Читать книгу She Just Can't Help Herself - Ollie Quain - Страница 8

ASHLEY

Tanya Dinsdale. Tanya Dinsdale. Tanya FUCKING Dinsdale. She was never meant to factor in my life. I took one look at her and thought, ‘Nah, no way’ … even though I was actively on the lookout for a new best friend. I had been forced to ditch my last one because she’d developed a habit of stealing. When her parents found a load of clothes from a selection of mainstream mall brands under her bed, she stitched me up, saying I had nicked the lot and had forced her to hide them. I didn’t know what was more offensive … the fact her parents believed that I was a thief or that I would have thieved such a bland and impact-less array of ‘stretch jersey basics’. Within seconds of meeting Tanya Dinsdale in the school canteen, I could tell she was one of those girls who liked to act as if she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, even though the cutlery in question was more likely to have been one of those plastic forks which come free with a Pot Noodle. Even worse, she was wearing Mary Jeans and culottes. No, worse, she was wearing them proudly. I should have walked away then.

I let myself in the front door, ignoring the photo on the sideboard, and walk into the lounge. Zach is layering a large cardboard box with bubble wrap. He is wearing his gym gear. I hadn’t realised he was working out again. He jumps up to hug me, but we end up giving each other a nervous head lock. I add a handshakey-matey-back-slap, as if I am welcoming him onto my own chat show. As he pulls away, I sense him scanning my face.

‘Sorry I had to drag you away from your work thing, Ash, but it’s imp—’

‘Yeah, so you said. Whatever. I wanted to leave, anyway. That magazine is doing my head in … and before you suggest I put my feelers out to see whether a decent position is coming up on another one, I would know if it was. No one wants to budge. The magazine side of the industry is getting smaller and that means it’s less fluid—not an environment you take risks with your income. Not if …’ I stop rambling.

I am about to say not if you have reproduced—as many of the women in the top spots have done—often multiple times. They need their solid salaries to pay for the painfully expensive day-care bills, that probably hurt more than giving birth itself. But I don’t approach this topic. Not in front of Zach. Shit, I forgot to buy any red wine.

‘… not if you can be totally sure that the magazine is secure, i.e., supported by other products …’ I continue. ‘And that would mean going to a publication which is part of an umbrella company and, trust me, those jobs are hard to come by because applicants for the second-job-down nearly always come from the inside.’

Zach nods. In a few seconds, he will give me the same half-understanding/half-tolerating look he has been doing ever since I started to talk at him, as opposed to with him. He knows there is no point trying to engage because this is a rant, not a discussion. Everything I say to him I have already made up my mind on. He reaches back down into the cardboard box and straightens up a batch of records even though they are stacked perfectly. Zach used to own a ton of vinyl, most of which he stored along the walls of our flat—literally, sound insulation—but sold most of it in the New Year because we would be ‘needing the space’. I told him he would regret selling his collection (mainly rare remixes of classic pop songs) because he started it when he was a kid. But he went ahead and bunged pretty much all of it on eBay as a job lot. All those tunes he had meticulously chosen and added one by one over the years … gone in three days and seven bids. It made me uncomfortable. I felt as if he wasn’t so much preparing for the future, as forcing it.

He looks up at me. But the look I was expecting is not there. I can tell he is nervous.

‘Is Kat Moss okay?’ I ask quickly.

‘Yes, yes … she is fine.’

‘Still establishing her territory?’

‘Mmm … almost there, I think.’

‘But she’s getting back into her usual routine of late nights and sleeping all day?’

‘Yeah …’

‘Well, you’d still better not have a Chinese takeaway any time soon. Not until she’s totally settled in. MSG is feline crack. She might get involved in something she’d regret. I can only imagine what her police mugshot would look like, all dilated pupils and bushed-out tail …’

Zach manages a smile. ‘… and hanging from her mouth, the bloody remains of an urban rodent only identifiable from its dental records.’

I laugh. So does he, but then we both stop. Abruptly. Zach clears his throat again.

