Way beyond a lie, p.23
Way Beyond A Lie, page 23
The following year, 1999, Finlay drove his daughter to Inverness to begin a three year course in Computer Science at the University of the Highlands and Islands, or UHI as it’s commonly known. When she graduated, Finlay was the proudest man in the Highlands.
After a short period out of work, Alexis picked up the first in a succession of IT support jobs. She told Ross she’d always had a hankering to work in London and she was saving hard to make it happen. Her finances had been boosted over the past few months as her own flat was rented out while she was house-sitting for friends who were taking a gap year from work, backpacking through South America, Australasia and the Far East. They had invited Alexis but as she told Ross: ‘At my age? You must be joking!’ He thought this was highly amusing, a woman of thirty-five concerned about her age.
As the bus moved away from the lights, crossed Princes Street and began to climb up towards the castle, Ross reflected on how far his computing knowledge had come along under Alex’s tutelage. Following that introductory two-hour session, and to help him build on the basics, she suggested they come up with a project he could use to stitch all the learning together. After a few false starts, he decided to design and publish a series of short travelogues about Edinburgh.
He bought an iPad online. He set up a Hotmail account so Alex could assign him tasks, and he could report back. He learned how to take pictures and videos using his phone and iPad, and how to upload them to the cloud. He researched facts and wrote scripts, recorded the audio and synchronised it with the video. Finally he added text and hyperlinks before publishing his work on YouTube.
As his computing confidence grew, he installed a few apps on his iPad, some music, eighties’ crap according to Alex, and was currently watching box-sets of more eighties’ crap streamed from Netflix. He was also using his phone to keep up with news and sport.
But where he steadfastly drew the line was internet banking. Alex asked him once, just to be sure but he refused even to consider it.
The Thursday after their final session, Ross had been at work when he noticed the clock. It was their normal lesson time, and he felt at a loss. He considered calling her to suggest they should meet anyway, then changed his mind at least half a dozen times in the space of about ten minutes. Eventually he bit the bullet.
They agreed to meet for a drink in Leslie’s Bar, a traditional pub not far from where she lived. Ross didn’t even know it existed so he asked her for directions.
She giggled. ‘Find it yourself. I’ll see you there at half seven. We can have a couple then go for a curry.’
He found her sitting at a bench seat just inside the door. She had a pint of Guinness waiting for him. He eased himself carefully into the seat next to her, trying not to spill any of the beer. He didn’t quite make it. She laughed at his clumsiness, pulled a pack of tissues from her jeans pocket and helped him to mop up the spillage. ‘Did Mr Google come up with the directions then?’
‘He did indeed, he’s an incredibly clever chap that Mr Google. Seems to know everything.’ They both laughed, which set the tone for the rest of the evening.
Walking her home, he asked her in a just-for-something-to-say manner, what she was up to at the weekend. ‘I’m on late shift tomorrow, and I’m invited to a fortieth birthday party on Saturday. A friend of a friend.’ He looked away and started blustering on about something inconsequential.
‘Did you hear me, Ross?’
‘Eh? What? Pardon?’
Alex sighed. ‘I said, would you like to come?’
Before he could chicken out and change his mind, Ross had quickly said he would love to.
Now, he stepped off the bus into the late evening sunlight, right into the midst of a noisy swarm of tourists charging towards the Royal Mile. He stood still as they parted like a fast-flowing stream round a half-submerged rock. He waited until the tourists and the bus moved away then crossed George IV Bridge to walk down Victoria Street towards the pub-music venue where Alex had suggested they meet. It was called Sneaky Pete’s, just off the Grassmarket. This was yet another establishment that she frequented, which Ross had never been in.
Approaching the pub from the other side of the street, he hesitated before crossing. A group of smokers were blocking the entrance, and the music from inside was loud. Punk rock or something similar but he couldn’t be sure. Mentally, he reviewed his chosen dress code for the evening: chinos, a navy blue shirt and casual brown shoes. You’ll have to do, Ross. You can’t exactly pop home and change, can you? He manoeuvred past the smokers, and walked in through the open door before stopping dead in his tracks. He gawped at the scene in front of him. It was about as far removed from his comfort zone as Earth is from Pluto.
