I can’t listen anymore, thought Regan. Jeremy was guffawing and slapping his bottom as if his hand belonged to someone he wanted to stop. Loudly, he blustered, ‘Regan said you were a woman of steel but nothing could have prepared me for the real thing, I mean nothing! And please don’t take that the wrong way, I’m beginning to think that there are more sides to you than a… than a crystal!’
‘A crystal? Oh come on, can’t you do better than that?’
‘No, I can’t actually! Regan will tell you. I’m no good with words.’
‘That I can hear for myself!’
‘So be it, but that’s still my analysis. You’re about the most many-sided person I’ve met! So deep, there’s just so much to you.’
Petula clicked her tongue saucily. ‘Is that right? Your analysis eh? Well, if you have one of those in you, perhaps you are a two-dimensional man after all Jeremy. And I bet it’s that second dimension that takes most people by surprise!’
In spite of this being the most cutting thing he could remember anyone saying to him, Jeremy intuited at once it was anything but a put-down – he was being enjoyed. ‘I don’t know how many dimensions there are to me. I’ve never stopped to ask who or what I am,’ he said, the truth being that he had never stopped looking and so far found nothing, ‘but go ahead and have a pop, I deserve it, for being so nosy and presumptuous… Still, we were talking about your dimensions weren’t we? How many of those are there I wonder?’
‘Can we go in Mum?’
‘Just a minute dear, let me answer, it isn’t such a stupid question,’ Petula winked, but at Jeremy, who was grinning lewdly. ‘I don’t deal in dimensions, so you’ll get nowhere asking about those. I’m the same all over, all the way from the bottom to the top,’ Petula ran her hands up her haunches to her sides, stroked her chest, and practically purred: ‘So you see, I reside on the surface.’
‘You mean you only show people what you want, right? I find it hard to keep up with you!’
‘You’re not meant to. The only time I stop is if I’m looking forward. I’ve not much use for pausing in the present. And none for the past.’
Jeremy was beside himself with glee. Petula was validating him and, he suspected, opening up in a way that was rare for her. He was conscious of Regan’s surprise too, and fully expected her to later congratulate him on the feat of drawing her mother out, as his success must have been as pleasing a shock for her as it was him.
To cap his euphoria, Petula thumped him on the shoulder. Without taking her hand away, she squeezed his powerfully developed bicep, and practically grunted into his ear, ‘That’s some meat on you there. You’re a regular bit of eye candy, aren’t you? I bet you could push back peak-time traffic, if you wanted.’
‘Come on!’ Regan interjected, ‘Time to go in.’ Her mother was leering over Jeremy, reminding her of a twelve year-old stalking the captain of the school football team who, alert to her intentions, was contracting with pleasure. Whether it was mental damage, as Regan hoped, or the pathetic obliviousness of one caught in the hypnosis of mutual attraction, as she could hardly credit, the conversation was about to become physical.
Tugging Jeremy by his free arm, Regan pulled him away, dragging him up towards the house. Petula stood rocking, her balance momentarily upset, a bemused expression concealing a rush of irritation at her daughter’s possessive insensitivity; young people always got the hump when one of their number broke generational ranks and gave age its due. ‘Has all that student ragging and boozing gradually changed your existential landscape my dear, you weren’t like this when you were last home. You seem a bit hungover today, a bit tetchy…’
Regan, trying not to snarl, replied, ‘I don’t drink that much, nothing like your friends. But I’ll admit I’m tired, you woke me up really early this morning with your call, remember?’
‘Who doesn’t imbue occasionally? But there are ways of handling it Regan, I prefer to let others inspire me out of my dark corners. You seem a bit out of sorts. Why don’t you have a lie down before tea?’
Misunderstanding the stand-off that, in reality, neither side thought they were having, believing the antagonism lay completely with the other, Jeremy got between the warring protagonists and laughed, ‘Ladies, a contest to see who cares more about who! Crazy, you don’t know how lucky you are. In my family we’re always fighting to see which of us is the sickest and in need of a bit of sympathy; the way you two put each other first is awesome, I mean it, totally awesome.’
