by John Maley
Joanie and Edith became great friends. Joanie was glad something good had come out of the catfight. He even gave Edith her pet name. As she was Spenser’s new sidekick there was only one thing to call Edith. Mama.
Advantage Navratilova
Ruth watched Laura jostle at the bar of Delilah’s with a curious combination of love and loathing. Love because she was Laura, her lover – beautiful, slim, sexy, babe of babes – Laura. Loathing because she was Laura, snobby, yuppie, selfish, pompous Laura, who made her feel smaller than bacteria.
It was a Wednesday night in Delilah’s and Ruth and Laura had just been at the badminton courts across the road from Laura’s work. It was a regular thing with them, badminton on a Wednesday night. Their relationship was rigorously structured and timetabled by Laura, who would sit woodenly on the living-room settee with her nostrils flaring violently if Ruth so much as suggested a change of plan. But Laura’s appalling selfishness was partly what made her so damned attractive. Brats were so used to being lavished with love and affection by their inadequate, fucked-up, parents that you couldn’t help being drawn into the same psychotic patterns with them. Me want this. Me want that. Me want it now. Me totally fucking selfish.
Ruth watched Laura jostling away, trying to get served and growing more agitated by the second. Ruth fantasised momentarily about spanking Laura’s bare arse; just taking Laura over her knee one night and spanking her. Almost as soon as it came into her head, Ruth dismissed this fantasy – first, because it was too much of a turn-on to contemplate and second, because she felt guilty for even thinking of doing such a pervy thing with Laura, who was such a vanilla dyke.
Laura finally got served. She turned to head back to their table when she was cut off at the pass. A seven-foot-tall stick insect with a huge frizzy red mane of hair waylaid her and started to chat her up. Ruth saw Laura dart her an anxious glance, then begin to simper smugly at the redhead. Ruth knew the score. Laura would flirt with this matchstick on fire, this Towering Inferno, then sally over to the table full of herself, clutching a scribbled telephone number in a pathetic attempt to make Ruth jealous. It usually worked. Ruth was a stone overweight and had a boxer’s nose. She wore great clothes and looked terrific but Laura was the pretty one, the skinny calendar girl with baby blue eyes.
But this time Laura didn’t come over to the table. She stood with a glass in each hand as the ginger giant wrapped herself around Laura like an enormous python. Now and again Laura would glance over, anxious but excited, to check how green and sick with jealousy Ruth’s face was becoming. Ruth played nonchalant. She knew Laura’s game, knew that Laura was in a huff because she had whipped her arse at badminton. Laura was not a good loser.
It had been a dream night for Ruth. She hated badminton and usually was outmanoeuvred by the lissom Laura on the badminton court. The whole concept of competition was repulsive to her. She also knew that Laura was one sore loser. Once, not long after they had met, Ruth had beaten Laura at Monopoly. Laura had burst into tears and sobbed in the locked bathroom for an hour. But tonight Ruth had pulled off her kid gloves and taken no prisoners. She had pranced like a gazelle around that badminton court. She had leapt like Margot Fonteyn. She had summoned the strength and stamina of Navratilova to beat Laura into submission. At one point Laura had even slumped across the net, her bottom lip trembling, and feigned an asthma attack. Ruth had suggested they abandon the game but Laura had then come back with a vengeance, making scary and totally unsexy grunts every time she whacked the shuttlecock. Ruth rose to the challenge. She could see the sickening spoilt-brat tears spring up in Laura’s eyes as she smashed the shuttlecock over the net and past Laura’s head like a fucking bullet, claiming victory at last.
Laura could account for her shock defeat all too readily. A freak asthma attack. Her new training shoes. A pounding headache. Ruth just smiled regally and savoured the moment. So now it was time for Laura’s revenge: to swan around Delilah’s and flutter her big eyelashes at any passing dyke. But Laura was a vanilla-dyke, crybaby, crap-bag, scaredy-cat who didn’t actually have the nerve to get off with somebody else. She just liked having her ego massaged and looking slyly at Ruth, as if to say, ‘You just watch it, sweetheart.’
