Lodgers (Short Story)
05th September 2011
In: Short Stories
I’d never heard of Buyways before they moved into our town, but I’d used the name in a short story once — made it up because I didn’t want to use the name of a well-known supermarket like Asda, Tesco or Sainsbury. Not that I have anything against any of them, it was simply that the story involved a store manager whose rather unorthodox business practices — storing dead employees in the warehouse freezers — might have bought a law suit down on my head. I needn’t have worried because it never got published.
Having received a flood of leaflets through my door advertising their seductive and not-to-be-missed opening offers, I decided to be unfaithful to my local Co-op and do my weekend shop at the new superstore.
But I didn’t enjoy the trip to Buyways. It was overwhelming and achingly bright, and too crowded to do any browsing. I scooted round as fast as my shiny new but defective trolley would allow, and grabbed what bargains I could.
I was lugging a clutch of bulging carrier bags through my front door when I smelt her perfume — Charlie. I recognised it because I’d chosen it for her. Thrown by the phenomenon, I went through into my living room and found Juno sitting reading my manuscript.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, taking the printed sheets off her and putting them back on my desk.
“Oh,” she smiled up at me, her eyes travelling over my sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, “I thought I’d just drop by to see how you are. We were getting worried about you — you haven’t been in touch lately.”
She was wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit that I didn’t recall seeing before — had she chosen it herself, I wondered? I tugged at the sleeves of my grubby sweatshirt, then rolled them up to hide biro marks on the cuffs.The bizarreness of the situation had yet to hit me. “I’m fine,” I answered automatically, it not occuring to me that I was having a conversation with a fictitious person.
“You don’t look fine — you look rather peaky.” She gave me a concerned look from under her darkly mascarared lashes and shook her head.
Rather peaky? Who gave her that line? ‘Peaky’ wasn’t one of my words. I made a mental note to edit it out. “I’m OK — really. I’ve been busy.” It was a bit of a fib. No, let’s be honest — it was a total lie. I’d hardly written anything in two months. The new crowd — my most recent set of characters — weren’t talking to me any more. I could no longer hear their voices or tune in to their conversations. It was like going creatively deaf. They’d gone shadowy and distant, unapproachable and somehow forbidding — like they didn’t want my attention — like they had secrets they were keeping from me. And I’d been feeling shut out, cut off and cast adrift. There had been no one I could talk to about it — until now, perhaps.
“Where’s Andrew?” I asked.
“At the studio, of course.” Her voice was patient, as though talking to a child.
I nodded, uncomfortably aware that she expected something more from me. “I, um, I really need to get the shopping put away.”
“You go ahead,” she said, “I’ll wait.” She kicked off her black suede court shoes and put her stockinged feet on my coffee table. “No rush.” She reached for my dog-earred manuscript again and I didn’t bother trying to stop her.
In my kitchen — if I can dignify such a pokey, cluttered mouse-hole with the term — I struggled with both the shopping and my over-wrought imagination. I couldn’t fit everything I’d bought into my small freezer, nor could I fit what was now happening into a reasonable category inside my head. Everything was spilling out and threatening to go soft on me. I opened a small tub of pistacchio ice cream and spooned some into my mouth. Its coldness made my teeth ache and my tongue go numb. I ate it all, lingering, half-hoping that Juno would get fed up waiting and leave the same way she’d come.
“They’re not very nice people, are they?” She said it immediately I walked back into the room and I resisted my instinct to defend them, affecting nonchalence in the hope of camouflaging an uneasy mix of emotions.
“Who?” I wrinkled my brow, playing dumb.
“This lot.” She tapped the manuscript on her lap, her distaste evident.
“You’re such a snob,” I said.
“That’s down to you — it’s how you wrote me.”
I had to think about this. Maybe my publisher’s last batch of suggestions had affected her personality — given her more attitude than I’d intended — I tried to remember how the final edit had turned out. I shrugged. “Well, it isn’t very attractive.”
She looked amused and stretched back in the chair. “Oh, come on!” she teased, “They haven’t been nearly as much fun to write about as we were — admit it!”
“Perhaps not — that’s why I’ve given myself a break — time to consider whether I should try approaching the story from a different perspective...” It didn’t sound convincing, even to my ears.
“What you mean is, you’ve got writer’s block.” Her tone was matter of fact and, now I’d heard the words out loud, they rang true.
“It’ll pass.” I snapped, still feeling defiant and prepared to throw my poor floundering story another lifeline in the hope of saving it, salvaging something. “Eventually, anyway,” I added.
“So, write about us in the meantime,” she jumped in, keen and obviously determined to persuade me. “Do a sequel to Muse.”
I screwed up my face. “I can’t see how that would work — I pretty much wrapped up the story, so there’s nothing left to pick up on — no loose threads that might provide a fresh narrative.”
“Look, people’s lives don’t just come to a sudden halt when no one’s watching them or, in your case, writing about them. I’ve had a postcard from Vee and she’s feeling homesick and wants to come back for a while. You could put her up, couldn’t you? Perhaps she can get you started again — you always found her easy to write about and favoured her over the rest of us. So what about it?”
“She’s coming back?” The logic of this exchange was becoming increasingly fuzzy and I was having trouble keeping up. I reminded myself that I was apparently holding a conversation with a fictitious woman — a character from my novel who had suddenly appeared as large as life in my living room — and we were now discussing the possibility of another one of my characters actually coming to stay with me. “I don’t think I’ve got room” I said, lamely.
“Nonsense!” Juno’s dismissal was swift and business-like. “It wouldn’t take you long to clear all the junk you’ve piled up in that spare room. Andrew’ll give you a hand, if you like.”
“Why can’t she stay with you?” I knew I should have just said no, but I was loathe to hurt Vee’s feelings.
“We’ve got a full house — Andrew’s parents are over from the States, Nathan’s home for the holidays and he’s really looking forward to seeing Vee again — and, of course, we have a live-in nanny now, to take care of the little ones,” she paused here and smiled, madonna-like, “So there’s no spare bedrooms...”