‘Ash, the reason I called you tonight …’

‘… was because you needed to show me your financial report for the …’ I don’t say it. The D word. I don’t call it that. If forced, I replace it with a generic term that covers the legal aspect, like ‘process’ or ‘arrangement’ or I simply trail off. ‘I heard you. Give me five minutes.’

I need to go to the off licence. The only booze in the fridge is my three-week-old half-drunk public ‘decoy’ bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that I keep there to pretend I can have it in the flat without drinking it.

‘No, no, Ash … I said that so that you would come back home as soon as possible. I need to tell you something.’

I blink hard. Six very average words. I need to tell you something. But how they are spoken makes all the difference. Quickly, short spacing … the something is Some Thing which may affect part of your day. Slowly, wide spacing … the something is The Thing which will affect your whole life.

‘Sorry?’

‘I.’ SPACE. ‘Need.’ SPACE ‘To.’ SPACE ‘Tell.’ SPACE. ‘You.’ SPACE. ‘Something.’

‘What.’ No intonation.

‘Your mother … she’s passed away.’

I look down at the box of records. The only visible one is an (I’m imagining appalling) house remix of Don’t Speak by No Doubt. I was never a big fan of Gwen Stefani’s fifties rockabilly look when that song came out. The overtly punk style that came afterwards lacked authenticity. And then the geisha thing was too … well, it had been done. (Madonna, Kylie, Janet Jackson … who hasn’t put their hair in a bun and sweated through a video in a silk dress with a dragon motif?) But now … wow. Stefani is a street fashion icon. Okay, it’s structured, expected, formulaic almost …

‘Ash?’

… but no one can deny that she hasn’t been hugely influential on the general look of girl groups from the Pussy Cat Dolls to Little Mix. Or as Fitz calls them, Wind in the Willows. Ha!

‘Ash. I’m so sorry. I don’t know any of the details but when I was here, a woman called and left a message on the answering machine about the memorial service. She must have thought you already knew.’

MOLE. BADGER. RATTY. TOAD.

Zach steps forward. I step back.

‘I didn’t mean to shock you but the last thing I wanted to happen was for you to listen to the message on your own and th—’

I interrupt him. ‘She had a husky voice … the person who left the message. Right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Her name is Sheila. She ran the pub next to the block of flats where I grew up. She had white-blonde hair and always wore skintight shiny black clothes. Not leather … PVC. She always laughed—chestily, in fact, thanks to a forty-a-day Lambert and Butler habit—in the face of breathable fabrics. I lik—’

Now he interrupts. ‘Rewind. How can you be sure it was her?’

‘Because I already know.’

‘What? You know what?’ He manages a double intonation.

‘I know that my mother is …’ Another D word. Another one I—or anyone would—want to think about. Let alone, articulate.

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘No. Look, it’s not as if it wasn’t …’ Around the corner? Bound to happen? A matter of time? I pause, knowing I sound like an automaton, but I don’t want Zach’s sympathy because he feels obliged. ‘… you know the relationship she and I had. And let’s face it, you and I are in a difficult situation too.’

‘Come on, Ash. Don’t be like that. How long have you known?’

‘Two months.’

‘Two months!’

‘Yes, Zach, two months. That’s what I said. Look, you don’t have to feel guilty. You weren’t to know this was going to happen.’

‘Guilty? You think that’s why I want to be there for you?’

‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

‘Ash, don’t be so brutal. I’m here because I care about you. This is a massive thing to have happened—irrespective of the timing and irrespective of your relationship with her. This must have—must still be—bewildering for you. I think “bewildered” would be totally understandable in this situation. How did it happen?’

‘All that coconut water. It’s a lesson to us all. Clean living gets to you in the end.’ I squirm at my wholly unnecessary joke. ‘It was liver disease, Zach. Sheila told me that there are around seven thousand alcohol-related deaths each year and sixty-five per cent are because those livers have just said, “Nope. No more. E-fucking-nough!”’

He shakes his head, sadly. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how I would be feeling if it were my mother.’

‘Don’t make me look bad by personalising the conversation. It’s a slightly different situation. I have not seen mine once in the last decade. You speak to yours every day. At length.’

