Cathexis

                                               For Bean

This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 Josie Clay

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book revie
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First published September 2013.

Cathexis by Josie Clay

Part 1

Chapter 1

Sun slanting through the sycamores, dappling my forearms, mixing render in a bucket. She stood at the landing window in her underwear, regarding me evenly. Now there was no denying what Clive had been maintaining for some time. For reasons I couldn't fathom, she wanted me.

Clive and I had visited 12 Palladian Road in February. The heavy front door opened “Nancy” she said with a saurian smile, extending her hand.

“Minette” I must have said, taking it.

The folio containing our best gardens lay unzipped on her lap, as she spoke animatedly. About what? I can't remember. We must have been charming; we usually were in the presence of a prospective client. It was second nature now, even though we were bone tired, working long hours, six days a week. We only stopped when thwarted by the weather, when I'd pace about gnawing my cuticles. The job physically tough, especially for a woman, and the sheer Herculean effort of cranking the handle of one's own business was taking its toll.

She had an unplaceable accent and her hands plucked nervously at the loose stitchwork on the folio spine, wittering prettily, the rolling r’s and staccato delivery making her hard to follow.

Clive and I, virtually telepathic now, waves of amusement and unease passing between us. Attuned to detecting time wasters, princesses, and flakes. This woman displayed attributes of the first two. I've no recollection what she wanted or what we'd promised. But I remember she watched from the doorstep as I swung my leg over my ancient Ducati scrambler, donned my lid and kick-started the machine into a snarl. Filtering through toxic traffic on Seven Sisters Road, any residual thoughts I had of her quickly evaporated as I reached Finsbury Park.

“Home!” I shouted, negotiating the second door into Remy's flat. The pungent smell of weed mixed with damp invoked that feeling of homesickness. This wasn't my home
; I didn't have one, never had, or at least not one that was safe and welcoming. Remy in her usual position on 'the sofa that might eat you', reminding me of something upholstered herself (everything reminded me of something). Inert, well-padded, with two black buttons for eyes which now focused on me with dull approval. A skunk fug emanated from a fat, yellowing spliff in the ashtray and 'Underworld' peppered the gloomy, aubergine walls with a series of sonic thumps and bleeps. 

“Hiya Minsk, I'll build one” she said, shuffling her cat Nica from her lap. Remy, from Tenerife (a canary bird) was a dealer.

I'd moved in at her suggestion 15 months ago, having nowhere else to go. She was in love with me and although I'd never returned her declarations, the inference was there: I slept on her mouldy futon, I sat on her 'sofa that might eat you' and I smoked her dope, but I didn't love her. I was lonely, but grateful to be emotionally elusive amid the copious piles of weed we consumed.

Some evenings a clear head was necessary to design gardens, tackle costings and accounts. But more often than not, my head hit the pillow in a corrupt, drunk malaise. Despite this, I was always first on site in the morning. It was the fear.

I was nudging granules of dry mortar between the York stone slabs we'd laid yesterday. Clive's lanky shadow fell across me.

“Morning Min” he said amiably. And then, after clocking my progress, “Christ, what time did you get here?” He hunkered beside me extending a steaming mug of tea
. “So what did you make of Nancy Ilarian, then?” He exhaled poignantly and reset his NYC baseball cap, which I’d never seen him without.

“Who?” Frowning into the crack.

“That bird we saw last night”. Sighing again, but this time in a comedic 'be still my beating heart' way. I didn't catch his drift and communicated this by narrowing my eyes. “Oh come on Min, she was fucking gorgeous, don't tell me you didn't notice?”

“I didn't notice” I said blankly.

“Blimey, I thought she'd be right up your alley, knowing your soft spot for the exotic”.

It was true, foreign women attracted me, their accents a clever song and I found myself drawn to their 'otherness'. I tried to picture her, but only retrieved a kinky head of dark curls and a curious wisp of apprehension.

“Wait till Matt sees her. We'll have to put bromide in his tea”.

“We haven't got the job yet” I reminded him.

“Oh yeah, did you get around to working out the clearance last night?”

“No, I was pooped, but let's see”. I'd only surveyed the garden from the living room window.

“Four of us, three days, skip hire, licence. £1,550, £1,500 for cash”. He rubbed his stubble meditatively. “That sounds like a lot”. The garden, I explained, was large by Islington standards; the whole space covered in a thick mat of ivy, probably concealing any amount of garden detritus and obstacles. The job had bastard written all over it.

“S'pose you're right” he said. “Plus I don't think money's an issue for her”.

“Yoo-hoo! We're off now” piped the winsome woman client from French doors, coaxing three small children into blazers.

“Bye” we shouted in unison.

“Thank fuck for that” whispered Clive, “I'm dying for a poo”.

The booming affability of our labourer, Quincy, could be heard from the hallway. I'd found him three years ago, a boyfriend of my hairdresser, Paul (well, I say my hairdresser, he was just a mate who happened to be a hairdresser, a good one). Quincy, handsome, a solid slab of beef standing next to Clive in the doorway. He was a good half pint shorter but seemed to take up more space, his black skin striking beside Clive's omelettey complexion and so strong he had nothing to prove. Now his shadow blocking the sun
.
“Morning guv! Where do you want me?”

Funny how I was Alpha in this arena, being unsure of so many things, but possessing a significant degree of blind faith that afforded me confidence. Four years younger than Clive, a full ten years Quincy's junior and female to boot. I was driven and therefore the driver.