Ruth saw tonight’s victory as being about more than just badminton. The whole thing was kind of symbolic. The power Laura had over her was gone. The spell was broken. For Ruth the thing that tied her to Laura was a strong sexual attraction. And loneliness. And the feeling that, fuck it, this time she was actually going to try to have a relationship. But it was a relationship in name alone. There was no relating going on. They were poles apart. Ruth was a socialist and hated money-grabbing materialism; Laura would suck cock if it came wrapped in a five-pound note. Ruth loved dancing; Laura refused to ever dance with her, and on the one memorable occasion when Ruth had coaxed her onto the dance floor, Laura had stamped up and down like a constipated child in a tantrum. Ruth had tried to make allowances for her, apologies for her rudeness, excuses for her selfishness, but in the end it was about respect. Ruth just didn’t respect Laura anymore. Worse, Ruth was losing respect for herself: she was turning into one of those indulgent mothers who take a perverse pride in their brat’s behaviour.
Laura stood on her tiptoes and peeked over the redhead’s shoulder, searching Ruth’s face for signs of distress. But Ruth smoked a cigarette and beamed with satisfaction. Laura turned her attention back to the redhead. It was a war of attrition. Laura would expect her to come over and ‘rescue’ her and they could swan back to the table together. Laura would then make some snide remark like ‘You know, if I wasn’t already hitched …’ and then huff and puff all night, giving other girls the eye.
It was about more than badminton all right. It was about honesty and self-respect. Ruth thought of the feeble excuses she had tormented herself with in order to justify staying with Laura. She’ll change. I’ll change her. Nobody’s perfect. So she has confidence, is that really so terrible? But here was a woman who had criticised her diction; her weight, her friends, her beliefs, and who also played petty little power games.
Ruth looked at Laura now, standing with the redhead, and tried to summon up a big sexy emotion – jealousy, anger, passion. She felt only amusement. Maybe even pity. It had been a spell; some kind of enchantment.
A pal of Ruth’s had advised her to hang in there. Relationships didn’t come ready-made; they had to be worked at. They were good together; everybody could see that. But they weren’t good together. They were both becoming increasingly miserable and insecure. They would end up like Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in that spooky old movie if she didn’t bail out now.
‘Hi, I’m Janice. Would you like a bottle of beer? I hate drinking alone.’
Janice sat down opposite Ruth and put the bottle under her nose. Her boxer’s nose.
‘I’m sort of waiting for someone.’
‘That’s cool. But a girl like you shouldn’t have to wait on anyone.’
Ruth blushed and took a swig from the bottle of beer, cracking her front teeth in the process.
‘Don’t be nervous. I’m just being sociable. I don’t know anyone here.’
Ruth looked at Janice. She had long dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. She had big red lips that seemed to grow bigger and more kissable by the second.
‘I’m waiting on my girlfriend.’
‘You don’t mind if I sit here meantime?’
‘No. And thanks for the beer.’
They got talking.
It turned out Janice had just split up from someone and so was back out on her lonesome-ownsome once more. Her ex had been a fiercely possessive Klingon who had isolated Janice from her friends. So now she had made her escape, she was footloose, fancyfree and lonely as fuck.
‘So you’re in a relationship?’
Ruth looked at Laura, who by this stage was pinned to a wall and was being virtually dry humped by the rapacious redhead.
‘I’m on the way out of one.’
&nb
sp; Janice smiled broadly and brought a bottle of beer to her luscious lips.
Luck be a lady tonight.
Jeannie and Joanie
Jeannie finished wiping off the toilet seat then pressed the flush button on top of the cistern. She barely noticed the graffiti on the WC doors now. At first she would giggle and shake her head. Now, well, they couldn’t shock her. You needed a sense of humour in this job. She had been cleaning Delilah’s pub for two years. She did nine to eleven five mornings a week. They had a girl who came in the other two mornings; Jeannie had never met her. She used to work with another cleaner but lately the manager had decided it was a one-woman job. It was a big place to get through. Over the last two years a succession of young girls had been employed alongside Jeannie, but none of them had stuck it.
