The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘I’d be tempted,’ said Connie. ‘Even if he made me sit in the flatbed with his hogs.’

  The pick-up came to a stop and the driver stuck his head out the window. He was young — no more than twenty-one — tousle-headed and grinning. Dimly visible through the windows were two other tousle-headed grinners, one in the passenger seat and one in the back.

  ‘Hey, there!’ said the driver. ‘Where you ladies headed?’

  ‘Haven’t a freaking clue,’ said Michelle. ‘Where’s the nearest bar, helpful young person?’

  The driver glanced back over his shoulder and exchanged a wider grin with his friends.

  ‘Nearest?’ he said. ‘Or wildest?’

  ‘Nearest,’ said Connie immediately.

  ‘How wild?’ said Aishe. ‘Naked dancing bar girl wild? Or hairy burly men smashing bottles over each other’s heads wild?’

  ‘No fights. They’ve got security. And no naked girls,’ said the driver. ‘Not tending bar, anyways.’

  ‘Did he just say “anyways”?’ said Michelle. ‘Is he Luke Duke?’

  ‘It’s cos of the band,’ the driver continued. ‘Plays every second Friday. House gets packed. People come from all over. We’ve come from Bolinas.’

  The one in the passenger seat said something. ‘Oh yeah,’ said the driver. ‘Sean Penn might be there. He digs them.’

  ‘Sean Penn?’ Michelle frowned. ‘He’s not sexy. Now, if it was Sean Bean …’

  ‘Or Sean Connery,’ said Connie.

  ‘Sean Connery? Connie, he’s a hundred and twenty at least!’

  ‘Ladies,’ said Aishe, ‘I think the young men would like to be moving on. Got room for us, boys? If you’re embarrassed to be seen with older women, you can always tell people we’re your mothers.’

  Aishe was wearing a low-cut silver tank top, a short, fitted leather jacket and jeans that looked sprayed on. Her boots were pointed at the front and at the heel. She had to admit she hadn’t seen too many outfits like hers on the cover of Family Circle. Outlaw Biker, maybe.

  ‘Lady, you look nothing like my mother,’ said the driver. ‘Believe me.’ He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s room in the back if you squeeze up. Nathan won’t mind, will you, Nate?’

  Nathan shook his tousled head and kept grinning, so Aishe opened the back door and got in. She craned her head towards the open door and patted the seat next to her.

  ‘Come on, Connie,’ she said. ‘Littlest in the middle.’

  Connie dithered. ‘Is this really wise?’

  ‘Wise?’ said Michelle from behind her. ‘Hell no! But if I start to come down off this booze high, you’ll have to single-handedly heft my sobbing deadweight out of the gutter and carry me home.’ She slapped Connie’s backside. ‘So giddy up, woman. Get in the truck.’

  Connie sidled in and sat gingerly down next to Aishe. Michelle got in after her and pulled on the door.

  ‘Budge up,’ she said to the others. ‘The door won’t close for some reason, which we all know couldn’t possibly be because I’m fat.’

  Everyone squeezed up, and when the door was shut the driver turned around. ‘Hi, ladies,’ he said. ‘I’m Josh.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Michelle. ‘And this is Nathan. And you—’ She pointed to the third young man in the passenger seat. ‘You’re probably Brandon or Cory or something.’

  ‘I’m Cory,’ he said. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Lucky guess.’

  ‘OK then.’ Josh put the truck in gear. ‘El Rancho Laredo — here we come.’

  The bar was five miles down the road, in a town so tiny, Aishe decided, that the locals probably weren’t even sure they lived there. The bar’s official parking lot was full, so Josh pulled the truck into the adjoining field, alongside at least twenty other vehicles. ‘My God,’ said Aishe. ‘I know this place. I used to bring Gulliver here to pick pumpkins for Halloween. We didn’t go trick or treating this year — he said he’s too old.’

  ‘Harry’s too scared,’ said Michelle. ‘I couldn’t even make him come to the door with me to hand out treats.’

  ‘Becca lets her children go with Izzy,’ said Connie. ‘Izzy said she hid most of the candy because the kids told her that Becca always confiscates it. I suppose she’s worried about razor blades and poison and suchlike.’

  ‘Bullcrap,’ said Michelle. ‘She just doesn’t like to see evidence of anyone enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Aishe. ‘The boy scouts have already abandoned us.’

