Hetty: An Angel Avenue Spin-Off

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Fuck sake, Joe keeps filling up my tank for me, this little machine feels a tonne heavier for it,” I complain, as I drive my heavily fuelled car.

  “Hey, say what now?”

  “Yeah, he’s like that. Whenever he uses the beast, he fills it up with petrol as well. He’s good like that.”

  “You’re so lucky,” she muses, but instead of agitating her, I let it slide. She’ll tell me her shit in her own good time.

  “I go to put the bin out and he’s there, all like big shoulders and stuff, muscling me out of the way so he can do it. It has taken some getting used to, being looked after. It’s a little bizarre.”

  “You’re so independent,” she tells me, but she’s far off with her thoughts, I can tell.

  “I go upstairs to change the bed, you know how I like fresh sheets, and he’s there watching me until I give in and give him a corner to hold or tuck, you know? Sometimes I want to potter without an audience. He doesn’t get the pottering. He doesn’t get why I need it! Bless him.”

  She chuckles along with me. “I wish I had that, Het. But Gage is who he is.”

  I don’t say it, but we both know that Gage never had any sort of role model. The only reason Joe’s so amazing is because Jules is a ruthless slave driver and both Warrick and Joe would do anything to avoid her wrath.

  “You need to help him become domesticated,” I argue, “it’ll get better.”

  Lord, I never knew I would one day feel so guilty for being so happy. It’s bizarre.

  I won’t tell her about the poetry books Joe buys me (which I’m sure he was into before we even met), nor the love notes he leaves me around the house or the flowers he puts in a vase without my intervention. They spring up now and again, and all I know is that my vases are always full. If I were to really brag, I’d maybe tell her about Joe’s bedroom skills, but that’d make her feel even more shit, wouldn’t it? I finger my heart necklace and try to keep my concentration on the road.

  “I didn’t thank you for the other night, it fixed me no end,” she says, as if easing me in gently to what she wants to get off her chest.

  We hit traffic on Beverley Road as we near town and I reply, “It was a great night. I haven’t heard much from the gruesome twosome ever since. Either something’s gone very right or very wrong…”

  We let that hang, until it disappears into the ether, but like a lead balloon it does so rather inelegantly. Liza’s never liked my uni friends, she thinks they’re both a bad influence.

  “So you and Joe, is it quite serious, do you think?”

  “Well he’s moved in, that’s a start,” I stammer, watching her smile grow wide. I change the subject… “He’s got his try-out today so we’ve both had a terrible night’s sleep, if you were wondering about the bags under my eyes.”

  “I can’t imagine it!” she says, hands on her cheeks. Liza was the opposite of sporty at school. If she could have done PE in a woolly jumper and have got away with a steady trek of the field in her Wellington boots, that would have done her. We were chalk and cheese. I’d go to the gym, then swim, then run home. Maybe, I’d do a five-mile bike ride the next day. I class Joe as my exercise these days although joining him for the odd run now and again seems to keep me topped up.

  “The pressure must be immense,” she adds, “getting everything right! Being scrutinised so closely.”

  “It’s not like that for Joe,” I explain, “it’s like breathing for him. But it’s that he wants it so much now, the fear of failure is immense.”

  I know that feeling all too well.

  After we’ve parked we go straight to Starbucks on an upper level of the nearest shopping centre. I get everything, including a bacon-something and a muffin and a cookie. Liza wrinkles her nose at me as she ‘indulges’ herself in a soya-something.

  “It’s all happened really quick for you two,” she says, eyeing me curiously as I keep my hoodie pulled up over my head. I’m still not sure if people might recognise me.

  “It has,” I admit, gripping some muffin between finger and thumb, eating quickly. “He’s great, he really is. It just works.”

  “Have you told him you don’t want kids?”

  I nod, giving her a look.

  “What did he say?” she asks, the air between us full of sparks.

