Glue (48 page)

It had all started around that time, this bullshit eating disorder. Franklin paused tensely for a second, knowing that he was about to go through the same scene he had gone through so many times before and to an absolutely futile end.

— Look Kathryn, you know what the doctor said. You gotta eat. Otherwise you are dead . . . he halted, omitting the term ‘meat’. It didn’t seem appropriate.

She briefly glanced up at him, before averting her empty gaze. In a certain light her countenance was already a death’s-head mask. Franklin felt resignation’s familiar ebb. — I’m gonna call room-service . . . He picked up the phone and ordered a club sandwich and a pot of coffee.

— I thought that you and Taylor were eating out, Kathryn said.

— This is for
you
, he told her, trying to overlay the aggravation in his voice with a coat of lulling appeasement, and failing completely.

— Don’t want it.

— Try, baby, will you? Please? Try for me, he begged, pointing to himself.

But Kathryn Joyner was miles away. She scarcely noticed her longtime friend and manager Mitchell Franklin Delaney Jr. leaving the room.

— Cocks oot fir the lassies, Lisa shouted at the two young studenty guys who made their way past them down the train. One of the boys got a beamer, but the other smiled back at them. Angie and Shelagh sniggered as their victims moved into the next carriage. Charlene, younger than the other three, who were in their mid-twenties, forced a tight smile. They were always joking about ‘Wee Charlene’ and how they were a corrupting influence on her. Charlene considered that that three would be a corrupting influence on anybody.

— Thir jist fuckin wee laddies, Angie said, shaking her head and tossing back a mop of brown curls. Her huge, round face, caked in make-up, her big hands with the implausibly long red-and-yellow nail extensions she’d got done in Ibiza. She made Charlene feel like a kid, and sometimes she just wanted to burrow into the security of those huge breasts which seemed to precede her friend’s entrance into a room by about ten minutes.

Lisa stood up as Angie and Shelagh started a drum roll. — Yir no chasin they wee fuckers ur ye? Yir a fuckin Stoat, hen, Shelagh scoffed.

Shelagh, tall and gangling, with short, spiky, peroxide-blonde hair, so thin and fine, just like the rest of her. Ate and drank like a fish and still had a coathanger-skinny frame. Swore and cursed and drank the most mad-for-it laddies right under the table. Angie didn’t like the way the rest of them could eat and drink anything, while she just had to look at a packet of crisps for it to register on the scales.

— Am ah fuck, Lisa said, but with a sly nod, — jist gaun fir a smoke in the bogs, and she moved away in exaggerated movements, parodying a catwalk model. She glanced briefly back at her pals for a
reaction, marvelling at their Mediterranean tans, just how good they made you look and feel. It was worth the skin-cancer risk, worth spending middle-age looking like a dried-out old prune. Later would take care of later.

Angie winked at Charlene. — Aye, gaun tae apply the lip-gloss mair like it, she shouted at Lisa’s back. Turning to Shelagh and Charlene she asked, — Ye reckon that dirty cow’s away tae make some waves fir the wee man in the boat?

— Aye, it’ll be a long time before she comes back doon tae earth fae Ibiza. Filthy tart, Shelagh laughed.

Charlene felt a little ache in her chest at the thought of it all coming to an end. Not so much finishing the holiday, or even going back to work: there would be plenty of stories to tell to make that bearable for a bit. It was just the fact of them not being together every day. She’d miss that, miss them. Especially Lisa. The funny thing was that Charlene had known her for ages. They’d worked together at the Transport Department in the Civil Service. Lisa never really talked to her then, and Charlene supposed that she was a bit too young and uncool for her. But then Lisa had packed it in and headed off to India. It was only since she’d got back to Edinburgh last year, when Charlene had teamed up with Angie and Shelagh, Lisa’s old mates, that they’d become pals. Charlene thought that Lisa might have difficulty in accepting her. The reverse happened, and they rapidly became close friends. Lisa was some machine, awright. — Aye, she wis sayin that she wants tae go oot the night, cause the Festival’s oan, Charlene said.

— Fuck that, ah’m gaun tae ma bed, Shelagh said, picking a crumb of sleep from the corner of her eye.

— Alone? Angie teased.

— Too right. Ah’ve hud enough. Some ay us huv goat a normal fanny between oor legs, hen, no the fuckin Mersey Tunnel. If that Leonardo DiCaprio came roond tae mines wi five grammes ay charlie, two boatils ay Bicardi n said, ‘Let’s go tae bed, baby’, ah’d jist turn roond n say, ‘Some other time, pal.’

