Out Late with Friends and Regrets (48 page)

“Well, there’s The Waggoners’ Arms, that’s where we met, and The Boar’s Head, The Blue Lamp, and let’s see... she sings at Owlie’s, and The Belmont Bistro sometimes. Plus parties and stuff.”

“Busy lady,” said Ellie, “Got used to the late nights yet? Shagging an entertainer can really mess with your body clock.”

“Yeah, well. How about your own love-life? Seems to have been a bit quiet on that front, or am I wrong?” enquired Fin.

“Been living the life of a nun, darling.
 
Oh, that is, apart from a couple of therapy sessions with an old fuck-buddy of mine who’s just back in town.
 
Keeps things in working order.
 
Got my eye on somebody, but that looks like a long campaign, so I’m keeping schtum about it for now.
 
Don’t want to put the mockers on it.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“Her sheets are spotless.
 
Marie’s.”

“Er, sure. Did I suggest otherwise?” said Ellie, head on one side.

“No.
 
No, you didn’t.
 
I just thought- oh, forget it.”

“You do know that she’s likely to be busy at this time of year, don’t you? I mean, of course you’re welcome to bring her to any of the parties, but you might find she’s got gigs on some of the nights.”

“Yes.
 
I’ll see how she’s fixed.”

“Right.
 
Rachel and Dave’s is the last Saturday before Christmas – Rachel will probably be on the phone in the next few days.
 
Oh, that’s half past one already, I’ve got to get back.
 
Keep in touch.
 
Glad you’ve found someone.”

They kissed goodbye, and the golden hair dimmed and disappeared in the November gloom among the jostling grey bodies in the street.

Indeed Fin didn’t know whether it was love, that much was true, but she did find it difficult to think about anything except Marie.
 
At the shop she was unusually vague, and she hadn’t been able to raise the motivation to go to the gym, or classes.
 
She kept up the study, but in a perfunctory way, and even considered cancelling the course. Only the continuing reminders provided by the accounts that the shop was not set to break any trading records this year prevented her.
 
That and inertia.
 

Ellie had been right about her body clock; she had been hanging about in the bars where Marie performed, drinking a little more than was good for her health or her wallet, watching Marie from a distance, on hold until the moment she could touch her, take her.
 
The irritations of the messy flat had subsided to pinpricks, barely felt.
 
She no longer felt the urge to wash up and put away, or plump the sagging cushions, although she would normally tidy the kitchen in the morning, to make things easier for Marie when she eventually surfaced, usually after noon.

She had intended to ring Petra to tell her that, as the stalker had apparently identified Fin’s address, it was unlikely she would be troubled further at The Laurels.
 
Somehow she had let it slide, and it receded in importance.
 
The snack-bar lunch with Ellie had been the first in a long time, and at Ellie’s suggestion.
 
Fin had caught herself looking for an excuse not to accept, but wasn’t quite quick enough to think of one.

Still, that was that done, and now she could look forward to tonight.

“That was the best I’ve ever heard you, Marie.
 
Absolutely beautiful,” said Fin.

After the gig, The Blue Lamp, former Victorian police station.
 
Small audience, but they had listened attentively.

“Thanks.
 
Perhaps it’s your inspiration.
 
Although, you must be sick of some of the songs by now.
 
Especially not being your kind of music.”

“It may not have been initially.
 
But it’s grown on me.
 
And it’s not always the same stuff, is it?
 
You seem to vary the programme from gig to gig.”

“Yes, can’t let it get stale,” replied Marie, “The regulars expect their favourites every time of course.”

“Like ‘I Can’t Make You Love Me’?”

“That’s one of them, and so is ‘If You Could See Me Now’.”

“God, that’s a real heartbreaker.”
 
Fin smiled.
 
“You’re a tortured soul.”

“Not when we make love.
 
You know what, Fin, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.
 
Honestly.”

“Oh, Marie, Marie...”

“You know, every time I sing ‘You Light Up My Life’, it’s for you.”

“You make me feel incredible.”

Under the table, Fin took both Marie’s hands in hers. Marie threaded her fingers through Fin’s, and said, “But you
do
light up my life.
 
You’re sexy and strong.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t exactly say that.” Fin was almost embarrassed.

“No, you wouldn’t.”
 
Marie’s smile bathed their corner of the dark little pub in sunshine.
 
“You don’t brag or throw your weight about, you lovely woman.
 
You’re modest, and decent, and wonderful.”
 
She leaned forward, and, freeing her hands, touched Fin’s cheek.

For all the battering her ego had received in the past, Fin no longer saw it as the curled-up, watchful little thing it had once been.
 
Modesty and decency? She had never felt so full of sass.
 

“I can’t tell you how
im
modest, and how
in
decent I feel, when I look at you, Marie,” she said.

Marie laughed, a delighted, for-your-ears-only sort of laugh.

