Cathexis (47 page)

Hard to equate this Nancy with the one who used to enjoy sticking her tongue up my sphincter. But it did happen. I remember because I took one of my mind photos that last forever.

Deciding to play a game, I held her gaze, saying nothing. She subtly changed, sort of melted
,
but realising I wasn't going to let up, she formed her face into a mirror. They say that if two people stare into each other
’
s eyes long enough, they'll fall in love. I raised my eyebrows, she raised hers. I made my eyes smile, so did she. I frowned, she did the same. A can of Coke suspended our peculiar game.

“Oh” said the waitress, “I forgot the crisps”, ambling away. We maintained our duel and I noted that throughout this silent exchange my heart kept its slow, even beat. Nancy however had developed a red penny flush on each cheek and I decided to concede.

“Stubborn bitch” I said.

“Takes one to know one” she replied, cracking the can. “What's that like?” Nodding towards the leftover half of my sandwich. “I'm starving”.

“It's nice” I said. “Here, have it”.

“Are you sure?”

Making certain I had her eyes, I did my best intimate smile. “Eat it” I said.

The red flush enlarged from decimal to big, old pennies. Sebastian whimpered and I ruffled his coat while she ate. He smelt like a freshly baked fruit pie and not at all doggy.

“Sorry for the wait”. The girl returned with the Hula Hoops. “Anything else?”

“Just the bill please” I said as a scream of parakeets buzzed the diners.

Having polished off the sandwich, she ripped open the crisps, offering the bag to me. I took some amiably. She however, plunged her fingers in, wriggling them, withdrawing her hand, each fingertip crowned with a potato ring. Despite all her lady trappings, she was a big kid like me. I watched with interest as she examined each one, going first for the thumb. Taking the ring in her teeth, she crunched thoughtfully, inspecting her little finger whose turn it was next. Sensing a game, I identified the act that would determine the winner. Engrossed in her options, I concentrated, coaxing. She sucked off her ring finger, keeping her eyes down all the while. After some deliberation, she plumped for the index finger, wiggling the salty tip. One hoop remained, here it comes. Enclosing her pout around her middle finger, she lingered, savouring.

'Do it', a mental order which she obeyed. Her eyes met mine, her full lips engulfing the tip of her finger, lowering her long lashes then flashing me once more with that verdant gaze, slowly sucking off the last one.

Bingo, I win.

I handed a twenty pound note to the waitress, astonished when I told her to keep the change.

“See you around, Nancy”.

“Take care, Minette”.

Cycling to the pool, I told you it was just a game.

Chapter 6

Driving up Heather Road on my way home, the car necessary to deliver my latest idea to White Frame; a small, white rowing boat, lacking oars, filled with thousands of playing cards but only the queens, four different flavours of women. The piece entitled 'Patience', which I'd painted on the boat's nameplate. Not entirely sure what I was getting at, I expected others would be happy to explain it to me. Simon clapped with delight. “Don't tell me” he said, “it represents all the women you've had”.

“Not quite, Simon”.

“No” he said, “you'd need the Queen Mary for that”.

Already the trees turning. I'm now seventeen months older than you. A boisterous wind forcing the Hasids to keep a grip on the wide brims of their fedoras and snatching at the curls of a young woman marching purposefully. Pulling over just ahead, I swung open the passenger door. She peered in composed.

“Hi Minette, how are you?”

“Never mind that” I said. “Get in”. She parked herself compliant. “Buckle up” I said, nudging around an ancient Hasidic man who was labouring into a gust on a giant tricycle. “Now then, young lady, what's your game?”

“You must know” she said, with equanimity.

“I have an inkling but please spell it out”.

“Are we going to yours?”

“Yes”.

“Oh good” she replied as if we were off to the seaside.

“So why, Sasha?”

“Well” she began, pressing her hands between her knees. “I've been trying to contrive a situation whereby I'll bump into you”.

“To what end?”

“I don't know, just to see you”. She shrugged. “So we can start to normalise”.

“But you've been spying on me, I saw you at the window”.

“I was only checking on you to see if you were OK, I've been worried ...there's one there” she said pointing to a space where I was already heading.

Hair, dark again, past the awkward transitional stage now, puppy fat assimilated into a trim but shapely suggestion. More archetypal female than me, or her mother for that matter, her hands uncalamitously average, she had inherited Nancy's graceful walk. Her face fascinating, pared down to high Slavic cheeks, the angles of an icon, aquiline and ebony framed. Almond eyes lidless, as if she'd stepped off the Steppes, but with the same disconcerting black Smartie holes. More Nancy around the mouth, but a smaller cupid's bow, pensive cherries as she bit her lip. An adult, moreover a woman.

“You know about Dale then?” I said, pouring Merlot.

“Yes” she said, “I'm so sorry”. She seemed genuine.

“OK, I don't like you spying on me. if you want to see me, just call or knock at the door”.

“Really?”

“Really, so how do you feel about me now? Do you still claim to love me?”

“I guess so” she said, tantalising clarification.

Truth be told, I was slightly disappointed. I liked it when people loved me wholesale, even inappropriately.

“What does that mean?”

