by Anna Legat
What if she was married?
Obviously, they wouldn’t be able to go to her place – it’d be too risky. But that wasn’t the end of the world. In fact, it would add some spice to it. For now, because sooner or later they’d have to do something about the husband. And, come to think about it, about Sandra. Nothing drastic. Nothing too radical. Nothing a simple divorce could not solve. The boys were nearly grown up. They could look after themselves. For God’s sake, they needed to start taking life a bit more seriously! It would do them a great deal of good to become independent. Anyway, they weren’t Trevor’s problem anymore. He had devoted to them enough of his time – enough of his life. Now it was his turn. Before it was too late. Before he grew too old and too wrinkly and too resigned to his lot. Before Sandra put him in the passenger seat and told him to wear his seatbelt and be a good boy.
It was a sobering thought – one that had instantly brought him back to reality. He peered at the alarm clock. It was twenty to eight! He had overslept, but if he got out as he stood, without breakfast and all that fluffing around, he would still make it. He jumped out of the bed like someone half his age.
‘What are you doing?’ Sandra’s sleep-ridden voice gritted from her side of the bed. ‘Did you forget? No school today? Get back to bed!’
‘I’ve got something to do.’ He wasn’t going to let himself be swayed. He had a date. For all he knew, Isolde was already racing to meet up with him on the road. To come close till he could almost feel her breath on his back. Overtake him. Let him follow her. To her place where they would make love on her red silk bed.
*
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Trevor was transferring all his might into kicking the tyre into action. It remained as flat as it had been at the start when he had dashed out of the house, brimming with the anticipation of his imminent date, to be confronted with the sight of an irrevocable puncture in his left rear tyre. Another kick, accompanied by another outpour of fucks, achieved no discernible improvement. The tyre stayed flat. His ancient Skoda was rooted into the driveway and wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he tried to change the tyre, he wouldn’t be able to make it. It would take him at least twenty minutes and he was already late – only because he hadn’t dared to set the alarm clock for a wake-up call so that Sandra wouldn’t suspect anything. Bloody, bloody Sandra! It was her fault! The fact that the alarm hadn’t been set. The fact that Trevor had overslept. The fact that he was late. The fact that he had a flat tyre – that too was her fault! If it hadn’t been for her bloody Mr Handy forcing Trevor to reverse into the bloody pavement, none of this would have happened.
He squatted on the driveway in front of the cursed tyre and blinked hard to ward off tears. It wasn’t a manly thing to cry but Trevor didn’t care. This was a catastrophe. What would Isolde make of it – him not turning up... How disappointed, how hurt would she feel! She would think the date was off, the whole thing was off! And what’s worse Trevor wouldn’t be there to reassure her, tell her not to doubt him, he’d always be there for her, if not in body then in spirit... He could do none of that. He was helpless. Defeated. Finished.
The kitchen window was flung open and Sandra appeared. She shouted, ‘I called the AA. They’re on their way, twenty minutes at the most. Get inside. Get a cup of tea and some toast at least. Nothing you can do there, sitting on the driveway, making a spectacle of yourself. And anyway, what’s so urgent that it can’t wait? You’re on holiday for God’s sake!’
Trevor stared at her in disbelief. At this very moment, a divorce simply wouldn’t do. He would have to kill her, put his hand over her mouth, press it hard, push the words back into her throat, and seal her lips until she choked on her own bile.
*
He knew where she parked her car in Greyston. It was a multi-storey concrete fossil of a car park, and it cost an arm and a leg, but if she could afford it, so could Trevor. For the past eight days she would lead him to the second floor of this windy snail-shell construction – lead him slowly, waiting on bends and stopping for him to catch up. They would park side by side in section C19, which with time had begun to feel more like a cosy hotel room than a parking bay. Section C19 had brought them closer together, but it wasn’t enough. They couldn’t stop here. So she would lead Trevor further – to where she worked.
It was a small bank in Newport Street. She would be the first one to walk in and the last one to walk out. Naturally, she was in charge. She impressed him as that rare female species – a woman in control. And that doesn’t mean in control of other people, clinging to them like Sandra – controlling because of her insecurities, because of her dependency on Trevor. No! This woman was in control of her own destiny; she was bold and confident! Everything about her screamed power – the way she dressed, the way she walked, the way she drove her car, the way she took the lead in their relationship.
For several days Trevor had lingered on the pavement outside the bank, watching and hesitating. He knew she wanted him to take the plunge and walk in, but it was easier said than done. Trevor was rather rusty in the dating game. The chase was one thing – taking the first bite was quite another. He would have to play it safe. For her sake more than his. It was her workplace after all. They had to adhere to some basic conventions and maintain pretences. So four days ago Trevor had called the bank and asked for an appointment to open an account. The appointment was for 10 a.m. today. His appointment with fate.
He was meeting with the branch manager, Emma Rydal. So that was her real name. She wanted him to know it. Isolde was only a working title, but now their relationship had become official: real names, real lives. Standing by the cash machine, clutching his passport and two utility bills displaying his home address, Trevor was shivering with excitement. She wanted to know all about him: where he lived, how old he was, places he travelled to.