  “That he doesn’t care.”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “I’ve been over this with him. I know the risks, I know he’s young, but I’m enjoying this while it lasts. He’s good for me, that’s all I know.”

  I can tell she disapproves, thinks it should be all or nothing, that everyone should have their priorities laid out right away. Well it’s not the same for everyone.

  “So what’s happening with the you-know-what?” she says, winking, watching other people around us.

  “I think I know who did it.”

  “NO!”

  “Yeah. And I think I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ’im when I get my hands around his neck.”

  She chortles. “Het, c’mon… it’s given people something positive to concern themselves with. A human interest story to offset all the other shite going on in the world.”

  I flick a bit of muffin at her. “It’s not your head on the block.”

  “And job wise, what’s going on there?”

  I take a polythene bag from out of my big bag and shove it at her. Contained within is a pretty 50s style dress I put together with some lavender gingham and lace trims. “Shut up and take this and let’s have no more about our wank careers today. Do.not.talk. Just take the dress. Okay?” I give her my best faux-innocent smile.

  After she’s checked it over, she’s nodding. She can do nothing more. She doesn’t want to give me back the dress I just gifted her.

  “Now…” I scrub my hands clean. “…let’s go and see the damage. If I pass out from its crudeness, you’ll not only have to carry my heavy ass back to the car, but drive my ass home too. So let’s not get our hopes up about this going well. It could go sideways, titsways, anyways, for all we know.”

  “God you’re a silly bitch,” she says, and we leave the café arm in arm.

  WE’RE across the street. I have my arm through hers, or rather hers is through mine, owing to our height difference. I’m wearing my hood up still and my sunglasses. There’s a small crowd underneath what people are now calling an installation and my eyes adjust to the actual reality – this is a real thing.

  “It’s good,” she says, “I mean, it’s not… you know… it doesn’t capture your beauty in its entirety, but it’s not bad. It’s not… I actually don’t know why people are making such a fuss.”

  “Come to think of it neither do I. They must have nothing better to concern themselves with.”

  It’s as described to me: around 30 feet tall, covering a lot of the side of the derelict building but not all of it. People passing by here on foot will see it and most bus routes run through here, too so it was placed here to gain great awareness, although I’m sure part of it was that this is a building rigged for demolition.

  “Shall we go?” she asks, sensing I’m not moved by it.

  “Why have they sheltered it?” Tarpaulin has been erected over the artwork to act as like a hood, saving it from the rain.

  “Maybe it’s not good paint, you know?”

  “They’re demolishing the bloody thing in a week, aren’t they?”

  None of this makes any sense. Why would Mars do this? He’s barely surviving. How did he find the time and energy for this? What’s this all about? Is it a publicity stunt? I don’t want to think about that.

  “Who knows…”

  “Let’s just go,” I tell her.

  We walk off but not before I take one, last look. I know it’ll be the last time I see my face on that wall. Cringing, I try not to think about all those people there with their phones out taking pictures, as well as the fact there’s kids as well as old people as well as official-looking people milling around it. God, it really has captured people.r />
  “What do you want to do now?” she asks.

  “We could wander around the Ferens?”

  “Let’s.”

  We get to the Ferens within ten minutes, entering the free art gallery with glee, like the schoolgirls we once were, snickering over the nudes. There are a few new collections following renovation work as part of the City of Culture.

  Liza takes time to read all the little white information plaques while I make the most of a bench at every given opportunity, instead appreciating all the art from afar.

  At a leisurely pace we make it round in the space of an hour, ending up at the gift shop.

  “Oh my god,” someone says, as I’m perusing some fancy notelet sets.

  I ignore the sound of someone talking and continue perusing.

  “That’s her,” they speak again, different words this time.

  “It is.”

  Liza’s at my side in an instant. “They’re talking about you.”

  “Let them talk,” I warn her in a brusque voice, “if we look like we give a shit, they’ll know it is me. Otherwise it’s not me, savvy?”

