Untouchable Things (18 page)

The punters were in high spirits but there was one table making twice as much noise as the others. Jake glanced over a few times, wondering if they would come to the barbeque. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them as a group, except that they had an obvious leader. The body language changed each time the man with the dark hair spoke. Everyone leaned in and listened, and invariably exploded with laughter when he finished. That was power. Jake felt a stirring of interest and self-interest. When the latest batch of fish kebabs was done he stuck his chewing gum behind his ear and headed over with a tray of bait.

“Afternoon, all.” A sweet breeze of spring flowers tickled his nostrils and he squinted against the hazy sunshine. “Fancy a bit o’ Lilian Gish?” No harm in hamming up the geezer bit.

A brief silence then the dark-haired man laughed and they seized on his tray, babbling with lager-fuelled delight and explaining the concept of Cockney rhyming slang to the small Spanish one while cracking ‘Manuel’ gags. Monkfish and prawns went down a treat. Jake slipped into conversation with them, making them laugh, completely comfortable despite the fact that they were all craning their necks to look up at him and he had the sun in his eyes. The blonde woman on the end even shuffled up and invited him to sit down. Jake had to decline, but made her promise that they would all head over to the barbeque. He returned just in time to rescue his steaks.

Half an hour later he had a new gang of groupies, munching and bantering around the grill. He didn’t usually like his customers but there was something about this group that lit a flicker inside him. Yes, they were middle class, full of themselves, but there was something a bit different, even dangerous going on too. It stemmed from the ring leader, Seth. He looked like someone who lived life to the full – someone, maybe, a bit like him. Jake didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation to join them after his shift.

I can understand that this meeting might not be particularly relaxing to you, Mr Etheridge, given your history, but I do need to ask you for some more details.

Fine. It’s practically legal anyway.

“How did you know?” Seth was looking delightedly at the little pile of pills peeping out of Jake’s curled palm. “Thought we’d left it too late tonight.”

“Call it an educated guess.” It was a big risk and he’d been lucky. If he’d called that one wrong he’d have been back at his flat in no time cooking corn beef hash for one. But something had told him this person would be a fellow boundary-pusher.

“How much?”

“How many do you need?”

Seth looked over his shoulder. “Me, José, Anna – just three, I think. We might forget to mention this to Michael and Charles.”

“The two on the end?”

“That’s right. Not really their scene.”

“And what about the woman who was sitting next to you earlier?” The killjoy who’d scarcely given him eye contact.

“Catherine – she’s gone home. Turns into a pumpkin at midnight. And doesn’t do nightclubs.”

“Gotcha.” The group got more interesting. Factions and politics. Jake wondered what it was that pulled them all together. He counted four pills into Seth’s hand. “Let’s call it £30.”

“Here’s £40 for your trouble.”

They smiled at each other. “Nice doing business with you. Now, shall I go distract the old codgers while you sort the others out?”

It was a cracking night. The pills were top notch and Jake tipped his head back to watch the crazy play of neon on the ceiling, laughing and loved-up with people he’d known for a few hours. This was what he’d been missing. He knew he had to play things straight for a while but it didn’t need to be poker straight, did it? There hadn’t exactly been a lot to laugh about recently; things had been tough since getting out, tougher than he’d expected, and maybe he deserved a bit of fun. Not everyone would see it that way, of course. Not the family of Charlie Piper. But he’d done his time, paid his debt, and there was no point flogging a dead horse.

He’d been staying away from his old mates for so long that he’d forgotten the gap they had left. Now, watching Seth and Anna bumping and grinding, watching José close his eyes and sway, even watching Michael and Charles doing dad dancing, he tasted the high of being part of a group. When he caught Seth’s eye the smile seemed to break from inside him rather than being something he wore. It had been a long time.

Scene 2

You don’t much like Jake Etheridge, do you?

I always knew there was something untrustworthy about him. And I was right, wasn’t I?

