Under My Skin

by Alison Jameson

  Frankie is sitting next to his wife near a window. He looks up at me sadly and then stares down into his drink.

  ‘Buenos noches,’ he says and his eyes tell me that he is ready to jump. Behind him there are three tall windows that look out over the water and the swans.

  Joe Fagin and his wife are sitting on a small couch between two windows and they have already found themselves a good position in the room. I take Larry’s hand and we walk into the room together. We sit on a long green couch, afraid to speak and trying not to spill our drinks. The conversation is about advertising and Larry is looking around as if the subtitles are about to appear.

  ‘The two new creatives are on fire…’

  ‘They played out of their skins yesterday.’

  ‘They have their asses in gear,’ someone murmurs.

  ‘… Absolutely – plugged in and switched on.’

  ‘They’ve got the smarts… I’ll give them that.’

  ‘At least there is no chance of being dropped in the proverbial brown stuff.’

  ‘Or up the creek – sans paddle.’

  Larry looks out the window and he sends his thoughts in Morse code from his eyes.

  ‘What a bunch of tossers,’ he says.

  The asparagus is arranged on white oval plates. The wine is poured into each round glass globe. There are candles in the centre and a crystal bowl filled with lemons and limes.

  Each person has a place card and I notice that Jonathan’s name is next to mine. Larry is down at the other end and when Nina speaks she rests her hand on his arm. Frankie sits quietly and his wife begins to pick at her food. I am beginning to wonder why anyone would want to do this on a Friday night.

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ roars Joe Fagin. He is programmed to laugh at all of Jonathan’s jokes.

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ goes Mrs Fagin. She is programmed to laugh at all of her husband’s jokes.

  Whenever Jack speaks he seems to repeat whatever Jonathan says but he uses slightly different words.

  ‘Hee hee hee,’ and this is my sudden contribution and now everyone is quiet and suddenly looking at me.

  ‘So, Hope,’ Nina says, ‘Jonathan tells me you’re related to Edmund Swann.’

  The room is beginning to feel very warm. In my head the words are clear but they sound a bit weird as they come out. I answer very slowly and Larry is watching me from the end of the table and trying not to laugh. Someone keeps filling my glass up and I am too nervous to eat.

  ‘We have two of his paintings,’ she says, and she is smiling sweetly and I can see there is only mineral water in her glass. The room is beginning to spin a little and I would like to ask where the bathroom is.

  Jonathan starts talking about politics and now Larry joins in. He is able to tell them what is happening in the Far East and why oil prices are going up and what that means for all of us. They start to talk about a recession in America and Larry is telling them how long it will take to reach us.

  ‘You should come and work for me,’ Jonathan says.

  I am wondering if I can walk properly and then I lean a little in my chair. The only part I really remember is the crash when the chair turns over and hits the floor – and there is also a very loud noise as my chin hits the table on the way down. It’s not bad under the table. Jonathan is wearing loafers. Nina is moving her bare foot towards Larry’s left leg – and there is a dog, a black Labrador, and she looks at me and wags her tail.

  ‘Greetings,’ I say, and then there are hands and faces and everyone seems to be involved in getting me back out.

  Jonathan makes tea for me in the kitchen.

  ‘Now,’ he says, ‘sit up on this stool and drink your tea like a good girl.’ The dog has followed us down the hallway. She has seen me under the table and wants to bond with me now.

  ‘What’s it like to be the boss of a company?’ I ask him. He looks at me for a minute and he is trying to keep a straight face. There are two wedding invitations on the windowsill and behind us a long-case clock chimes one.

  ‘Honestly?’ he asks and he pulls his stool closer.

  I nod.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell?’

  I nod.

  ‘It’s a pain in the ass.’

  ‘Oh!’

  And he looks at me and we both start to laugh.

  ‘Actually,’ he says then, and now he is serious and somehow young, ‘it’s kind of… lonely sometimes… now how about some ice for your chin?’

  ‘Goodnight, Hopeful,’ Frankie says, and when he kisses my cheek he puts his lips close to my ear.