Charlene watched in morbid fascination as Shelagh rolled and flicked away the crumb, trying not to be too turned off by her pal’s antics. She cursed herself for being so squeamish. Ibiza with that mob was no place for the faint-hearted, and at times she’d found it all too much.

The scoreline had said it all: 8, 6, 5 and 1.

The one was Charlene, of course. There had been another two, where she hadn’t gone all the way, one of them being a lot better than the tense and jagged occasion when she had. Charlene hated one-night stands, even on holiday.

That guy, he’d sweated and slobbered all over her, then crashed out as soon as he’d shot his load into the condom he’d complained about having to wear. She’d been drunk, but as soon as he’d started she wished she’d been drunker still.

In the morning he got dressed early and said, — See you later, Charlotte.

Even the guy she’d had the petting session with, he had called her Arlene, and had left a pile of sick on the floor of her bedroom in the chalet. That was the one who eventually got all nasty and called her peculiar, for not wanting to shag him.

San Antonio had been no place for the faint-hearted.

Now she was going home to her mother’s.

Angie had lost one of her large hooped earrings, and Charlene thought that she should mention it, but it was Angie who spoke first. — Aye, ah’ve hud it wi cock n aw. But no Leez. She’ll no be gaun tae her bed, well, no oan her tod anywey. What’s she like?

— She’s some machine. Shagging that boy fae Tranent in the bogs comin back oan the plane. Tranent! Ye go aw the wey thaire n dae that wi somebody fae Tranent! Charlene said, aghast. Then she shuddered. The whole point of going there was to fuck somebody. And she’d had one crap encounter. And now they were going to talk about it.

Angie slipped some gum into her mouth. — Aye, that wis your fault but, takin her tae that Manumission oan the last night, gittin her aw juiced up.

— Aye, whin that couple started shaggin, ah didnae ken whaire tae pit ma face, Charlene said, relieved that they hadn’t got on her case.

Shelagh looked at her and, sucking on the vodka-and-Coke mix they’d prepared in Newcastle Airport, laughed, — Ah did: right underneath that Geordie boy’s erse!

In the toilet, Lisa was pulling her blonde hair across her scalp to expose dark roots which needed touching up. She never did them herself, and Angie would try to fit her in next week. You needed a professional job, get the split ends sorted and make sure the condition was maintained. Avoid at all costs the greasy or dry extremes of the home efforts.

The sun had brought out her freckles. Lisa pulled her top up, to examine the tan-line. It had taken a couple of days to get round to getting the top off. The tan was just coming on, just starting to look seamless, when it was back on the fuckin plane and back to work next week to the fucking pods in the call centre at Scottish Spinsters. See you next year.

Next year the tits were coming out from day one. Lisa had always wanted bigger tits. That wanker who had said to her, ‘If you had bigger tits you’d have a perfect body.’ This was supposed to be a fuckin compliment n aw. She’d retorted by telling the guy that if his cock was as big as his nose then he’d be okay as well. The sad fucker had gotten all paranoid and self-conscious. Some of them could give it alright, but they hated getting it back. The pretty-boys were the worst; narcissistic, self-absorbed bores with no personality. But then the problem was that if you shagged too many dogs, it ate away at your self-esteem. And it was a problem, but one worth having.

Wee Charlene had been a bit funny on the holiday. Lisa suspected that it had all been a bit too much for her. Lisa surprised herself with how protective she felt of her younger friend. When they were out in San Antonio’s West End she’d glance over like a mother hen every time a pick-and-mix selection of pastel T-shirts and shorts came strutting towards them, all hopeful grins and ironic sneers. There was always a certain sleazy type who went straight for Charlene. Her pal was small and dark: that ‘black Irish’ look she said it was, almost Romany. From her mother’s side. Charlene’s conventionally pretty face and ample cleavage should have suggested a vivacious sexuality, but there was a seriousness, a tentativeness about her. You could tell she was embarrassed by the whole thing, yet trying so hard to fit in.

Outside in the carriage, they watched Berwick pass underneath them. Charlene had seen it from the train so many times and it still looked impressive. She remembered once coming back up from Newcastle on a night out, she’d been moved to get out and explore it. It had been an agreeable enough town, but was best appreciated from the train.