Catherine slammed her fingers down on the piano keys as she used to do as a child when she couldn’t get it right. She’d slept okay, it was Sunday, it wasn’t raining and she had a good book on the go. So why was she stomping round her flat like a three-year-old? The others would still be bed-bound, no doubt, warding off the moment when they would have to sit up and acknowledge they’d drunk too much. Or worse. At least that wasn’t her. But the thought gave her no relief, not even a sneaky smug smile. If anything she envied them. Later they’d all huddle up on Seth’s sofa, groaning and sporting their hangovers like a badge of honour, membership to an exclusive club. While she would potter round doling out tea and sympathy. Usually she didn’t mind – if anything it made her feel useful. Seth always called her his hangover angel, and she did enjoy looking after him when he was so sweet, feeble and grateful. But it would be nice sometimes to be part of the club.

She didn’t know why she found it so hard to feel a part of things. Especially with women. There was a gene she didn’t have, a gene for gossip and secrets and endless boyfriend analysis. That was why at work she preferred auditing a company to being in the office; at least in an unfamiliar organisation, no one would wonder at her eating her sandwich alone.

She’s not a self-pitying person, she’s sure she isn’t, but she feels the cool slide of tears down her cheeks. A cup of camomile tea will help, it always does, and she takes it and sits on her bed, pristinely made up in white. Things aren’t so bad. She’s a London girl now, a professional with her own flat – rented, but still – and she’s proud of herself. She doesn’t want to be part of the hangover club, not really, not after all that Granny business. It would be enough to put anyone off booze for life. She shudders when she watches people get drunk, losing control of their movements, speech, emotions. She knows Seth drinks too much. It’s the one subject she dare not raise with him. Instead she makes sure she’s always there to pick up the pieces afterwards.

No doubt there will be several pieces to go at today. Catherine saw at a glance what sort of person Jake was. Not to be trusted. It was strange that the others gravitated to him like that. Smiles were cheap, and his face looked like it had done a lot of smiling over the years. The crinkly twinkliness of his eyes put her teeth on edge. It was a face too used to charming.

She drains her camomile tea and sighs. Seth loves Jake of course. He’s so trusting, so generous, an overflowing honeypot to someone like that. She will need to be on her guard.

Only Mr Gardner did trust Jake Etheridge. He let him into his inner circle.

I know, you don’t need to remind me.

“Honey, I’m home!” It was a week later and she’d had the Steinway to herself for most of the day. Seth banged the front door shut and dropped his keys on the table. Catherine broke off from a swirl of chromatic scales. “Hello. You look pleased with yourself.”

“Indeed I am. What are you doing next Saturday?”

She pretended to think. “Nothing, as far as I know.”

“Well, you are now.”

“And what am I doing exactly?”

“Having dinner at mine.”

“Great.” She looked at him questioningly. There was clearly more to it. “Do you want me to cook?”

He tapped a dotted rhythm on the table. “That’s the thing – Jake will be doing the cooking.”

“Oh.”

Seth lit a cigarette. “Isn’t that nice of him?”

“He offered?”

“Yes, I said I loved holding dinner parties but found the whole cooking thing a bit of a bore, and he stepped in straight away. So I’m meeting him later to draw up a menu. He’ll be ideal for the Friday Folly. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of cultivating a friendship with a chef before.” He settled onto the sofa and took a long drag of his cigarette. Then he saw Catherine’s face. “Fuck, I’ve offended you. You know I love your food.”

The piano felt like a barrier between them. “Of course you haven’t – I mean, he’s a proper chef and I would never compare my stuff to his. It’s just, well, you don’t exactly know him well, do you?”

Seth crossed his legs. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know… you just seem to be seeing a lot of him suddenly.” She moved away from the piano and perched on the edge of an armchair. Seth tapped his cigarette over an ashtray.

“I like him. I act on impulse about these things. I didn’t exactly know you well when I bought you your piano, now did I?” He folded his arms and an arrow of shame pierced her chest.

“I suppose not.” She couldn’t look at him, wanted to cry.

“Hey. Come here.” He patted the sofa and she went to him like a puppy. He squeezed her hand. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I just think Jake will be a really fun person to have around.”

She sniffed and tried to smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Scene 3

Has there been any conflict between you and Seth Gardner? You’re smiling, Mr Stanley.