  ‘Be Careful,’ he says.

  On the way home Larry is quiet.

  ‘Did it look bad?’ I ask him.

  ‘What…?’ he asks and he starts to laugh. I look out the window as he drives and think about how the knife sounded when Jonathan buttered my toast.

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Larry says suddenly.

  ‘I think he’s sort of OK actually.’

  ‘I don’t like the way he looks at you.’

  ‘He doesn’t look at me.’

  ‘Yes he does… he looks at you.’

  ‘He’s my boss,’ I tell him.

  ‘So…?’

  ‘And he’s married.’

  He parks the car outside our flat and when he turns off the engine he looks at me. He watches me for a second with his dark eyes blinking and then he replies, ‘By the way… so are you.’

  Trauma n. – 1. An extremely distressing experience that causes severe emotional shock and may have long lasting psychological effects. 2. A physical injury or wound to the body.

  Pappy was a heart-breaker. That’s what Juna says. When he was younger he was very handsome and he was always surrounded by girls.

  Pappy was a heart-breaker.

  He still is, I think.

  Suddenly I am fourteen again and this morning Pappy is late. I wake up early. I think a little about Daniel and then I go downstairs and open up the shop. The stock is not selling now and the red apples are starting to rot. The bread is not fresh. Yesterday he moved the red chair back and threw out the rusty scissors and took the razor blades. At eight o’clock he is still in his bath. From the shop floor I can hear the squeak of the cold tap. Splash. Splash. He is washing and he does not say a word now, not even to himself.

  Tick-tock-tick-tock.

  Mrs Deegan crosses the street.

  She buys one loaf of stale bread.

  This is a sympathy loaf and the shop is empty again.

  On days like this I talk to Daniel. There are no angels anywhere now and no God either, I think. The world is empty and rattling without him.

  Tick-tock-tick-tock.

  I look at the payphone in the corner and I want to lift the receiver and dial Juna’s number and listen to her voice. Tomorrow she is coming to stay with us and everything will be all right again.

  The shop is quiet.

  The street is quiet.

  Pappy is quiet.

  The house behind me seems to be asleep.

  And then I walk quickly to the door and turn the sign so the shop is suddenly closed.

  ‘Pappy!’ and my voice is suddenly lifted up high in a shout.

  ‘Pappy!’ and I shout it out again.

  ‘Pappy!’ and I am shouting it out now on every step of the narrow stairs.

  The bathroom door is closed.

  There is no steam.

  No sound of water moving.

  No words.

  ‘Leonora,’ but it is me that says her name.

  Tap-tap – gently – quietly on the door.

  Tap-tap – again – again on the door.

  It is not locked.

  In this house we do not lock the doors.

  It swings open easily and without a sound.

  White room.

  Room white.

  Bright tiles.

  Tiles bright

  No steam.

  Cold water.

  Water, changing colour.

  Tap-tap and my h
and is still knocking into space.

  The restaurant is painted pistachio-green. The tablecloths and napkins are starched grey and white. The waiters smile at me and they stand in a row in short white aprons and black bow-ties. There is a round walnut table near the window and when I walk inside Jonathan jumps up and says, ‘Here’s the birthday girl.’

  When Frankie mentioned it was my birthday Jonathan called the restaurant and booked the table himself. He sits next to me now and his leg brushes against mine. He even asks about Larry again and what sort of food he likes to cook. He listens to everything I say about my clients and he nods as if it all makes sense. He orders more champagne and as the restaurant becomes quieter he pushes a small parcel over the tablecloth to me.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he says and he is awkward and giving me that little smile. Inside there is a small silver cross which he helps me to put around my neck. He looks at me and says softly, ‘Something to keep you safe.’ The waiter fills our glasses again and when I look at Jonathan he leans over quickly and kisses me – very gently, just once – on the cheek.