“Well, is it time to go home, then? So we can find out just how wonderfully indecent you really are?” she asked.

“Only my famous modesty prevents me from claiming how
brilliantly
indecent I can be,” declared Fin, rising and picking up Marie’s guitar case.

“I’ll let you tell me later,” replied Marie, eyes narrowed.

The reality check imposed by seasonal trading gave Fin a jolt, and at last she started to apply herself to what needed to be done.
 
She began to commute to Cantlesham five times a week, getting in from Marie’s at six and showering quickly before setting off, sometimes managing a hurried breakfast, and sometimes not.
 
Realising she had managed to avoid thinking about Christmas at all, she made panic purchases of necessary presents and cards in Cantlesham, kicking herself for not having had more foresight.
 
Evening meals were usually too much trouble to cook, and often ended up being a garage sandwich and crisps.
 
Then off to the pub.
 
Not a great lifestyle, obviously, but strictly temporary.

And then there were the Sundays.
 
All good, the brevity of the daylight hours between a lunchtime lie-in and twilight lending a poignancy to the day.
 
To Fin, anyway; Marie seemed well adapted to a nocturnal existence.

“What do you want to do, Marie?
 
How about we go to the park, while there’s still a glimmer of sunshine?”

“Not really... Do you mind very much, Fin?”

“That’s OK.
 
How about the cinema?
 
Come on, let me treat you, we can sit in the back row and hold hands.”

“What’s on?”

“Does it matter? All right, you choose, what would
you
like to do?”

“Nothing much.
 
I usually hang with friends.”

“Well then.
 
Couldn’t we do that?”

That first Sunday they went to a squat where some of the occupants were inert, still rolled in duvets and sleeping bags, and others sat against the walls, smoking, and drinking from cans.

“Hi,” said Marie, and was greeted with nods and an “All right?” from one of the men.

“Want to sit?” he said, indicating a saggy sofa that had probably looked better on the skip.
 
They sat.
 
Nobody spoke for a while, and then Marie asked, “What about Sharon?”

The young man’s dark eyes widened, and he shook his head.

“Gone. Missing-presumed-dead.” He gave a lopsided grin that Fin found chilling.
 
“Heard from Sid?” he added, exhaling a thin plume of smoke.

“No, no. Not really,” replied Marie. Fin wondered what that meant, but now seemed an inappropriate moment to ask

The conversation lapsed.

“I’m Fin,” said Fin, eventually, almost timidly.
 
One of the male squatters hawked, shot her a stony glance, got up and left the room.
 
The springs of the ravaged sofa were biting into her backside, and she shifted in an attempt to find a neutral spot.
 

“Hi,” said two of the group, and another jerked his chin in her direction.
 
One of the sleepers started to whimper, and called “Mum!” The man nearest shook her gently, helping her to a sitting position before giving her a sip of his beer.
 

In her new position on the sofa, half of Fin’s bottom rested in a deep dip, causing one hip to sit much higher than the other, making her feel unbalanced and insecure. She wondered how long this desperately uncomfortable visit would last.

Watching the girl suck on the beer can conjured up a clean, frosted glass of water in her mind, an image that floated mirage-like and wouldn’t go away, as a desultory and interminable conversation took place between Marie and one of the girls. The exchange concerned someone who had lived in the squat before but didn’t now, and the girl seemed to be saying the same thing over and over again, with barely discernible variations.

Eventually Fin turned to Marie, and said quietly, “Can we get a drink?”

“If you want one, you’ll have to go out for it.
 
Visitors get their own,” Marie whispered back.

“No, I just mean water.
 
I’m thirsty.”

“Not sure what the water situation is here,” Marie replied, “we’ll go along to the cafe.”

She stood, and fished in her fringed shoulder bag, pulling out two pound coins and dropping them in an Oxo tin on the mantelpiece.
 
Fin found a pound and a fifty pence in her pocket, and followed suit, leaning over a sandy-haired girl who was stubbing out her roll-up amid a peppering of freckles on the once-white marble hearth.
 
She followed Marie out, noting that none of the squatters had acknowledged either their departure or their contribution.

“Goodbye,” she said, too quietly to be heard, but unwilling to give up entirely on the niceties.

“Were they stoned?” she asked Marie, when they reached the street.
 
Marie shot her a glance, and turned away with a smile.

“Did they look like they have enough to spend on drugs? You saw the conditions.”

“Yes, so I did.
 
People don’t realise.”
 

“Just never walk past a Big Issue seller.”

“Never do,” replied Fin, not entirely truthfully.

They reached the steamy little cafe at the corner of the road, and pulled bentwood chairs up to the busiest table, where five more of Marie’s friends were at work bringing down the government.
 
Four of them were animated and welcomed Fin when Marie introduced her as “a friend of mine”, and the fifth giggled, evidently more able than the squatters to afford social pleasures.