The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Hey, anything for my girl.’

  It was a dazzling view from the fortieth floor of the Chicago Stock Exchange, the purples and pinks streaking through the aqua. The maître d' had seated us at one of K2’s best window tables, at the corner of West Congress and South LaSalle and every trail of stardust leading out towards the lake; not that Joe was interested in the view.

  After five minutes of him fumbling with his tie, he’d fashioned his cutlery into an art piece worthy of the MoMA. Furnished with a jacket and politely asked to extinguish his cigarette, the myriad of glances from our fellow diners had been more than unwelcome. Even if I had chosen a peach Marchesa mini dress, all they saw was Joe.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised; K2 was the preserve of people more interested in the fellow clientele than the menu. The petit-portioned food was divine, if anyone bothered to notice. Although I was honoured Joe had secured a dinner reservation at one of my ‘posh places’, he hadn’t needed to. I was happier ordering pizza from the sofa and praying they’d be late and we’d get it gratis. On balance, it was preferable to cranberry jus and spinach mousseline.

  Scanning the pearlescent room, I’d never noticed how ridiculous this all was; the dinner jackets and Rocco Borghese chandeliers, marble-skimmed walls, palette cleansers and Dom Périg-bloody-non. Not to mention Joe’s pensive expression becoming more amusing by the minute. Of course he didn’t do haute cuisine, unless it came with a side of food.

  ‘What’s with the face?’ I asked while his nose turned up another notch.

  ‘I guessed it was fancy here, but you never mentioned having to make small talk with the President,’ he shot from the corner of his mouth while his eyes darted the room.

  ‘The President’s here?’ I took an eager glance behind. When it came to being a dumb blonde, no one could accuse me of not putting in the effort. It took work, damn it.

  ‘Forget the jacket, they better have a shirt back there for me too. I’m dripping like a fat bitch on a treadmill.’

  I flashed my eyebrows. ‘Nice.’

  He replied with a shrug. ‘What?’

  ‘You hate it here, Joe. I knew we should’ve gone to The Wit.’

  ‘The Wit? You said you liked K2! Man, did I mess up? I just wanted tonight to be special.’

  ‘It is special.’

  ‘Now you’re back, now I have you to myself?’

  Barely a month ago, and we’d been strangers. Now, as silly as it sounded, I couldn’t imagine us apart. Yes, there was the vulgar streak and he was barely treading water in a place I felt at home, but it meant something that he’d booked K2. It showed how much he cared. Plus, while the men bestowed Joe with disdainful stares, I watched their bored wives secretly checking him out. It was entertaining at least.

  ‘I don’t care where we eat or what we eat, just that we do. I’m so goddamn hungry that shrivelled couple are making me drool.’

  Sure enough, an ancient-looking pair were eyeing Joe up like he was the dregs of society, a fly in the ointment, plucked off the street to ensure they didn’t forget how good they had it. I watched their wrinkled mouths shape the cracked sentiments. Money talked, though when Joe opened his mouth it didn’t matter how pricey our newly arrived bottle of Roederer Cristal was.

  By our table, the waiter confirmed my choice of champagne with a few encouraging noises. Joe, however, winced to aid comprehension of the server’s French accent, though with a shrug and a smile presented his flute, seemingly unaware of his audience.

  He may have been clueless on the finer points of dining etiquette, but damn, did he look good in a suit jacket. It was unquestionably my next purchase on the Project Joe shopping list. Oh yeah, Project Joe. It was my plan, to tweak a few minor details, but so what? Nobody’s perfect. I certainly wasn’t.

  My husband was the epitome of the blank canvas, and that wasn’t just his intellect. Like a TV talent contestant he was primed and ready, poised to be preened and plucked into the very best version of himself. And so was born, Project Joe.

  ‘So, plans for later,’ he suggested as the waiter departed. ‘I’m thinking Dominion on West Chicago. I know they’re up their own asses in there, but since tonight’s on you?’

  I gave him a frown. ‘Who said tonight’s on me?’

  ‘Come on, baby. Money’s tight. I’m still waiting on Santos for those extra shifts.’

  ‘Then why don’t we stay in? I’m sick of going to places I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘But it’s what we do!’ Joe replied.

