Boys and Girls (8 page)

And now – big sigh – here I am, here I do find myself, in yet one more relationship. I think it's a relationship – it's hard to tell. Because I'm really a bit old school, you know, when it comes right down to all this sort of thing. Always a bit wary of hurrying things along – don't want to be in any way pushy, you
know: don't want to be seen to pounce, as it were. Mainly, of course, I need to be absolutely positive that there is no danger whatever of any sort of a rebuff, any single whiff of rejection, you see. As was the case with, um … good Lord, you know – I can't even remember her name. How awful. No come on – I
must
be able to remember her … but I can't, you know. Gone. Completely vanished. Annette, it might have been. No, not Annette. I can see her face, I am picturing it now, and Annette … no, it doesn't seem to fit. I mean yes, admittedly, I only really knew her for a month or so (until the day I pounced, until the day she rejected me) but still you really would think, wouldn't you, that I could remember her bloody
name
, at least. Well there you are – there you have it. David, my doctor – he'd say well you just have to
understand
, Black: as you get older, the brain cells, they're not what they were. Well now look: there's not one single part of me, is there, that's even remotely the way it was. I sometimes think that all the bits of my body have secret meetings in the middle of the night when at last I have achieved a partial oblivion – gang up and cackle over which one of them next is going to down tools and pack up on me, which is to be the new and eager recruit into all this deeply damaging and covert sabotage. But Jesus – if the brain goes too … if I start to lose my
mind
 …! But then of course I already have in a way, haven't I? I sometimes forget. I am after all, they tell me, a schizophrenic. Very mildly, it's true. I have yet to be committed. Restrained. But clearly all is far from well. Which makes me aware of the time that is ticking away. We all know what's in store, the inevitable end: because I can never forget that I am latently late. But bloody hell, in the meantime, I can't just cease to be a man, can I? I mean, Jesus – I'm not
ancient
. Am I? I just don't happen to be one of these thirty-year-old Masters of the
Fucking Universe, that's all. No crime, surely. Marianne. That was her name. Stupid bitch she turned out to be. Lovely name though, Marianne. She didn't deserve it.

But Sue, though – little Susie Q … I suppose I must have known it really, right from the beginning. All during the course of that ludicrous pantomime of a so-called interview, God save me. Or why else would I have taken her on? At an admittedly shamingly low salary – but then that's publishing for you: nobody comes into this game for the money alone. Why I had to make sure I got myself into a position to take over the company: always wanted money, always did. Wasn't too worried about the means: just had to have it. And of course it turns out now to be the only power that's left to me. And with Susie … I surely didn't believe for a single moment that she would grow into a more demanding and positive role: I assumed that all of that was merely a rather brazen display of feminist arrogance, or else just so much flirtatious banter (not to say a way of getting her quite gorgeous hair to flop across her wholly spectacular face). But I think she has amazed us all, and in really a remarkably short time. She has blossomed into a quite excellent managing editor, you know, and I couldn't now afford to be without her: I do so hope she never leaves the firm. Which is why, for a while, I resisted. It's true what they say about relationships in the workplace – no matter how crafty you imagine you are being, no matter how sly and devious and thoroughly in control, it will get out, and it will get messy. Like that awful awful time with Yvonne – never forget
her
name, that's for bloody sure. I was a fitter man in those days – I used to have her across my desk, when everyone else had gone home. Once in the Xerox room, if memory serves. Then she started asking me for trinkets – this in addition to all our expensive
lunches and so on. Little Tiffany things, and the shoes and bags and so forth. Rather a good watch, on one occasion – might it have been a Longines? Anyway, her girly and giggled-out requests, they soon became rather more insistent in their nature and culminated in a barely camouflaged case of blackmail. Ten grand it cost me – to keep her mouth shut, to get her to leave. Ten bloody grand. I only later found out from Publicity Cyril that old Bob in the postroom and Jonathan, the homosexualist in Sales, they were about the only men in the building she hadn't been screwing. But I, of course – who thought myself so very wily and magnetic – I was the one who got
really
screwed – and right bloody royally. Oh well. Only money, isn't it? And another great fistful of shame. I used always to say to myself well now look here, Black old son – so long as you've got your health, hey? I don't any more.

