night, round after round gulleted down them. Haziness became blurriness that then of course, inevitably, became dysfunctional. He and April had walked arm in arm from bar to pub to club and then back to a bar. She was sensational. Not only in chat and looks but the alcoholic volume she could put away.
The moment had crossed both of their minds several times but some invisible wall prevented either of them from making the first move. She touched his arm, he brushed her leg. They laughed and mocked each other. Lucas though, didn’t close. She had bid farewell on the corner of Piccadilly Circus surrounded by little people carrying oversized cameras. The taxi ha
d spun off and Lucas, shitfaced, had made it home.
The next day he had texted, already knowing he was heading for trouble with this girl as he had to redraft the text three times.
“No, too keen” he had said at the first. “No, you’re not her brother” at the second. Finally he settled for some generic weak as piss ‘great to meet you’ bollocks that he wished he could retract.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t responded.
“Really?” he said again out loud.
Lucas took another long drag on the whisky, felt ice hit his lips and refilled the glass.
An hour passed and Lucas felt disappointed. He had four very large whiskeys inside him and his head was spinning, he couldn’t remember eating. Unsure whether to carry on he checked his phone.
“Yes fucking please,” he shouted out. The text read as follows ‘Hey dick-head, good to have met you too. The world is definitely a more right place after we brought it down a peg. Friday? Yeah, sounds good. Pick me up at 8 Xx’. Lucas stood on his sofa, glass in hand spilling whiskey on the side doing some kind of disco move from the 1970’s crossed with a Swahili war dance.
An hour later Lucas was painting. The traditional red had been replaced with green but the red from the image of the face underneath still peeked through. His brush whacked the surface causing green paint to spray back all over him.
“Not any more”, he yelped realizing that for the first time since he had begun painting the face looking back was not the sinister version of himself but something else. The right side still had the curvature of his brow and jaw, not to mention the slightly narrow eyeline suggesting great rage. The left though was beginning to look more effeminate. The eye had softened, as had the curl of the lip, they were now fuller, plumper.
Lucas continued for another hour switching from great broad strokes encompassing over half the canvas to minute dabs of detail on eyelashes and cracks in lips. Blues, blacks and magenta now adorned the painting. Streaks of yellow criss crossed the canvas making both halves of the face look like they were trapped.
Standing back he let the paintbrush fall from his grasp making another large spot on the floor. Instantaneously the cigarette was at his mouth and lit. He stepped back and let out an exhale of air.
From up close he admired the work, its passion. It was not like anything he had managed to fathom, let alone achieve since beginning again. He also knew he was painting April, because of her text, because of what might be.
As he stepped back and looked from a distance the face looked deformed, it looked sick. Where the faces met in the middle the paint had bubbled up to leave what looked like a deep scar. The male side looked complacent, smug and disinterested. The female looked sardonic and mocking like she hated being attached.
“No”, Lucas shouted throwing his cigarette against the canvas.
The bottle swung to his mouth and was finished despite the last few gulps making him gag and wretch audibly.
“No”, he said again and ran a paint soaked hand through his hair.
April entered his head and wouldn’t go away. He had thought about her but this was different. It was like she was in the room there, lying him down.
Lucas could feel her wet lips licking his, her hard kiss pressing against his tongue.
“April”, he said aloud, letting the image of her take him away from the face of horror staring down at him.
As he lay on his back, he reached for a cigarette and looked back to the deformed couple on the painting with the smoke slowly trailing out of his nostrils.
Blinking at his vile creation he thought of a famous line but he didn’t know where it was from, ‘No-one will make you feel half as bad as when you’re with me, but then again, no-one will make you feel half as good either’
Chapter 5
David felt something for the lyre bird that had a habit of impersonating noises. It even impersonated the noise of the chainsaw cutting the tree down where its own nest was.
David was well aware trouble was coming. Crisis, confusion, catastrophe or whatever it was branded, it spelled the same message. He had gone far too far. Somewhere in his subconscious he recognized the impending doom but his brain was occupied with something else, all of the time.
Lucas had said as much when they had finally met up after two months of trying. It took a lot to silence Lucas but his face said it all. Throughout David could feel Lucas eyeing him with the phrase, ‘what the hell happened?’ Lucas though never said anything, David was a grown adult, not one to listen to scorn let alone advice.
Pe-ter, his personal trainer boomed when he saw David for their latest session, the third that week, “My man, oh man, David”.
“I told you to eat more man, you’re wasting away!”
