Boys and Girls (30 page)

‘Yeh, Dad – I think I do know that. This is just so
yum
 …'

‘Stupid, that film. Stupid.'

‘Sorry, Susan? What's stupid now?'

‘The film. That film.
Jailhouse Rock
. Like all his films. Just stupid. If you're in jail, you're not going to go and start singing, are you? And dance about. So stupid.'

‘Oh I don't know, Susan. Over the years, I have found the concept of singing while in jail to be wholly credible – tenable, not to say necessary, if the keeping hold of one's mind is a consideration at all. And dancing about. That too. Don't think I'll trouble with the ice. Bit late now.'

Yeh – so that was my birthday, pretty much. In the evening, Tara came round. Jennifer said she was ill, but I don't know if it was true. I think it's because Tara, she told Jennifer, right,
about the arsehole Harry? And Jennifer, I don't know – she maybe found it tacky or something because he like works in a garage? She's like that, Jennifer – sometimes it's like she thinks she's royal, or something. Anyway. I shouldn't have told Tara in the first place really, because I know how she is – that she'd go and tell like everyone? But I did. I knew I would. And she asked me all these piles of questions – it was a bit like my mum. So was it like romantic? No. Was there like all candles and really cool music? No. Is he sexy? Did it feel good? Were there like butterflies? Did he nibble on your earlobe? Were you high? Was there rapture? Did you fall asleep in one another's arms? Yeh well: big
no
. Tara looked like so disappointed, and I did too I guess. Her dad's come out of hospital, she said, but when he got out of the ambulance and they helped him up the steps at home he lost his balance and he like fell over and he broke his leg and so they lifted him into the ambulance and like just carted him back to the hospital. One sad conjuror, Tara's dad.

And all this junk, it's been like going through my head as I'm just sitting in this coffee place – not Franco's I don't mean (can't go in there any more) and I'm wearing black tights and my boots and the black sort of like shift-type dress I got at Primark, tunic thing, and this cool like black varnish on my nails? Got them all with Blackie's hundred (I call him that now) as well as the long black beads, and there's still a bit left, which is good. And yeh, he's still sitting there, the guy, with his paper and his coffee and I'm just ramming my spoon into the dried-up hunk of brown sugar, chipping away at it, and kind of just smiling if I see him looking over. He's old too – that's the point. That's why I'm doing it. Because I thought, no way – no way is a guy of that age going to think he has even like
any chance at all with a girl like me. But no. It doesn't seem to work that way. Men, Jesus: go figure. And any moment now, he's going to like come over? So I'll go now, because
ee-yow
 – he's just so yuck and old. But I had to know. If it would work. I really really had to know.

And I still do, tell Tara all stuff. I don't know why I do, but I do. And yeh sure – she wanted to know all about the, Jesus – wedding at the new place. But I said no way – there's no way I could even like come
close
, you know? You just had to be there, I so can't describe it. I'm like – nobody could? You know?

I rather think, you know – looking back on what my dear little Susie Q would insist upon always referring to as the ‘Day of Days' (dear oh dear oh dear) … yes, looking back on it all now from the fairly safe perspective of a good bit of water having flowed under the, um … that one is forced to put down the somewhat – singular, shall we say? Yes – singular, I think that ought to do it. Suffice. The rather singular goings-on, then – I think they must simply be seen now as no more than the result of a series of – misunderstandings, want of a better word. Bridge. Water under the, um … yes.

