Dog days, p.23
Dog Days, page 23
The evening had started well. Lizzie had made chicken Caesar salad and garlic bread for Luke. He had eaten it all and asked for seconds. She’d washed up while he dried. Afterwards, she wanted them to go to bed, needed to be swept up in the white heat of oblivion. It was better than cutting or burning herself. No marks to hide.
But she didn’t want to be out late. She’d promised Lenny she’d be home to tuck him in. She needed her sleepy boy, the one who didn’t ask questions.
‘What’s the rush?’ Luke had asked, with a smile, when she tugged him towards the stairs.
‘No rush, just … come on.’
‘Let’s sit and watch a film for a bit?’
‘I don’t have time. I need to get back.’ She’d tugged on his sleeve again, and Luke had pulled back.
‘I can’t believe I’m actually about to say this, but I kind of feel a bit used …’ He sounded as if he was joking, but his face didn’t match.
‘Really?’ Another string snapped. Lizzie was a violin, about to sing. She could feel what was happening, like she always did, but was powerless to stop it.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ Lizzie tried not to show how annoyed she was, but the mood was ruined and she just wanted to go home, before she did something she might regret. She needed her blade, a white patch of skin. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Why? You just got here.’
‘Because. Lenny is at home and I’ve got stuff to do.’
‘And I’m just an item on your to-do list? Christ, Lizzie. I just wanted to talk to you first. I was going to ask you to—’
‘To what?’
Luke laughed, but it wasn’t a nice sound. ‘I was going to ask you and Lenny to move in with me.’
‘Oh,’ Lizzie said quietly, but Luke heard.
‘Oh? Is that all you’ve got to say?’ He looked embarrassed, exposed.
‘I didn’t expect that.’ Lizzie cupped her face in her hands and tried to take back some control. ‘It’s too soon.’
‘I know, and were you not living in a shelter, I’d wait, but I hate the thought of you and Lenny living there. I had it all planned. I even went out today and got this cut.’ Luke pulled out a key with a football fob attached, then shoved it back in his pocket. ‘You won’t be needing it, though, will you? You just come here for dinner and sex, right? That’s all I’m good for.’
And that was when Lizzie slapped him. Hard. A crack across his cheek that seemed to split the shaky ground she stood on.
‘What the fuck?’ Luke’s hand went to his cheek and he looked at her in horror.
Time stopped for them briefly. They had paused in the moment, Lizzie’s arm in mid-air, Luke’s hand on his cheek. Slow motion. A shutter closing. A freeze frame.
George
(I miss you like I miss you)
GEORGE LETS POPPY OUT for a wee and a sniff in the garden. Asks her about the weather, then makes his own tea. One teabag for him, one for the pot. Ellen used to say it out loud. The tea comes out hot and chestnut brown, the way he likes it. Poppy gets a slosh in the saucer. Like clockwork.
He eats brown cereal to match his brew. Walks round till it does its thing, and then sits on the toilet and does his. A quick flannel wash over the sink, hair wet and slicked back, whiskers tidied, then he gets dressed.
The iron is shit and he’s given up. Funny how you care less about standards when you have to keep them up yourself. Plus he’s learned that the creases come out in the end. Everything does. He writes a to-do shopping list in pencil, sharpened with the Swiss army knife he keeps in his pocket. Brighton is dangerous, these days. You never know.
In the village, he marches into the post office and demands a form. There is someone already at the counter, but George doesn’t care. He is full of purpose and things that need to be done.
The woman serving him is old and bitter and smells of Murray Mints, which reminds George to buy some. He likes the rustle they make in his pocket.
‘How do I fill it in?’
‘Just write in the boxes.’
‘They’re too small.’
‘Put your glasses on.’
George isn’t used to unhelpful women and it puts him on the back foot. He doesn’t want to fill in the form himself. He wants someone (yes, ideally a woman) to do it for him.
‘It says I need a photo.’ George is hot and cross by this point and is tempted just to leave it. The thought of paying full price for the bus again is what stops him. The woman (nametag Pru) points at a machine in the corner, then goes back to stamping things. It takes George a while to grasp that he is supposed to get inside it, then press buttons. When he does, many times, nothing happens.
