Ralph's Party (16 page)

Karl laughed. 'I think you're being a bit paranoid, if you don't mind me saying so. I think you've probably had a bit too much coke and booze.'

'Look, why don't we go out and see for ourselves!' she shouted, jumping to her feet.

'Sit down, for Christ's sake. You're being ridiculous. Just because you don't trust your boyfriend ...'

'This has got nothing to do with not trusting my boyfriend! It's your fucking girlfriend I don't trust. She's like a bloody black widow, al over him al night, spinning a web around him, like a great fat predator!'

'God, you're mad!' said Karl calmly. 'Siobhan is the sweetest, nicest, warmest person I've ever known and you're just jealous.

And you should learn to trust your boyfriend.'

Karl's easygoing attitude and condescending manner were pushing Tamsin over the edge. 'That's it! I'm teling her! When she gets back, I'm teling her. About you. I know about you.' There was a wild glint in her eyes as she stabbed the air above her with a finger to accentuate her point. You tel me I should trust my boyfriend!

You fucking hypocrite! Why should I trust anyone when there are men like you around? Adulterous, slimy, two-faced, dick-led creeps who'l fuck anything with a decent pair of legs!'

Karl should have known this was coming.

'Oh, yes - you think no one knew about you and Cheri in the office at the dance club? Did you think we were al stupid?! Cheri told me al about it. Al the sordid details. She told me about the abortion, too — your baby that she had to get rid of. What makes you think Siob-han's any different to Cheri? What makes you think I should believe that Rick's any different to you?! It's what makes the world go round, you smug arsehole — sex,

sex, sex! Siobhan wants it, you want it, Rick wants it, we al want it, and you can't trust anyone. So don't sit there teling me I'm paranoid, thinking that you're any different to anyone else, 'cos you're not. Wake up and smel the coffee, dick-for-brains: your girlfriend wants to have sex with my boyfriend and they're probably doing it right now!' Tamsin was crying, angry tears. 'And if they're not doing it they're sure as hel thinking about doing it!'

Karl adjusted himself in his seat and eyed Tamsin thoughtfuly. He was stil utterly colected.

'I have to say that I am not at al comfortable with the concept of blackmail,' he began, 'so let's just cal this a deal, OK? But, if you even so much as think about mentioning my affair with Cheri to Siobhan, there are some things I could tel Rick over lunch one day that I feel sure you'd rather he didn't know about.'

'Huh!' said Tamsin, wiping at her tears, 'you don't realy know anything. You can't prove anything.'

'OK, OK. Look, I'm not stupid either, y'know. Everyone knew what you were up to. Those two French guys couldn't keep their mouths shut about your little rosbif-sandwich interlude. There's no point going into this any more than necessary. As I say, this is a deal. I think we should just drop the subject now. If you're realy that worried, then why don't you go and have a look outside, but I can assure you, it'l only make you feel worse about yourself.

Trusting people has nothing to do with other people, it's in here' —

he pointed at his head — 'and you can cal it complacency, or smugness, but I cal it dignity and happiness. I cal it the only way to get through life and stay sane.'

Tamsin couldn't think of anything to say to that.

'Wel, it doesn't look like we're going to be able to make any more smal talk tonight, so I may as wel go to bed,' said Karl. Tm very sorry things got a bit unpleasant there — I guess it's been a long day and a long night. Do you think we could make a fresh start in the morning?'

Tamsin shrugged and stared at the floor.

Karl put out his hand to shake hers. She gave him hers, limply.

Whatever wil be wil be, Tamsin. Sleep tight.'

He tapped up the stairs, folowed by Rosanne, who'd been sleeping in front of the fire, and Tamsin curled up on the sofa with the intention of crying and worrying and reveling in anxiety. Instead the huge amounts of alcohol in her system sent her into a deep and instantaneous sleep.

She didn't hear Rick and Siobhan tip-toe back in, and she didn't even wake up when Rick picked her up like a baby and carried her up the stairs to their room.

The lights went off around the house, toilet chains flushed, floorboards creaked, and suddenly it was silent.

Silent except for the windchimes, the owls and the gentle hum of the tape recorder stil going round and round on the mantelpiece, where they had left it recording...