“Little ones?” I queried. “Have you had another baby, then?”
“Another two, actually — twins — a boy and a girl. We’ve called them Luke and Emily but you can always change their names in the book.”
“I’m not going to...” I began. But what was the point in arguing? The whole thing was ludicrous. I had no intention of trying to write a sequel.
Juno retrieved her shoes, slipped them on and stood up. “Well, I’ll be off, then. I’ll send Andrew over this weekend — Sunday afternoon probably — he’s usually at a loose end after lunch.” She walked to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
I waited for a moment before I checked the hallway. It was empty but a cloud of perfume still hovered.
*
Afterwards, I spent a lot of time talking to myself — explaining and reasoning it out — I must have imagined Juno’s visit because there was no way that it could really have happened — so it was obviously some weird hallucination due to stress and tiredness. I hadn’t been sleeping properly or eating regularly and had been spending too much time on my own. It was all a kind of waking dream — my poor befuddled brain playing tricks on me.
I pulled a TV dinner out of the freezer and microwaved it. It was a Buyway Bargain Special and, as I munched my way through roast chicken breast in gravy, accompanied by roast potatoes, baby carrots and a sprinkling of wrinkly-looking, violently-green peas, I hatched a plan. I would totally ignore the writing for the rest of the day, take the radio to bed and listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4. The radio was practically guaranteed to send me to sleep. I also took a paperback— a battered biography of John Lennon that I’d rescued from the Oxfam shop and had so far failed to get to grips with. I needed a distraction, I decided. I mustn’t dwell on what had happened — or what I thought had happened — because it hadn’t. It definately, definately hadn’t.
The play was about halfway through when the phone rang. I was wide awake and had got quite caught up in the drama because it was particularly well scripted and I like to think I can still learn from other writers. I picked up the receiver hoping the caller would keep it brief and to the point. I made my voice deliberately unwelcoming.
“Yes?”
“Hi, kid — it’s me.”
“Oh, hello Mark. So, what do you want?” My older brother never gets in touch just to be sociable — there’s always something he wants or needs, so there’s no point in beating about the bush.
“Just a small favour — I’m gonna be in your neck of the woods sometime tomorrow evening — passing through, like — and I wondered if there’s any chance of a bed for the night. Well, more of a doss down on your carpet, really — I’ve got a sleeping bag...”
“No problem. Just you, is it?” I knew his travelling habits of old — he rarely went anywhere without a pillion-dolly, as he called them, on the back of his old Norton motorbike.
“Er, well — would it be OK if I bring someone with me? We’ll leave straight after breakfast...”
“Provided she doesn’t nick half the contents of my bathroom shelf, like the last one did.” Being hospitable was one thing, but having some strange woman assume she can help herself to my cosmetics is where I draw the line.
To his credit, Mark didn’t protest or deny the theft. “OK, kid — I’ll make sure this one knows the rules. See you sometime tomorrow evening, then. Cheers.” He rang off.
Damn, I thought, realising that it meant I’d have to do some housework because the place was looking a tip. Although Juno hadn’t seemed to have noticed. And why, quite suddenly, did everyone think I was running a B & B?
First Vee, now Mark and his friend... I shook myself. I must stop thinking like that — Juno and Vee don’t exist and Andrew isn’t coming round on Sunday because he isn’t real either. I had to get it through my head.
*
Mark’s passenger turned out to be a “dolly” in at least one sense. “This is Angelique,” he grinned, ushering a diminutive, waif-like creature through my front door. It immediately crossed my mind to wonder how anyone so physically insubstantial could stay on the pillion of a motorbike without being blown away. I could only imagine Mark must anchor her somehow, as surely her child-like arms were neither strong enough nor long enough to reach around his well-muscled and leather-clad torso in order to cling, limpet-like to his back.
“Hi.” She gazed up at me and chewed on a piece of gum. I was glad that I’d taken the precaution of clearing the bathroom shelf of everthing but a tube of toothpaste and a half-empty can of deodorant that I didn’t care for anyway. She had a feral look about her — something of the scavenger in the way her eyes darted around, taking in the place.
“Hello — come on through.” I gestured towards the living room and, as the two of them trooped past, I could smell the sweat on them. No doubt they would want to use my shower at some point.
Angelique flopped on the carpet, used her luggage — a nylon covered bedroll — as a cushion, and casually surveyed the room. While she studied my idiosyncratic style of interior decorating, I had the chance to observe her and note her numerous piercings and body decorations. There were so many studs dotted along the rim of each of her ears that I almost expected a tear here tab. One eyebrow, her lower lip and nose where also ringed or studded. She also had some interesting tattoos — a flight of tiny blue butterflies on the side of her neck and the sad-eyed face of a ethereal-looking girl exquisitely rendered on her forearm. For a moment, it seemed uncannily like Vee’s face.
“Would you like a drink — coffee — tea, or something?” I remembered my role as hostess and threw myself into it — anything to distract my thoughts.
Angelique looked at Mark, as though for permission. “Yeah,” he said,“Thanks, kid — we’ll have coffee — one black, one white.” He was being unusually reserved, I thought, and wondered about their relationship.
I took my time making the drinks. I could hear them talking — the murmur but not the actual words — and hoped this affair was just one more notch on my brother’s indiscriminate bedpost and nothing serious or likely to last. Angelique wasn’t sister-in-law material any more than the others had been. But who was I to make such judgements, anyway? Me — a crazy woman who’s paranoid enough to think some of her characters are plotting together in order to make her write another book about them. I carried the tray through just in time to see Mark remove his hand from inside Angelique’s skimpy vest. I guessed they’d be using just the one sleeping bag.
