Boys and Girls (10 page)

I get distracted. I have been conscious now for quite some while of the noise, a fracture in the room, though only now have I registered that it is no more than the drone of the telephone (though behind that monotone I am sensing muted anger).

‘Dad? That you?'

‘I suppose so …'

‘Can you ring me back?'

‘Ring you …? But you've just …'

‘Credit's like really low, Dad. Can you?'

And I must have, I imagine: she's talking again, anyway.

‘Look listen, yeh? Tara, she's like asked me to stay over. Kay? Kay? Can you tell Mum when she …? Dad? You there?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘So you got that, yeh? Back like – sometime tomorrow? Not sure when.'

‘Well … I suppose so. But won't you need—?'

‘No. She's got. Tara's got. Don't need anything. Bye, Dad.'

Didn't say bye, because the phone now had clicked and was purring at me softly. Well there. That's the young, and this is me. She doesn't need anything, you see: she said so. That is what she said. I do. Christ. I do. Yes. Well there. And so. The curtain, now, it must ring down on this suddenly hushed and singular charade … and oh but if only, as I give something peachy (and creamy to the touch) one last and gentle caress … if only I hadn't wondered what it was now that could be next to her skin.

I shall go downstairs and drink until I can feel things shrinking; then I can give myself up to it and spreadeagle my mind. The last I shall see tonight is the light wink out, just as I am shuddering into my mortification.

Black, who had been leaning with attention across the table and idly stroking the joint on the middle finger of Susan's soft and outstretched hand flat against the weave of the deep-red cloth, now pulled away sharply and stared at her hard. He dabbed at his lips with a napkin and held it up there, consciously willing a glinting of amusement to pepper and invade the confusion in his eyes.

‘I'm … sorry, so sorry, I must have—'

‘Misheard? No no, I assure you. That is exactly what I said.'

Her composure, thought Black, was really quite remarkable.

‘Indeed?' he said. ‘Indeed? Well. Well well.'

And what else, pray, could he decently say? Thrown, really, is what he was feeling. Evening had gone really very straightforwardly up till now – and straightforwardness in any sort of venture of this sort, well I ask you: what more is there to wish for? But this, now. Well I don't know what to think, tell you the truth … I don't know – missed something? Have I? Somewhere along the way? Sign, of some kind? God knows it's possible: so very out of practice, you see. Rusty is the word: the
mot juste
, as it were. Seemed all perfectly normal when I met her in
the bar. She was already there, which I hadn't intended (Lord: I had had to spray the crown of my head with some of the darkening stuff that they give you with the thickening agent that they give you after again you've been freshly plugged, and damn me if it hadn't dribbled down and over the rim of the collar of my shirt – and so then I had to go through all the business of … well now look, good God – I don't want to go
in
to it all, God's sake. Let's just say I was unavoidably delayed, shall we? And leave it at that). Anyway, there she was, little Susie Q, perched up on a bar stool, and in the pink soft lighting and amid the tinkle of piano looking very fetching indeed, to my eye. Elegant cream sort of wraparound dress, it looked like – certainly it fell away over one knee, revealing a good deal there to be savoured. Around her waist – and I've looked at it since – the most remarkably broad black patent belt I have ever laid eyes on. Stretches from just under her very amply projected breasts all the way down to the swell of her hips, and there must be half a dozen vertically stacked-up and cinched-in buckles along the way. Her heels are high, I could not help but notice, as she swung a leg gently, by way of a wave (raising her flute, and then an eyebrow). Fine when we're sitting up on a bar stool, but not too good while we're walking to our table. I could've worn the shoes with the tallest stacks of all, had I but thought, though not only do they weigh an absolute ton, but they always do make me feel as if I am giddily teetering on the very brink of a soaring tower (peeking over the edge, eager to leap, and shaking with fear at the very thought of it). My doctor, one of the many, he says it's impossible to suffer from vertigo as a result of wearing a pair of shoes – but me: I'm not so sure.

‘Good evening, sir. Mr Leather, sir. A glass of champagne can I get for you?'