‘Fuck’s sake. Japanese shite,’ he says to Pru, who ignores him.
The shop is starting to get busy and George is in the way, Poppy squirming in his arms. Finally, a lad behind him steps in to help and tells George he needs to put in two pounds fifty for the photos.
‘Two pounds fifty? Daylight bloody robbery!’
‘You put the money in the slot there and press this button when you’re ready. I’m not sure you’re allowed to have your dog in the photo.’ George ignores him and clambers back in, Poppy under one arm.
At first, he can’t find the slot for the money, so in the first photo he’s squinting. In the second, Poppy’s face is blocking his, barking at the camera. The final photo ‘will do’, according to Pru. Finally, form complete, photo included, George turns to leave.
‘Wait.’ Pru digs around in the drawer under her desk and pulls out a letter covered with crumbs. ‘Been here for ages, was going to put it in the bin.’
George reads it on the bus into Brighton centre, his wrinkled hands smoothing out the crinkles.
Hello dearest,
What are you doing in the post office? Are you finally getting your bus pass? I do hope so. I love my trips on the bus. The photo bit is a faff and don’t ask Pru to help you because she won’t. She’s been miserable since her husband left her for the baker. They are jolly good Scotch eggs, though. I like the thought of you and Poppy on the bus. I must warn you, town is very different from when you last visited. It’s all offices and nightclubs and vegan restaurants.
Vegan? George looks at Poppy in confusion.
Vegans are people who don’t eat meat or dairy. No milk or cream or cheese or eggs, imagine that! I wish I could see your face now. The Pavilion is still lovely and that pub you used to drink in after work has changed hands but still serves bitter. Don’t have more than one, though, or they won’t let you back on the bus! And don’t be cross that everything costs so much, these days. The money under the bed is for spending. We’ve no one to leave it to, so make the most of it. Go clothes shopping, get yourself a new hat or Poppy a smart collar. Maybe take a trip on the Volk’s railway for old times’ sake. Do you remember our first date? You kissed me in the queue. I wasn’t expecting it and I had to sort out my lipstick with your hanky. I never gave that hanky back to you.
George stops reading and lets himself remember that day and the blue dress Ellen wore, which billowed in the breeze. Her face full of life and excitement as she clutched his arm, making him feel like a man. She’d been talking when he kissed her, babbling on about how she’d lived in Brighton all this time and never been on the railway. It was a rubbish ride that went nowhere, then back again, but Ellen had been like a child so he’d tipped her back and laid one on her. His one and only romantic gesture, when his heart was a balloon on a string, no longer entirely his, but at the mercy of Ellen’s breezy smile.
Come on now. No being morbid. We had our years, our wonderful years. Remember, you’re not a widower, you’re a bachelor, and when you get your new hat you’ll be quite the man about town! The ladies will all love Poppy and I will always love you.
Your Ellen
When they get into town, George decides to visit the railway. He stands in the queue and thinks about his wife. The train isn’t popular any more. Who wants to go on a train when they can ride on rollercoasters on the pier or take a trip up the i360? He and Poppy stare at the faded lettering and the litter that has collected in the tracks. Red Bull and Monster Energy drinks. Is the whole world on drugs?
To cheer himself up, George buys a pair of expensive golf shoes. He’s only played once and hated it, so has no need for the white-and-fawn tasselled trainers, but he loves the tappy sounds the spikes make on the polished floor of the shop. On the way out, he steals a pair of fingerless gloves to make amends. To feel like himself again.
They go into the Pavilion tea rooms for a cheese sandwich. The girl on the till is wearing a badge that says ‘I’m new’ and is flustered and nervous when he places his order. She spills his tea and gets his change wrong. George tells her to go back to school and two pink dots appear on her cheeks. It reminds him of Betty the last time he saw her.
Because of this he says no more. He just watches the girl, closely. Half an hour later (half an hour? What were they doing – churning the bloody butter by hand?), a long white-and-brown ‘thing’ appears on his plate.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Your cheese panini?’ The girl says it like a question.