Petula raised her eyebrows at Jeremy, as if to say, this one is your problem now. ‘I’ll see you both for dinner, it’s late already, forget tea, an event for old ladies, Regan will look after you Jeremy. A truly unexpected pleasure. Regan only seems to know other girls, it’s good to have a man about the place again.’ And smiling coyly, she about-turned and walked back to the front porch, her cane left on the gravel behind her.
Regan let go of Jeremy’s arm which she was on the verge of twisting, the momentum to share the pain she was in was growing irresistible: she had forgotten she was a girl and become rage incarnate. Was this how it was for Petula, she wondered, every time she witnessed her mother’s eyes flare up and heard her scream?
‘She’s fearless, like nothing could scare her, not even a nuclear war!’
Jeremy’s voice was awestruck, thought Regan, as she replied impatiently, ‘Why should it? I’m sure she thinks “our side” would win.’
She wanted to add that if he thought he was making a friend in Petula he was very much mistaken, and even put it in that nasty way, following through with a jab about how she would make him one of her creatures, but these unspoken slights horrified her more than the events that provoked them, and Regan consoled herself by kicking at the gravel.
Little did it matter, as Jeremy was looking at the house with his tongue sliding about his chin. Without knowing whether she meant to offend, knowing only that she had to be by herself for her own protection, Regan turned back and headed to her bag, still beside her car.
‘I wish I had a mother who talked like her.’
Regan snapped over her shoulder, ‘Be glad you don’t. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind, I’m going on a run.’
‘Cool, I’ll come with you, just let me get rid of my things.’
‘No, no, I don’t want to trouble you.’
‘You won’t be, I want to come,’ Jeremy was alongside her smiling cooperatively, ‘I’ll bring in your bag.’
‘I need to be on my own, okay? I just need to be.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I do, alright? All your questions are really pissing me off, if I’m honest.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry; what did I say? I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘But what about my room Regan? I don’t know where I’m meant to go!’
‘Mum will help, you two look to have hit it off.’
‘Are you alright?’ Jeremy looked at her carefully now, and Regan saw the old fear slowly reappear over his questioning face.
‘What do you think? Yeah, of course I am. I’ve just got a lot of stuff of my own to think about. I don’t need you there, with me, when I do it.’
‘I promise I won’t talk. You can think.’
‘I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is. I don’t think it ever worked, us exercising together, anyway.’
‘You what? I thought you loved it when we did. I know you did, I was there, we worked out well together! I don’t get what I’m meant to have done wrong. Why are you so pissed off with me all of a sudden?’
‘Please Jeremy…’ It was then that Regan saw what she had toyed with all along, the dirt under the fingernail of an otherwise-clean hand. An intentionally vague idea, within which lay a specific one: an excursion down to the lake that would lead to a re-run of her seminal night with Mingus, clarifying her relationship with Jeremy, and by proxy, with all men, once and forever. If Regan had the courage to read her thoughts exactly as they were, this symbolic encounter was wha
t Jeremy had always been groomed for. And as a true, but generous narcissist, her task was to use her beauty to give Jeremy back to himself, making him more aware than ever of the body he loved, his own, leaving her with an idea of herself that might also give meaning to her lovemaking. Not very romantic, she had to admit, but theirs had always been a practical arrangement, and there was no reason to think that their kissing, scratching and pawing, however passionate, would traverse that fact.
The very thought of physical contact seemed utterly gross to her now, and as she watched Jeremy’s stupid expression turn into one of hurt, it was all Regan could do not to spit in his face. She had gone from thinking he was one of her closest friends and a possible lover to considering his existence disgusting and hating him completely in a little under ten minutes. And for that she had herself to blame, and her mother to thank.
*
Jeremy did not know what he was doing, sitting on his bag as though he were waiting for the intervention of a National Express Coach to bus him out of trouble. There were no shortage of other more suitable objects for him to sit on in the room, which, in his dejection, he had failed to acknowledge. Comfort was insignificant next to his fearful disappointment at having ruined months of work and preparation, all through his refusal to continue in the role Regan had assigned him. Could he really be blamed for finally breaking cover, having been presented with the opportunity to engage with a beautiful and intelligent woman, instead of standing there like a sullen lump who needed Regan to translate for him all the time? What else could explain Regan’s sudden coldness when he had played his part to selfless perfection, if it were not for his playing it too perfectly? Regan had not wanted her supply of new blood to exceed room temperature. In showing his hand, and raising his status above its expected place, he had ceased to be her cuddly-toy bodybuilder, and paid for it on the spot.