  It was true. Josh, Nathan and Cory had hightailed it and could be seen pushing their way through the throng at the bar’s entrance, shooting furtive glances over their shoulders towards the truck.

  ‘That’s because I’m fat, and it’s obvious Connie will never put out,’ said Michelle. ‘And they suspected Aishe would devour them whole and spit out their bones.’

  The bar, as Josh had promised, was packed. The noise level inside was set to raucous and people were spilling out onto the wide porch, red-faced and gulping air as if they’d accidentally done two cycles in a tumble dryer.

  ‘There’s no room,’ said Connie, with a hint of hope.

  ‘Of course there is,’ said Aishe. ‘Follow me.’ And with judicious use of elbow and pointed boot, she cut a rapid swathe through the crowd, right to the bar. The barman was cut from a similar mould to the one in the Silver Saddle — older, taciturn, and with an air that made it clear he would not be hurried, and you would regret it if you tried, if not right now, then later, when you were heading home alone, in the dark.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ he said to Aishe.

  ‘Six shots of tequila.’ She pointed at Michelle and Connie, who were crammed in behind her. ‘Two each for me and my friends.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Connie. ‘Really, I can’t.’

  ‘You must be awash with soda by now,’ said Michelle. ‘Besides, if you don’t drink them, we will. Which means you may never get home.’

  ‘Here you go.’ The bartender lined up the glasses and filled them. Aishe paid him and made sure she added a big tip. She knew bartenders were like the IRS. It was a world of hurt not to keep them on-side.

  Aishe handed Michelle and Connie two glasses each.

  ‘Skol,’ she said, and downed hers.

  ‘Bottoms up!’ Michelle followed suit.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ said Connie.

  She looked as if she now regretted rejecting the bar with the spittoons, so handy for surreptitiously pouring away unwanted alcohol. Fortunately, Michelle and Aishe were distracted first by the impact of two shots in their systems, and secondly by the surge of whooping and cheering that heralded the arrival of the band on the small stage in the far corner of the room.

  ‘I can’t see,’ Michelle said. ‘Not that it matters. Unless they’re playing buck naked, of course. And that would only be worth a glimpse if they’re young and studly. Not so keen on wizened, pendulous old-man parts.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Aishe. ‘Let’s get a better view.’

  Once again, she manoeuvred her way through the crowd with all the ruthless skill of a tank commander in the Sinai, dragging Michelle and Connie in her wake. She planted herself in front of a group against the back wall, who muttered in protest until she turned and glared.

  Then she turned back to face the stage, of which they now had a clear view.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Oh, look,’ said Connie. ‘It’s Izzy. Doesn’t she look pretty?’

  Izzy looked more than pretty, Aishe noted. She was wearing a low-cut silver tank top identical to Aishe’s, except for the fact that under hers, Aishe was wearing a bra and even a blind man in the next state could see that Izzy wasn’t. Izzy also had on tight jeans that showed off the curve of her perfect, pert rear and her long, slim thighs. Her boots were pointed at the heel and the toe. Somewhere out back, Aishe just knew, Izzy had left a short, fitted leather jacket. Aishe had never wished such an extensive range of bodily harm on anyone.

  I
zzy was up at the microphone. Next to her, drilling Aishe’s morale through rock bottom and into the lower mantle, was Eddie. He was tuning his guitar and leering at Izzy’s firm, unsupported breasts.

  ‘Is this the band Benedict plays in?’ Michelle said. ‘I can’t see him, but then my vision’s a bit blurry for some reason.’

  I can’t see him either, thought Aishe. Thank the al-fucking-mighty for one small mercy at least.

  ‘This is going to be shit,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘No!’ said Michelle. ‘I like it here. Besides, we’re in the middle of nowhere and our helpful young person driver has proved a feckless, ageist turncoat.’

  ‘Cab,’ said Aishe. ‘Can’t be more than a few hundred bucks to get home.’

  ‘No, let’s stay,’ said Connie. ‘For one, I cannot walk a step more, and two, I’d really like to hear Izzy sing.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Aishe under her breath.

  She knew she could have forced the issue, but she was being plagued by an obsessive urge to stay and hear Izzy sing. Part of her intensely hoped that she sang like a strangled cat. The rest of her knew that was never going to be the case.