On the morning of the day itself, I'd gone over to the Richmond place really very early. Couldn't sleep. Nothing, I hasten to assure you, to do with nerves or anything of that sort, no no no. Just a particularly vigorous and eager coming together of all of the usual – palpitations, stomach of course – head, limbs, you name it really. Itchy as hell – bit short of breath. Had a Bloody Mary and a handful of pills and just got a taxi round there. Can't have been much after eight, but the builders were there, by God were they there – going at it hammer and, um … and the dust, oh my Lord – never seen
anything like it: thought I could have a seizure. Signalled to the navvies to stop all their drilling but
immediately
 – huge great, what are they …? Pneumatic affairs, yes. The floor of the atrium – the very spot where we were all set in just a few hours to be doing the business – well, looked like the recreation of an alien planet, or something … thick with craters, pockmarked and powdery. Hammer and tongs is what I wanted to say, although it hardly really matters. So now I start shouting for Clearley – Mr Clearley, he's the site foreman. According to the various reports from the assembled workforce, he hadn't yet arrived, he'd just popped out for a minute, he was ‘on the can' – that's what they said to me: ‘on the can' – he had to speak to the suppliers and didn't feel well today, so wasn't coming in. Extraordinary, isn't it? I mean to say if you're wholly set on hurling into the face of the gullible old bastard who's actually paying you, you swine, you loathsome ungrateful swine, the most blatant and fanciful fucking fairy story, you would think, wouldn't you, that at least you might run to a little coordination on the matter. Way it is today, you see – sloppy, even in deceit. Anyway, tracked him down eventually, Clearley – stumbling around I was in all this new-found chaos in my perfectly ridiculous shoes (not, though, the even more ridiculous creations that I had had purpose-made for the ceremony to come – black patent they were, upon why-don't-you-guess-who's most explicit instruction, and packed with that much scaffolding they looked like nothing so much as a pair of moon boots, tricked out with treacle. These to go with the dinner suit, you see, I had been told I would be wearing; so not quite so ridiculous as those, no, but perfectly ridiculous all the bloody same). So yes – tracked him down, as I say: sitting in his van, he was, and eating a blameless banana.

‘Morning, Mr Leather. Up with the lark. Going to be quite a nice day, look of the sky.'

‘Never mind the
sky
, Clearley – what are you doing here? Why are you all here? You're not meant to be here. It's Friday, isn't it? The day we're doing the … doing the … oh damn – the day we're doing the
thing
 …!'

‘That's next Friday, Mr Leather. Next Friday, that is.'

‘What are you
talking
about,
next
Friday! It's not next Friday, it's this Friday. It's today. You think I don't know the day of my own
thing
 …? Put down that banana, Clearley.'

‘All on my worksheet, Mr Leather. See? States it quite clearly – next Friday. Fourteenth.'

‘I don't give a damn what it states clearly, Clearley! It's
today
, I tell you. Seventh. Today.'

‘Well that's not what I've got down here. Anyway – no bother, Mr Leather. I'll just tell the lads to pack up. They won't mind. Friday off. Still want paying, though …'

‘Won't
mind
! Won't
mind
! You think I give a tinker's, um – you think I give a tinker's
thing
whether or not they
mind
? Have you seen the state of the floor in there, Clearley? Have you?'

‘Well that's in preparation for the marble tiling. You can't just lay it down willy-nilly, you know. Break up the concrete, compact the hardcore, skim it off with—'

‘Yes yes yes – but all that was supposed to happen
after
 … I wanted the bloody marble floor to be put down
before
, if you remember, but you said it couldn't be put down before and so we all agreed that it would have to be
after
. Yes? You recall? And I've got all these rugs I was going to put down over the concrete and … Christ.
Cuss
! Don't give a tinker's
cuss
whether or not they
mind
, God damn you all …'

Well there was hardly a point, was there? Going on at the man. Damage done. Nothing for it really but to break the news to Susie. Either we'll have to do it somewhere else or wait a week till the marble's down – which I said we should have done in the first fucking place, and Alan, he backed me up, of course he did. Just like screaming into the wind, needless to say. Strong-willed woman, Susie is. Determined. As, Jesus, I was soon to rediscover.

‘Sorry, Black – I can't hear you very well. I'm in a taxi – not great reception.'

‘Yes well you'd better get out of the taxi because I'm in a phone box and I've only got another forty bloody
pee
.'

‘I just can't understand why you won't get a mobile.'

‘Got one somewhere. Hid it. Don't want a sodding mobile. Not a plumber, am I? Always at everybody's beck and thing. And I can't work them. Too fiddly. Now listen, Susie … Call. Beck and call. Now listen, Susie—'

‘Or at least a phone card. Why don't you get a phone card, then you wouldn't be worried about having only forty pence.'