“Where are you going?” asked Clive suspiciously, in his pretend posh voice.

“I thought I'd treat myself to a wee, if that's OK?”

“I'd leave it a bit if I were you” he said, wafting his hand in front of his nose. “Or use the one upstairs”.

“Erm, not a good idea” said Quincy sheepishly.

“Fucking hell!” I laughed. “What's wrong with you two, you're always shitting”.

I left my boots on the threshold and headed for the en suite, making my way over floorboards, carpets, rugs and finally tiles. Unbuckling my belt, I sat regarding myself in the floor to ceiling mirror. ‘33 this this year, Minnie Bracewell’. From time to time, a physical audit was required. Not something you could plan; it happened when you saw your own reflection uninvited and for a while couldn't quite connect with it. In this way you could be reasonably objective.

Always good hair, Paul saw to that. I had my dad to thank for its blonde colour. At the moment it was chopped into a boyish Eton crop; Paul used me for practice. Layered, sun-bleached strands flopped over my eyes (a run of the mill shade of blue). I dyed my white eyebrows black, otherwise I looked tired. This gave me a fierce appearance. No doubt about it, I had an odd face. In fact, I had two distinct faces: the one when I smiled, acceptable, pretty even. Its antithesis, my twin in repose, ugly. All closed up angles, squinty, lidless eyes and a mouth set hurt, like I'd just been punched. Sometimes evident in photos, when caught unawares (I loathed having my picture taken), she would be exposed, my hidden, shifting twin. I had no idea what other people saw.

In five years, I'd morphed from willowy, arty girl to broad-shouldered workhorse, arms and back strapped with muscles of a type only usually found on gym babes or rowers, pretty much the only perk of the job. My legs however, left a lot to be desired, remaining stubbornly under developed, just a longer, slightly more contoured version of the pins I'd trudged around on as a kid.

My mother, inordinately tall, six foot by the time she was twelve: I'd found photos in her vanity case, stooped, inclined, hunched. ‘Steeple, what's the weather like up there?’ Apologising into others. Fell for my father, a small man, her genes overriding the diminutive Bracewells, which had only tempered me. I stood five foot ten, always the big one in relationships, a station which displeased me. Before hitching up my jeans, I showed my birthmark to the mirror (one of my compulsions, of which there were many). Just below the knicker line, on the front of my thigh, strawberry sized and heart-shaped. I flushed the loo and approached my mirror twin, losing the suspension of subjectivity, misting my mouth with hot breath in an attempt to prolong the moment.

“Let's focus on the positive” I said, creasing my face amiably. When I smiled, it was good – dimples and the glittering eyes of a genial conspirator. The small gap between my front teeth made me look friendly and slightly goofy. I'd not learnt how to use my smile to disarm and beguile; my assets, my hardwear, as yet unstreamed. No need, I was relatively young and I cast myself before others unaware of any potency. Only when you're older do you bring out your big guns strategically, training them on your combatant until they're your friend. Moving in closer, as if to kiss myself. “We're still here” I smiled.

Chapter 2

“Hello Minced Morsels!”

“Hello Me No Popeye!”

Talking to my best friend on the phone.  Her name was Julie but we called each other mate or when it was written, M8, tweaking tautology, pre-empting text-speak. Our respective formative years had shaped us into similar entities and our take on the world was virtually identical. I trusted her implicitly and we spoke almost every day to offload and snigger, communicating in a complex
, ritualised shorthand, often leaving others excluded. We didn't mean to, we just couldn't resist the humour and it was all the more hilarious because of our eccentric framework. One ex-girlfriend accused us of being elitist. We liked that, choosing to overlook the intended barb. In reality, we shared an idiot savant quality and could safely indulge each other, shedding the veneer of urbanity required when moving amongst 'normal' people.

We puzzled our simultaneous inferiority and superiority complexes, self-effacing but slightly smug in a fortifying way. We'd both loved and lost and resigned and devastated, we consoled, elevating each other to safer ground, banal and brilliant. Each had the major long-term heart breaker under our belt and the passionate, short-lived sky rocket, which at the time exploded like a finale. M8 and I accompanied each other through that landscape.

“How are you doing?”

“Oh, I'm depressed M8”.

“Mmm, I know, me too”.

“Let's go on a M8 date to cheer ourselves up”.

“Good idea, what shall we do? I've only got tiny money”.

“I think we should go to Nando's and discuss nuns”.

Tipping the render from the hawk to the trowel, I skimmed it in a broad arc across the decayed brickwork. Her gaze heated my back, my body quivering on the brink of crisis. My craft, comforting. Between my breasts, a medallion of sweat blotting my t-shirt. The fact of her fancy was absurd. But a fact nonetheless. At once exciting and terrifying, it was in her hands.

Clive had scheduled the clearance for the end of March. The door of 12 Palladian Road opened. This time the husband, Todor. Eyes like burnt almonds, a slicked swatch of black hair. Incredibly handsome (and he knew it), with a nervous agility explained when I learnt he had been a seeded tennis player, but now coached. Two small pairs of feet thundered down the stairs. The doleful eyes of a little boy of about three peered round his father's trousers. My winning smile left him unconvinced. A girl, perhaps six, confronted me in the hallway. Her blonde, curly tresses an anomaly, given her parents' mahogany hair. Kids change, I reminded myself.

“Have you come to make our garden nice?” she chirped. “I want a slide”:

“Well, we're only tidying it up for now”.