  ‘Wow!’ said Michelle, halfway through the first number. ‘She’s really good.’

  So’s Eddie, Aishe admitted reluctantly. The band played rocked-up blues and folk — sort of The Pogues meets that band with the weird-looking guy and the girl with big tits who plays drums. Benedict would know exactly the pair I mean, thought Aishe. Then the fact he’d popped into her head sent her morale down another layer, close now to the core, where it stewed hotly and uncomfortably, exuding a haze of resentment and tequila.

  ‘Fuck it then,’ she said. ‘I’m getting another drink. Save my place.’

  ‘Get me one too,’ said Michelle. ‘Whoo!’ She pulled the neck of her top away from her chest. ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’

  Connie decided that now was a very good time to slide the shots she’d been holding out of Michelle and Aishe’s sight onto a table close by.

  ‘Be my guest,’ she said to the surprised couple seated there.

  It was an hour before the band finished their first set, during which time Aishe and Michelle had taken turns to travel to and from the bar.

  Connie checked her watch. ‘It’s almost eleven-thirty,’ she said. ‘Is Gulliver OK to be up this late?’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said Aishe. ‘It’s not late for him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Connie, ‘but by the time we get back—?’

  ‘Connie, Connie, Connie,’ said Michelle. ‘Connie, Connie.’ She clapped her hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Stop being a worrywart. Worry, worry, worry, worry.’ Michelle giggled. ‘It’s. All. Fine.’ She giggled again.

  Connie gave Aishe a look, which indicated that not worrying wasn’t an option.

  ‘She’s four sheets to the wind,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t we get her home?’

  Aishe didn’t reply, She was staring at the empty stage, at the spot where, five minutes ago, Izzy had bowed low to the crowd, causing every male to erupt in wolfwhistles and shouts. If it had been trained through a magnifying glass, Aishe’s stare would have had the same effect as sunlight on a dry leaf.

  She felt a hand slip around her waist.

  ‘Hey there, beautiful.’ It was Eddie. ‘Come to meet me backstage?’ And just as Aishe thought it couldn’t get any worse, he added, ‘You guys know each other, don’t you?’ and drew Izzy forward.

  ‘Hiya,’ said Izzy. ‘You’re Gulliver’s mum, right?’

  ‘Izzy,’ said Connie, before Aishe could reply. ‘How nice to see you. You were fabulous.’

  Izzy jumped when she recognised Connie and glanced around nervously. ‘Jeez, my boss isn’t here, is she?’

  ‘Becca?’ Michelle leaned over. ‘She’d sooner eat than come to a place like this. Eat, I tell you!’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Izzy was eyeing Michelle somewhat askance. Michelle ignored it and pressed on.

  ‘Now, you,’ she said, pointing at Izzy, ‘are you doing right by my lovely boy, Benedict? Because if you’re not, I could get very—’ She paused and frowned. ‘What’s that word? Means — something.’ She waved her hand. ‘Don’t care! Whatever! Are you being nice to him?’

  ‘Ben?’ Izzy beamed. ‘Yeah, we’re great. I’ve moved in.’

  Fuck, thought Aishe.

  ‘Whoa, serious!’ said Eddie. He leered. ‘So what next? The chapel of lurrve?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon.’ Izzy nodded earnestly. ‘Ben’s pretty keen.’

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, thought Aishe.

  Eddie’s attention was caught by a gesture from the stage.

  ‘The guy’s are up,’ he said. ‘Come on, Iz. Get that beautiful butt back to work.’

  He winked at Aishe. ‘Backstage in an hour. Meet you there.’

  Over my dead body, thought Aishe, as the pair moved away. No, strike that. Over your dead body, Eddie. And Izzy’s, for good measure.

  ‘Oops,’ she heard Michelle say in a little voice.

  Aishe turned to see her friend bending over, her face sweaty and ashen.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Aishe. ‘Outside! Quick! Connie, grab an arm.’

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ said Connie.

  The cab dropped them off outside Michelle’s at two-thirty in the morning. The trip from the bar had taken forty-five minutes, but they’d had to wait for over an hour for Michelle to be in an acceptable enough state for the driver to let them into his vehicle.

  While they’d been waiting, the tousle-headed trio had hastened past, heading for their truck, once again casting furtive looks in their direction.