Zach’s mother has a lot to say about everything, but little of her commentary is necessary. It’s always coated with middle-class concern over what other people might think, even when she doesn’t need other people to know. She randomly emailed me the other week to say, ‘I’ve told Barbara and Tim from next door that it was decided shortly after Easter you would be going your separate ways …’ As if her neighbours had been glued to the Sky News ticker tape during the summer waiting for an update on mine and Zach’s marriage.

He sighs at me. ‘I know that Mum will be really sorry for you when she hears the news, Ash.’

I ignore this comment. He ignores my lack of response.

‘So, will you go to the memorial? Because if you do decide to, I’ll come with you. I can drive us there.’

He clears his throat. Another one of the mannerisms we both seem to have acquired recently. Whenever we are discussing something on the phone, either he or I or both of us suddenly seem to have something obstructing our oesophagus.

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve got that pitch coming up.’

‘It’s tomorrow. We finished the prep a couple of days ago, thank God. There’s been a lot of late nights in the office with Keith and … the team.’

‘Lucky you.’

Keith With The Bad Teeth is Zach’s business partner. He refers to women as ‘poontang’ and rides a pimped-up eighties BMX along the pavements of East London into work. As Noelle Bamford would say, ‘Nuff said.’

‘Seriously, I appreciate the offer, Zach, but I’ll be more than capable of handling this.’

‘“Handling this”?’

‘Yes. Handling this,’ I repeat. It sounds even worse third time.

‘Well, when you decide what you’re doing … you know how to get hold of me.’

‘Through your solicitor?’ I joke weakly. ‘Please, can we not talk about this anymore.’

He manages to smile too. ‘Okay. Hey … look, until I heard the news about your mother, I wasn’t planning on being here when you got back. You’d said you were going to be out late tonight, so I would have made sure I was gone by nine-ish. I want you to know I wasn’t breaking the agreement we made.’

That being whilst things are being sorted out on the legal front, it’s best we are not in one another’s company. We talk or text when necessary but we avoid face-to-face encounters, especially at our homes. I haven’t even seen the place that Zach has rented, even though it is only a ten-minute walk.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell him. ‘It doesn’t matter if we crossover occasionally. Obviously, you’re going to need to pack up the rest of your stuff and, besides, it’s still your flat.’

‘Nah, it’s your flat now.’

‘Maybe we should refer to it how Prince might: “The Home Formerly Known as Our Flat”.’

We both emit a short burst of uncomfortable laughter again.

‘Well, I’ll, erm … finish off this box and then maybe we could grab some dinner,’ suggests Zach. ‘I know it’s also against the rules, but I don’t like the idea of you being on your own, thinking about all of this. Let me take you out for a Chinese. I won’t tell Kat Moss. Unless you’ve erm … got a hot date coming over later, then of c— …’

‘Actually, yes, I have!’ I interrupt, almost manically brightly. ‘I would quite like you to meet him. Nice guy. City trader, got a faintly experimental haircut and zips around on a Vespa … but despite that, isn’t a wanker. Although, I haven’t seen his bike helmet yet. If it’s emblazoned with a Union Jack or a Mod target in the colours of the Italian flag, then we’ll know he is indeed a massive tit!’ I pause, my unhinged laughter hanging in the air. ‘Sorry, I was just trying to l—’

‘Lift the atmosphere?’

‘Yeah.’ I clear my throat. ‘That.’

‘No need to apologise. I started it by making a joke about you having a date … which wasn’t necessary.’

‘Mmm …’ I flop faux-casually down onto my giant bean bag—the first piece of ‘furniture’ I bought for the flat. ‘True. It wasn’t. I can’t recall seeing anything on the initial paperwork sent from either of our solicitors instructing us that from now until the decree absolute is signed, one of us has to be the official ‘Lifter of the Atmosphere’ whenever we are in an enclosed space together.’

He smiles at me. It is more relaxed this time. ‘Actually, we should probably take it as an encouraging sign. Apparently, a reflex desperation to lift the atmosphere is perfectly natural. One of the account managers I work with said that when they were in the early throws of getting a …’ He is as unwilling to use the D word as I am. ‘… well, breaking up with their partner, they went into this strange entertaining mode every time they saw each other.’