*
It was after nine when I woke and went in to rouse them. They had obviously got too hot and unzipped the sleeping bag during the night. Now they were both stretched naked on the thin, quilted cotton lining — her pale, child-small body curled into the protecting overhang of his darker mass. She had no breasts, I noticed, and there were more tattoos — a snake coiled on her stomach, it’s tongue flicking out to almost touch the bellybar glinting in her navel; a crescent moon, planets and stars whirled across one thigh and a phoenix glowed from one of her boyish buttocks. Fascinated, I took all this in before quietly tiptoeing to the kitchen, where I made an unnecessary amount of noise until I heard them disturb.
Angelique sauntered into the kitchen, wrapped in a faded beach towel that had numerous pulled threads dangling from it. I anticipated she was about to ask if she could take a shower.
“D’you have any shampoo?” She didn’t even say please, which irked me. I looked at her in the daylight. She was tousled and blurry-featured — her eye shadow smudged down her cheeks, her skin white and a bit spotty around her mouth. Her bi-coloured hair — bleached albino at the roots and tipped with purple-black — stuck out, spiky and matted with gel so that she put me in mind of a bedraggled magpie.
“Probably. I’ll find some.” I walked past her and went into the bathroom, closing the door. I didn’t want her to see where I’d hidden my private supplies at the bottom of the airing cupboard. I found an old sachet of herbal shower gel that had been free with something. I went back to where she waited. “Here — you can use this — it’s OK to use as shampoo.”
“Ta.” She took it from me and examined the printed instructions, as though checking to make sure.
“I’ll make us all some toast while you’re getting cleaned up.” I’d decided against offering them cereal. I hadn’t enough milk to spare for that.
“OK — ta.” She repeated the monosyllable, polite conversation obviously not her forté, and wandered out.
I hoped they would, as Mark had promised, shift themselves after breakfast. If they hung around hoping I’d provide lunch as well, there was a possiblity they might bump into Andrew. The thought was formed before I could stop it — I was being ridiculous again. Irritated and apprehensive, I concentrated on buttering a large plateful of toast.
Mark came in and his eyes lit up.“Oh, great! — got any marmalade?” His greedy, laddish enthusiasm, charming as it had been in his younger days, was now grating on me.
“No,” I lied “Sorry.” Then, relenting slightly, “There’s some lemon curd, though.” It was past its sell-by date but he wouldn’t notice. Anyway, it needed clearing up.
“That’ll do.” He grinned and rummaged in a drawer for a knife, obviously starving, and picked up the plate.
“Hey!” I took it off him, “That’s supposed to be for all of us — two rounds each! OK?” I knew I sounded cross so lightened up with “Go and watch TV — I’ll bring this through in a minute when Vee’s — I mean — when Angelique’s finished in the bathroom.”
Mark gave me a strange look. “Who’s Vee?”
“No one you know. Now, go on — I’ll just find the lemon curd...” I bent down and opened a low cupboard so he couldn’t see my face. I was flushed and feeling horribly confused.
*
It had been a mistake to encourage Mark to switch on the TV. He got engrossed in the motor racing and failed to respond to even the broadest of hints that he was possibly over-staying his welcome. He obligingly lifted his feet so I could hoover the rug, whilst turning up the volume so he could hear the commentary above the drone and whistle of my ancient cleaner. Meanwhile, Angelique busied herself painting her toenails black, then applied a tiny sticker to each nail once the varnish was dry. The designs represented the twelve houses of the zodiac and she appeared slightly nonplussed that there were two stickers left over. I found this oddly endearing and it took the edge off my annoyance that they were simply in no rush to depart.
I put a pizza in the oven at half twelve, put some oven chips in at twenty to, and aimed for lunch at around one o’ clock. With luck, I’d have Mark and Angelique out the door before two — just in case I had another visitor. Not that I was really expecting anyone, of course...
And it kind of worked. They ate up pretty smartly and I had to hide my relief when Mark rolled their sleeping bag and began getting their gear together. Not that there was much of it — he believes in travelling light. But then he started to dither and get a bit sentimental, which isn’t at all like him. He kept thanking me — telling me I was “a real brick” — an expression I hadn’t heard him use before but I guessed he’d picked it up from our dad, who’d used it a lot. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a greasy-looking ten pound note and crumpled it into my palm. We’d actually played this game a number of times before — he knew I wouldn’t accept it, and I knew he knew. He was banking on me giving it back — so I didn’t. I told him things had been difficult lately — big bills and not much money — and thanked him for the contribution. He blinked and nodded, looked stunned by this turn of events and, wordless for once, guided Angelique towards the door. Then he did something else out of character — he hugged me. We’d never gone in for hugs before so it was a real surprise. I hugged him back, but lightly.
“See you, then,” I said, watching them walk off up the road. He must have parked the Norton some way away because I never heard the roar of its engine start up.
I was rinsing plates in the sink when I heard the door bell. I thought one of them had forgotten something and come back. At least, that’s what I told myself. But it was Andrew on my doorstep and a strange excitement rose from the pit of my stomach and spread out — a tingling sensation that made me breathless.
“Oh,” I said inanely, “It’s you.” It went through my mind that at least he hadn’t just barged in uninvited, as Juno had done. But then I’d given Andrew impeccable manners along with, I liked to think, an artist’s sensitivity.
“Hello, Caroline — it’s good to see you — how have you been?” He hesitated, waiting to be welcomed in.
“Fine — busy — very busy, in fact.” I didn’t budge but kept him standing there. “Look,” I stumbled on,“perhaps this isn’t the best time — I’ve only just got rid of one lot of visitors...” This wasn’t the most tactful way of putting it but my mouth seemed to be working independently of my brain and the intense way he was looking at me had triggered a panic attack.
“Yes, I saw them leave — extraordinary-looking girl — very Goth. She’d make a good subject — that hair would be particularly photogenic. D’you think she might agree to pose for me, sometime?”
“I’ve really no idea — I’ve only just met her — she’s one of my brother’s girlfriends and he doesn’t usually keep them long — he has a fast turnover, if you know what I mean.” Even as I said the words, I couldn’t figure out why I was having this conversation. I stared at Andrew, half-wishing he would disappear so that I could calm down.