  ‘I suspect the idea of being seduced by a cougar has lost its lustre for them,’ Aishe had said to Connie. ‘It will soon be joined by all those other male fantasies that are inevitably punctured by reality — like threesomes, which require a level of multi-tasking beyond the reach of most men, and watching lesbians have sex, which makes them feel not horny but both inadequate and, ultimately, redundant.’

  Noting Michelle’s head was again between her knees, Aishe had reached out to deftly move her friend’s hair out of the way.

  ‘Oh well,’ Aishe had said. ‘Best they’re disillusioned young. With older men, the shock can be terminal.’

  In the back of the cab, Michelle had fallen asleep, her head on Connie’s lap. Aishe, up front with the driver, had glanced back over her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t look so anxious, Connie,’ she’d said. ‘I seriously doubt she has anything more to give.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t worried about that,’ Connie had replied. ‘I was thinking that I envied her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why can’t I throw my inhibitions to the wind like that? Why do I have to always be so straight-laced and buttoned up?’ Connie had fumbled in her bag for a tissue and blown her nose.

  ‘There’s no point in wanting to be what you’re not,’ Aishe had said. ‘Best to accept yourself, warts and all.’ She screwed up her mouth. ‘Not that it’s always that easy to accept you have warts. Even when they’re the really big ones with fat, black hairs sticking out of them that not even a blind person could miss.’

  Then she’d said to the cab driver: ‘Pull in here.’

  She and Connie had rustled up enough cash to pay the driver, and with difficulty, they’d roused Michelle and half-dragged, half-carried her up to her front door.

  ‘You knock,’ Aishe said to Connie. ‘If I let go of her, you’ll be crushed.’

  Connie rapped on the door, and they waited.

  ‘Do you think Gulliver’s gone to sleep?’ She raised her hand again. ‘Perhaps I should knock more loudly?’

  But as she spoke, the door was wrenched open. Connie squeaked in alarm, for in the doorway was not Gulliver but a very tall, very broad man with close-cropped dark hair, dark eyes and an expression to match.

  ‘Jesus fuck!’ said Aishe. ‘What are you doing here?’

  30

  ‘Here.
Let me.’

  The tall man in the doorway bent and scooped Michelle into his arms without any apparent effort.

  Michelle opened one eye. ‘Wuss? Who’s?’ Then she opened both eyes. ‘Hey! It’s you.’

  The tall man offered a quick smile. ‘Yeah. Hi. Nice to meet you. Which way’s the bedroom?’

  Michelle’s eyes were closing again. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I’m on top.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ said Connie. ‘Follow me.’

  When Michelle was safely on her bed, Connie removed her friend’s shoes and covered her with a blanket. The tall man stood back and watched, arms folded. Even though he was silent, Connie found herself very aware of his presence. Not that he made her anxious; more that he filled the space in a way that made everything else seem to shrink into insignificance. Whatever room he entered, thought Connie, he’d immediately draw everyone’s eye. Even if you had your back to him, she decided, you’d feel compelled to turn around.

  ‘Hello.’ She took a deep breath and held out her hand. ‘I’m Connie.’

  ‘Connie.’ He returned her handshake. ‘I’m Patrick. Aishe’s cousin. All the way from sunny London.’

  His gruff accent reminded Connie of a British movie she’d seen, where a bunch of young men had to pay back a debt to an East End gangster called something like Harry the Axe. Or Knife. Or some other sharp implement. Patrick didn’t make Connie feel afraid, but she sensed that if he did want to frighten you, you’d stay frightened for some considerable time.

  Patrick glanced out into the hallway. ‘Didn’t tell her I was coming, as you probably gathered. Not that it matters. I’d be about as welcome as herpes either way.’

  ‘How did you find this house?’ Connie frowned. ‘Did you phone Gulliver?’

  ‘I had Michelle’s address, too. She’s a friend of my cousin’s girlfriend. Another cousin,’ he added. ‘Aishe’s brother, as it happens.’ He noted Connie’s look of bewilderment. ‘Anyway, when no one was home at Aishe’s, I thought I’d try my luck here.’

  ‘I’m sorry we’re so late,’ said Connie.

  Patrick shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’m jetlagged. No fucking idea what time it is.’