Authors: Simon Brooke
"I didn't have to,"
I say, too overwhelmed and confused to be macho about it. "He walked into the
door and then fell downstairs."
Piers looks quizzical
and then suddenly roars with laughter.
"Hang on; was he
about my height, bit thinner?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Orangey-brown hair?"
"I couldn't tell
really, he had a biker's helmet on."
"Oh, that's definitely
Shagger," he laughs. "Old Shagger Potts. We used to call him Shagger because
he never got any. God, he's a clumsy bastard. Worse than you," he tells Nora.
"Especially with that stupid helmet on. So he wants his money, does he? Huh,
back of the queue for you, Shagger!" He laughs.
"Anyway, Piers, the
point is, are you going to the police or are you going to stay here?" I ask.
"If you don't mind,
I think I'll stay here. Lie low for a bit."
"I do mind, actually."
"Oh, Charlie, come
on," says Nora. "Like Piers says, they haven't actually done anything
wrong, just been a bit spendthrift."
"And I am trying
to find Guy," says Piers. "For you, of course."
"How?"
"I've got people
looking for him as we speak and if he contacts anyone it'll be me." He sees
my sceptical look. "I've got my mobile, it's just that I don't leave it on,
I collect my messages a couple of times a day."
I take a long look at
Piers. Wearing a blue and white striped city shirt, a pair of chinos which are remarkably
clean given his squalid surroundings and a pair of scuffed docksiders, he stands
next to his school boy tent, in this derelict, rat infested shit hole. I decide
to leave him to wallow in it. Besides, at least he can't wreak any more havoc here.
I get the feeling that if he were interrogated by Slapton - even with a good lawyer
present - he would end up digging himself into a hole which he couldn't get out
of and somehow I'd up falling into as well.
"Come on, Nora, we'd
better be going."
"Oh, OK, cheers then,"
says Piers, putting down his cup. "Well, good to see you again."
I laugh bitterly.
"Yeah, and you."
"Keep in touch,"
he says. "Just leave a message on my mobile if you hear anything and I'll call
you right back. Oh, Nora. You haven't got any chocolate, have you?"
"No, Piers, sorry,"
she says.
Even she seems a bit exasperated
by him by now.
With me holding the torch and Piers illuminating us from overheard
we carefully make our way out. I really do hope there are giant rats in that place.
Lost in thought I wonder down the road to the car. At least it's stopped raining.
We get to the car and I stand by it, waiting for Nora to open the door.
"Want a lift home?"
she says.
At this point I come back
to earth.
"No, 'course not.
Sorry, Nora, but we can't risk you driving this thing again without a licence or
insurance or anything. Look, let's get a taxi and your friend will have to pick
it up tomorrow."
"Oh, OK," says
Nora, clearly slightly relieved that she doesn't have repeat her hair-raising performance
behind the wheel.
We find a mini cab office
and an enormously fat man, overflowing a typing chair, assigns a driver who has
offered us a selection of good quality leather coats which his brother imports together
with a mobile phone, cheaper than we can find in a shop and some CDs, even before
we've got north of the river. In a break during the sales pitch I say to Nora: "You're
not going to write about that, are you?"
"About Piers? No,
of course not." I'm trying to work out what she's thinking but she's looking
out of the window and won't look round at me.
"I mean in some ways
it doesn't matter to me whether you do or not," I say.
"Oh, but I wouldn't.
We agreed, remember?"
We drive on in a silence
broken only by a special deal on some carpets which are going for just £20 each.
"What did Piers mean
about Josh Langdon and people not taking us to court? I was glad to hear him say
it but I don't quite understand why he's so confident."
"I've no idea,"
she says, looking out of the window.
By the time we've reached
Vauxhall Bridge it's decision time. Do we go to hers or do we say good-bye in a
minute and go our separate ways? The fact that she's fiddling furiously with a stray
piece of thread from her jacket suggests that she's also aware of the dilemma. As
we zip up to Victoria at frightening speed, a shit hot deal on portable CD players
falling on deaf ears, I make my choice.
"I think I'll get
out here," I tell her. "And get the tube."
She looks round at me
and for a moment I think she's going to ask me to stay like she did the other night
but instead she says: "Oh, sure, of course."
"We'll speak tomorrow,
decide what to do next."
"Yes." I ask
the driver to stop and let me out and then I move to kiss her but she's not expecting
it.
"Oh," she says.
I pull away but then she turns to me and moves to kiss me. It's all a bit awkward
and when the driver swerves into the curb I end with a mouthful of her hair while
she ends up kissing my neck. I get out and walk towards the tube, turning to wave
good-bye but the car has already darted in front of a bus and is off. I haven't
even given her some money towards the fare, I realise.
I get home at nearly ten.
It's the second cold, dark apparently empty house I've walked into this evening.
Somehow it feels even more uninviting. I put the lights on, put the heating on,
even though it's not exact chilly outside yet and pour myself a glass of wine. There
is no note from Lauren. I check my mobile - no message. I do the same with the answer
phone and there is nothing except something from my Mum hoping that I'm OK. Why
hasn't she left a message? I'm hungry but nothing in the fridge or the cupboard
appeals. Anyway, there's a funny smell in the fridge. It's the milk. It's off. Sour
milk in our fridge. In our cold, dark house. Oh, God, what's happening to us?
I ring Lauren's mobile
assuming I'll get the voicemail. It's worse than that - it rings once and then goes
on to voicemail. Can she have seen it was me and decided not to take the call? What
is she doing that means she can't even say 'Hi, I'll ring you back.'? I don't know
whether to be angry or hurt. I'm probably both.