  ‘Well, I want to do something else.’

  ‘We’re not going home early, not tonight.’ It had raised considerably, the volume of his voice. He grabbed the dinner napkin, patting down his mouth.

  ‘We can go out tomorrow—’

  ‘No.’ The cutlery trembled as Joe’s fist smacked the table. ‘I said, no.’

  I almost jumped in my seat, nearly spilt the champagne. I felt the beady pairs of eyes glance over, flickering like fireflies in the candlelight. They appeared delighted with their unexpected entertainment, a momentary distraction from their Wisconsin veal tenderloin.

  Right on cue, Joe recoiled at my startled expression, shifting like he was sitting on a pin cushion. ‘What I mean is, we should celebrate together, and not at home with a deep dish from Lou Malnatti’s.’ He pulled the menu higher, until I could barely see his eyes. ‘You decided what you’re having yet? I need the waiter back over here for an English menu.’

  ‘It is an English menu,’ I replied, less than impressed with his table thumping, though I did catch his wink.

  ‘Nah, I got the French one.’

  It was quite funny, for Joe. ‘You’re a real comedian, do you know that?’

  ‘Does the crusted Berkshire pork cheeks mean I’ll be eating pieces of ass?’

  I allowed myself a giggle as Joe threw down the menu and reached to his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Arching his back and placing a hand on the nape of his neck, he expelled a line of smoke.

  ‘What are you doing? You can’t smoke in here,’ I hissed. I was folding and unfolding the napkin now, rearranging cutlery like Mother dearest, but I was dismissed with a waved hand.

  ‘They won’t mind, we ordered the expensive stuff.’

  ‘You can’t smoke in this entire building. Come on, cut it out. People are staring at us.’

  ‘People were already staring at us, like you hadn’t noticed. This champagne we’re sipping costs what…’ He snatched the menu and began reading aloud. ‘Three hundred a bottle? Shit, I make in a year what these assholes earn in a goddamn week. It don’t take a genius to work out I shouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘Is my money not good enough for you?’

  ‘If I come as part of the deal, your money’s not good enough for them. It never will be. Don’t kid yourself.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Thinking you can have it both ways. Thinking this is all fine and dandy. Thinking this is you and me and everything else is bullshit. The world don’t work that way, not the world I know.’

  His eyes were darker, a kind of inky black. The nervousness remained, though I understood now why he was pensive. His world had been distinctly rule-free; now he couldn’t go for food without being dressed by a restaurant.

  One pair of spectators, Joe’s shrivelled theatre-menu couple on the neighbouring table, vilified him with shaking heads.

  ‘Can I help you with something, mister, or is your wife just checking me out?’ Joe shouted over. ‘If she wants something to look at, I can always pull my pants down.’ He pointed a sideways thumb at me. ‘Ask her, she knows. She’s my wife. Not my girlfriend or date. My wife.’

  Mrs Shrivelled looked like she’d choked on her martini olive.

  ‘Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to keep it down. You’re upsetting the other diners.’ The maître d’ was back and this time with a firm hand on Joe’s shoulder.

  I leant towards our visitor, discrete
ly mouthing, ‘I’m sorry. He’ll behave himself, I promise.’

  After a few courteous nods, the maître d’ agreed to leave it at that and retreated.

  ‘You see? What did I tell you? Any excuse to turf me out of here. I thought you were on my side. You shouldn’t be apologising to them,’ Joe chastised with a pointed finger.

  ‘I am on your side, Joe.’

  ‘Then act like it, dammit!’ he shouted, mocking annoyance with the champagne bottle held aloft. ‘More Cristal, wifey?’

  He was right. Joe was right. What did I care what they thought? They were the ones staring at us. Despite the scene he’d caused and that my husband didn’t fit in anywhere but the pool hall, I couldn’t help but smile. Project Joe was a little hasty. I should’ve given the real man a chance to shine through, though judging by his last vulgar offering, that could be pushing it.

  Our wedding was a pantomime, the man a stranger, and yet I understood him more than I’d ever known Will. Hiding behind the months and years meant we’d never asked the questions that mattered. A month with Joe and routine was already so last season.