‘That sounds horrific. We’d better nip this in the bud right now then, or Christ knows where we could end up. Juggling, unicycling, fire-eating, angle grinding, puppetry …’ I prod him with my foot. ‘From now on let’s promise to only communicate with cold stares, monosyllabic replies and signatures in the appropriate places. Deal?’

Zach reaches over with his right hand to shake mine, but I feel as if he has punched me with it. He is not wearing his wedding band. This is the first time I have seen him without it since we took our vows. We both decided to wear our rings on our right hand. Him because he’s left-handed. Me because the ring was too big for my left hand and I didn’t want to get it fixed. I wanted to wear it as soon as he gave it to me, and then I never took it off. I still haven’t.

I clear my throat again to stay ‘in situ’, but I am not here … now. It is December 24th last year. I am lying on the bean bag next to Kat Moss. She is the world’s coolest cat. She is the cat that all other cats want to be. She makes being a cat look utterly effortless. And she knows she’s the best. Her meow sounds like she is saying, ‘Meeeeeeeeee …’.

Kat has been grooming herself intensely. My face is now pressed against her fur, I am inhaling it, wondering if there is a finer smell in the universe than ‘eau de freshly washed feline’. Instead of heading out for my final festive knees-up with Fitz, I’ve come home straight after work to get changed. Zach and I are going out to dinner … to continue talking about ‘it’. I look up as he enters the lounge. I had left the house before he got dressed that morning so I assess what he is wearing: Stone Island wool coat, a ridiculous Christmas jumper which was given to him by his team at their work party the week before, True Religion jeans and, as usual, hi-tops. I like how the laces are tied as loose as they could be whilst still maintaining enough grip to walk in. He has perfected ‘louche lacing’.

HIM: How’s my Number One girl?

ME: Good, thanks.

HIM: I didn’t mean you. I meant Kat Moss. (Picking up our cat. Cuddling her.) But I am also open to hearing how you are too given that although you don’t have the subtle, come thither allure of Ms. Moss—or the impressive whiskers—you’re still very sexy, Ash.

ME: I know that. But it’s nice to hear that you think that too.

HIM: And I will always think that. Even when you’re knackered, moody and swollen in places you never knew existed! (Laughing.)

I swallowed. I had not realised we were laughing about ‘it’ yet. I thought we we were still talking about it. And would be doing more of that tonight.

ME: What?

HIM: (Not realising I am not laughing.) Oh, yeah, my Mum told me all about how things just … swell up. Apparently, your sock elastic will feel like you’ve been caught in a wire hunting trap, bra straps will give you welts and you may even need your wedding ring removed with a blow torch. You’ll be forced to live and work in your Snuggle Suit.

I paused and considered whether to pursue the joke to see how it felt.

ME: But being skinny is my thing. I’m the annoying girl everyone hates because she eats crap and never puts on weight.

HIM: You’ll find a new thing.

ME: So might you. A new play thing.

HIM: Maybe. But I promise that if I do, it will only be while you are chubby. When you’ve lost the bulk again, you and I will be back in business. (Putting Kat Moss on the sofa, then checking his watch.) Now, get that soon-to-be huge ass of yours into the bedroom. We’ve got a good hour before you need to faff about in order to make yourself look as if you’ve just got out of bed … even though you will have done exactly that.

I sprang up, grateful of the diversion.

ME: So you know, Zach, there is a difference between bed hair and ‘bed hair ‘. The latter is not a literal effect of the former. (Walking through to the bedroom, stripping off my T-shirt and trousers, jumping onto the bed in my underwear.) It takes tongs. And clips. And effort.

HIM: (Appearing at bedroom door.) And just so you know, Ash, I was kidding. There will never ever be anyone else but y—

‘Deal. Yeah, it’s a deal.’ He rubs my shoulder brusquely as if I am a ‘pal’.

Immediately, I am back in the now, staring numbly at him.

‘Ash? Talk to me … you don’t have to hold all this in, you know.’

‘I’m not. I’ve been dealing with it. I am dealing with it. I will deal with it. But at the moment, I told you … work is pissing me off.’

He sighs, knowing he will not get any more out of me on anything more important.