With bathetic self-pity, Jeremy considered the works of art that appeared to have pinned him to the lowly corner of the floor he could not wriggle off; circular spot paintings evoking windscreen fly splats, ringworm traces and police fingerprints, a horror show that bore witness to his shame at having allowed Regan to dismiss him like a dog without producing so much as a bark in his defence. Like a good canine, he had done as he was told, and trooped through the house to the bedroom he had been allocated, brushing off the atmosphere and smells longingly imagined during those expectant months in which he had patiently waited to be invited. And all for this; to be plonked on a sports bag wishing it could all be over, and that he would wake at home in Swindon eating macaroni cheese in front of Match of the Day.
With Regan strutting off to change into her running gear in the car, of all places, having insisted that he follow her directions to the chamber her mother always reserved for ‘single men’, and not accompany her, Jeremy had finally got it. Regan was not angry with him for teasing her mother out of herself at all: she was mad with Petula for bringing out the best in him! Jeremy sighed at his courtly naivety: he had not seen this one coming, he, the piece of meat in a generational hag-fight between incumbent and pretender! Flattering as their attention was, there was little point in succumbing to the compliment – men like him were the first to be tossed under the wheels of the carriage when the search for a scapegoat began, the fate of the gigolo in history a notably ignominious one.
Was it better to simply call for a cab and leave straight away? The nearest train station was not all that far away. No, the nagging persistence of self-love held him back. Though Jeremy understood that he had flown close to the sun, revealing a bright and witty aspect of his character in front of Petula, Regan’s subsequent disgust had delivered an unexpected gift. Yes, it had plunged him into despair, but just as significantly, her irrational rage proved his ultimate innocence. Without selfcondemnation, there was a stubborn part of Jeremy that was not ready to go anywhere, however awkward it was to remain with his pitch so thoroughly queered. Or was it?
Quietly the first stirrings of indignation were taking shape: it was highly unfair being shaken from a joyful trance in which everything appeared to be going brilliantly, to then be cast into a situation where it was not. Jeremy’s crude grasp of what he supposed was Regan’s rivalry with her mother was no stronger than a sinning drunkard’s attempt to piece together his walk home, yet he was sure that having been caught in the cross-fire, he was at least owed an apology from her. An explanation, however, was unnecessary – his vanity saw to that. Regan and Petula were loaded and sexy, meaning that neither had any real reason to be unhappy, and, as he had never heard Regan speak ill of Petula, only the instant spell he cast over women could account for their sudden animus. It followed, then, through no contrivance of his own, that his position in the house was still a useful one, and it was too early to give up. Providence had sent him on a mission to smooth out the differences he had ignited, possibly showing both that he could be a friend to each in his way. Who knew, were he able to affect a reconciliation, he may end up with one on each arm, or at least the pick of the two! Wasn’t there meant to be a jacuzzi in the basement?
Put out as he was, Jeremy was beginning to notice the positive aspects to his surroundings, which he no longer feared he might be thrown out of at any minute. The ‘paintings’ excepted, which were the worst kind of weird toss, the room appealed to his sensibility to such an extent that he could hardly credit that it had not been curated with him in mind. A spanking new mauve armchair, scuffed to appear antique, emblazoned with heart-shaped Union Jack cushion, sat beside a thin table displaying Esquires that looked to never have been opened. Their aesthetic juxtaposition struck him as not being far off perfection. Resting above both on a thin metallic shelf were a pair of Warhol prints of Muhammad Ali and a black-and-white photograph of Charlotte Rampling in a string-bikini, the rest of the room a similar compliment to high-flying alpha masculinity – dark-grey towels of all sizes and a silk gown laid out neatly at the foot of a king-size bed, presided over by a Giacometti style pole on top of which was a thick candle that resembled a chopped-in-half dildo, its end unlit. Jeremy stood up and popped his head forward to give it a good sniff: at first it was like inhaling the musky crotch of an ancient sex-god, before fumes of burning leather evoking a fire in a Porsche 9-11 ashtray brought his nasal hairs to attention. The seductive aroma, every bit as effective as Viagra, tilted him heavenwards, circumnavigating his social pain, and drove straight through to his animal senses. Layer after layer of the nasty apprehensions he could name, or at least reductively misrepresent, fell away, allowing him to get in sync with the warmth in his balls again. It almost did not matter that he had no plan of how to survive the next few days, or hours, if he was spared so long, because when life was this pure, he knew everything would come up roses. And what was more, he felt up to fucking for England if called to, the operational readiness of his genitals the bellwether and yardstick of his cerebral health.