“Oh, no matter — it was just a thought. Anyway, it’s you I’ve come to see. Juno says you need some help sorting out your spare room for when Vee comes to stay.” He was looking past me up the hallway, obviously wondering why I wasn’t inviting him in.
I tried out several replies to this in my head — most of them critical of the way Juno railroaded me into this position — but none of these protests got as far as my tongue. “Come in,” I found myself saying, my resistance gone and suddenly feeling light-headed. Then he was inside and we were standing in the hall, almost touching.
“You’re looking a bit peaky,” he remarked, breathing down on me, his tone concerned.
He smelt of chocolate — a rich, dark, expensive chocolate — Belgian or Swiss, I thought. And there was that word again — ‘peaky’— it made me think of mountains with snow on them. I smiled and he smiled back and I thought how attractive he was — more handsome than I remembered — better looking than I had described him. Because he was mine — once.
To be honest, I’m not sure who kissed who — perhaps it was a mutual thing — but we were suddenly in a clinch. And it was nice. Very, very nice and I would have been quite happy to let it go on being nice. But then it got intense and I had to break away.
“No” I said, trying to push him away and put some space between us. Perhaps I only whispered it because he took no notice and tried to carry on. “Please, Andrew — we mustn’t — this is madness!” I winced at that line. I’d lapsed into melodrama and it must have been catching because he gave a theatrical sigh and almost sobbed:
“Oh, Caroline! I’ve wanted you for such a long time! Don’t deny me now!”
“But think of Juno — think of the little ones...” I moaned, mentally denying any liability. I didn’t know who’d written this stuff — but I wasn’t going to be responsible for it. I’ve always had this niggling fear I might one day get nominated for Literary Review’s annual Bad Sex prize. Oh, the imagined shame of it all! Anyway, it holds me back from attempting to write explicit sex scenes —so I either avoid them or simply leave things to my reader’s lurid imagination.
Andrew wouldn’t be put off and I didn’t protest too much. We did it on the hall floor — didn’t even get as far as the bedroom — and it was better than nice, or very good, or even fantastic — it was sen-bloody-sational. And at such times of euphoric overload, pulp fiction clichés are often all we have to fall back on.
Afterwards, he whispered in my ear “You have to actually do it to be able to write about it, you know.” He imparted this little gem of wisdom with the gentlest of reproaches. “You’re out of practise, my sweet.”
“I never really got into practise,” I admitted. But my conscience was already starting to give me a hard time so I was glad when the phone rang and foiled the likelihood of a spontaneous instant replay.
“Yes? ...Oh, hello Juno.” Alarmed, I mouthed at Andrew to get dressed. “Tomorrow?..Yes...Yes, I guess that’ll be all right.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Vee’s arriving tomorrow” I hissed at him. He just nodded and slowly buttoned his shirt, unperturbed by the news or its source. I listened while Juno relayed travel times — Vee was flying in from Dublin and would get a taxi from the airport. She’d probably get to my place around mid-day, or soon after. “OK,” I said, “We’re getting the room sorted now.” Juno seemed satisfied with that and rang off. “Well, come on, then” I looked at him pulling on his socks and found it hard to credit what we’d just done.“We’d better get cracking.” He pulled a face — mock-rueful — and got obediently to his feet.
It was a rushed job but we got it done. There wasn’t time to sort anything or to be neat about it — I just crammed things into boxes and Andrew hauled them through the trapdoor into my already-stuffed loft space. Eventually the surfaces were cleared and I could see the carpet again. The room looked unfamiliar and bare without its excess of clutter. It had lost its identity.
*
The room I’m in now has no identity, either. Although I’ve spread some of my personal things along the windowsill and piled my books — including the Lennon biography, still unread — on the bedside table, I haven’t managed to make any impression on the place. It has that hotel feel — transitory — even though I know I might be staying some time.
The staff here are quite pleasant to deal with — the nurses and doctors — although they tend towards blandness in the homogenous, stereotypical sense, and Juno finds them dull. But then, she’s always critical of everyone. Vee is living at my place and looking after it for me until I’m better. She likes the cat and spoils him — funny, I’ve trouble recalling that I have a cat — a marmalade tom called Carrot, apparently — but I suppose I must have. Nathan’s popped in to see me a couple of times and he’s well-chuffed with his part in the new chapters I’ve been drafting. It’s really shaping up. Perhaps this break is what I needed, after all. As for Andrew, I’ve said more than enough about him — he’s incorrigible — and it’s quite transparent why he visits so often. Any chance he gets. I’m sure I didn’t mean him to turn out quite so — what’s the word? — randy seems to be the one that fits.
There’s only been one sour note — something that left me a bit unsettled and doubting myself. Mother came to visit yesterday. She’s looking her age now, and has gone rapidly downhill since my father died — looking decidedly peaky, I thought. We didn’t talk for long because she’s never been very interested in what I write about so we quickly run out of conversation. Anyway, I thought I’d tell her that I’d seen Mark and he’d stopped over for a night with his current girlfriend.
Instead of the reaction I expected, she’d frowned and asked “Who’s Mark?”
“My brother — your son.” I reminded, wondering if she’d taken in any of what I’d said.
She’d patted my arm, consolingly. “You don’t have a brother, dear.” And we’d just sat and looked at each other. I knew then that she’d started to go senile. It was the only explanation. Wasn’t it?
Later, after a long session of anxious self-questioning, I unburdened myself to Andrew and he listened sympathetically. “Put her in the new novel,” he suggested.“There’s room for all of us, and that way you can get some control — help her — that sort of thing.”
“Mmm. I might consider that.” I liked the logic of this idea and extended it. “I’m toying with including Mark and Angelique — just minor roles — nothing too challenging.”
“Good thinking! They can go and stay at your place — keep Vee company.”
“And the cat,” I added, already letting this scenario unfold in my imagination. “Don’t forget the cat.”