The fact that Delilah’s was a gay bar didn’t bother her. It was no cleaner and no dirtier than any other place she had worked. It was handy to get to, being in the town centre. She needed the money. She had met some of the staff and they were nice. Jeannie especially liked Joanie, the bar manager.
She took off her rubber gloves and walked into the ladies. She knew it was silly to walk out of the gents and into the ladies just to wash her hands, but somehow she never felt right about using the facilities in a men’s toilet. As she walked downstairs she could hear Joanie coming in. There was the rattle of the keys, the noise of the door opening, Joanie’s footsteps. Joanie whistled, too. Jeannie smiled as she turned at the bottom of the stairs and came around into the bar area.
‘Mornin’ Joanie.’
‘Mornin’ Jeannie. Have ye time for a cuppa this mornin’?’
Jeannie nodded. Every morning Joanie would offer her a cup of tea. Sometimes she would just want to get home she’d feel so tired. Other times, like this morning, she wanted to take up the offer. She had got to know Joanie and liked him, enjoyed their chats. She sat on a chair at the bar and watched Joanie make the tea. He was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt and wore trainers. He looked like an ordinary young man. Jeannie knew that Joanie was gay and dressed up as a woman. She had seen photographs. There was one behind the bar. Joanie was wearing a sparkly gold dress and a big honey blonde wig. You had to look closely to make out it was really Joanie under the make-up. Of course, Joanie wasn’t his real name. It was John. He used to say to Jeannie she should come in one night and actually see the people she was cleaning up after. Jeannie would offer various excuses. She couldn’t afford it. Joanie would say drinks on the house. She was too old for this sorta place. Joanie would say age is no’ an issue in here. She had to watch her granddaughter. Joanie would say get a baby sitter. It was no use. Jeannie wasn’t interested, that was obvious to Joanie. But Jeannie was curious. Alongside the photo of Joanie behind the bar were other photos of Delilah’s regulars. Young lassies and boys with their arms around each other, laughing.
‘Teatime, doll.’
Joanie put the cups of tea down in front of them. Jeannie sat on the other side of the bar, across from Joanie.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
Jeannie shook her head. Joanie lit up and sat with an elbow resting on the bar. He looked pensive. He’d had a rough week of it. He looked at Jeannie. She looked knackered. Joanie wondered what age she was. He guessed late forties. Sometimes she looked a good bit younger but today she looked worldweary. Done in. Joanie knew that cleaning was a hard job. His mammy had been a cleaner on and off for years. He remembered getting up for school some mornings when his mammy was just getting in from early morning shifts. He would be going out the door to school as she was coming in.
‘You look done in, hen.’
‘Ta very much.’
Joanie patted Jeannie’s hand.
‘It’s a sair fecht innit?’
Jeannie smiled.
‘It’s ma grandwean’s birthday. She’s six the day.’
‘Aw the nice. Are ye havin’ a wee party?’
Jeannie shook her head and took a sip of tea.
‘She had a few pals roun’ yesterday fae school. We’re jist havin’ a few family roun’. An’ the neighbours weans.’
‘Sounds damn near a party tae me.’
‘Aye, that’s her six noo. Cannae believe it.’
‘Who’s watchin’ her this mornin’?’
‘Her great Auntie Agnes.’
Joanie puffed at his fag. Jeannie opened her cellophane wrapped biscuit.
‘How’s yer love life this weather?’
Jeannie knew that Joanie had been seeing an American businessman. He had told her he was in love. She’d seen a photo of the guy. He looked very handsome. Joanie faltered. He put a hand up to his face.
‘That’s a bit of a sore point.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, love.’
‘He’s gone an’ chucked me. Pissed off back to the States.’
Jeannie could see that Joanie was close to tears.
‘I suppose he had tae go back home eventually. But I had big plans for me and this guy. I never even got a chance to say goodbye.’
Joanie wiped away a tear. ‘I’m always fallin’ in love wi’ people I don’t know.’