“I've managed to close in on what I want” she said. “The first step, the rest will follow”.

“Yeah? And what might that first step be?” Her shark eyes shifted to mine.

“I want my concept crystallized …I want you to fuck me”.

Rather than placate, she was attempting to wrong foot, cunning minx. I pinched the bridge of my nose, arresting a surprise Pavlovian response.

“Sasha, I'm forty five years old, you're what, eighteen?”

“And a half” she said. “Why is that an issue?”

“Because you should be with someone of your own age”.

“People my own age are ridiculous”.

“Sasha, this is so fucked, you don't know what love is”.

“Minette”. Bristling indignantly. “Who are you to say what does and doesn't constitute love? You know, you're actually no better than those who would purport love between women to be invalid, a pale imitation, or worse, an abomination”.

“I prefer the abomination option myself” I said, mildly impressed by her argument. “At least it acknowledges existence”.

“Minette, do you think I'm an abomination?”

Clever. If I said yes, by my own words I'd be admitting her authenticity. A no would infer a sympathy and fondness, which if I attempted to qualify, would appear patronising and muddled. She'd  allowed me to paint myself into a corner. She was so sharp, Queen of Diamonds.

I opted for no and she smiled artfully. Once more a strong urge to put her over my knee and punish the little smart arse. Instead I rolled a cigarette while she sparked up a Marlboro Light and glanced around.

“Fucking hell. There must be a teenage boy living here, this place is minging”. She sighed smoke. “English people are so dirty”.

This was something her mother had told her. She was right of course, I'd been planning that old cliché, to tidy up before hiring a cleaner.

Eyes widened as she seized on an idea. “I could be your cleaner, you could pay me”.

Something felt right about it, but I reiterated “
Sasha, I'm not going to fuck you, do you understand?”

“Whatever” she shrugged.

At least it might stop her hanging around at night, which was dangerous. Plus she might realise how old and totally mental I was. Turning the Min ring on my finger.

“I can do Friday afternoons” she said. I rubbed the emerging bristles on my chin. “And when it becomes obvious I'm not going to fuck you, you won't try and kill yourself, will you?”

“I promise” she said. “I won't try and kill myself”.

“Alright, but no ‘Misery’ style weirdness OK?”

“OK Dirty Birdy” she said, in a brilliant mid-west accent.

“Sasha” I smiled. “Go home”.

After she'd gone, I sensed you, but couldn't pick up on your slant. But Dale, wouldn't it be great if we could sort out this girl? You always said it was better to face the music.

Chapter 7

A regular date now, me and Nancy at the park for an early lunch. Wrapped up under the awning because Sebastian couldn't go inside. He sat by our feet in his little tartan coat. The air clotted with mist and Nancy pawed at her hair. Perhaps 'Frizzease' was required, but then the winter sun magically punched through.

Ours, a sideways negotiation, a dignified gavotte, respectful, restrained. At any point we could bow out, but I suspected if that happened she would drop her handkerchief. Difficult to imagine we'd once been crazy in love and I'd lifted her skirts, but the fact remained between us on the table like a closed book.

The atmosphere tacitly charged, like endless foreplay and, dare I say it, eminently sexy. We knew each other's skin and rudimentary characteristics, but had little idea of anything more. The disparity bizarre. She was calling the tune and subscribed to a left brain approach, unemotional, ordered, rational, controlled. She had the intelligence to understand emotions, sympathise even, but stopped
short of feeling them. The Queen of Spades, and as such liable, once in a blue moon, to lose it. She might, say, be compelled to scream at the wind, piss standing up or bolt hell for leather towards an all-consuming catharsis, legs spread wide, hips bucking, spitting profanities at the world, until the fugue passed through her system. Then she would pull up her knickers, touch up her lippy and close the box, balance restored, viewing any collateral damage as regrettable, but ultimately inconsequential. Bless. I could have been bitter and full of hate for her but I really wasn't – it was uncalled for now.

I learnt she was now a bereavement counsellor and I recounted your visitations. “A normal and healthy aspect of the grieving process that would wear off in time” she'd said. How dare she dismiss you as a phase; she has no concept of our shared circuitry.

Admiring her disposition, I favoured mine, not least because there wasn't a creative bone in her body. How at once baffling and liberating that must be. No polite way of weaving our long ago heat into the conversation, so we didn't. We were two different people now, except for when I told her the difficulty I had getting angry with those I loved.

“You got angry with me once” she said, but failed to elaborate. I smiled, for not only was she forgiving the wisteria incident, but validating my feelings.

Scraping at a clutch of pebbles in the front garden; something about keys. Then it came back to me and I sidestepped a pain bullet. No sign of the Scooby Doo key ring.
Sasha had been and hopefully gone. I opened the front door, provoking its enquiring creak, a smell of Sweden in the hall. Red diamonds crept across the glossy black floorboards as I closed the door behind me. Only one leather jacket on the peg now, Dale's stowed presumably in the wardrobe. Surfaces dust-free, tumbleweeds of cobwebs and cat fur no more. The smeary hall mirror now a pristine portal to another place where there might be pine trees; that freshness had to be coming from somewhere.