Oh, shit. What the fuck have I let myself in for?
Most of the punters in the bar fit the profile, The Rocky Horror Picture Show meets The Crow meets Kiss. There were a few people dressed reasonably normally but safe to say, the Chinos Club was represented by a membership of one. Ross’s first reaction was he’d turned up at a fancy dress party, but Alex had neglected to tell him.
The place was heaving. He couldn’t spot her so imagined she hadn’t arrived yet. He worked his way to the bar and shouted for a Guinness. While his beer settled he listened to the music. He recognised the various bands from his teenage and student years: The Damned, The Cure, Bauhaus, Joy Division, Siouxsie and the Banshees. The overall atmosphere was on the lively side of raucous and he began to enjoy himself. But he kept an eye on the entrance, expecting to see Alex appear at any minute.
A surge of newcomers washed in, resulting in a fair amount of pushing and shoving as they battled their way to the bar. Ross lifted his beer, and moved so his back was against a pillar. He’d always enjoyed people watching and this place had it in spades, so it took him a few seconds to realise he was being spoken to by a familiar voice.
‘Are you not talking to me, then?’ He looked down. A woman right in front of him was laughing and waving her hand in his face. The music was too loud to hear a penny drop but drop it eventually did.
‘Alex?’ He wore a stunned expression on his face. ‘Is that you?’
‘Naw. It’s Julie Andrews on a bad day. Of course it’s me, you muppet.’ She reached up and tapped below his chin. ‘You’re catching flies, Ross.’
He was used to seeing her with minimal make-up, wearing her Esprit IT corporate clothing, her hair wavy and natural. Tonight, well, he was quite simply gobsmacked.
The creature standing practically on his toes wasn’t, as normal, six inches smaller than him. The black, leather, vertiginously high-heeled, platform-soled, knee-high boots with at least a dozen studded straps, meant she was close to looking him straight in the eye. Horizontally slashed stockings, a black, crushed-velvet miniskirt, and above that a midriff-revealing lace creation that morphed into an equally black bustier. It was extremely low cut and scored high on the push-up factor. Alex’s arms were wrapped in bicep-length lace gloves. Black, needless to say.
Ross had always wondered about her hair. What colour was it, really? Tonight it was blacker than a raven held captive in a nineteenth-century chimney. Furthermore, it was poker straight, cut to frame her face perfectly. Not a wave in sight.
He stared at her face, mesmerised. All her vacant piercings were now fully occupied with tiny silver daggers, studs that could have punched holes in solid steel, hoops so tight they looked painful and other pieces of metalwork possibly borrowed from a Marquis de Sade exhibition. But it was her make-up that was the ultimate accessory. She wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue. Her eyelashes resembled black mascara needles, her eyebrows had been coloured and shaped as if by laser, and her complexion was alabaster-white. And her lips. Her lips looked like they’d had several coats of black enamel baked on.
The whole ensemble was finished off by a plain, black, satin choker. To Ross, the effect was jaw-droppingly sensational.
‘Say something, then.’
‘Jesus …’
‘That’ll do.’ She stretched up on tiptoe, not easy in those boots, and kissed him full on the mouth. Slow, soft, with the merest flicker of tongue. She leaned back from the waist and considered his expression, the corners of her mouth upturned slightly. ‘I’m assuming you don’t have a beer bottle in your pocket.’
Ross put his hands on her waist, pulled her just a little tighter to him and kissed her straight back. When they broke for air, he said, ‘I think that’s just an indication of how bloody amazing you look. But, and apologies for my ignorance, is it punk, or what?’
‘It’s a bit of punk and a bit of Goth. I like both and can never decide which one I prefer so I just mix it up. Now, what does a girl have to do around here to have a man buy her a drink?’