  I wink and Liza winks, too.

  “The café’s open…”

  I don’t need a minute to decide that I’m ready for more food.

  “Let’s go, small one,” I say, and we push our way out.

  We queue to be served in the café, ordering cold drinks this time, hot meals and cold desserts. We’re seated and waiting for our meals to be delivered to the table when the smug bastard who was hanging outside of the community centre the other day sidles up to our table.

  “Fucker alert,” I warn Liza, and she stands, all five-foot-nothing of her, barring the way to me. My petite shield.

  “It is you,” he says, “but without the blue hair.”

  “What do you want?” Liza almost shrieks, her arms folded. Believe me the woman’s got some muscles in them upper arms from carrying round two of Gage’s superhuman kids for three years now.

  “Just two questions, just two,” he demands, handing over his business card.

  Liza inspects it before tossing it to me on the table. I discover his name’s Jerome Paisley, of the Times, Culture. What the actual…?

  “Siddown,” I demand, angrily, pointing at the seat Liza just occupied. “Two questions. Then we’re done.”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  Liza stands behind me, hand on the back of my chair, watching on.

  He positions a recorder on the table and starts it. “Miss Bernard, do you know the artist who created the street art featured on a derelict building?”

  “Not personally. But I know of them.”

  “What is his or her name?”

  “He paints under the name Mars. He’s a graffiti artist. And I have no idea why he did this, none whatsoever. I don’t condone vandalism, I didn’t sit for him, I didn’t agree to this, I only saw him in passing once. Or maybe twice. But that was all it was, in passing. And that’s your two questions.”

  He winces and drops to a begging tone of voice. “Please, one more question.”

  “Depends on the question. I don’t give away freebies.”

  Liza squeezes my shoulder.

  “Who is he? Is he an artist we may know? Someone famous who doesn’t want to be named…”

  “A homeless artist. Now we’re done. You can go.”

  He clicks off the recorder and looks at us, perplexed. “A homeless guy?”

  “He has a dog, that’s all I know. And he calls himself Mars. Look, Jerome… this will all blow over. I don’t know why you people forage for stuff like this.”

  “Because foraging brings undiscovered talent to the fore.”

  At that, Liza leaps forward to grab her bag, pulls out her dress and holds it up against her.

  “Hetty made this. She creates things too, what do you think?”

  “Fashion isn’t my department, nor is women’s clothing, but it’s very nice.” He sounds about as patronising and condescending as can be.

  Jerome stands and holds out his hand to me, but I fold my arms and look out of the window.

  “Goodbye,” he says, and Liza plonks herself back down.

  “I was only trying–” She starts apologising to me once he’s gone.

  “Save it, pintsize. Hopefully he’ll leave me alone now.”

  Our food arrives and we quickly tuck in; lasagne for me and chicken salad for her.

  “He’s going to be looking for that homeless guy now,” she mumbles between chews.

  “You reckon?”

  I’m immediately worried for Mars, who doesn’t seem ready or willing for attention. Maybe I shouldn’t have told Jerome what’s-his-face anything at all.

  “I should warn Warrick. He might know where to find Mars.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she replies.

  We eat sombrely after our encounter with Jerome. I can tell her mind’s elsewhere, maybe on her kids or marriage, maybe on nothing whatsoever.

  Joe pops into my mind and I try to send positive vibes his way. I doubt I’ll hear from him today. He’ll be trying to impress, then hopefully he’ll have a pack of agents to choose from. It could all happen for him today. It could be that quick. He has after all, recently transformed the fortunes of the ailing North Ferriby United. He is a star and we all know it.

  “What’s he like,” she asks me, “you know, in bed?”

  “Urm, bloody hell Liz. We never talk about this shit.”

  “Just answer me.”

  I give her a filthy look. “Why? What’s got into you?”