‘Evening, Smales. Yes that would be lovely, thank you.'

‘Carlo, sir, it's my name.'

‘Really? Hello Susie, my dear. Damn they're tall, aren't they? Bloody stools. Carlo, hey? Really? And another glass for the lady, if you'd be so … How are you, Susie? You're looking absolutely, um … well what happened to
Smales
, then? Lovely, my dear: quite lovely.'

‘Mr Smales has not been with us for quite some time, sir. May I help you up, sir? Mr Leather?'

‘No no, quite all right. Haven't kept you, I hope? Dear Susie. Smales not here … well I never. Ah! Bubbles: splendid.'

‘Have you been bleeding …?'

‘My dear Susan: what an opening remark! No no – not bleeding.
Bleeding
? No, not at all. Cheers, my dear. So good to see you. Let's clink glasses.'

Of course that would, wouldn't it, just have to be the very first thing she notices about me. Anyway – haven't been bleeding, have I? It's just that there's this red and viscous fluid, don't ask me what it is – I have to take it if I'm anticipating a bit of a night on the toot, if you get my drift (coats the stomach, simmers down the liver, keeps the heart from more or less exploding) and because I was already running so late due to all the sodding shirt business I went and slopped some over my cuff and I'd only just come through the whole damn malarkey of changing my … so I just thought oh to hell with it: who's going to notice a tiny speck of red? Well there you are – it's just sod's, um … thing, isn't it really? Can't get over old
Smales
not being here, though … Presumably I knew. Presumably they told me. It's a worry in itself.

‘Lovely restaurant, Black. Oh God:
Black
. Do I really have to call you that? It's just so …'

‘Oh it's not. Not
so
 … do you think it is? It's maybe a
bit
 …'

‘It's more than a bit.'

‘More than a bit? You'd say so?'

‘I've said so. It's a lot. I'd much prefer to call you Martin.'

Black was shifting about in the bar stool; there was this sharp little half-back to it that somehow forced his stomach way up into his ribs, and already his corset was giving him gyp.

‘You'd be one of the very few who does. My son does, Tim does. But only, I think, because he doesn't at all care for me. Can't blame him, I suppose. Although I
do
, of course. Of course I do.'

Susan looked at him reflectively, tapping a long and aubergine fingernail at the rim of her flute (waiting for the ping until she did the thing again).

‘You're a singular man, Martin.'

‘Martin. Black. That's two men already. Oh look – I don't want to make a, you know – big sort of deal of this, or anything, Susie … but I'd be awfully pleased if you'd drop all of this “Martin” business, you know. It's my instinct to look over my shoulder to see who you're talking to. That, or duck.'

Susan laughed, low and throatily, showing him her neck and the glimpse of white in the pink of her mouth and letting her eyes glimmer with secrets. He felt caught short by a wave of something, sort of inner convulsion – a reminder, he supposed, of what in Christ's name he was even doing here in the first place.

‘Duck? Why on earth
duck
?'

‘Oh. Wife. Ex-wife. She said it in such a way … Well. There it is. Don't really want to, um …'

‘No of course. Of course not. What's her name? Your ex-wife. I've often wondered.'

‘Name? Well like I say, Susie – if it's all the same with you, I'd really rather not, um … and particularly this evening – the very first evening I, er – have you all to myself, so to speak. Mylene. Actually. Is her name. Shall we go to our table? Hungry, Susie? Are you?'

‘Mylene. Odd name.'

‘Yes well. Odd goes nowhere in describing the woman, believe me. Let's go and eat now, shall we? I really don't wish to spend these valuable moments together with you discussing all the—'

‘So it was acrimonious, I'm assuming. The split.'

‘Ha. It would be fair, I think, yes, to term it acrimonious. Let's not talk about it, hey?'