Seth and I generally didn’t agree on a great deal.

I’m talking major fallings out, not minor verbals. Does anything spring to mind?

It does. Glyndebourne.

Glyndebourne?

Three summers ago, I think. 19 – 94. Yes. August 1994.

Michael watches London backpedal in a soft-focus whirl, red brick houses blurring and melding as if in a dream. In this dream he’s sitting in a soft-top Porsche, the wind doing crazy things to his hair, or rather his hair doing crazy things in the wind. He folds his chin down over his chest and realises that he’s in full black tie regalia, down to a cummerbund. Next to him in the driver’s seat is Seth. They are on their way to Glyndebourne, the privately owned opera house full of toffs drinking champagne.

The taste of the dusty wind was real enough. Perhaps he’d been spliced in two, leaving behind the ‘killjoy’– Seth’s label – to mutter about elitist bastions of privilege while his treacherous musical mojo hot-footed it into the car to catch Roger Norrington doing the
Magic Flute
.

The killjoy had insisted on jeans as a condition of release but Seth had seen straight through that one and instantly revoked the invitation. So here he was, dressed up like a dog’s dinner with his hair providing the only slight subversion.

They were in the countryside now. Michael was no lover of the tame flatlands of the south but today the haziness of the light resting on the softness of the landscape created an ethereal beauty. Expanses of hay-baled fields yawned and stretched on all sides. It was the perfect night for Glyndebourne, picnic and all. Michael shifted in his seat, suddenly frivolous, a child on an adventure. He wanted to ask Seth to put his foot down.

Instead he leaned out slightly and closed his eyes as the wind rushed over his face. Seth glanced over.

“You okay?” He had to shout a bit, like a character in a sitcom.

“Enjoying the scenery. Ages since I’ve been in a car.”

“I suppose it makes a change from pedalling. Nice to get out of the city, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I don’t do it often enough.”

The wind put paid to further conversation. It was odd seeing Seth drive – incongruous somehow, but it suited him. Turned out in addition to the Jaguar, he had this Porche stashed away in a garage somewhere. He looked gleeful behind the wheel, shirt sleeves rolled up, right elbow resting on the window frame. Michael looked away.

“Nearly there now. You’ll see the house in a minute.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up in the car park and Michael got his first proper view of the opera house. Nestling modestly yet modishly in the classic English country estate, it had won, so Seth told him, various design awards.

“I’m not always a fan of modernisation but the old house had more appendages than an Indian goddess – it just wasn’t big enough.” Seth sighed. “Although, sadly, this one does open things up more to the masses.”

He laughed as he saw Michael’s colour rising.

“Come on, enjoy being one of the elite for a day. You never know, you might like it. Or maybe that’s what you’re afraid of.”

He got out of the car before Michael could put him right.

They had two hours to stroll around, or more precisely to scout and secure the best picnic spot. Michael found himself entering into it with an enthusiasm that amused his companion.

“You’re like a German with a beach towel,” Seth said, as they lugged an enormous picnic hamper to the chosen place, somewhere between the two ponds.

Michael ignored him. “Come on, it’s just past the Ha Ha.”

Seth grinned. “Words I’m sure you never thought you’d utter.”

It was true. Michael stopped abruptly and put his end of the basket down.

“What’s the matter? Hurting your back? Or your conscience?”

Michael took off his glasses and rubbed them on a hanky. It was like an out-of-body experience, the whole thing. What the hell was a Ha Ha anyway? “If my Year Nines could see me now.” He shook his head.

Seth cackled theatrically. “You have sold your soul to the dark side, Doctor Faustus.” They heaved up the picnic basket and carried on.

After a rip-roaring first half they opened the basket and Michael understood why it had felt like shifting a coffin. Seth coughed.

“I just told the guy at Selfridges food hall to give me a bit of everything.”

They unloaded rows of plastic tubs with unlikely smells that tweaked at Michael’s stomach, laid them on the red tartan picnic blanket. There wasn’t much space left for sitting. Seth produced two dinner plates and grinned.