‘A what?’
‘A panini?’
‘Have you got a stutter?’
‘No?’
‘I asked for a cheese sandwich. What the bloody hell is a pan wotsit?’
‘It’s Italian, I think.’ The girl looks as if she’s about to wet herself.
‘I didn’t order this. I ordered a cheese sandwich.’
‘This is a cheese sandwich. It’s just a toasted one.’
‘I don’t want it. I want one with bread. Normal British bread.’ The girl goes to remove it, but George stops her. ‘Leave that there and get back to the kitchen.’
After she’s scuttled behind the counter, George pulls the plate towards him and sniffs. Poppy does the same. George breaks a bit off and gives it to her. ‘You can be the canary down the mine.’
When Poppy has chewed, swallowed and doesn’t drop dead, George takes a tentative bite. The bread is crisp and warm, slightly salty. The cheese is rich and gooey and strings of it land on his chin as he chews. When I’m new finally returns with his plain cheese sandwich, George waves it away and gets to his feet.
‘I don’t want it.’
‘But you ordered it?’
‘Well, it’s too late now.’
‘You’ll have to pay for the panini?’
George stopped mid-coat zip. ‘What?’
‘The panini?’
‘I never ordered it.’
‘But you ate it?’
The girl looks confused, and George, full of carbs and salt and warmth, ploughs on: ‘Don’t know what you’re on about. Bloody teenagers, all on drugs.’ Then he sweeps out with crumbs on his coat and a bit of cheese on his cheek. ‘Paninis, eh?’ he says to Poppy on the bus home. ‘Who’d have bloody thought it?’
Dan
(I just called to say)
AS PER HIS PROMISE to try harder, Dan is standing in the chemist’s, trying to pick condoms. He plans to surprise Atticus by being the prepared one, but it’s not going well. He’s been here for fifteen minutes already, peering at them discreetly, while Fitz, bored, whines outside.
Just pick one, Dan thinks to himself, but he can’t. He likes twos, but the second row is dedicated to ribbed condoms, and Dan can’t see how many ribs there are. There might be nineteen. He hates the number nineteen. He moves to the sixth row along, sixth row down, but they are flavoured. Nope. He tries eighth across, eighth down, but they are extra-lubricated. Is that what Atticus buys, or will he be insulted? Is extra lubrication good or bad?
‘Can I help you, sir?’ A girl is standing in front of him with a ‘Here to help’ badge on.
‘No, thanks,’ he says. ‘I’m fine.’
The girl smiles at him. ‘Honestly, you can ask me any questions. I don’t mind.’ She points to the ribbed condoms. ‘I like these ones.’
‘Right,’ Dan says. ‘Good stuff.’
‘And these ones,’ she says, pointing to Durex Invisible. ‘You can hardly feel them at all.’
‘Great,’ Dan says, his face on fire.
Fitz barks twice. SOS.
‘Got to go,’ Dan blurts out. ‘My dog is barking.’
Outside the shop, Fitz looks at Dan. Dan knows that if he could speak, Fitz would say, ‘Really? All that time and you come out with nothing? Lame, dude. Super-lame.’
‘I know.’ Dan thinks of Atticus’s disappointment and groans.
‘Fine. Wait there.’ He marches back in and picks up the Invisible, ribbed and strawberry Durex, tossing them onto the counter with a tube of lube.
The girl smiles and says, ‘Lovely selection. I’ve not tried the strawberry. Maybe you’ll let me know how you get on with them.’
As Dan is stuffing the condoms in his backpack, the girl holds out the receipt and says, ‘Hey, are you Luke’s brother?’
‘Cousin.’
‘Oh, you look so similar. How is he?’
Oh, shit, not this. Dan realizes he’s been talking to Smurf-girl, only now her hair is peach. He tries to remember if Luke slept with her or not. Did they date? Who dumped whom?
‘He’s, um, good. We’re training for an Ironman. It’s hard work. He’s very busy. I hardly see him,’ Dan blathers, getting the rucksack zip caught in the plastic bag in his haste to be out of the shop.
‘Ironman? I bet he’s looking good. Send him my regards.’
