By Flower and Dean Street Page 10

‘It’s all over me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m covered in blood.’

  ‘Where?’ Christine jolted up. Eyes closed, he was rubbing his arm again.

  Christine’s voice, ‘That’s not blood. It’s the way the light falls.’

  He opened his eyes and saw dark shadows from the mauve curtains falling across his body.

  ‘You’re still drunk, Ken.’

  ‘Was I very pissed?’

  ‘Can’t you remember? No. I suppose you can’t.’

  He could hear Joel say, ‘Snap will put you on the map.’

  *

  He sat on the low leather couch drinking heart-whizzing black coffee. Everything was low in the living-room and he said, ‘Can’t we have some normal-sized furniture?’

  ‘Can’t we have some money to get it? You said you liked this.’

  Her eye make-up was smudged and she looked like a Panda. She was smoking already and in a horrible mood.

  ‘You look vile,’ she told him.

  He picked at his jacket, nervously, and tried to remember which was the aspirin with the irreversible side-effects. He’d already had four, but pain was still gnawing in his head. His stomach, a poisonous swill, would accept no more coffee.

  ‘You’re very quiet about last night,’ she said.

  ‘The act was a mess.’

  ‘Well, I’d hardly know, darling, as I wasn’t allowed to meet them.’

  ‘For Godsake, I didn’t want to have to sit through that rubbish.’

  ‘You make them sound so attractive.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have enjoyed it. It’s business.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’

  He had to go away, and he almost said, ‘I must get out of London.’ Then he remembered his studio.

  ‘Is the dog-food woman beautiful?’

  ‘No. She is not beautiful. Is there a riding-school near here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure I heard horses this morning.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up.’

  ‘I did. I remember smelling horse crap.’

  He could also still smell blood, very slightly.

  6

  With the first cheque he bought a white Porsche and he and the dog purred round London. The jingle was everywhere — even his child was singing it. Christine phoned the studio non-stop. ‘It came on twice before seven and in each break during the film.’ His whole world shook to the tune of Snap.

  One afternoon, he stood with Christine and Frances in Kensington High Street. They’d just had lunch and he was lighting their cigarettes. Suddenly a crowd rushed towards him, shouting, arms waving. He stared, appalled, and then turned and ran.

  He ran for almost a mile in and out of the small streets, and when finally he stopped, ill with exhaustion, in a doorway, he had no idea why he’d done it. He was still frightened.

  Christine and Frances looked at each other, baffled.

  The shouting crowd caught the escaping bus, forced it to stop and got on.

  *

  The studio was a converted greengrocers in North London, and attached to it was a beautiful Victorian conservatory, which Ken used to store equipment. He repainted the studio silver and put gold stars on the ceiling. Pictures of Christine stayed, but photos of pop groups were out. He inspected the new 3,000-pound machine which could create any sound, or combination of sounds, imaginable. He pressed keys and buttons for almost an hour.

  ‘Make a cow mooing,’ said Gordon, his second assistant. ‘Can it do the squelch of an unblocked sink?’

  ‘Can it do the sound of success?’ Joel was suddenly in the studio. He looked at the flickering, many-eyed enigma and said, ‘It’s got to pay its way, same as everything else on my payroll.’

  ‘It’ll save time,’ said Ken. ‘It’s the best on the market.’

  ‘Slimming Snap’s hitting it right. A lot of it’s the long thin tin.’ Joel’s face swelled, eyes popped. He was becoming enthusiastic and as he had a talent for making most energetic states malevolent, Ken dreaded his enthusiasm. ‘I want to bring up the proteins.’

  ‘Careful of your Trade Descriptions Act,’ said Ken.

  ‘I want you to put in a bar or two of protein music.’

  ‘What do proteins sound like?’

  ‘I don’t know. Healthy, bouncy, light. It’s up to you, boys. You’re the artists.’

  Ken left Gordon in charge of the latest cough-mixture 40-seconds, got into his Porsche and sped towards the motorway.