‘Am I a disturbance?’
Spinning back, Jeremy lost his footing and smashed straight into the shelf he had been admiring, his considerable weight knocking it off the wall, the glass on one picture cracking and another smashing underfoot as he tried to restore his balance, the noise worse than the damage, he prayed.
‘Oh I am, aren’t I? I thought your hunter-gatherer antenna might have forewarned you of my arrival.’
With cowardly reflexivity, Jeremy found that he had assumed the defensive posture of an old codger fending off a nest of hornets, his arms raised protectively over his head to parry away the hovering swarm. Overcoming his clumsy response, with startled difficulty, he grimaced and wiggling a bit, tried to look as though he had been shadow boxing, this being the least embarrassing alibi he could improvise.
Petula stood there in the doorway laughing, dressed in nothing but a loose white t-shirt that reached the top of her knees and a pair of pink sparkly flip flops. In her hand was a plate of rare-beef sandwiches which she had already put down on the bedside table, a finger raised to her lips inquiringly.
&n
bsp; Jeremy watched, or so he thought, his previously established kudos dribble away. ‘God, I must be living on the edge, edge of my bloody nerves!’ he choked, blasts of crimson erupting and spreading through his cheeks, his face a cheap jam sandwich. ‘I’m a world away. Sorry, you must think me a, um, total jerk. It’s all been happening a bit quickly today. I’m having trouble keeping up, I’m not used to all, well, getting my head round being in a place like this one, you know…’
Petula did not say anything to this, only stood in the doorway, and, laughing a little at him, bit her thumb cruelly.
‘I’m sorry, it all got a bit weird back there didn’t it? With Regan I mean, I think I pissed her off,’ Jeremy could hear the words redact in his mouth, stupid meaningless noises missing their mark, anything to appease his shame at being caught fantasising aloud. ‘Anyway, she’s got the raging arsehole with me, you know what I mean, I mean, sorry to put it like that, just that I’ve never seen her react like she did… I didn’t really know what I had done wrong, to be perfectly truthful with you. Oh bollocks, you probably don’t even know what I’m on about. You know, back there outside the house? When we arrived, she went a bit funny on us, with me, didn’t she, didn’t you think? And now she’s gone on a run by herself. Which sort of makes it a bit pointless my being here.’
Petula shook her head, whether positively or negatively Jeremy could not guess, and stepped decisively closer.
‘And I’ve just got to thinking about it, really deeply,’ Jeremy blabbered, ‘and then you surprised me, because Regan cut me up pretty bad, you know, to take me so far into myself like I was just now, you know, lost in thought, more than I should have maybe, but her attitude I mean, though I guess you might think I’m reading too much into it all. Bollocks, I’m talking shit aren’t I? Sorry. I was so looking forward to coming here. So much you know. Seeing your place, meeting you at last, but I ended up being too nosey, too familiar, nerves I guess, upsetting everything, and kicking up a lot of awkwardness. I did, didn’t I? I bet you two don’t often go cold with each other like that? I’m not saying you did, you know, it may have just seemed that way. And to mix all this into the pot with everything else you’ve got going on anyway, I feel totally shit about it. Adding to your problems when that’s the last thing you need. I just don’t know how it happened, I mean I do, oh, you know what I mean. It’s just, I don’t know, you know how you want things to be and then how they are?’
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