It was 9 a.m. He had just seen her off into the building. She hadn’t waved back or anything childish like that – Emma knew how to exercise caution. This turned him on even more: her cool composure on the surface and reckless passion raging beneath that surface. He was gazing at his own reflection in the long window next to a billboard image of a smiling woman wearing a Barclays uniform, inviting him in. Not yet, Trevor smiled under his breath, not for another hour.
*
Face to face at last! At first he felt naked and bloody insecure. What would she make of him this close up and personal? He wasn’t in the first flush of youth, his hair was thinning on the crown of his head and his stomach had grown a bit flabby in the last several years of sexual abstinence. He had joined the gym and was working on it, but what would she make of him in the meantime?
She smiled. God! She smiled! She liked what she was seeing. She didn’t care about the flab and that bit of grey in his stubble. It gave him personality, and she recognised that. At least with her Trevor could be himself. They touched each other’s souls and now they were shaking hands. An electric current ran through Trevor’s entire body, forcing his hand to close on hers, clutching it and holding onto it for perhaps a couple of seconds too long. But she didn’t mind, did she? She needed it as much as he did.
‘May I ask what made you switch to us?’ she asked innocently as they sat down, now separated by her clinically white computer desk.
You did. He wanted to say that but that would be too early – that would end the foreplay, and he wanted it to last longer. They both did. He said, ‘The customer service in my old bank has gone down the drain. No personal touch.’
‘Oh, I see. That could be disheartening. I trust you’ll have a pleasant banking experience with Barclays.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be more than pleasant.’ He said it like he meant it and he let it sink in slowly, falling into a silence loaded with his unspoken intentions. He was looking dead straight into her eyes. It felt good. He was at ease. He wasn’t afraid to let her know he was game.
She interrupted his moment of silence, ‘May I take a look at your photo ID. Were you advised to bring
two documents proving your residential address?’
‘Yes. Here.’ He passed to her his passport and the utility bills folded between its pages. Their fingers met. It wasn’t his doing. It was hers. They both smiled.
‘I’ll make copies for our records. She stood up and walked to a photocopier standing by the window at the back of her office. Her hourglass silhouette cut into the stream of sunlight. She was statuesque. When they were finally (and officially) together, he would have her painted and sculpted to capture her poise and her proportions to remember them when they were both old.
She returned to her desk – a brisk, urgent walk, one he knew so well. She sat down, spread the documents in front of her and turned to face the computer. Her fingers were dancing on the keyboard while Trevor sat in the front seat, savouring the performance. He allowed himself time to savour her long hair tamed in a bun – almost tamed. A few streaks, wild and bouncy, had escaped and one sneaked from the back of her neck to curl itself around her chin. She had a long white neck, blending into her white blouse with a low décolletage. The dimple between her breasts deepened as she leaned forward to check something on the screen. It was a temptation he could not resist. He looked around: there were blinds in the glass door and they would have to be shut. Did she have a key to the door? The window overlooked the roof of a building across the road. No one could look into it.
A knock on the door brought Trevor’s schemes to a screeching halt. The ugly, meaty-lipped face of a middle-aged man of small posture appeared without an invitation. ‘Sorry for the interruption, Emma. We’ve got a problem downstairs. A customer demands to speak to the manager. Refuses to leave –’
With the door ajar, Trevor could hear shreds of loud exclamations uttered by an obviously angry man. Emma had heard them too. She rose to her feet, smiled apologetically and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind if Mr Blackburn – Gary – finishes the paperwork for me? There isn’t much left.’
*
‘I told you a hundred times, I got my old job back three weeks ago, the money’s coming!’ He was a large man wearing a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm, tattoos which spoke loudly of his general disposition.
‘I’m sorry to say this, Mr Orwin, but you have gone over the limit and we won’t be able to extend your credit –’
He shouted over her, ‘I don’t care how you do this, but the money must be there. I’ll pay you interest –’
‘You still haven’t paid the overdraft penalties. I told you –’
‘You’re not listening!’ The tattooed man stabbed his finger at the window that was separating him from Emma. She didn’t flinch, but Trevor shook with anger. He had no right to do that! What sort of a raving lunatic was he! Where were the police? The man was punching the window, yelling, ‘You're ruining my life, you cold bitch! Have you got any children? Do you know what it’s like?’
‘Mr Orwin, if you don’t stop now I’ll have to call the police. I’m asking you: please do not swear at me.’ Emma remained composed and in charge. Trevor admired her. He loved her. Worshipped her.
‘I am asking you,’ the madman shouted, ‘have a heart! I need that money for my daughter. If the money is not there, I won’t see her –’ He seemed to have choked and started coughing.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Emma asked, politely.
‘Please, I need that money,’ the madman said. His voice had gone down. He stopped punching the window – his hands lay still on the counter.
‘We can’t extend your credit, I’m very sorry.’
‘Fuck you, bitch! Fuck you! All of you!’ he screamed, and stormed out.
Trevor could’ve killed him. He should have, but he was frozen on the spot. He was staring at Emma, at a loss for words. What could he say to make her feel better? What could he do?