At just gone three in the morning, the pair of them fell out of the pub, laughing and giggling like teenagers. Ross had no idea how many Guinnesses he’d consumed but, pissed as he clearly was, from somewhere he found the sense to decline the several shots he was offered. He thought Alex was relatively sober compared to him but he couldn’t imagine how that could be. She’d had a drink in every round, shots and all.
Alex had introduced him to the group. They numbered about six or seven but there was a lot of coming and going, and Ross found it difficult to keep track. Some were dressed like her and a couple were relatively normal. He spoke to them all at one time or another because Alex disappeared quite often to dance, usually on her own. She couldn’t convince him to join her until the last dance: Dear Prudence by Siouxsie and the Banshees. Not really a slow one but she draped herself all over him anyway. Bodily contact with her aside, he was secretly pleased. He was an awful dancer and was paranoid he’d look like someone’s dad. But he had to admit he’d had a fantastic time. He had loved the music and the atmosphere, Alex’s friends were great company and he couldn’t take his eyes off that outfit.
They stopped several times on the walk home for some enthusiastic kissing sessions, with a fair amount of bump and grind involved. Now, standing outside her house, it was awkward time. Will she invite me in? And if she does, should I accept? It’s a first date after all.
Later, when he confessed his indecision and insecurity to Elspeth she howled with laughter. ‘Fuck’s sake, Ross. Join the twenty-first century. These days, some people shag before their first date, never mind after it!’
Alex had guided him over to the gate and leaned in to give him one more kiss. She crossed her wrists behind his neck. ‘I’d invite you in for a coffee, but …’
‘No, no, you’re quite right. This is just a bit too quick. It’s probably time I was heading off home.’
She looked at him with some amusement. ‘What I was about to say was … I’m not inviting you in for a coffee because, once we’re inside, the last thing we will be doing is drinking coffee.’
She walked up the path, put her key in the door and turned round. ‘Now. Are you coming in or not?’
Chapter Forty-Six
Ross served his third straight double-fault to lose the game, the set and the match. Shoulders slumped, he walked up to the net and congratulated Barry, who’d never beaten him before.
‘Jeez, man. 6-2, 6-1? You’re clearly not yourself tonight.’ They shook hands and headed for the clubhouse, waiting a few seconds for a break in play on the adjacent court before scuttling across at the net.
Sitting on a bench with his racquet propped up beside him, Ross leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Barry was practically bouncing round the room, he was so chuffed with his maiden victory. Ross smiled to himself as Barry recounted the key points in the match, all of them ‘unbelievable shots’ by the man himself. Ross couldn’t be annoyed with his friend. Even when Barry lost, he could always find at least one unbelievable shot to brighten up another defeat. Ross had long ago learned how to lose gracefully and Barry deserved his time in the spotlight. He’d probably lost about fifteen or twenty times since they’d started playing each other.
‘So what’s up then, my man?’ grinned Barry. ‘Heavy night last night?’
Ross leaned down to untie a shoelace, grimacing at how dreadful he still felt, even though it was now just after nine o’clock on the Sunday evening. ‘Indeed it was, Barry. Indeed it was.’
Ross waved after Barry’s car as he cycled away from the tennis club. Normally he would ride his bike at a decent pace to prolong the exercise but on this occasion he meandered along, spinning the pedals when he needed to and coasting the rest of the time. He was in no hurry. He had a dilemma to resolve first, and that dilemma was Alex.
About halfway home, he reached a decision point on the route. He dug his phone out of his pocket and thumbed a number from his favourites list. ‘Ah. You’re in. Mind if I come over?’ A brief pause. ‘Okay. I’m on my bike so about a quarter of an hour.’
Bang on fifteen minutes later, he rang the doorbell. A blurred figure approached the frosted-glass panel in the door and Ross knew exactly what to expect. Martin’s traditional Sunday evening garb, born of post-Apocalyptic weekend student debauchery was a slobby t-shirt, shapeless tracksuit bottoms of indeterminate brand, and seriously down-at-heel slippers that looked as though they’d passed through a dog several times.