David let his eyes roll up to the blonde bicep monster, he was so tired. He was also angry. Permanently.
“David, you there?” Pe-ter repeated.
“Man, you are in great shape now. You can eat what you want. Yesterday for example I had a whole three sachets of porridge, six bananas, a bag of pumpkin seeds, two low rye breadsticks, one soy latte and a salmon fillet the size of like….my hand. Fatty Pe-ter I know but I just went crazy!” Pe-ter winked.
Pe-ter held one of his paddle hands out and spanked it with the other before giggling. He looked like a ripped polar bear with a nervous tic when he did that.
“Uh-huh”, David whispered over his now permanently cracked lips.
“David man you cant just work out, you need to eat. What’s say you and me grab a bite after the workout yeah?”
Panic gripped David at once. The predicament was almighty. To have lunch with someone he respected, admired and adored was one thing. To eat in front of someone else now was quite another.
“Sounds good”, David said, wondering whether he would be able to tell Pe-ter the truth.
The most recent gym session was particularly hard for David. He had lost some of the strength he had three weeks before. His body was better than ever though. It had taken three months, that was all. From the blob with the backpack to the man he now was. His six-pack looked as if it had been painted by one of the old masters such was the definition.
Since meeting Pe-ter only one day had passed when he had not exercised. His infuriating and overweight cousin had selfishly decided to get engaged. The idiots lived somewhere east of London, where everyone was tanned. Perhaps there was an aggressive microclimate there.
Due to traffic David had not gotten back until 10.05pm, his gym had been closed. He was spitting and left his cousin three voicemails to tell her of that fact. He had been particularly eager to work out as he had eaten three mini sausage rolls and a slice of chocolate brownie. He wouldn’t have dared normally but it was the only thing on offer and the blackouts now were worse than ever.
He could still hear his cousin despite not being able to see her eyes hidden behind rolls of fat.
“David, oooohhhhhhh” she squeaked.
“You look superb!”
“Thanks” he had mustered before turning down the nachos soaked in Tesco’s value cheese and guacamole for the umpteenth time despite her pushing it almost against his new shirt. He had to buy a new wardrobe the month before.
“How have you done it?” fat cousin Gloria crowed.
At that point more giant gannet like female seagulls had crowded him begging to know the secret.
“Was it Atkins?” one squawked.
“No” blasted back Gloria, “Atkins never worked and it made me fart”.
David shuddered.
“Was it the juicer?” said a girl no older than sixteen.
“What’s the juicer?” again spat Gloria, “I haven’t heard of it”.
“You drink juice or eat soup for a week, that’s it.”
Gloria went silent, David’s eyebrows only raised in the fact he knew exactly what ‘the juicer’ was. That had been week nine.
David eventually spoke, “Basically I go to then gym every day for three to four hours and
I don’t eat more than one thousand five hundred calories a day. The morning is egg white omelets, then fruit at eleven. Lunch is a small pasta or rice with no fat whatsoever, I don’t even use oil any more. Supper is fish usually, occasionally chicken if it’s the weekend and I deserve a treat.”
David had become blind to see even the obvious.
He couldn’t understand why there were no plaudits for this behavior, no medal around his neck. The women all looked at him in horror, except the sixteen year old who had smiled a toothy grin.
“Right”, Gloria said skeptically but soon continued.
“Well, I have been doing this amazing diet where basically you eat what you want all the time but you wear these amazing shoes that burn all the calories you could possibly eat. They have a little bump in them and apparently it actually doesn’t matter at all what you eat, at all! I have even read that they work when you are not even moving, you can be sitting there and they will work.”
“But that’s not possible”, David had said cuttingly.
All the women looked at David. He had challenged the Komodo not only in its own den but at this particularly feisty Komodo’s own engagement drinks.
“Why?” was all she had said.
“Because you have to move to burn calories. Besides someone of your stature shouldn’t be wearing shoes like that. It will put too much pressure on the soles of your feet. Your knees will feel it.”
Gloria has swung around, almost knocking her miniature husband into the fishpond and wobbled off.
David and her hadn’t spoken again. In spite, David made himself violently ill in her upstairs bathroom trying to get the brownie out before it could do any more absorption and therefore damage. His head rang and throat ached by the time he had got as much of it up as he could.
On his way home and through the head rushes David thought back over the three months up until that moment. He had started all of this to get attention, mainly from the opposite sex. He had craved it. Women looked at him differently now, that he knew at least.