Ralph woke up with a start. He'd been dreaming, deep disturbing dreams he wasn't used to having. He tried to remember them, but the details had fled his memory already. Something was strange, something was different. The alarm? Yes, the radio, music blaring out from the other side of the room where he'd left it... Why? ...

What? He'd set the alarm, last night. What time was it? 7.30 a.m.

— fucking hel. He puled the thin pilow from under his head and put it over his face, trying to block out the music and the light strobing through the minuscule gap between the curtains. As consciousness returned to him, slowly and painfuly, he became aware of the lyrics to the song playing on the radio: 'I feel so dirty when they start talking cute ... I wanna tel her that I love her but the point's probably moot... I wish that I had Jessie's girl...'

Jesus Christ! Ralph took the pilow from his head and sat up slowly.

It was seven-thirty in the morning and he could relate to Rick Springfield — this was a very strange start to the day.

Ralph puled himself from under the warmth of his duvet towards the radio, trying to find the Off button on this alien piece of equipment. Eventualy he unplugged it in desperation and sat back on his heels as silence returned to the bedroom.

Someone out there was trying to get at him; it was the first time in months that Ralph had set his alarm and it woke him up with fucking 'Jessie's Girl'. Unbelievable!

He was utterly disoriented. What the hel was going on? The studio

- of course! He was going to go to the studio today. Why? Because he was an artist? Sort of. Because he wanted to? Not realy.

Because ... because Jem had told him to ... that's right. Because Jem had told him to. Wel, not told him to exactly, but encouraged him to, advised him to,
wanted
him to.

He'd promised her he would, just to make her happy. You're right, he'd said. Tomorrow — I'l go tomorrow, bright and early. Don't do this for me, she'd said, do it for yourself, promise me. I promise you, he'd said.

So here he was, seven-thirty on a Friday morning, shel-shocked, exhausted, cold and confused. He certainly did not feel like he was doing this for himself -this was for Jem, plain and simple, to make her proud of him, milk her interest in him. He would be her little project if that's what she wanted: he didn't mind playing the tortured artist for her if it meant that he occupied her thoughts for a while and displaced Smith. Smith was a banker, more or less, a boring old bloody banker, nothing there to capture Jem's imagination.

He walked over to the windows and threw open the curtains, ready to face the day now he remembered why he was doing this. What a beautiful day! That helped. He'd borrow Smith's bike and cycle there, get some oxygen into his lungs, as his mother used to say.

He puled on some boxer shorts from a pile on the floor and made his way into the hal, quite perky now, humming to himself,' "I wish that I had Jessie's gi-i-irl, I want Jessie's gi-i-irl..."'

'Didn't know you were a Rick Springfield fan.'

What?' Ralph jumped. It was Jem, coming out of Smith's bedroom wearing one of his T-shirts that barely concealed her ... her knickers? Her hair was unruly, her face sweetly sleepy and swolen; she looked like a baby mouse. She yawned.

'So,' she said, 'what do you think of seven-thirty in the morning, then? Horrible, isn't it?!'

Not so horrible after al - not when you got to see Jem, braless and fantasticaly disheveled, in a T-shirt with the tantalizing promise of maybe, if she was to bend over just the weeniest bit, glimpsing the last centimetre or two of her bottom, or maybe ... maybe ... if she was just to stretch a little bit and the front of her T-shirt was to ...

augh, God. He puled his gaze away from her legs.

'Grim!' he agreed.

'I got up especialy early to give you some moral support. I hope you appreciate it!'

'Oh, God, you didn't have to. That's very sweet of you.' She'd got up early, just for him! Left Smith alone in bed, for him. Yes! 'D'you want to use the bathroom first?'

'No, you go first. I'm going to make you some breakfast, set you up for the day! I wouldn't mind a quick wee, though.'

'Oh, sure, of course.'

He moved out of the way to let her get to the bathroom, her body just barely brushing up against his as she passed, just enough to induce an unexpected erection inside his baggy shorts, which forced its way jauntily through the gap at the front and emerged squinting into the brand-new day, like an overzealous mole. Shit. He pushed it back inside, buttoned the fly quickly with fumbling fingers and crossed his hands in front of his

crotch. Jem had left the door slightly ajar and he could hear her peeing, that strange gushing, jerky sound of girl's pee hitting water, and then the sound of toilet paper being unraveled from the wooden holder and folded and wiped across her. And then she was out again, grinning widely at him.

