What are you like? she chokes. I thump her back She called me Jezebel this morning. You are too, she laughs But is he worth it? All the faff? Ah he is, I’m mad about him. We stamp our feet on the froze stone steps. So did you catch his film at Christmas? Yeah, I started it but there was so much sex my mother had a fit so then I tried to tape it but recorded something else, was he good? He was amazing, you should ask him if he taped it himself. I couldn’t, he never talks about work and he might think you know. True, it’ll be out on video soon enough but don’t you think it’s weird with the TV leads and West End stuff that he still lives in some crappy bedsit? No, he’s not fussed, his mind’s on higher things. Or lower! she cackles Speaking of which, Don Giovanni might have a room going in the marital flat. Oh really? That’d be handy, thanks, I’ll ask.
That’d be yours, he yawns, nudging open the door It’s only a bed, but bills included. When do you want move in? Week after next? Perfect but, one thing, will she be over a lot? No more than she has to. Then it’s a deal. Which is just as well, because a few days later Listen I have to go to Scotland tonight. They’ve been dicking about with these film dates for a while. Now suddenly they’re ready so I have to go but I was thinking, if you need somewhere to Don’t worry, I’ve sorted it out. Great, that’s a relief, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.
On that said Saturday she helps me move into the flat. Tired white walls. No curtains or blinds. But perfect. Landlady free. The I hope you’re proud of yourself, ringing in my ears as I lug my stuff from the Safeway’s trolley I nicked and pushed down to Patshull Road. I think I’ll blank him, she decides. Fair enough, I say, blu-tacking Betty Blue up. I pity you, he’s such an asshole! Keep it down, I live here now. I bet he shags you before the term is out. I wouldn’t. You will, I know what he’s like. Give me some credit, shall we go for a pint? Sorry, I’ve got a date. And when she’s gone I sit mapping this weekend alone. Coast clear? he shouts. Yes. Then come meet the wife and her boyfriend, we’re getting a take-out. So.
New again opens to me. Girl I’ve been, woman I’ll be. This weekend becoming the first of many video-watching nights on the sitting-room floor. Spliffs and parties. Self-pitying Sundays, hungover. And this tides me across his away, on into February when A certain northern gentleman rang, asking you to meet him in the Prince Albert tonight. Blind again with delight for it’s been long long long. First though, this morning, Private Moment exercise.
Baited in Room Two and the dust light there. Prokofiev tape. Cigarette. I put my father’s jacket on. This an only when I’m alone. Its yellowed tweed still smells of him though it’s getting hard to tell. But here, beneath analytical eyes, I remember when he wore it last. Me reading on his knee. Nineteen eighty-five and not knowing it was the final night we’d ever spend that way. Next. A letter I’ve read once before — written from the hospital after he’d been told. Printed in block capitals because I was so small, and opening it slowly now. Concentrate, the teacher says And — trying to remain by yourself — start to read aloud. IIIIII put tongue to words but the sound is none. The reason is, he interrupts We can see you’re having an emotional reaction to it and, when that happens on stage, your speech needs to be clear for the audience’s sake, do you understand? Yes. Wish I’d never chosen this and just leapt around naked like everyone else but I don’t do that when I’m alone. It was this or the clipped breath of burns and. Be brave, the teacher says. So I open. Open it. Make myself by myself and read MY DEAREST
Fine again, nine and in my coat, I make my way down Prince of Wales Road. Weaving the dark and rain of it. Frail for a friendly face, and warmth, and going back to his.
Hey there! He looks up Hi. You’re tired, I say. No I’m drunk. How long are you here? Since three o’clock. Why’s that? He shrugs. Is something wrong? No I’ll get you a drink, but even standing up’s an ordeal. His walk there an intricate maze of wheels. At the bar, he orders pints and a shot. Sure? I see her ask. He nods. Tosses it. Manages back. Thanks, I anxious How was the shoot? Ffffffff, he shakes his head Waste of fucking time the fucking director I fucking hate his kind shit and sweat confidence but you know all the time there’s nothing else going on. So why did you do it? Producer’s a mate, and he wipes the spit from his lip then resurrects Jesus! and ‘Beautiful ingénue’ my arse. Fifteen years too old for the part and that full of plastic if you fucked her she’d bounce but she’s the ‘name’ so we’re left hanging around in the freezing fucking cold while they sew her face on it’s bullshit it’s just And it’s a shock to see, like he’s gone deaf inside. Just pulling words over whatever’s behind. Suddenly though taking my hand Sorry for ranting, how’s your new place? But the temper still going up and down in his eyes. It’s above Blockbuster sharing with my friend’s ex listen did something happen today? He drags his cigarette to the quick I wanted to apologise for you getting kicked out of your place I should have I should sorry for that I’m such a fucking arsehole sometimes. You’re not, I say. I hope you don’t mind me calling I I know they rehearse you late up there I just thought some company might I’m glad you called. Really? Of course, I say. So ready for another then?
Soon we are in the fet night. I and him. Drinking like savages. Smoke every breath in. Another? And Another? If that’s okay? Yeah, what isn’t with me, he says Every single fucking thing. Pints retired for the lash of Jameson’s until tempting the welt of his strangeness, I press Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? I can’t. But something is? Oh well, isn’t it always? The way he speaks though, some unknowable voice. And I’ve never seen anyone get drunk this hard, like hammering nails down into his head. Stoops to kiss though in his drunken elegance. Long kiss. Good, first. But quick switched to rough. Hand between my legs. I push him back Stop! Why? You never complained before? But not in public. Who the fuck cares? Please don’t. Fuck this! he says, then seems to see himself Sorry I am I’m very I think I’d better be off. Wait! I get my coat. No, don’t come, he says, and reels on out to the filthy night. But I follow — if only as crutch — except Get the fuck off I can walk by myself. And though he falls again in the London muck, I tow behind to under the bridge. His face in the streetlight, in the sockets of his eyes. Something gnawing. Wheedles open his fly. Don’t, hang on, we’ll be home in a sec. I-have-to-take-a-leak, he says. Pisses right there, while I, mortified, wait. What is going on tonight? Mortification interrupted by another kiss and in the midst of, my skirt hiked up. Let’s have a fuck. For God’s sake, not here! Don’t you want me? Stop! You do. You’re wet. And I do want him. I always want but I am not at all drunk enough. Let’s go back to yours. I don’t want to, he says I hate that fucking place. I yank away. What’s the fucking problem? Hey! I’m not going back there, do you hear? I walk on, leaving him to stagger in circles and then slowly roll after me.