  Random was the new black and however removed from reality Joe’s world was, I couldn’t turn back now.

  FIVE

  The next morning, I woke early.

  With Joe on his way to wherever (it was Saturday, so work was a no-no), I was itching to make a start on the day. Hangover-less due to Joe necking most of the champagne last night, what felt like pre-dawn grocery shopping at Fox and Oban involved wandering aimlessly down aisles of city food. It drummed home I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, staring at food I’d never eat or need. Even London with all its cosmopolitanism didn’t have Yuzu marmalade and Parmigiano for sixty dollars a pop.

  Joe didn’t shop at Fox and Oban, if he shopped at all. The rotting food in the fridge was about to hand in its notice and vacate, it’d been there so long, which brought me on to the mounting chores and my shrewd avoidance of them. When I suggested hiring a maid, Joe had laughed like I’d told the funniest joke ever. Still, I made a mental note to hire a cleaner, though I knew his reluctance probably had little to do with money. I imagined his childhood home as one where women cleaned and men dirtied, his mother a painfully thin white-aproned woman, scrubbing the floor on hands and knees. If he’d grown up in a Dickensian novel, of course.

  After my random shop, Saturday turned out glorious in the weather stakes. With Joe elsewhere, (random errands, anyone?) and the stifling apartment too much to bear, the park was beckoning.

  Winding Sybil’s lead around my wrist, she soon broke into a run over the grass and almost severed my circulation. For a small mutt she was unusually strong, and as the rest of the city sweltered I was dragged off into the greenery, my blond ponytail bobbing and my polka dot dress planting smiles on the old men. It was short and fun, much like most of them, propping up the park benches in their fedoras and war medals.

  With all his macho bravado, I pondered why Joe had chosen a fluffy ankle-biter over a gnashing pit bull. His long shifts meant Sybil had become my sole companion, and although I loved her to bits, becoming chief pooper-scooper was hardly something I bargained on at the altar. Though between the business luncheons and dinner dates of my old life, not to mention organising Will’s goddamn life for him, this was preferable. I’d been more PA than fiancée. And now? I was a wifey.

  Taking a moment to rest on a bench, my gaze met the vastness of the park, where the sweet scent of blossom clung to the air. These early days of summer felt cosy and warm, like a soft blanket around my shoulders. There wasn’t a wisp of cloud in the azure sky and the buildings shimmered and shone under the hot sun. With the air so still I had to remember to breathe. It was much like a dream, everything about the place I’d run away to.

  It was the absence, the space between I couldn’t grasp. Here there were trees and grass and dogs and war heroes. Here was more life than in the place I’d left behind to rot. People were people and I was still under the same stars, but the gut-wrench remained. I was one step from the drop, from everything I’d hoped never to feel again; the loneliness of a place so known and the company of a man I didn’t understand. For all my frivolity on the novelty of Joe, he was still that.

  Sybil brushed my leg and whimpered.

  ‘I know, girl, I know,’ I murmured, bending for her straggly coat. Though I could see her attention had shifted to a golden Labrador, closely followed by its handsome owner. Sybil attempted a growl but soon retreated under the bench. Across the grass the man continued, launching a stick for his companion as the muscles flexed against the cool white of his shirt. He was tall, blond and athletic, the Adonis of Granter Park. He only had to turn to the camera and flash his pearly whites and I could’ve been watching a commercial for Men’s Health.

  Mr Blond; now there was a seriously fun distraction. ‘Never mind, Sib, I’ve got a man at home. If he ever was at home.’

  A week passed, and after balancing a positive start at Faith Advertising with more nights out with Joe, I was utilising a lazy Sunday for a spot of spring cleaning, but only the token amount while Joe fixed some leaking bathroom pipe.

  I was clearing the food cupboards of canned goods at least ten years out of date. While contemplating whether the can of Manwich Sloppy Joe Sauce in my hand had ever been edible, I heard someone repeatedly jam the apartment intercom.

  ‘I heard you the first time. You press it once,’ I shouted through the speaker by the door.

  ‘It’s me. Let me in, girl, please? It’s not safe out here.’