  He felt empty, yet full of desire. He supposed that that was what success was. He didn’t know what he wanted. He thought he wanted Christine’s big breasts, her strength, and rushed home.

  *

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her excitement shut out his soft confession. She bit his ear, gripped his back with her thighs. Her teeth pricked up and down his neck. Her skin was hot.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’ He drew away from her and supported himself on his arms. She waited, eyes shut, for him to begin.

  She waited and everything subsided enough for her to open her eyes. He was looking at the window, and what was more surprising, he was obviously not aroused.

  ‘Have you ... already?’ She was still breathless.

  He shook his head, climbed away from her and lay on his side. Christine had too much sense to pursue him, and she waited, separate, her body tuned up, unsatisfied, for some explanation.

  Eventually, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t get — going.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Actually I’m bushed. I think I should get some sleep.’ He turned and patted her thigh. ‘Goodnight.’

  *

  ‘Please don’t.’ The pressure of her breasts against his back was unbearable. Her pubic hair felt like a lively spider. Her hands still trickled over his body. ‘Please don’t.’ Her tongue dug against his ear, wetly. He thought he was going to be sick and hung over the side of the bed. The spasm passed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just it’s first thing. I haven’t woken up yet.’ He grabbed his cigarettes and shoved one between his lips. Thank God the matches were on the other side of the room.

  *

  Christine, in her rush to get to bed with him before he fell asleep, had left her clothes scattered by the bath. He was shaving and thinking how unpleasant his eyes looked, pouchy and selfish, when, in the mirror, he caught sight of something white, frilly and spattered with blood. Badly shaken, he turned and dropped the razor.

  ‘What’s this?’ he shouted.

  She appeared in the doorway and, following the direction he was looking in, saw her knickers. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said lightly.

  ‘For Crissake!’

  She gathered up her clothes.

  ‘Clean it up!’ he shouted.

  She looked at him, angrily. ‘All right, Ken. Since when have you been so fastidious?’

  ‘It gave me a shock.’ He sounded weak and unattractive.

  ‘Pitiful.’ She picked up his razor and held it out to him. Suddenly he did not want to touch it. She put it on the shelf by the mirror and said, ‘It’s the coil. I always bleed heavily at the beginning. It —’

  ‘Well, do something else. Get on the pill.’ He flung on his jacket and left. She tracked him down by the lift. ‘I can’t stand it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The blood. Your periods are too much for me.’

  ‘Well ... thank you.’

  ‘They’d be too much for anyone.’

  *

  It was his birthday, and cards and flowers filled the flat. She sat on the couch, one shapely leg drawn up, painting her toe-nails. She was so disturbed her finger-nails were smudged and her eyebrows would have to be done again. Her new clothes were spread across the living-room; and looking at the yellows, the blacks, the scarlet suit, gave her some satisfaction. She looked again at one of his cards, a slim wispy blond with a pale face. Gordon, his assistant, had sent it. Why?

  The phone rang. ‘Wendy! Marvellous! Everything’s fantastic! He’s been offered
so many commercials. I’ve just spent nearly 200 quid on new gear. You should see it ...’ The sadder she became, the louder she got. Her voice sounded quite jolly.

  He came in surprisingly early, dressed in a new suit; its colour only emphasised his tiredness and pallor. He threw down an unwrapped present, lit a cigarette and stood in the middle of the living-room as though he was on a visit and none of this belonged to him.

  ‘Must go, Wendy! Bye.’ She put down the receiver and the phone instantly started to ring again.

  ‘Sod it!’ he said angrily. ‘Don’t answer it!’

  They waited for it to stop. Finally he scooped it up. ‘Yes?’ Bunty wanted him to go gambling.

  ‘I can’t. I’m going out to dinner with my wife.’

  Her laughter pealed into the living room. ‘What are you doing that for?’

  ‘It’s my birthday. And tell Joel not to send our monthly quota of Snap. I do not want it.’

  He’d write lies about it, give it a title, set it to music — but he wouldn’t let his dog eat it.