  The Costellos’ door is closed when I get home and every room is shut up and dark. When I look at the phone there is no message from Larry and just one envelope with a postmark that says ‘New York’. I recognize Jack’s awkward handwriting. He moved away five years ago and he is married and living in Brooklyn now. Every year he sends me a birthday card. He already owns a house in Cape Cod and I know he makes money putting down hardwood floors for famous people – Sandra Bullock, Billy Crystal, Robert De Niro.

  I find Larry standing in the kitchen and the table is set with silver and crystal and a white linen cloth. There is a bottle of champagne in the sink and there are pink tulips wilting in a vase.

  ‘I waited all afternoon,’ he says and then he shrugs and holds out his arms.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ and he hugs me. ‘I wanted to tell you something… and then I thought… why put that on a card? I should go home and say it myself.’

  He kisses me again and smiles into my eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ he says and he puts his arms around me. ‘Another long client lunch?’

  ‘I guess.’

  He kisses the top of my head and rests his chin there – and when he looks down again he says nothing and just touches the silver cross.

  Email to Frankie Preston 4.12 p.m.

  From Hope Swann

  Re: How many Art Directors does it take to change a light bulb?

  Email to Hope Swann 4.13 p.m.

  From Frankie Preston

  Fuck off, I’m not changing a thing.

  Larry sleeps and I lie quietly and listen to his breath. It is a light sweeping noise, rhythmic and even, and until now it was the safest sound I knew. Outside the traffic has stopped. The flat is quiet and across the city Jonathan and Nina are getting ready for bed. She is wearing a white cotton nightgown – and he is leaning against the sink in his pale green bathroom cleaning his teeth. In my mind he stops for a moment and looks into his own eyes and tries to see me and then he wishes that his wife was asleep or better still, somewhere else. When I open my eyes wide I can see the green luminous figures on the alarm clock and then the chipped plaster on the ceiling overhead. Every day it makes different shapes for us – here is a dog – or a horse – whichever Larry can think of as we lie on our backs late in the morning and we are both happy to think about the same things. Now I stretch out and feel alone and in the dark and I wonder why I am thinking like this at all.

  Larry turns over in his sleep and I kiss the back of his neck and put my arm around his waist. Still sleeping, he finds my hand and folding it into a small fist inside his, he holds it under his stubbled chin.

  And finally I sleep – we both sleep – and begin a dream of different things.

  Email to Jonathan Kirk 4.38 p.m.

  From Hope Swann

  How many client service people does it take to change a light bulb?

  Email to Hope Swann 4.40 p.m.

  From Jonathan Kirk

  Have you nothing else to do, Hope?

  P.S. How many?

  Email to Jonathan Kirk 4.43 pm

  From Hope Swann

  How many would the client like it to take?

  Frankie talks about Seattle and then Vancouver. Places we could escape to, if only in his mind. He jokes about taking me to St Lucia and how we might run away one Monday morning and forget for ever about work. He tells me that the lifeboat is almost ready. That all his plans to leave advertising are in place.

  ‘I have the gas camper on my desk,’ he says, ‘the tinned food, the powdered milk, the boiled sweets.’ He is ready to escape from his job, to break out, to crawl under the wire ahead of me.

  ‘Does anyone know that you’re leaving? Do they suspect?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no, Jesus no… you are the only one I’ve told,’ and by now the dogs in the streets, the birds in the trees, the clouds in the sky, have it like a jingle: ‘Frankie’s leaving his job, you see.’

  ‘I have mastered the art of disengagement,’ he says with confidence. ‘I am there but not really there at all.’

  I am smiling at him now, enjoying his company.

  He looks into his wine. ‘The ship is sinking,’ he tells me and we are trying to be serious and not laugh too much at our hopeless careers.

  ‘The thing is… I am at my meetings… but I am not at my meetings.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I reassure him.

  ‘I show up and I’m there – but I’m not really there.’

  I tell him I understand.

  ‘I’m at meetings… but I’m not at meetings,’ and I smile at him again.

  ‘The lifeboat is ready,’ he says again sadly, and we both know that it is moored safely and not going anywhere and that Frankie will never leave.