‘Okay.’
‘He uses the ribbed condoms too,’ she adds, as Dan is walking to the door.
Dan is so surprised that he walks into a rotating display of sunglasses.
* * *
‘I got you something,’ Dan says later, after dinner.
‘How exciting.’ Atticus shuts his eyes and puts out his hands. Dan tips the condoms into them.
‘Open,’ Dan says shyly, wringing his hands.
‘You brought me condoms?’ Atticus says, slightly confused.
‘Yes. I brought you condoms,’ Dan says slowly, ‘because I love you.’
The last time Dan told someone he loved them, it was his father, before the cancer claimed him. Of course he tells his mum he loves her, in that exasperated ‘Yes, Mum, love you too’ way sons do. This time is different, though. This is a declaration, and it is one Dan doesn’t make lightly.
‘I’ve never … done this before. Never been in love, only loved objectively.’
‘I love you too. I have from the first moment I saw you,’ Atticus says, grinning.
‘Really?’ Dan hates how needy he sounds, but really?
‘Yes. Fuck, yes.’
* * *
The next morning Dan wakes Atticus up with a black coffee (‘Has it been passed through the bowels of a golden elephant? I won’t drink it otherwise’) and a kiss, then Atticus punches Darth Vader on the head and Dan calls work to tell them he’s got a bug and won’t be in.
They spend the morning in bed and the afternoon wandering round Kemp Town buying vinyl records. No one takes any notice of them. They are nothing special in this area, where men dress as women and the boys wear tight jeans and quiffs even slicker than Luke’s. Here there is the full rainbow spectrum: old, young, black, white.
They stop for food and share crispy Chinese duck and sticky ribs. Atticus is effervescent, a shot of vitamin C in the leg. The air is fizzing with the pair of them. When the food is finished, and their sticky fingers have been cleaned in bowls of steaming-hot water and lemon, they sit back, full of each other and good food and, for one giddy afternoon, the unlimited possibilities of their life together.
They discuss what kind of restaurant they’d run in Paris. Dan wants a deli, autumn-coloured salads served out of blue-and-white enamel bowls. Atticus wants an upmarket bistro, where the waiters wear smart red coats and a pianist plays blues on a polished walnut piano. It’s the difference between them and always will be. Atticus is not going to change. He is who he is, whole and complete. Dan is still in training.
It’s not Paris, not quite, but it’s a good day. They leave in high spirits, stopping at the Taj supermarket for dinner ingredients. Atticus, inspired by all the talk of restaurants, wants to make boeuf bourguignon. They stand side by side in front of the vegetables, squeezing lemons for no reason and making jokes about firmness.
The shopping swings between them at the bus stop. When the bus arrives, Paris-Dan clambers upstairs to get the best seats at the front. Atticus joins him, and they ride home with their feet up.
‘So, you don’t like this Lizzie, then?’ Atticus says later, over dessert (peach parfait). Dan has told him about the awkward dinner at Luke’s.
‘It’s not that I don’t like her, there was just something off about her.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, from what Luke told me, she fled her husband and now lives in that women’s refuge. You know the one?’ Atticus nods and Dan says, ‘Apparently he beat her pretty badly. Luke has seen the scars.’
‘But you don’t believe her?’
‘Of course I believe her. I’m just surprised. She’s not what I thought she’d be like. She’s confident and kind of intimidating.’
‘So, all battered women are meek and mild and deserve what’s coming to them?’ Atticus says, raising an eyebrow.
‘Not at all! No one knows what goes on behind closed doors. No cases are ever cut and dried.’
‘You see her as a case?’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Dear Daniel, wanting to save the whole world.’
‘Stop it. You know what I mean. I did a couple of modules on abuse.’
‘Anyway,’ Atticus says then, ‘perhaps Luke has just fallen in love.’
‘Love? Luke is the king of crushes. It’s so out of character.’
‘Like you holding hands with a boy in public?’ Dan blushes and Atticus grins. ‘People don’t always present their truth, Daniel. Sometimes they project something entirely different. The lies we tell others are nothing compared to the lies we tell ourselves.’