*
As far as I’m aware, they all get on together — my lodgers — these characters who invited themselves into my space — my home — my head and, not least, my novels. They’re good for me — they visit regularly and keep in touch. As for which ones are real and which aren’t, I don’t let that aspect concern me too much. They’re real enough — for me and for my readers. And, after all, that’s what counts.
Having received a flood of leaflets through my door advertising their seductive and not-to-be-missed opening offers, I decided to be unfaithful to my local Co-op and do my weekend shop at the new superstore.
But I didn’t enjoy the trip to Buyways. It was overwhelming and achingly bright, and too crowded to do any browsing. I scooted round as fast as my shiny new but defective trolley would allow, and grabbed what bargains I could.
I was lugging a clutch of bulging carrier bags through my front door when I smelt her perfume — Charlie. I recognised it because I’d chosen it for her. Thrown by the phenomenon, I went through into my living room and found Juno sitting reading my manuscript.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, taking the printed sheets off her and putting them back on my desk.
“Oh,” she smiled up at me, her eyes travelling over my sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, “I thought I’d just drop by to see how you are. We were getting worried about you — you haven’t been in touch lately.”
She was wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit that I didn’t recall seeing before — had she chosen it herself, I wondered? I tugged at the sleeves of my grubby sweatshirt, then rolled them up to hide biro marks on the cuffs.The bizarreness of the situation had yet to hit me. “I’m fine,” I answered automatically, it not occuring to me that I was having a conversation with a fictitious person.
“You don’t look fine — you look rather peaky.” She gave me a concerned look from under her darkly mascarared lashes and shook her head.
Rather peaky? Who gave her that line? ‘Peaky’ wasn’t one of my words. I made a mental note to edit it out. “I’m OK — really. I’ve been busy.” It was a bit of a fib. No, let’s be honest — it was a total lie. I’d hardly written anything in two months. The new crowd — my most recent set of characters — weren’t talking to me any more. I could no longer hear their voices or tune in to their conversations. It was like going creatively deaf. They’d gone shadowy and distant, unapproachable and somehow forbidding — like they didn’t want my attention — like they had secrets they were keeping from me. And I’d been feeling shut out, cut off and cast adrift. There had been no one I could talk to about it — until now, perhaps.
“Where’s Andrew?” I asked.
“At the studio, of course.” Her voice was patient, as though talking to a child.
I nodded, uncomfortably aware that she expected something more from me. “I, um, I really need to get the shopping put away.”
“You go ahead,” she said, “I’ll wait.” She kicked off her black suede court shoes and put her stockinged feet on my coffee table. “No rush.” She reached for my dog-earred manuscript again and I didn’t bother trying to stop her.
In my kitchen — if I can dignify such a pokey, cluttered mouse-hole with the term — I struggled with both the shopping and my over-wrought imagination. I couldn’t fit everything I’d bought into my small freezer, nor could I fit what was now happening into a reasonable category inside my head. Everything was spilling out and threatening to go soft on me. I opened a small tub of pistacchio ice cream and spooned some into my mouth. Its coldness made my teeth ache and my tongue go numb. I ate it all, lingering, half-hoping that Juno would get fed up waiting and leave the same way she’d come.
“They’re not very nice people, are they?” She said it immediately I walked back into the room and I resisted my instinct to defend them, affecting nonchalence in the hope of camouflaging an uneasy mix of emotions.
“Who?” I wrinkled my brow, playing dumb.
“This lot.” She tapped the manuscript on her lap, her distaste evident.
“You’re such a snob,” I said.
“That’s down to you — it’s how you wrote me.”
I had to think about this. Maybe my publisher’s last batch of suggestions had affected her personality — given her more attitude than I’d intended — I tried to remember how the final edit had turned out. I shrugged. “Well, it isn’t very attractive.”
She looked amused and stretched back in the chair. “Oh, come on!” she teased, “They haven’t been nearly as much fun to write about as we were — admit it!”
“Perhaps not — that’s why I’ve given myself a break — time to consider whether I should try approaching the story from a different perspective...” It didn’t sound convincing, even to my ears.
“What you mean is, you’ve got writer’s block.” Her tone was matter of fact and, now I’d heard the words out loud, they rang true.
“It’ll pass.” I snapped, still feeling defiant and prepared to throw my poor floundering story another lifeline in the hope of saving it, salvaging something. “Eventually, anyway,” I added.
“So, write about us in the meantime,” she jumped in, keen and obviously determined to persuade me. “Do a sequel to Muse.”
I screwed up my face. “I can’t see how that would work — I pretty much wrapped up the story, so there’s nothing left to pick up on — no loose threads that might provide a fresh narrative.”
“Look, people’s lives don’t just come to a sudden halt when no one’s watching them or, in your case, writing about them. I’ve had a postcard from Vee and she’s feeling homesick and wants to come back for a while. You could put her up, couldn’t you? Perhaps she can get you started again — you always found her easy to write about and favoured her over the rest of us. So what about it?”
“She’s coming back?” The logic of this exchange was becoming increasingly fuzzy and I was having trouble keeping up. I reminded myself that I was apparently holding a conversation with a fictitious woman — a character from my novel who had suddenly appeared as large as life in my living room — and we were now discussing the possibility of another one of my characters actually coming to stay with me. “I don’t think I’ve got room” I said, lamely.
“Nonsense!” Juno’s dismissal was swift and business-like. “It wouldn’t take you long to clear all the junk you’ve piled up in that spare room. Andrew’ll give you a hand, if you like.”
“Why can’t she stay with you?” I knew I should have just said no, but I was loathe to hurt Vee’s feelings.
“We’ve got a full house — Andrew’s parents are over from the States, Nathan’s home for the holidays and he’s really looking forward to seeing Vee again — and, of course, we have a live-in nanny now, to take care of the little ones,” she paused here and smiled, madonna-like, “So there’s no spare bedrooms...”
“Little ones?” I queried. “Have you had another baby, then?”
“Another two, actually — twins — a boy and a girl. We’ve called them Luke and Emily but you can always change their names in the book.”