  Larry stands behind the counter at Vertigo. He turns the bottle in his hands and pulls the cork. We have decided to get drunk together, slowly, quietly, easily; and then maybe whatever we’re looking for will just come back. He is tanned and lovely. His hair is getting long. He looks the way he always looks and I also look the same. Not any taller. Not any smaller. Not any richer and just slightly different inside.

  We say things like ‘Wine?’ and then, ‘OK.’

  Or ‘Tired?’ and then, ‘Not really.’

  Ask me how it happens – and I can’t tell you. He says something about working these long hours and then something about how I’m never at home, and I say something about trying to earn some money and the debt collector and then the next thing is we are standing facing each other and shouting. The first plate flies from me to Larry and then he picks up a loaf of bread and throws it against the wall. Then the cutlery tray goes. He picks up four dinner plates and sends them like frisbees at me. There is a sudden bang of thunder and outside it begins to rain. There are blue cups stacked high over the Gaggia machine and I run for them and throw them at him one at a time. I used to think this diner was our world. That no one existed or even moved outside Larry and Doreen and me.

  Larry ducks from each one and gets in under a chair. He throws bread rolls. I throw coffee beans. He opens the fridge and takes out a chocolate cake. Last week he made this for me – for my birthday – and when I came home from work he had flour on his face.

  The cake comes half-way across the room and then dies in mid-air and falls flat. He finds sausages and rashers and I find eggs. We throw everything we can find – and then I slide on to my knees and start to laugh – and Larry comes and stands over me and he is not laughing at all. He looks at me and when he turns around again a single dark curl hangs down over one of his eyes.

  ‘I still love you, Larry.’ I want to say it – this is the time to say it – but I can’t.

  ‘Hope…’ he says and then he stops, and now I am crying and he is crying too.

  ‘Hope,’ he says again, ‘what is happening to us?’

  And there is no answer for this.

  ‘We were fine,’ he says. ‘W
e ARE fine.’ He puts his face into his hands and drags his fingers back into his hair.

  I want to touch him but – I can’t.

  Matilda writes a piece about the Flower District and Verdi Square. She says it is the start point of the Upper West Side. She says it is a place where couples sit and eat bagels and it is oddly romantic that people can screen out the noise of New York and fall in love. She has broken up with her boyfriend but she says deep down she knows that he still cares. She says she is thinking about cutting her hair and then going peroxide blonde.

  Jonathan opens the door after one ring. There is an open suitcase in the hall and two books in his hand. His fishing rods are leaning against the wall and next to them there is a tennis racquet, a stack of CDs, his laptop, his mobile phone. He says, ‘Well, hello,’ as if we are old friends, and then, ‘I’m packing, I’m going away for the weekend.’

  ‘Is Nina here?’ I ask slowly.

  ‘No,’ he replies and now he is smiling and then he glances at the package under my arm. Around us our words are echoing in the white and cream marble and I watch as the fig tree loses one of its leaves. The doors are open on to the hall and a pale yellow lamp from his study sends out its glow. In the background Maria Callas sings and her voice soars over us in Italian – and if the words were translated they would mean ‘tragedy’ and ‘jeopardy’ and ‘deceit’. ‘One week’ – that was what the debt collector said. His week ends tomorrow and my new week begins.

  ‘I want you to look at this,’ I tell him and I nod towards the package under my arm. It is wet from the rain and even now that I am here I do not want to let it go or even put it down.

  ‘Sure,’ he says, and when we walk into his study he turns the music down. His hair is wet from his shower. His shirt is creased. He is like any other boy now that we are not at work. I open up the paper and lay my father’s last painting out on the floor. He stands and stares down at it, his eyes fixed, his features perfectly still. I stay on my knees and I am still holding the edges with my hands. I can do this. I can do this. For me and for Larry. I can do this. Say goodbye. Say goodbye. It’s time to say goodbye.

  Jonathan comes down on one knee and he is staring at the detail and still my fingers are on the canvas. First they are gripping and then just touching with their tips. It is all I have left of Pappy. In the threads of this canvas is his voice. In the paints are his bright days. In the brush strokes, the sound of his breath.