  7

  Before Snap, they had spent their evenings together. Whatever they had done during the day, it was an unspoken rule that they would be in the flat around six; she would open a bottle of wine, he would play with Matthew, and her girlfriends would stay off the phone. Her girlfriends said that domestic life did not suit Ken: Christine had bitten off more than she could chew, he overlapped her at every point, it was only a matter of time before he left her. They didn’t take into account the fact that he needed her strength and loyalty — that he was excited and encouraged by her lack of inhibitions in bed, that he was fed up with dry clever girls always challenging his intellect.

  Her idle chatter soothed him. It went on around him, making no demands, leaving him free to think about something else or not to think about anything at all. She gave him well-cooked food, well-pressed clothes, and comfort, into which he could sink without question. For a long time he was very grateful to Christine.

  After Snap, a pop group wanted him to arrange music, Joel wanted him to add class to his dinner parties, the agency wanted him for more ads, and Bunty wanted him.

  One night he stayed in. Christine had made a curry and they sat on the floor watching television. Since he’d started being absent after six, Christine’s girl-friends, like vultures, swooped in, and the phone rang incessantly. ‘Wendy! Sorry. Phone you tomorrow.’

  He flicked his plate to one side, his face expressionless. The shutters were down.

  ‘Pat! I’ll call you back.’

  He plunged his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Sorry, Ken. Would you like some coffee?’

  He didn’t answer, and she got up and opened the window. It was spring.

  She was standing near him and he could smell her perfume. He looked round, his eyes level with her full calves. They were packed with flesh like ripe pears. Beneath them her legs tapered dramatically into the slender ankles she was so fond of. Suddenly they were ludicrous, vulnerable, these two pieces of leg that filled his vision. He didn’t like the way they were covered with frail black stocking as though to tempt, to invite. He couldn’t see them belonging to a body. He preferred them lying twisted, shoeless, the black stocking torn and laddered. The top of the legs — raw flesh, orange and scarlet, globular flesh dripping with blood, arteries cut loose and dangling, smelling like old beef steak.

  He turned and stared at the television, shaking and pale.

  Her perfume suddenly stank — it filled the room, cheap and stale.

  Christine could not remember his being so quiet. Suddenly she was very unsure of herself and couldn’t think of a thing to say. She poured his coffee, pushed it across to him and sat down. Sighing, he turned off the set.

  What could she talk about? She looked round desperately for something. The cat? The carpet? The programme he’d just switched off? She couldn’t think of a thing that wouldn’t sound silly and inconsequential. She continued silent.

  After some minutes he turned and said, ferociously, ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing. I feel quiet.’ She felt she should justify it. ‘I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the —’ He was going further and further away from her and she couldn’t think of a thing to draw him back — ‘I went to look at —’ The sentence didn’t deserve finishing. Feeling stupid, inadequate, she decided that talking about him might be the answer. His replies were short and gave her no encouragement.

  Christine’s talents, silent ones, expressed themselves best in the bedroom, and she and Ken spent most of the time so occupied. Her art as a conversationalist had seen little action, and now, put to the test, was found to be poor.

  *

  10 p.m. It was well past the hour when he’d reach for her hand, kiss her, take her to bed.

  ‘I saw some denim suits round the corner, Ken. Fantastic. Really good, on the shoulder. You’d look fantastic in one.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Only eight. Fantastic.’

  ‘I’ll look at them tomorrow.’

  Silence.

  ‘The pale ones have —’

  ‘Oh do shut up about it!’ He lit another cigarette.

  Stung, she wanted to get up and leave the room, but she couldn’t even manage that. She wanted to say, ‘What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to make love to me? Is it me?’ She was reminded of the time she first saw him. He seemed as unknown but unlike then there were no flashes of interest, excitement. Nothing about him was familiar.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Fatal.

  ‘It’s the bloody phone,’ he shouted. ‘It never stops. I have to get away from it.’

  ‘Shall I take it off the hook?’ As though in protest, it rang; and she answered it quickly. ‘For you, darling.’ She’d recognised Bunty’s voice and made plenty of the endearment. Bunty said, ‘I’ve hung a moon among the stars.’