“I’m not going to...” I began. But what was the point in arguing? The whole thing was ludicrous. I had no intention of trying to write a sequel.
Juno retrieved her shoes, slipped them on and stood up. “Well, I’ll be off, then. I’ll send Andrew over this weekend — Sunday afternoon probably — he’s usually at a loose end after lunch.” She walked to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
I waited for a moment before I checked the hallway. It was empty but a cloud of perfume still hovered.
*
Afterwards, I spent a lot of time talking to myself — explaining and reasoning it out — I must have imagined Juno’s visit because there was no way that it could really have happened — so it was obviously some weird hallucination due to stress and tiredness. I hadn’t been sleeping properly or eating regularly and had been spending too much time on my own. It was all a kind of waking dream — my poor befuddled brain playing tricks on me.
I pulled a TV dinner out of the freezer and microwaved it. It was a Buyway Bargain Special and, as I munched my way through roast chicken breast in gravy, accompanied by roast potatoes, baby carrots and a sprinkling of wrinkly-looking, violently-green peas, I hatched a plan. I would totally ignore the writing for the rest of the day, take the radio to bed and listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4. The radio was practically guaranteed to send me to sleep. I also took a paperback— a battered biography of John Lennon that I’d rescued from the Oxfam shop and had so far failed to get to grips with. I needed a distraction, I decided. I mustn’t dwell on what had happened — or what I thought had happened — because it hadn’t. It definately, definately hadn’t.
The play was about halfway through when the phone rang. I was wide awake and had got quite caught up in the drama because it was particularly well scripted and I like to think I can still learn from other writers. I picked up the receiver hoping the caller would keep it brief and to the point. I made my voice deliberately unwelcoming.
“Yes?”
“Hi, kid — it’s me.”
“Oh, hello Mark. So, what do you want?” My older brother never gets in touch just to be sociable — there’s always something he wants or needs, so there’s no point in beating about the bush.
“Just a small favour — I’m gonna be in your neck of the woods sometime tomorrow evening — passing through, like — and I wondered if there’s any chance of a bed for the night. Well, more of a doss down on your carpet, really — I’ve got a sleeping bag...”
“No problem. Just you, is it?” I knew his travelling habits of old — he rarely went anywhere without a pillion-dolly, as he called them, on the back of his old Norton motorbike.
“Er, well — would it be OK if I bring someone with me? We’ll leave straight after breakfast...”
“Provided she doesn’t nick half the contents of my bathroom shelf, like the last one did.” Being hospitable was one thing, but having some strange woman assume she can help herself to my cosmetics is where I draw the line.
To his credit, Mark didn’t protest or deny the theft. “OK, kid — I’ll make sure this one knows the rules. See you sometime tomorrow evening, then. Cheers.” He rang off.
Damn, I thought, realising that it meant I’d have to do some housework because the place was looking a tip. Although Juno hadn’t seemed to have noticed. And why, quite suddenly, did everyone think I was running a B & B?
First Vee, now Mark and his friend... I shook myself. I must stop thinking like that — Juno and Vee don’t exist and Andrew isn’t coming round on Sunday because he isn’t real either. I had to get it through my head.
*
Mark’s passenger turned out to be a “dolly” in at least one sense. “This is Angelique,” he grinned, ushering a diminutive, waif-like creature through my front door. It immediately crossed my mind to wonder how anyone so physically insubstantial could stay on the pillion of a motorbike without being blown away. I could only imagine Mark must anchor her somehow, as surely her child-like arms were neither strong enough nor long enough to reach around his well-muscled and leather-clad torso in order to cling, limpet-like to his back.
“Hi.” She gazed up at me and chewed on a piece of gum. I was glad that I’d taken the precaution of clearing the bathroom shelf of everthing but a tube of toothpaste and a half-empty can of deodorant that I didn’t care for anyway. She had a feral look about her — something of the scavenger in the way her eyes darted around, taking in the place.
“Hello — come on through.” I gestured towards the living room and, as the two of them trooped past, I could smell the sweat on them. No doubt they would want to use my shower at some point.
Angelique flopped on the carpet, used her luggage — a nylon covered bedroll — as a cushion, and casually surveyed the room. While she studied my idiosyncratic style of interior decorating, I had the chance to observe her and note her numerous piercings and body decorations. There were so many studs dotted along the rim of each of her ears that I almost expected a tear here tab. One eyebrow, her lower lip and nose where also ringed or studded. She also had some interesting tattoos — a flight of tiny blue butterflies on the side of her neck and the sad-eyed face of a ethereal-looking girl exquisitely rendered on her forearm. For a moment, it seemed uncannily like Vee’s face.
“Would you like a drink — coffee — tea, or something?” I remembered my role as hostess and threw myself into it — anything to distract my thoughts.
Angelique looked at Mark, as though for permission. “Yeah,” he said,“Thanks, kid — we’ll have coffee — one black, one white.” He was being unusually reserved, I thought, and wondered about their relationship.
I took my time making the drinks. I could hear them talking — the murmur but not the actual words — and hoped this affair was just one more notch on my brother’s indiscriminate bedpost and nothing serious or likely to last. Angelique wasn’t sister-in-law material any more than the others had been. But who was I to make such judgements, anyway? Me — a crazy woman who’s paranoid enough to think some of her characters are plotting together in order to make her write another book about them. I carried the tray through just in time to see Mark remove his hand from inside Angelique’s skimpy vest. I guessed they’d be using just the one sleeping bag.
*
It was after nine when I woke and went in to rouse them. They had obviously got too hot and unzipped the sleeping bag during the night. Now they were both stretched naked on the thin, quilted cotton lining — her pale, child-small body curled into the protecting overhang of his darker mass. She had no breasts, I noticed, and there were more tattoos — a snake coiled on her stomach, it’s tongue flicking out to almost touch the bellybar glinting in her navel; a crescent moon, planets and stars whirled across one thigh and a phoenix glowed from one of her boyish buttocks. Fascinated, I took all this in before quietly tiptoeing to the kitchen, where I made an unnecessary amount of noise until I heard them disturb.