Jeannie felt a bit embarrassed. She was unnerved by the strength of feeling in Joanie’s voice. Joanie had a hanky out by now.
‘I’m sorry, Jeannie. I knew it was just a holiday romance for him. I was kiddin’ maself on.’
Joanie talked then of his lost love, of how they’d first met. Lance had come into Delilah’s one Saturday night and hung around at the bar. He’d taken a fancy to Joanie right away. It certainly seemed that way. He was over in Glasgow representing a computer software company. Joanie made it a rule never to get involved with punters, but Lance was different. He was passing trade. He was handsome personified. Joanie liked everything about him. Even his name. A pal had said, ‘Lance – isn’t that somethin’ you do to a boil?’ But Joanie would brook no criticism of Lance. He decided to take a chance on romance with Lance.
They had dated. They’d go for dinner. Go to the cinema. Drink in wine bars. Lance was easy company. He told Joanie that he had been married back in the States and that his wife had died in a light plane accident. She was having an affair with a millionaire playboy who was a keen pilot. The eerie part of the story was he said Joanie reminded him of his wife. Lance had told his wife the score about him and they had led separate lives. But they were best of friends and her death had been a terrible blow. Since then he’d thrown himself into his work and decided to live life to the full. So here he was, in a city many miles from his home in Texas, dating a drag queen. The nice part about Lance was he didn’t pretend Joanie was a woman. Not like those guys who were so far in the closet, so deep in denial, the only way they could sleep with another man was by pretending they were with a woman. No, when Lance and Joanie got down to the bare essentials, it was as two throbbing, sensual, naked men yielding to the night. That’s how Joanie liked to look at it anyway. Dragging up wasn’t a sex thing. He knew it was kinky but it was just a showbiz thing. He didn’t always dress up on dates. So it was always a surprise with Lance. He didn’t know what to expect when Joanie showed up.
Joanie crunched a biscuit and paused for a moment, reflecting on his nights of passion with the Texan.
‘Go on,’ urged Jeannie, eagerly.
What spooked Joanie was the dead wife patter. He wanted to be loved for himself, not for a passing resemblance to a deceased spouse. He decided not to drag up anymore for Lance and just be John the whole time. It was then things started to go wrong. Lance began to insist that Joanie dress up for him. He even began to buy clothes for Joanie to wear. It was like that Hitchcock movie. Joanie wanted real love, not some kinky morbid fantasy. He told Lance so.
‘I love you, honey,’ Lance said, softly. Then he handed Joanie an aquamarine dress with matching scarf and shoes. It was what Lance’s wife had been wearing the night she fell to earth with a bloody bump. Blue dress, blue scarf, blue shoes.
‘Did you wear them?’ Jeannie asked.
�
�Of course I did,’ replied Joanie, ‘I was a fool in love.’
Lance had been in Glasgow three months and had said he would be staying another three. But the morning after the blue dress episode Joanie woke alone in his bed. Lance had split. He’d left a note saying he’d always have a special place in his heart for Joanie, but to see him again would only bring back painful memories of his dear dead wife. Joanie bowed his head in sorrow and reflection.
There was an awkward silence. Jeannie reached for her bag. She found her brown leather purse and took out a small photograph of her granddaughter, Jade. She handed the snap tentatively to Joanie.
‘This is ma wee grandwean. Jade. Int she lovely?’
Joanie looked at the photo. It was an image of a wee freckly-faced five-year-old lassie. She smiled broadly and her eyes were screwed up tight.
‘Aw the nice. She’s a wee darlin’. Does she take after her mammy or her daddy?’
‘Oh her daddy. She’s her daddy’s girl.’
Joanie knew that Jade’s daddy was dead. He knew that Jeannie looked after Jade and had done for three years. He didn’t really know how Jade’s daddy had died or where her mother was. There was something about the way Jeannie spoke about it that made him too cautious to ask. It all came out this particular morning.
Jeannie began to speak of it now. Her eyes were fixed on the photo of Jade.
‘It was drugs. Aye. Drugs that killed ma boy.’