  ‘Christ!’ He wiped a hand over his face and remembered that this was his employer’s wife. ‘How d’you mean?’ in a softer tone.

  ‘In the studio of course. It’s a hanging moon and lights up. It’s also a zodiac moon and shows the influence of the planets. Mars into Jupiter and all that. You do believe in that. Well, if not you’re a rarity.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘Joel had a marvellous idea. He wants the magician for his cornflakes ad. He was quite cute about your knife, wasn’t he? I’m glad you like the new amplifier. I insisted Joel got it. Anything else you need?’ She laughed, and the laugh was nice and made him feel a bit better. ‘There’s a Hollywood producer in town. He does musicals and I’ve told him how great you are. I’m going to give a dinner for you. I’ll invite him. There’s a banker I want you to meet. We’ll have a couple of filmstars, just for colour. If you need me for anything just call. Let the phone ring for some time because if the girl’s out and my machine’s on I can’t hear it.’

  ‘What machine?’

  ‘What?’ she laughed.

  He sighed and said, patiently, ‘You said something about a machine.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Nasty, crawling panic, starting in his stomach. His mouth was dry.

  Bunty said, ‘It removes hairs, permanently. I spent four hours doing it last night. One leg’s nearly done. The hairs have gone from my wrists, so have those from my nipples.’

  Horrified, he said, ‘You’ve hairs there?’

  She laughed. ‘Ken, what are you talking about?’

  ‘The hairs around your nipples.’

  There was a pause. ‘Goodness me!’ She sounded shocked. ‘You must be drunk.’

  Frightened, he put the phone down. Quite clearly he’d heard her talk about unwanted hair. Suddenly he was sure her teeth were false. That’s why her S’s whistled. Sickened, he turned to the television.

  Christine poured more coffee. 10.30. Half an hour to go and then he could reasonably shut himself up in the dark. Christine’s heavy hair fell forward on to her thighs — black, sleek, catching the light. It was dan
gerous. He had to look away, but even with his eyes on the ad break he couldn’t get it out of his mind. It seemed to stroke her glistening thighs. It suggested many possibilities. He stood up. ‘I think I’ll go to bed and read something.’ He didn’t like the way her breasts divided. He wished she could be covered up, all of her.

  Christine changed into her gold pyjamas and put on a Stones LP: she moved sensuously.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What?’ She turned off the hi-fi.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something at the studio. I won’t be long.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gordon’s cough-mixture - 45 seconds.’

  She watched from the window. He didn’t go near the Porsche but walked quickly towards the station.

  *

  He walked for a long time and when he got into some anonymous narrow streets he felt curiously relieved. He liked the tightness, the dark, the uneven pavements. He liked particularly the smell of a box of rubbish bulging and swollen in the gutter. He went from doorway to doorway, staying in each a few moments, waiting. There were few people about. It was what he wanted, almost.

  *

  Soft flesh, quivering buttocks, plump thighs, perfumed hair — it had all been so attractive. Now it filled him with nausea and, strangely, fear. Not all the time. It seemed to catch him at unguarded moments. It wasn’t that he found the women ugly — it was something about their flesh, their mouths ... he couldn’t describe it, except to say it gave him a funny feeling.

  Christine’s mammoth body, starved of love, took to indecent posturing. He’d find her lying on the black leather couch looking like something from a porn magazine. Gone were the gold tin-foil pyjamas and in their place, spicy underwear. She seemed unable to sit in a chair without turning it into some erotic pose, but the only spasm she provoked in him was the involuntary one of nausea. He started to avoid her. He took every job offered him and worked far into the night. Coming home, he’d often be drawn to the narrow streets. They were never satisfactory.

  Bunty’s pink rounded cheeks and lovely, easy smile, which he’d been so enthusiastic about, no longer moved him. He saw only long pink-brown nipples poking through tufts of hair, and false teeth. He couldn’t get false teeth out of his mind.