Angelique sauntered into the kitchen, wrapped in a faded beach towel that had numerous pulled threads dangling from it. I anticipated she was about to ask if she could take a shower.
“D’you have any shampoo?” She didn’t even say please, which irked me. I looked at her in the daylight. She was tousled and blurry-featured — her eye shadow smudged down her cheeks, her skin white and a bit spotty around her mouth. Her bi-coloured hair — bleached albino at the roots and tipped with purple-black — stuck out, spiky and matted with gel so that she put me in mind of a bedraggled magpie.
“Probably. I’ll find some.” I walked past her and went into the bathroom, closing the door. I didn’t want her to see where I’d hidden my private supplies at the bottom of the airing cupboard. I found an old sachet of herbal shower gel that had been free with something. I went back to where she waited. “Here — you can use this — it’s OK to use as shampoo.”
“Ta.” She took it from me and examined the printed instructions, as though checking to make sure.
“I’ll make us all some toast while you’re getting cleaned up.” I’d decided against offering them cereal. I hadn’t enough milk to spare for that.
“OK — ta.” She repeated the monosyllable, polite conversation obviously not her forté, and wandered out.
I hoped they would, as Mark had promised, shift themselves after breakfast. If they hung around hoping I’d provide lunch as well, there was a possiblity they might bump into Andrew. The thought was formed before I could stop it — I was being ridiculous again. Irritated and apprehensive, I concentrated on buttering a large plateful of toast.
Mark came in and his eyes lit up.“Oh, great! — got any marmalade?” His greedy, laddish enthusiasm, charming as it had been in his younger days, was now grating on me.
“No,” I lied “Sorry.” Then, relenting slightly, “There’s some lemon curd, though.” It was past its sell-by date but he wouldn’t notice. Anyway, it needed clearing up.
“That’ll do.” He grinned and rummaged in a drawer for a knife, obviously starving, and picked up the plate.
“Hey!” I took it off him, “That’s supposed to be for all of us — two rounds each! OK?” I knew I sounded cross so lightened up with “Go and watch TV — I’ll bring this through in a minute when Vee’s — I mean — when Angelique’s finished in the bathroom.”
Mark gave me a strange look. “Who’s Vee?”
“No one you know. Now, go on — I’ll just find the lemon curd...” I bent down and opened a low cupboard so he couldn’t see my face. I was flushed and feeling horribly confused.
*
It had been a mistake to encourage Mark to switch on the TV. He got engrossed in the motor racing and failed to respond to even the broadest of hints that he was possibly over-staying his welcome. He obligingly lifted his feet so I could hoover the rug, whilst turning up the volume so he could hear the commentary above the drone and whistle of my ancient cleaner. Meanwhile, Angelique busied herself painting her toenails black, then applied a tiny sticker to each nail once the varnish was dry. The designs represented the twelve houses of the zodiac and she appeared slightly nonplussed that there were two stickers left over. I found this oddly endearing and it took the edge off my annoyance that they were simply in no rush to depart.
I put a pizza in the oven at half twelve, put some oven chips in at twenty to, and aimed for lunch at around one o’ clock. With luck, I’d have Mark and Angelique out the door before two — just in case I had another visitor. Not that I was really expecting anyone, of course...
And it kind of worked. They ate up pretty smartly and I had to hide my relief when Mark rolled their sleeping bag and began getting their gear together. Not that there was much of it — he believes in travelling light. But then he started to dither and get a bit sentimental, which isn’t at all like him. He kept thanking me — telling me I was “a real brick” — an expression I hadn’t heard him use before but I guessed he’d picked it up from our dad, who’d used it a lot. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a greasy-looking ten pound note and crumpled it into my palm. We’d actually played this game a number of times before — he knew I wouldn’t accept it, and I knew he knew. He was banking on me giving it back — so I didn’t. I told him things had been difficult lately — big bills and not much money — and thanked him for the contribution. He blinked and nodded, looked stunned by this turn of events and, wordless for once, guided Angelique towards the door. Then he did something else out of character — he hugged me. We’d never gone in for hugs before so it was a real surprise. I hugged him back, but lightly.
“See you, then,” I said, watching them walk off up the road. He must have parked the Norton some way away because I never heard the roar of its engine start up.
I was rinsing plates in the sink when I heard the door bell. I thought one of them had forgotten something and come back. At least, that’s what I told myself. But it was Andrew on my doorstep and a strange excitement rose from the pit of my stomach and spread out — a tingling sensation that made me breathless.
“Oh,” I said inanely, “It’s you.” It went through my mind that at least he hadn’t just barged in uninvited, as Juno had done. But then I’d given Andrew impeccable manners along with, I liked to think, an artist’s sensitivity.
“Hello, Caroline — it’s good to see you — how have you been?” He hesitated, waiting to be welcomed in.
“Fine — busy — very busy, in fact.” I didn’t budge but kept him standing there. “Look,” I stumbled on,“perhaps this isn’t the best time — I’ve only just got rid of one lot of visitors...” This wasn’t the most tactful way of putting it but my mouth seemed to be working independently of my brain and the intense way he was looking at me had triggered a panic attack.
“Yes, I saw them leave — extraordinary-looking girl — very Goth. She’d make a good subject — that hair would be particularly photogenic. D’you think she might agree to pose for me, sometime?”
“I’ve really no idea — I’ve only just met her — she’s one of my brother’s girlfriends and he doesn’t usually keep them long — he has a fast turnover, if you know what I mean.” Even as I said the words, I couldn’t figure out why I was having this conversation. I stared at Andrew, half-wishing he would disappear so that I could calm down.
“Oh, no matter — it was just a thought. Anyway, it’s you I’ve come to see. Juno says you need some help sorting out your spare room for when Vee comes to stay.” He was looking past me up the hallway, obviously wondering why I wasn’t inviting him in.