‘Then I really do think you should look at some options. A change of scene may do you good. At this rate, when you do quit, the HR department won’t give you a carriage clock, you’ll be presented with Big Ben.’

‘Well, maybe some of us find it a little easier than others to fuck off,’ I snipe, and am immediately embarrassed. ‘Sorr—’

‘Don’t apologise.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have.’

‘You should.’

He smiles again, but his smile is different again. There is warmth, worry too … but also pity. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact he thinks I need it or the fact that he clearly sees himself as the stronger one in this situation.

Some more clearing of throats. I tell him I’m going to get changed. As soon as I step into my walk-in wardrobe, I feel myself levelling out a little, because it’s my space. Zach has never even been in there. No one has but me. And the bloke who fitted it. And Kat Moss. It was the first building work I had done as soon as the sale of the property had gone through. The cost meant I couldn’t afford a new boiler or a fridge, but a lack of the former meant it was cold enough for me not to need the latter until the summertime. Besides, what was the odd game of ‘dairy roulette’ with a carton of milk kept on the window sill, when I had my own wardrobe next to my own bedroom in my own flat?

Everyone said it would be impossible for me to buy my own place when I was earning so little—at the time I was still only a junior at Catwalk—but I was determined to save up enough for a mortgage deposit. So I made some changes. I moved into a two-person room share within a house share. I worked nights in a sauna. Weekends in a club. I only bought food and beverages from (the economy range in) supermarkets and not from any form of restaurant or ‘snack’ emporium; especially coffee shops. I had to think of a daily visit to Starbucks as the equivalent of grinding up a five-pound note in a percolator. I didn’t go partying. I’d seen enough of all that. I wanted my own home. One that no one—mortgage company withstanding—could ever ask me to leave.

My walk-in wardrobe is not packed full of clothes. Yes, I am obsessed with fashion but I don’t relentlessly throw money at it. Although, recently I may have been PayPaling a little more than I used to. But it’s not as if I’m one of those girls who buys ‘outfits’. That’s too expensive and too obvious. Crimes Against Fashion No. 23: a head-to-toe look (unless sitting front row at the actual designer’s show. Or it’s your own label, e.g., Stella McCartney.) Guilty: The Kardashians. All of them. Plus Caitlyn Jenner. Girl really does need to be way less matchy matchy. Everything I own is carefully and eclectically selected from all spectrums of fashion retail: designer, vintage, high street, market and online then combined to achieve a look I would hope could be classed as edgy statement chic. I look after each item. I either dry clean or I hand wash, rinse, dry, iron, fold and place back in the allocated spot. My mother’s wardrobe started out like that … she said you should respect clothes as if they were your friends. ‘Because many of them will be in your life a lot longer.’

I reach up to get a fresh Snuggle Suit off the top shelf. On the level above is my collection of The CR Fashion Book. Carine Roitfeld is a genius; and that is not a word I bandy around lightly. In a world where so many are told they are fabulous … she actually is. No one does edgy statement chic like her. Almost mannish but oh-so-sexy. And subtle. Fitz gave me a framed photo of Ms Roitfeld to place on top of my accessories cupboard, just to remind me that a little more is nearly always too much. But there is not much chance of me over-accessorising at the moment as I can’t open the bottom two drawers. There is a fake Louis Vuitton suitcase lying on the floor which I have no other room to store. It was sent to me last week by Sheila. I don’t need to open it because I know what is inside. Exactly what was in there when I unzipped it all those years ago. I was so excited I couldn’t wait to show my best friend. But the second I flipped the lid, she turned to me.

I looked at her face. I knew this face almost as well as my own. With its wide, wise, eager eyes which looked even bigger when she scraped her hair up into a messy top knot, which I had recommended she did as it was classic ‘off duty model’. Much better than the overly straightened, overly hair sprayed bob which was her go to style. I’d told her many times. Crimes Against Fashion No. 28: chemical processes during grooming clearly evident. Guilty: Christina Aguilera (the Genie years).

Suddenly, a mottled rash spread across her skin.

HER: I need to tell you something.

ME: What? What do you need to tell me, Tanya?