No. Let's bloody not. How many times have I said it? What's wrong with the woman at all? What are you supposed to
do
, exactly, when people go on and on about a thing that you've repeatedly made perfectly plain to them that you don't, you really
really
don't want to fucking talk about?! Because what is there to say? That she beat me senseless, Mylene, laughed as I bled on the floor? Slept with a knife beneath her pillow? Attempted to poison me, and not just the once? All this is true, all this and more. So forgive me
please
if I choose not to dwell. I have buried it. It is a mound. I lay on it not fresh flowers, but just another shovelful of brown and stinking loam. Let it rot. The forgotten atrocity.

‘The table is perfect …'

‘Thank you, my dear. I'm glad it, um … Yes, I always sit here. My table, you know. Pretty sure it is, anyway … Now do listen, Susie – I don't want to tell you what to eat, or anything of that kind, but there is this one thing they do here which is just perfectly
sublime
. Quite wonderful. But do please look at the
menu, won't you? Scan it thoroughly. I assure you you won't be disappointed. Never had a bad meal here. No no. Not ever. Not once.'

Susan was genuinely pleased with the table and its setting – not too far removed from the warm and throbbing heart of the thing, but secluded enough for her to feel easy in putting everything she had into doing and saying all that she intended. It was, of course, one of the old-school restaurants with carpet and burnished mahogany, small brass sconces with speckled glass shades – large silver wagons, stiff and proper linen. Black had told her on more than one occasion how he could not abide these stark white and wood-floored clattery places with paper cloths, if any at all, and cheery Australasians who announced their names as if they were clever to have one and quizzed you as to whether or not you fully comprehended the
concept
.

‘What is it?'

‘Now, dear Susie, I myself always tend to have red wine with a meal, but if that doesn't suit you – and please do be frank – then naturally we can opt for white. Or both, of course. We could always have both, of course we could. No reason why not. What, um … what is
what
, my dear?'

‘The thing.'

‘Thing? What thing would that be now, Susie?'

‘The thing. The absolutely sublime
thing
that they do here. What is it?'

‘Ah. Oh yes.
That
thing. Yes of course. So: red all right with you then, is it? Claret, I tend to. Burgundy, if you prefer.'

‘But what
is
it then, Black? I really want to know.'

‘Yes …'

Susan sat back and just gazed at him.

‘You do
remember
, don't you? It was the first thing you said to me the moment we sat down.'

Black now chucked down his napkin, and just anyhow.

‘Oh well now
really
, Susie – what a thing to …! Of
course
I remember saying it to you, of course I remember. I'm not
completely
, um … whatever it is. Of course I remember.
Gaga
, that's it. Not
completely
gaga, you know. I mean Jesus …'

Susan was doing her laugh again now, which immediately cheered him.

‘Well what
is
it then, God's sake?'

‘Mm yes well that's just the point. Just for the moment, it seems to have slipped my mind. But it will come back to me, I have no doubt, as soon as we cease to
talk
about it. That's the key.'

‘Maybe if you looked at the menu …?'

‘Ah well no – it's not
on
the menu, you see. That's the whole point of it. That's what makes it special. That's what makes it sublime.'

‘Well anyway … I'm having oysters to start.'

‘Ah. Excellent choice.'

‘Do you eat oysters?'

‘Hard to say …'

‘You don't remember?'

‘Of course I—! It's just that I had a duff one once – ooh, you don't want to know, believe me: you really don't want to know. Woof. And I've had them since, pretty sure, but I can't quite recall whether I enjoyed them or not. Maybe time to find out. Maybe not, though. I'm actually having the whitebait. Always do.'

‘You can have one of mine.'

‘Well we'll see how we go, shall we? You know – it occurs to
me, Susie … don't want to hark back to what we were talking about earlier – you know, the past, my ex and all that. No no. But it occurs to me – apart from what you, you know – do at the office, I really don't know the first thing about you.'

Susan smiled and lowered her eyelids: now she could begin.

‘The truth is,' she said, ‘I'm – lonely …'

She swiftly bit her lower lip, looked up and full at him with the very largest eyes, was abashed as she half-smirked at her own girlish foolishness, and then she glanced away from him. But … he did not seem to be there yet: she didn't seem to quite have him.