I tried out several replies to this in my head — most of them critical of the way Juno railroaded me into this position — but none of these protests got as far as my tongue. “Come in,” I found myself saying, my resistance gone and suddenly feeling light-headed. Then he was inside and we were standing in the hall, almost touching.
“You’re looking a bit peaky,” he remarked, breathing down on me, his tone concerned.
He smelt of chocolate — a rich, dark, expensive chocolate — Belgian or Swiss, I thought. And there was that word again — ‘peaky’— it made me think of mountains with snow on them. I smiled and he smiled back and I thought how attractive he was — more handsome than I remembered — better looking than I had described him. Because he was mine — once.
To be honest, I’m not sure who kissed who — perhaps it was a mutual thing — but we were suddenly in a clinch. And it was nice. Very, very nice and I would have been quite happy to let it go on being nice. But then it got intense and I had to break away.
“No” I said, trying to push him away and put some space between us. Perhaps I only whispered it because he took no notice and tried to carry on. “Please, Andrew — we mustn’t — this is madness!” I winced at that line. I’d lapsed into melodrama and it must have been catching because he gave a theatrical sigh and almost sobbed:
“Oh, Caroline! I’ve wanted you for such a long time! Don’t deny me now!”
“But think of Juno — think of the little ones...” I moaned, mentally denying any liability. I didn’t know who’d written this stuff — but I wasn’t going to be responsible for it. I’ve always had this niggling fear I might one day get nominated for Literary Review’s annual Bad Sex prize. Oh, the imagined shame of it all! Anyway, it holds me back from attempting to write explicit sex scenes —so I either avoid them or simply leave things to my reader’s lurid imagination.
Andrew wouldn’t be put off and I didn’t protest too much. We did it on the hall floor — didn’t even get as far as the bedroom — and it was better than nice, or very good, or even fantastic — it was sen-bloody-sational. And at such times of euphoric overload, pulp fiction clichés are often all we have to fall back on.
Afterwards, he whispered in my ear “You have to actually do it to be able to write about it, you know.” He imparted this little gem of wisdom with the gentlest of reproaches. “You’re out of practise, my sweet.”
“I never really got into practise,” I admitted. But my conscience was already starting to give me a hard time so I was glad when the phone rang and foiled the likelihood of a spontaneous instant replay.
“Yes? ...Oh, hello Juno.” Alarmed, I mouthed at Andrew to get dressed. “Tomorrow?..Yes...Yes, I guess that’ll be all right.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Vee’s arriving tomorrow” I hissed at him. He just nodded and slowly buttoned his shirt, unperturbed by the news or its source. I listened while Juno relayed travel times — Vee was flying in from Dublin and would get a taxi from the airport. She’d probably get to my place around mid-day, or soon after. “OK,” I said, “We’re getting the room sorted now.” Juno seemed satisfied with that and rang off. “Well, come on, then” I looked at him pulling on his socks and found it hard to credit what we’d just done.“We’d better get cracking.” He pulled a face — mock-rueful — and got obediently to his feet.
It was a rushed job but we got it done. There wasn’t time to sort anything or to be neat about it — I just crammed things into boxes and Andrew hauled them through the trapdoor into my already-stuffed loft space. Eventually the surfaces were cleared and I could see the carpet again. The room looked unfamiliar and bare without its excess of clutter. It had lost its identity.
*
The room I’m in now has no identity, either. Although I’ve spread some of my personal things along the windowsill and piled my books — including the Lennon biography, still unread — on the bedside table, I haven’t managed to make any impression on the place. It has that hotel feel — transitory — even though I know I might be staying some time.
The staff here are quite pleasant to deal with — the nurses and doctors — although they tend towards blandness in the homogenous, stereotypical sense, and Juno finds them dull. But then, she’s always critical of everyone. Vee is living at my place and looking after it for me until I’m better. She likes the cat and spoils him — funny, I’ve trouble recalling that I have a cat — a marmalade tom called Carrot, apparently — but I suppose I must have. Nathan’s popped in to see me a couple of times and he’s well-chuffed with his part in the new chapters I’ve been drafting. It’s really shaping up. Perhaps this break is what I needed, after all. As for Andrew, I’ve said more than enough about him — he’s incorrigible — and it’s quite transparent why he visits so often. Any chance he gets. I’m sure I didn’t mean him to turn out quite so — what’s the word? — randy seems to be the one that fits.
There’s only been one sour note — something that left me a bit unsettled and doubting myself. Mother came to visit yesterday. She’s looking her age now, and has gone rapidly downhill since my father died — looking decidedly peaky, I thought. We didn’t talk for long because she’s never been very interested in what I write about so we quickly run out of conversation. Anyway, I thought I’d tell her that I’d seen Mark and he’d stopped over for a night with his current girlfriend.
Instead of the reaction I expected, she’d frowned and asked “Who’s Mark?”
“My brother — your son.” I reminded, wondering if she’d taken in any of what I’d said.
She’d patted my arm, consolingly. “You don’t have a brother, dear.” And we’d just sat and looked at each other. I knew then that she’d started to go senile. It was the only explanation. Wasn’t it?
Later, after a long session of anxious self-questioning, I unburdened myself to Andrew and he listened sympathetically. “Put her in the new novel,” he suggested.“There’s room for all of us, and that way you can get some control — help her — that sort of thing.”
“Mmm. I might consider that.” I liked the logic of this idea and extended it. “I’m toying with including Mark and Angelique — just minor roles — nothing too challenging.”
“Good thinking! They can go and stay at your place — keep Vee company.”
“And the cat,” I added, already letting this scenario unfold in my imagination. “Don’t forget the cat.”
*
As far as I’m aware, they all get on together — my lodgers — these characters who invited themselves into my space — my home — my head and, not least, my novels. They’re good for me — they visit regularly and keep in touch. As for which ones are real and which aren’t, I don’t let that aspect concern me too much. They’re real enough — for me and for my readers. And, after all, that’s what counts.