But Sue, with Susie, all we've really done is go out for lunch a few times. She seems to be ready for more, but really you know these days I can hardly dare to trust my own judgement. There was one time she was working late, and I popped my head around the door. Was looking over her shoulder at some sort of a spreadsheet, green on her screen, much of it beyond me. Trailed a few fingers in and among that sweet-smelling hair. She didn't leap up and stick me with a sabre. Sort of stroked the side of her neck … didn't recoil, wasn't being sick into the wastepaper basket. Then I kind of slid my hand downwards, you know, and over the swell of a breast, and without even so much as glancing away from her computer, she calmly removed it. Which was a hell of a relief, one way and another. Because you see I rather
like
it in a woman, to have reserve, a degree of dignity: morality, it used to be called, if anyone still can remember such a thing. Disappointed in another way, well
naturally – it was a mighty fine breast, I can assure you of that. Firm, but soft – just yielding enough, if you know what I mean, and so very lovely and warm, beneath the cashmere. Because it's feeling, and so on – that's what I really like best. Undercover cuddles. The sort of thing one used to do as a teenager, when everyone knew that it would go no further. Whispered rustlings and exploring secret places – and then when she touched you! The intake of breath, and then the swelling: marvellous, that. But as to the whole, you know –
thing
 … the utter nakedness and high expectation – the assumption of a mature and experienced woman that you actually, damn it, know what you are
doing
 … oh God, oh God. Off-putting, very, and also quite starkly terrifying, I'm afraid I find it. And so after this dinner I'm having with her this evening, little Susie Q – our first real (Jesus)
date
, I suppose – I would be very happy, if I'm honest, with a generous and protracted series of fumblings in the back of the car, somewhere dark and silent. And if she could maybe ease my tension … well then I would be ready, I think, to lay down my life for her, such as it is. But she'll be expecting more, I just bloody know she will. Women do, these days – you read about it everywhere. And then she'll see all the gaps between the tufts of my hair, and the bits of scalp that have been dyed to match. And then I'll be expected to take off my shoes, causing me to vanish from her sight completely – and don't even get me on to the corset and the padded underwear. And even if still she's willing (and she won't be, of course she won't be – well ask yourself: would
you
be?) – but even if she were to go suddenly blind and then I gagged her with a scarf to stop up all of her laughter – even if we made it as far as the goddam bed, well then with the exertion, in my condition, I could well just peg out on the top of her. Or (worse) underneath. It would
be so nice, really, just to be like a teenager again. Oh well. Just about time to go now. I'll change my shirt and tie. I know that most men these days – certainly all of those thirty-year-old Masters of the Fucking Universe – they go out in the evening, they never think of wearing a tie. Well I do. Always have, and I always will. It's the right thing to do, and it conveys a certain respect – for the venue, for the lady. Right then … just deal with this nicotine patch, get that thing out of the way at least (they're highly addictive) and then I'll have a puff from my inhaler and then a very swift fag. I'm wearing lenses: they sting, and I lose them all the time. OK: nearly ready now. Damn, you know – it's really giving me gyp tonight, this bloody old knee of mine. I think what I must do now is anticipate a triumph, pray that my hand is not too bold, nor stuck up the skirt of calamity.

‘Where's Mum tonight, Dad?'

‘She's, um – out. Tonight. Didn't she tell you? How's the linguine? To your taste? Not too much pesto, you don't think?'

‘She never said anything to me. Where is she, then?'

‘Well I told you, Amanda. She's out. Maybe do with a touch more pepper … What do you think?'

‘I think she's with him.'

‘No – I meant about the food. Could you go another spoonful, do you imagine? There's a bit more in the pot if you'd like it, my cherub.'

‘So, you know –
what
, Dad? We just like don't talk about it, is that it?'

‘I think then maybe I'll have some, if you're really sure you won't.'

‘You're like that bird in the sand, you are Dad. What's that bird that like – puts his head in the sand?'

‘Well you're meaning the ostrich, though apparently it's a myth. There is no known record of an ostrich actually doing any such thing. Certainly no photograph, anyway …'

‘Yeah well. You know what I mean. Look, Dad – you can't like just
ignore
this.'

‘You'd be surprised. What did you get up to at school today, Amanda?'

‘Usual.
Talk
to me, Dad.'

‘I was under the impression—'

‘Yeh yeh. You were under the impression that you
were
talking to me. Yeh yeh yeh. Look, Dad – can't you … you know – like, talk her out of it? I mean it's
crazy
, isn't it? She can't really mean it, can she? It's so like – dumb.'

‘You know your mother, Amanda. She'll do what she wants. There's an apple pie. I didn't make it. It's bought. Good, though. And cream.'