Angie nudged Charlene as she took the bottle from Shelagh. — She’s fuckin mad but, she glanced over at Shelagh, — nearly as bad as you. Mind the time ye bagged oaf wi that boy at Buster’s?

— Aye . . . right hen, Shelagh said warily. She wasn’t able to remember which time this was, but she sensed Angie’s mood.

— He wis pished!

Shelagh minded now. It was best to tell it herself rather than have to suffer Angie’s version. — Aye, ah goes back tae his, but eh couldnae git it up. In the mornin, ah’m gittin dressed, and he’s aw frisky, tryin it oan. Ah telt um tae fuck off.

— That’s oot ay order, Angie said, realising that this wasn’t the story she meant. But she was a bit pished, and as she’d now forgotten the original one, this would do, — it’s awright whin yir drunk, bit no in the mornin whin thir sober, specially if eh couldnae git it up the night before.

— Ah ken. That makes it like gaun wi somebody thit’s a stranger. Like ah’m a fuckin slut or something. Ah telt um tae fuck off, ye hud yir chance, son, n ye wirnae up tae the job. Ken whit she says, Shelagh explained, pointing through to the carriage where Lisa had gone. — She sais ah wis mad. She goes, should’ve done um in the mornin. Ah sais, fuck off, it took ays eight Diamond Whites tae snog um. Ah’m no gaunny fuck a dog ah dinnae ken wi nothing but a hangover fir protection.

At this point Lisa returned and raised her eyes doubtfully, slipping into the seat next to Shelagh.

Charlene looked wistfully out of the window as the train swept along the Berwickshire coast. — She might be right though. It’s about diuretics. The boy can keep it up longer eftir a night oan the pish. Read aw aboot it. That’s how it took ma Ma ages tae leave ma Dad, even when eh wis an alkie. Eh’d wake up in the morning and jist gie her a length wi the drink stiffer eh hud. She thought it meant eh still loved her. It wis just chemical need. Eh’d huv stuck it in a Gregg’s bridie if it hud been hot and moist enough.

They sensed that Charlene had said too much. There was a long nervous silence as she twitched self-consciously before Lisa coolly said, — Widnae be a Gregg’s bridie then.

The laughter was too loud for humour but just right for catharsis. At this point, muddled, sick thoughts about Charlene and her father started to form in Lisa’s drink-fuddled mind.

Lisa looked at Charlene’s dark eyes. They were hollow and sunken, as were Shelagh and Angie’s and indeed her own when she had inspected them in the toilet. Why shouldn’t they be, they’d been caning it on holiday. But Charlene’s were different, they were more than a little bit haunted. It scared and concerned her.

Franklin Delaney sat with Colin Taylor in a busy bar-café on Edinburgh’s Market Street. Its style was not to his liking: a dreary self-consciously trendy place which could be in a fashionable quarter of any western city. — Kathryn is fucking with my head, he confided.

Franklin regretted this confession as soon as he’d made it. Taylor was a bottom-line man, not the most sympathetic of individuals. His clothing looked expensive, but it seemed too pristine and unlived-in to be on a real person. He was like a mannequin and the gear confirmed him as pre-constructed, bland, corporate conformity. His voice was real enough though. — She’s got to eat or she’s going to fucking well peg out, he shook his head idly. — Why can’t she do us all a favour and take a fucking overdose?

Kathryn Joyner’s manager looked harshly at her record-company executive. You never knew when this limey bag of shit was taking the piss. He had tried to get to grips with this British obsession with irony and sarcasm but had never quite managed it.

But Taylor wasn’t taking the piss. — I’m sick of it all. At least if she croaked we’d shift some fucking units. I’m fed up with that fuckin prima donna, he scoffed, looking disapprovingly at the salad the waitress had put in front of him. He’d been trying to eat healthily but this appeared none too appetising. Franklin’s steak looked much better, not that the Yank fucker had noticed, given as he was to complaining about the quality of food in Britain. Taylor contemplated Delaney. He’d never been partial to Americans. Most of them he’d come into contact with in the music business were homogenised wankers who wanted everything to be like it was in the USA.

— She’s still the greatest white female singer in the world, Franklin felt his voice go that high way it did when he got defensive. He wasn’t keen on Taylor. The man was interchangeable with just about any other record-company faggot he’d run across. Whatever that crazy bitch’s problems, he ought to show some fucking respect for her talent. It had earned that asshole’s company enough cash and him enough kudos. Even if it all seemed a while back now.