  Releasing the door and waiting for Nina to negotiate the four flights of stairs, I soon heard one hell of a ruckus outside the front door. I was expecting her at five. It was barely two in the afternoon.

  ‘What’s with being three hours early?’ I clung to the open door as I watched her doubled over, panting breathlessly.

  Nina looked up at me and smiled, before pushing past my bended elbow into the kitchen. ‘You live here?’

  ‘You know I love slumming it on the wrong side of town. Want to see where I got shot last week?’ I joked, raising the hem of my T-shirt and poking my ribs.

  Shooting a hand to her mouth, it was lost on her. ‘You’re not serious!’

  ‘No, I’m not serious. Jesus, this is Armanti, not Beirut.’ With a wry smile, I showed her to the lounge. For all her sarcasm, Nina was stunningly naive.

  ‘Try telling Mickey this isn’t Beirut. He’s a cop and even he’s, you know, nervous down here.’

  I winced as Nina perched herself on the shamefully battered sofa in her cream top and embellished mini skirt combo. I watched her eyes circle the room, landing on the shabby chic dresser that was more shabby than chic, the lack of artwork or photos and the pine green décor that plunged the room into a darkness seldom needed for the window size.

  Then she turned to me with an almost pitiful look. It didn’t help I was a tad underdressed, even for chores. I was in Joe’s jogging bottoms and black Rocky T-shirt that screamed unwashed bag lady for sure.

  ‘So, where is he? Have I missed him? Mickey’s bored already.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of hearing about my friend who married ten rungs beneath her station.’ Opposed to her face, Nina’s tone was surprising chipper. ‘I’m dying to meet your gangster.’

  I took a cursory glance behind. ‘Nina . . . keep it down. Joe’s only in the bathroom, he’ll hear you.’

  I was given an innocent shrug. ‘So? I mean, sorry, no offence.’

  I balanced on the edge of the TV chair, swinging my legs while gulping down Nina’s honesty. ‘None taken.’

  Right on cue, Joe swaggered into the lounge like he’d pushed a saloon door aside. ‘Who’s this, baby?’

  A decidedly shirtless Joe was clutching a wrench in his hand. An impressive six-pack was lurking under his olive skin, glistening with water droplets from the leak. Rub in a little engine grease and he’d be straight from one of those calendars, but in a good way. Besides, he still had his pa
nts on and I hoped his tattoos were more arrogant rock star than unwashed Hells Angel. Please let it be rock star.

  ‘Nina, this is my husband, Joe.’

  ‘Hi,’ Nina purred.

  There was no response from Joe, apart from one highly suspicious stare.

  ‘This is Nina from work. Remember, the girl from Missouri I told you about?’

  ‘Go Cards!’ Nina cheered with a half-hearted fist pump.

  There was another awkward pause, before Joe replied with, ‘That’s great.’

  Two syllables. That’s all he could manage before heading to the kitchen. She was my only friend in Chicago, my only friend period, and he’d mustered the grand total of two words.

  I gave Nina an embarrassed shrug. ‘I don’t think his parents were big on social skills.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘People don’t come over much.’ Or ever.

  ‘His friends don’t visit?’

  ‘I’m out, see you later,’ Joe shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘What? What about the leak?’ I called blindly.

  ‘Need more tools.’

  ‘And that was Joe.’ I looked almost guiltily at Nina while aiming both hands at the door I heard slam.

  Nina’s stare said it all. If only I didn’t know what was coming.

  ‘What’s the deal here? Shacky boy meets glittery girl, girl moves into hole and is happy about it?’

  I looked down, picking at Rocky’s head on Joe’s T-shirt. ‘Of course I’m happy about it. There’s more to life than money.’

  ‘Come on, there’s not much more, though I suppose that body helps. Doesn’t it worry you he goes out without a shirt on though? Women could be throwing themselves at him. He ever been on one of those calendars?’ Nina almost sounded excited.

  ‘Okay, so the place isn’t great but it’s only temporary, ’til I can persuade him to move. Yes, the body helps and he did buy me a proper ring two days ago.’

  She grabbed for my hand as I presented it for her inspection. ‘I thought that other ring you were wearing looked kinda cheap.’