Emma caught his eye. She smiled. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that, sir,’ she said.
‘I –’ Trevor started, but realised this was no time for words. He had to act: go after the bastard, challenge him and kick the living daylights out of him. He ran out after him into the street. There weren’t many people out and about, the street was almost deserted – and the tattooed man was gone too.
*
The moment he said it, he had regretted it. It was Luke’s life story – getting on the wrong side of people before he had a chance to think. He had done it again! He had burned all the bridges between him and the bank. They would give him no breaks. He was on his own.
Head down, fists clenched, he was charging down the street, a bull in a china shop. Other pedestrians, sensing the aggravation in his body language, crossed to the other side of the street, giving him a wide berth. He didn’t see them. He was distracted. His brain had melted, his emotions took over. He was muttering to himself, expelling into the air curses and cries of despair. He was bloody angry. With himself.
He needed a drink.
He knew of a pub just a few streets away, a yappy sort of pub, calling itself a wine bar, but it would have to do as long as they were selling spirits. Luke was through drinking beer. A nice smooth pint of beer with froth on top was not what the doctor ordered. Luke needed something strong and instant. His nerves were shattered. He had to steady them, and he had to think.
‘Double scotch,’ he told the barman and chucked his last ten-pound note at him. The barman, wearing a stupid bow tie and a vest, knew better than to attempt communicating with Luke. He simply nodded and poured two measures of whisky into a glass. He placed it in front of Luke, on a cardboard coaster, and picked up the tenner from a small puddle of liquid on the counter.
Luke downed his scotch. It heated up his guts and twisted his face into a knot. He slammed the glass on the counter, away from the coaster. It made a hollow sound. He looked at the stupidly dressed barman, who had come back with his change, which he held gingerly between his thumb and his forefinger as if it was infected with a deadly disease. Luke shook his head. He didn’t want any change. ‘Another scotch,’ he said. The barman stared at the change. It wasn’t enough for another double shot of whisky, his eyes were saying. Luke searched his pockets, found a few coins which would amount to less than three pounds at the best. He threw the coins on the counter. ‘Make it a single, yeah?’
He’d fucked up! His first maintenance payment for Imogen was due today, and Sammy wasn’t going to get it. She would check her account. She would know straightaway. Damn it! It had taken a hell of a lot of trouble to convince the judge Luke could deliver on his financial responsibilities towards Imogen. Letters from work, a spreadsheet with his monthly income and outgoings, testimonials about good character from respectable people to prove he was stable and reliable. Mum and Dad had come to vouch for him. So had Keith, his shift supervisor. All that, and more, till it was agreed how much he’d pay, and when and how he’d get access to his beautiful little angel. All that trouble! And now he had fucked it all up!
‘Here you go,’ the barman returned Luke’s glass – refilled – to the coaster. ‘Plus your change,’ he spoke apathetically,as if just being in this place was his personal purgatory.
Luke slid the thirty pence into his pocket. That was all he had left. He had realised the extent of his penury this morning when his card was spat out by the cashpoint with a little love-note saying, Insufficient funds. Please contact your bank. So Luke had gone to the trouble of doing just that. He had gone to the bank, asked nicely... If only the bitch at the bank had extended his credit, just till the end of this month, until the twenty-fifth, it would be all right. The money would be there for the first instalment.
Luke poured the whisky into his throat and said thanks to the barman. He had to go and explain everything to Sammy. Another week and she would have her money – that was all.
*
He was back to banging his head against the brick wall. The door was locked. No one had come down to open it for him. Luke spoke into the letter box in the front door. He lifted the flap and shouted into the stillness on the other side, ‘Sammy, c
an we talk? I can explain, yeah? Come on! Don’t be daft! I just want to talk!’
He had a strange sense of déjà vu. He had done this before. He was a fucking hamster in a fucking wheel. He punched the door. Kicked it. Over and over again. He shouted louder, could have raised the dead, but not Sammy. She ignored him. Out of despair, out of helplessness, Luke had broken into a litany of invective. The bitch would have to open the door if only to shut him up. She didn’t like being embarrassed, didn’t like people talking.
But she didn’t come to the door.
‘You’ll have the money, yeah! Give me a break! Seven... no, five days! The fucking bank... it’s the fucking bank!’ He was explaining to the letter hole in the door.
The cow from across the road rolled out from her house to tell him to keep quiet and stop swearing or else she would call the cops. She wedged her fists into her hips, her immortal fag hanging from her mouth.
Luke had come to his senses. The last thing he wanted was the cops. He was already balancing on a thin line as far as the cops were concerned. One more complaint and they would have his arse locked up in the nick. He couldn’t afford it. He said to the cow, ‘I only want to talk. There was a hiccup with the maintenance money, that's all.’
‘They’re not here. They went on holiday. Don’t ask me where. I don’t know, and even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you. You’re a bloody nutter, you are!’
He was prepared to overlook the insult, but what really got to him was the holiday bit. ‘What do you mean holiday? No one’s told me nothing about holidays!’
‘Why should she? Sammy don’t need your permission to go on holiday,’ the cow was defiant. Oh, he could slap her! He could so bloody well give her a good slap!