‘Lose them. Always lose the bloody things, phone cards. And I've now only got twenty fucking
pee
because I've just put the other twenty fucking
pee
into the fucking machine because we have been discussing my lack of a mobile and how I'm always losing phone cards! Now God's sake
listen
, Susie—'

‘Are you excited? I am. It's finally come. The Day of Days. I'm just on my way to the hairdresser.'

‘Yes well – that's what I have to talk to you about—'

‘Sorry, Black – you're breaking up …'

‘I'm breaking up – I'm breaking
down
! Just
listen
, God's sake!'

‘Look – wait a minute. I'm just getting out of the cab, all
right? I'll just pay the cab, and then we can talk. Give me the number and I'll ring you back.'

‘Number? What number? Why are you going to ring me back if we're talking on the phone …?'

‘The number. The number of where you are.'

‘What – the number of this phone, do you mean? Well how am I supposed to know the number of the bloody
phone
, in God's name …?'

‘It'll be written on it. Just look.'

‘Written on it? There's nothing written on it. Jessica Is A Slag is written on the wall, and that's the sum bloody total.'

‘Well put in the other twenty pence.'

‘I've
put
in the other … Susie? Are you there?'

‘Can't hear you very well.'

‘No well I'm already about to explode I'm shouting now so bloody loudly. Woman outside, I think she's going to call the police. Look just
listen
, can't you? It's about the house. The atrium. I … Susie? Hello? You there …? Oh damn. I don't believe it …!'

So what did I do next? Run off and get more change? In
these
shoes? I hardly think so. And did I know the whereabouts of Susie's hairdresser? Well did I? Exactly. So I went into a café thing, tea thing sort of a shop because even the bloody pubs weren't open yet and I could have done with another Bloody Mary, I can tell you that – and I said to the woman there, may I please use your telephone? And she said – you want a coffee? You want a cup of tea? Some breakfast? I said oh God all right – all right then, I'll have a pot of tea for one. Toast? Jesus – OK, fine: toast. She nodded, brought me that and I paid and tipped her and I said to her can I please now use your telephone and she looked at me and she said we ain't got no phone. I'm telling
you – there are times when I wonder whether this country of ours even deserves a future, I do, I really do. So I went round to see Alan.

‘Mm – yes, I see what you mean. But I wouldn't really trouble, Blackie, trying to talk to her, you know. There's no way on God's earth she's going to put it off. No way whatever.'

‘Why? Why, Alan? It's only a week. What's wrong with her at all?'

‘It's you, Blackie, it must be: it's you. You're clearly irresistible – she just can't wait to take advantage of all your secret folds and creases.'

‘God's sake, Alan – this is serious. Christ – we're meant to be on in a couple of hours. Not much more.'

‘All right, Blackie. Calm down, hey? Like a virgin, you are, with pre-wedding anxiety. No look listen – she won't call it off because one, she's already in the hairdressers and they've no doubt begun on this most extraordinary creation she has spent quite a time devising. Rollers are the order of the day, I am led to understand. Not to say highlights. Two: caterers are all lined up, such as they are. More to the point is her mad and loony father – one day leave-out from the bin, no doubt with a couple of bouncers in tow – maybe a mask, as in
Silence of the
What-is-it,
Lambs
. Probably thinks he's going fishing. And so that we all match nicely, Susan has rented him a dinner suit because his customary ensemble comprises a motley and varied selection of stains, and someone else's pyjama jacket. Whether the dinner suit she has chosen for him runs to six-foot sleeves that can be buckled at the rear, we have yet to discover. Then there is the matter of the blessed Father Flynn to be taken into consideration. He is being reasonably expensively babysat this morning in order to ensure that not
one drop of altar wine should pass those so very florid lips of his. Or surgical spirit, whichever should currently be the tipple of choice. Add to all this, Blackie, the self-evident truth that neither you nor myself could frankly
stand
yet one more week of her wittering on about the glorious advent of the Day of Days … No – all in all, as she herself would surely say: 'twere well 'twere done quickly.'