  “I wanna know…”

  “Like, what? What positions he likes, how often we do it? Does he go…” I lower my voice, “…does he venture down south…?”

  She titters. “All of the above.”

  “He’s wild. He does everything. He knows what to do. He knows how to make me, you know, crisis. He especially knows how to kiss. God can that boy kiss.”

  She starts blushing. “But he’s younger.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s skilled and he’s mad for me. It helps when they’re crazy for you, they’ll do anything you say. ‘Rub my back,’ I’ll demand, and he’ll do it, but he’ll pretty much rub me anywhere.”

  I watch her finish off her salad. I think she’s been starving herself since this morning because she never finishes a meal before me but she wolfed that down.

  “Do you want my garlic bread, woman?”

  She nods her head. “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “What’s he done now?” I ask her.

  She looks at me with a shattered look in her eye and confesses, “He’s never made me come.”

  I drop my cutlery and throw my hands to my face. “WTF. I mean! WTAF. No!”

  I’m scooping my lasagne with a fork now. Sod using a knife. I want to hear this. I scoop and listen. Scoop and listen.

  “I can do it, you know… I can make it. I take extra long showers…”

  I’m nodding. “So you’re working despite the children that have knackered you up.”

  “I’m much the same as I always was. But he doesn’t… he nearly… but doesn’t.”

  She’s eating her strawberry cheesecake just as I’m finishing off the lasagne. I think about it all for a moment, then ask, “Have you mentioned it but he shuts down?”

  “YES! That’s the thing.”

  “Ohhhh. I see. He’s had his manhood bruised.”

  “I wish,” she says, with a wink.

  “Does he venture down south?”

  “Yeah, but… even then…”

  “Does he make you feel, I don’t know, not relaxed…?” I can’t believe she’s produced two kids and her husband never even gave her an orgasm yet!

  Joe made me orgasm that first night from his kisses and from him being inside me for the first time. In fact I think I might have come just because it was the first time I’d let anyone come inside me. It was amazing.

  “It’s not that. It’s that he’s not very communicativ
e.”

  “Okay, right. So he’s not listening and he’s basically using you as a vessel to blow his load in.”

  She blushes furiously, but simmers down and admits, “Basically.”

  I throw down my napkin. “We’re buying you some lingerie today. In fact, I’ll even buy some too. And tonight, if he doesn’t listen and learn, you leave the damn fucker in the morning. I’m telling you. No man’s worth any salt if he can’t make you come. That shit ain’t right.”

  “Oh my god, I felt so bad about it!” she exclaims, her mouth half full of cheesecake. I’m just starting on my chocolate cheesecake.

  “He’s a fucking wimp if he can’t even ask his wife to show him how she needs to be touched, I mean for god’s sakes! What a stupid knob.”

  She laughs out loud, relieved she can finally talk about this. We quieten down a minute when a family sits on the table behind us. The children don’t need to hear this conversation.

  “Is Joe experienced?” she finally asks.

  “I don’t know a number, but I got the impression he is.” I don’t want to brag, but I feel like Joe would be a good lover whether I was his first or fiftieth. He loves me, pure and simple. And he tries hard to please me. And he does please me, quite easily in fact. Because I fancy the fuck out of him. (I also don’t say it but I’ve been with a couple of guys who took no time to familiarise themselves with the only part of the human body designed for pleasure alone, the clitoris. So… yeah… I never saw them again, the twats.)

  “That’s the problem,” she says, “me and Gage have only ever been with one another.”

  “Still,” I say with my fork wafting through the air with authority, “he should have had plenty of practice by now.”

  “We’ll see, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not afraid anymore,” she says, off the cuff, “not afraid to be alone. I think that’s what I was afraid of before, which was why I never said anything to him. But I’m no longer afraid. If he doesn’t man up, that’s it.”

  “I wanna say good luck, we’re all counting on you.” I clink my cold drink to hers and we leave the café, heading straight for the nastiest lingerie store we can find.