'I didn't flush it — hope you don't mind. See you in the kitchen!'

She skipped off down the hal. Ralph watched her as she went, her T-shirt rising just not quite high enough with every bouncy step she took. He exhaled deeply the breath he'd been holding since their bodies had touched and walked into the bathroom. He stared down into the toilet bowl at Jem's pee and the raft of pink paper floating on top of it, sinking slightly as it became waterlogged, and aimed his semi-hard penis at the yelow water, feeling strangely gratified by the sight of their fluids mingling before his eyes. Yes, he liked the idea of their bodily effluents becoming as one ... and he absolutely adored the idea of Jem now, in the kitchen, tinily T-shirted and cooking his breakfast... mmmmm! He smiled smugly to himself.

Things were looking up.

It had been two weeks now since their first night together, their chili night, and Ralph had been working incredibly hard to sustain the bond they'd formed. He realized now that this was more than a crush, more than jealousy or lust. He was most definitely in love and he had no intention whatsoever of ignoring it, of putting his feelings to one side. He'd never been in love before and he was not going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He was going to take it slowly and cautiously.

He had suddenly started taking an interest in Smith's social and professional affairs, subtly discovering when he was going to be out and making sure he, Ralph, was in, that he had some time alone with Jem. He'd bought a couple of new tops and had finaly washed his jeans, a job he'd been putting off for six months. He also bought flowers regularly now, from Northcote Road — peonies, of course - and made sure that he timed it so that he was artisticaly and sensitively arranging them in a vase when Jem got in from work. He'd even cooked for her a couple of times. And they'd developed a banter about hot food. 'Oh, you must go to such and such a restaurant in Earlsfield/Bayswater/Brick Lane. Best vindaloo I've ever had — realy, realy hot'; or 'Guess what?

They've started seling Thai Bird chilies in Asda.' Ralph had even found some chili seeds for sale in North-cote Road, and Jem and he had planted them, taking it in turns to water them and discussing their progress together, anxiously, like fretful parents.

This was a particularly successful development as it not only brought Jem closer to him, but also alienated Smith, who suffered from a tendency to order lamb pasanda and things with almonds and cream in. It was a tiny but effective little spanner in the works of Smith and Jem's cloying complicity. Ralph shared something with Jem that was somehow outside the realm of a non-romantic relationship — their own complicity. And now there was the tortured artist thing.

They'd been watering the chili seeds in the airing cupboard the night before, and Jem had brought the subject up.

'Had any more thoughts about painting, Ralph?'

'Painting what?' he'd replied absent-mindedly, thinking maybe she was suggesting a new lick of paint in the living room.

'You know. Painting. You - studio - artist,' she'd said, with her palms outstretched, emphasizing his I obtuseness.

'No. Was I supposed to?'

'No. You weren't
supposed
to, I just thought you might have, that's al.'

'Why's that?'

'I don't know. You just seem different lately, somehow. More...

more... purposeful. More alive. I had actualy been wondering if you might have met someone!' she j added playfuly, nudging him in the ribs.

'No, I haven't "met" someone,' he retorted, nudging her back and laughing. 'I've got a girlfriend, remember.'

'Oh, yes - the lovely Claudia.'

'And what have you got against Claudia al of a sudden?' Ralph was surprised and faintly pleased by the mild sarcasm in her voice.

'Nothing' — Jem took a deep breath — 'except she doesn't make you happy and I think you could do better for yourself.' She patted ineffectualy at the moist soil in the smal plastic pots, for something to do to cover her embarrassment.

'Oh, bless you, Jemima. I didn't think you cared.' Ralph was coming across as light-hearted, but inside his chest his heart was racing like a Formula One car. Finaly, finaly, she was cracking- she cared, she cared!! 'So, who do you think would be better for me then?' he asked cocking one eyebrow slightly in an attempt to look coy.

'Oh, I don't know. Someone who makes you feel good about yourself, someone who appreciates what a lovely bloke you are and doesn't just complain the whole time, someone who would inspire you to do what you're best

at and not just treat you like a ... like a ... like an airhead gigolo!'