I switch on the telly
where a woman is giving some advice on how to choose bathroom furniture. "Make
sure there is enough room for you to sit on the loo," she says, posing on the
bog herself and moving her legs around her to demonstrate exactly what she means
as she looks up at the camera seriously. TV makes me think of Lauren, the new Lauren,
these days.
I switch it off and ring
Nora. Half an hour later I'm getting out of a cab and buzzing on her door.
We've been drinking warm
white wine and talking about Piers and Guy and the usual stuff, turning it over
as we try and work out where Guy could have gone and whether 2cool could ever have
made any money. Suddenly it's gone midnight and we both know that I'm not going
home. As I brush my teeth with her toothbrush I'm trying to work out to what extent
I'm doing this because I want to be with Nora and how much it is simply to spite
Lauren. At the moment, standing there naked in Nora's bathroom, a bathroom that's
not even as nice as mine and Lauren's at home with its wicker basket bought from
a catalogue, warm white towels and classic chunky basin and shiny taps, I wonder
whether spite is the main motivation - after all, she's out doing it with that fat,
ugly twat Peter - but when I slip into bed with Nora and she lifts her head for
me to put my arm around her, I realise, that it's also a desire to be with this
woman who doesn't bother with details like driving licences, was so much braver
than me this evening and was the only light in her father's terrible darkness.
When I wake up disorientated
at first by the feel of different pillows and sheets and a strange bed underneath
me, she leans over me and smiles.
"Morning," she
says.
"Oh, hi, morning,"
I mutter, swallowing and closing my eyes again. Pushing her hair behind her ear
she reaches down and kisses me. Her mouth is cool and fresh and tastes of toothpaste.
I pull her down on top
of me and she giggles. We kiss again and I feel her breasts pushing against me.
I'm naked and in a moment I've lifted her T shirt above her head. I've still got
my morning erection and I push it against her. She groans and closes her eyes, reaching
down and biting my ear. I'm thinking about condoms and wondering whether there are
any in the drawer but in the next moment I'm inside her and she is beginning to
move up and down.
After I've come she falls
down beside me, sweating slightly.
"Did you...come?"
I feel embarrassed asking it, but I want to know.
"Eh? Oh, yes, of
course," she laughs and looks away. Then she reaches over and kisses me some
more.
It's nearly nine o'clock
so she makes me toast while I have a quick shower and then she has a shower herself.
I kiss her good-bye outside the tube station as she sets off for work and watch
her walk up the steps and then I begin to trudge up Ladbroke Grove. The unfamiliarity
of the streets makes me feel unsettled. I shouldn't be here now. Despite a feeling
of sickening uneasiness about what I've done, I realise that I'm actually still
quite hungry having eaten nothing last night so I find a greasy spoon and order
scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, beans, toast and a large tea for £3.50.
I spread the newspapers
across the next table and try to decide what to do next. I really, really don't
want to go home. I don't want to face Lauren if she's there but neither do I want
to find that she's not there, that she's done what I've done.
Even though Nora and I
made love this morning, even though we giggled as I tried to get her shower to work,
my huge frame turning in the tiny space, nearly tearing down the shower curtain
in the process, even though we kissed as she went into the tube station like a proper
couple, the simple truth is that when I woke up in that strange bed and saw Nora's
face, not Lauren's looking down on me, I felt a sudden stab of depression.
I get home at nearly ten
thirty and open the front door. She's in. She's on the phone, talking to her booker
at the agency it sounds like, checking the venue and fee for a job the next day.
I know she's thorough but it seems to take for ages. I wait in the living room,
staring at the wall.
Finally she says "OK,
bye, Lou, take care," and puts the phone down. Then there seems to be a lot
of paper shuffling. Oh, come on. Finally she walks in and jumps slightly when she
sees me.
"You gave me a shock."
I say nothing. She puts
some papers in her bag which is on the chair next to me. "Where were you last
night?" she asks not looking up.
It doesn't really matter
how we start this thing, we both know where it's going to go, well roughly anyway.
"I was out."
She stops what she's doing
for a moment.
"Yes, I know that,
where?" "Never mind, where we you?"
She looks at the far wall.
"I was here, Charlie,
in our flat. In our bed."
"Not when I came
home."
"Obviously not but
I came back at just before midnight and went to bed. Now where were you?"
"I was out with someone
from work." We don't have to say who. "You were with Peter, weren't you?"
"Yes, I was as a
matter of fact I was. We had a drink with a friend of his who's a commissioning
editor at Channel Four and then I got a taxi home and went to bed."
It all sounds so reasonable.
Oh, my God, how could I have doubted her?
"Lauren I know you're
sleeping with him." It comes out more considered, more assertive than I expected.
She finishes putting her
stuff in the bag and turns towards me: "Oh, Charlie that's complete crap. How
can you say that when you've been out all night, fucking that weird, horrible woman
who's knifed you in the back time after time?"
I stand up and walk over
to the window.
"Charlie," she
says more quietly. "I want you to move out. For a while at least."
"So that Peter can
move in?" As soon as I say it, I regret it. It sounds cheap and silly - and
I don't mean it. Perhaps I just want to hurt her. Why can't Peter just take his
silly floppy fringe and his TV talk and his commissioning editor friends and leave
us alone?
"No. I just need
some space, that's all. I think we both do. Last night was just...just the final
straw."