‘Well I think you're just being so
pathetic
. How can you just sit there? Knowing she's with
him
? How can you, Dad? And per-
lease
don't ask me if I'd prefer it if you stood
up
, OK?'

‘Am I really as dull and predictable as all that? Well well.'

‘OK. You don't want to talk? Fine. Have it your way. I'm going out.'

‘Out? No pie, then? Where?'

‘Tara's. She's asked me to help out. Her dad, he's got this man coming round with no arms.'

‘Really? Of all the things you might have come out with, Amanda, that one I must say was quite a surprise.'

‘He does this, Tara's dad. It's sort of like – charity work? Deserving causes. Sometimes it's one of those kids with the moony eyes – he did a bunch of gaga old women or some
thing, last weekend. He entertains them and gives them their tea. Like – conjuring tricks? All that. You know what he does.'

‘I see. And tonight it's a man without any arms.'

‘Yeh. Apparently. I don't really want to see it. Gross. But I promised Tara I would.'

‘Well – sounds armless enough.'

‘Oh
God
, Dad …! You had to, didn't you? You just had to.'

‘So long as he doesn't ask him to pick a card, any card … Sorry. Tara's father – isn't he the one you said was a wallaby? But you're perfectly correct, of course – I did, I did just have to. Do you want me to drive you over? Pick you up?'

‘That'd be cool actually – yeh Dad. Thanks.
Wannabe
I said he was – reckons he's like going to be on the telly or something, one day. Yeh right. Hospital, more like, if Tara's mum goes on pelting him with crockery and stuff.'

‘Crockery? She throws crockery at him?'

‘Teacups, mainly. He makes her angry, Tara says, and once she's chucked like a whole load of dishes or whatever at his head, she says she gets calmer.'

‘Hm. Women do seem to get angry and calm in the weirdest of ways. And also for the oddest of reasons. Oh Christ – I've just remembered. Your mother – she's got the car. Oh well. Not too far, is it? I'll walk you over. So now. Pie? No pie? What do you reckon?'

‘I don't know how you can just like sit there and take it …'

‘Pie? Take pie? Quite like it.'

‘I wouldn't. If I were a husband, I wouldn't. I just so know I wouldn't.'

‘Well. At least you have the comfort, Amanda, of knowing you will never in your life be called upon to be one of those
little things. Well look – let's just go then, shall we? If you don't want pudding. Then you can have more time with Tamara.'

‘Tara, Dad. Her name's Tara. Jesus.'

‘Oh Tara, is it? I thought it was Tamara. Who was Tamara, then? You knew a Tamara though, didn't you once? Friends with her?'

‘
Duh
 …! About like eight centuries ago, yeh …'

‘Really. Time does fly. Well well. Right. Let's be off then, will we? Yes? Fit?'

And as they trudged out of the house, both Alan and Amanda found themselves more or less bonded into silent agreement as to its all being very sad but true that you get no sort of conversation, no contact, no matter how much effort you care to put into it. Just plain rude, youngsters, aren't they? As Alan had gone through the whole of his going-out routine, Amanda was just slumped against the door, the droop of her suggesting that she might have been there all night, knocking with her knuckle on the shiny hall tallboy as if frantically requiring admission. He had checked both windows, scooped up the big fob of keys from the delftware bowl that he'd hurriedly overpaid for at Schiphol one time – a carelessly selected and black and guilty gift, cover for some or other murky misdemeanour, real or imagined … a bowl that Susan, oh Christ how predictably, had fingered and sneered at and pronounced quite vulgar. She must like it really though, he had long ago decided, or else it would never have been allowed to remain: soon it would have become smithereens (could maybe have given it to Tara's mother, by way of emergency ammunition). And even as Alan had shrugged on the old Harris tweed that he habitually wore to go nowhere much, there still was Amanda, sighing, nearly wailing, lolling and hanging about, doing all of her goggle-eyed moony-faced
and loony-looking, and then glaring at him, projecting the loopiness of her expression on to and into the depths of his cranium. And as the strain of Amanda's interminable waiting plucked and then was strumming maniacally the very highest notes on the strings of her nerves, still her bloody father just went on bloody doing all the bloody bloody things he bloody did. And that stinky old jacket – just, like – oh my God:
look
at it, will you? Twice, two times – yeh no really, if you can possibly believe it – Mum has lugged it down to Oxfam, and twice, two fucking times, the dopey old sod has bought it back again. I mean:
Jesus
, right?