‘Well, whatever’s wrong, you’d better come in and tell me all about it.’ Martin turned back towards the kitchen, leaving Ross to close the door. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Can’t have you pissed in charge of a bike.’
Now on the sofa with coffee in hand and his legs tucked under him, Martin said, ‘What gives?’
Ross began by telling him about his Thursday evening with Alex, followed by the rock night in Sneaky Pete’s. Martin mimed the whole You? In Sneaky Pete’s? Until three in the morning? thing. But Ross ignored him. Far more severe mockery would be heading in his direction all too soon. He paused the story at the door to Alex’s friend’s house. A couple of seconds passed while Martin waited for Ross to continue, then he broke into an enormous grin when he realised his friend had arrived at the crux of the tale. He slapped his thigh in classic comedic style and cackled like a Macbeth witch. ‘She dropped her drawers, didn’t she?’
But Martin’s laughter quickly subsided when he spotted Ross’s downcast demeanour. This wasn’t Tales of a Goth’s Boudoir after all.
Earlier on that evening, Ross had been well beaten by Barry partly because his younger, fitter opponent was improving steadily and partly because of his gargantuan hangover. But mainly because audio-visual flashbacks of last night’s sex with Alex kept pinging into his brain.
Through the haze he could picture a trail of clothes hitting the floor at regular intervals between the front door and her bed despite buttons, zips and hooks that were determined not to play ball. There was a frantic and somewhat comical search for a condom, involving it seemed, every pocket, handbag and drawer. They attempted various positional changes that are made to look silky smooth in the movies but are rarely that in real life. Overall, it could be described as the fractured choreography of first time lovers, where the performance was both complicated and affected by a surfeit of alcohol.
Sometime later, Ross had been awakened by Alex slipping out of bed. ‘Make-up,’ she whispered, kissing him full on the mouth and moving smartly away as he reached out to fondle her breast. When she came back, smelling vaguely like coconut and cream, they made spoons and slept for several hours.
Then it was Sunday afternoon and he was walking home. He didn’t think he would be able to suffer being cooped up in any form of transport, and it gave him time to think. He was confused. Hadn’t he just had amazing sex with a woman fifteen years his junior, who’d been wearing the remnants of an outfit loosely affiliated to bondage? Why wasn’t he dancing down the street, twirling round lampposts, jumping and clicking his heels together like some latter day Gene Kelly in Singing In The Rain?
It was a long walk, almost an hour and a half and by the time he reached home he’d convinced himself the age gap was the issue. It just wasn’t sustainable in the long term. Perhaps fifteen years didn’t matter too much when he was fifty, but what about at sixty? When he was seventy Alex would only be fifty-five. What if she wanted children? Then there was her desire to move to London. He certainly wouldn’t be going with her. That was out of the question.
The Carla factor counted too. She’d disappeared four months ago and the scars were still livid. He wasn’t sure they would ever heal. She had been twelve years younger so the comparisons were all too similar.
No. He would call Alex tomorrow, tell her he was sorry, that there was no future for them. Oh God! What if she thinks it was only about the sex and now that I’ve had that, I’m off like a dirty shirt? That troubled him. How would he navigate that particular minefield?
He explained all this to Martin, who sighed and scratched his ear. ‘Listen, sunshine. I know I’m not exactly relationship counsellor material but really, what’s the problem? You’ve just had great sex with a much younger woman, wearing kinky gear too I might add, and you’re thinking of calling her to break it off?’ Ross nodded but didn’t speak. ‘Anyway, you’re asking my advice, and, for what it’s worth, I think you must be out of your tree. I mean, I’ve only met her a couple of times but I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for farting.’
Ross smiled at the image. ‘But I just can’t see it going anywhere.’
‘So what? If it does, it does, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.’ Ross shook his head slowly so Martin tried another tack. ‘Okay, how about this. Keep things low key just now, don’t go out in foursomes, don’t invite people to dinner. Just go with the flow and see how it all pans out. If she does move to London things may just come to a natural end anyway.’
