The Lesser Bohemians (7 page)

Silenter walking down Haverstock Hill. Hands in my pockets. Cigarette on his lips. Me growing pink-faced in the chill while he stays white and fine, staring off into the winter light, higher and further than I can see. Looking up, I'd like to ask him things but he hasn't the face for it now.

At the Steele's he says How about a drink?

Thanks, I say as he puts down the pints. Sip and smoke til the tongue unwinds. How many times have you seen it? I ask. Four or five maybe. Do you like it a lot? Yeah, he says I like how it takes a while to adjust but once you shift yourself into his time Jesus     what you get to see, was that your first time? Yes. What did you think? It's beautiful but     do you think there are more important things than happiness? Yeah, of course there are, he says But it's pretty hard to do without     or face not having again. And his life opens a little to let me look in. I want to ask more so badly but say I'm glad you took me. Thanks for coming with, he smiles.

And it's almost five when I say So     I've got to go
not cool enough for any Ask for my number, won't you?
Well, if you have to. I don't have to but     you know     I should probably wash. You smell alright to me, he says. That's because I smell of you, and I catch his eye but he only goes Yeah well     I smell of you too.
Will he ever ask? Ask
. I – reluctant – get up. He also goes to with I'll walk you back. No, no, you stay put
and Irish myself from what I most want
      thanks for a lovely weekend. Yeah, he looks into his pint It was great.
Jesus Christ
. Well      bye then. He stands up now, to give me a Shit! You're bleeding! What? You have a nosebleed. He dabs and Fuck I haven't had one in years. Sit down, I Put your head back. He obedient does and quiet wiping ensues with what I find in my pockets. He is so white though and dark under the eyes Should we go across to the? No no I'll be fine, he says and God how stupid is this? But it's a bad one. It takes an age to clot. On both our fingers by the time he says Look, if I promise not to haemorrhage all over you would you like to do this sometime again? Jesus, I thought you'd never ask! Slow starter, he grins Always was, but showing the blood on his teeth. I write my number on a beermat and one for the
school. Go on then, he says I'll give you a call, and we try not to kiss goodbye too much because of the blood. Beyond the door though my bottom lip licks of rust. So lick it out into the chill on Haverstock. And that is the end of the day.

Who's been doing the mauling? she asks, in the changing room, as I don everything unedifying for ballet. No one, I say but with hair up high a fine dog of teeth marks are plain
and press the blistered memory of his room.
I'd give her all of it later but, for now, have it mine – just as lustre on bad pliés or lepping about like fake Fonteyn. She'll have it now though and I knew its! loudly when I say who. Didn't I tell you you'd see him again? Then Where? When? How long did you stay? Which film was it and is he dirty in bed? Remember, brief, him licking my palm but cannot think of one dirty thing. Giving to what she means though, I say He knows what he's at. She, mad for a mystery though, plagues for Origin of the Bite? Kitsching now I When he came! hand fanning myself. The Bounder! she adds. But I like of his upon me, whatever marks he's made. So smoke away and drink my tea and read Black Snow, this Monday after him.

Just one moment Lady! the landlady calls up the stairs. Yes? You were seen, she says. I was what? One of my working gentlemen saw you in Belsize Park with a man, an older one at that, apparently. I burn but a lie comes quick That was my Acting teacher. He was also at the film. London's awful godless, she says I may not be your mother but I feel responsible so I hope to God you're telling the truth. English men have no morals, you bear that in mind. I will, I mumble, scarfing the embarrassment down, then legging it upstairs soon as I can, for relentless reliving. And godlessness
notwithstanding, the rest of the week is the same.

And I wait. But there's nothing. A long silence on the phone. Any messages? No. She asks after? No.
Why doesn't he so and hasn't he called?
One week slides to fortnight and reliving palls amid tints of my mistakes. Then dawn of thinking about who he is. How easily he can get hold of someone else. And this I see. It claws itself in my brain. Some glossy real actress, bones in her back on display. They'll speak interestingly of the Royal Court at some elegant restaurant where he'll footsie her up. Then go back to her flat. Pet her Siamese cat and spend the night inside because he's the type knows what's good for him – women who give men what they want. Not me, with a band-aid on the hook of my bra, unable even to fake it and no idea. All the women he must've slept with. Why would he call? And my own gullibility galls. But then. Then again. Didn't I get what I wanted? Bloody virginity banished, and more. There, you see? Rise and fall. Party this Saturday at mine, she says Come, it'll cheer you up.

Slop riot here. Music. Drinking. Passing things around. Cheque guarantee cards chop unwrapped talcs. Ponytails like tidal waves slap tabletops and nostrils butterfly. This is new but I am fixed and press his memory to some hard place. Just smoke whatever I am passed. Getting stoned and stoneder. Getting much more stoned and stretch myself beyond myself out into the crowd. Smirking. Snarking. Little jig. Up in her room Here have some of this. She and me and the back of my Jesus. Yow it burns. But not too long before it turns my brain. Bright and dark at the self-same time. And the night, it seems, begins again. To the sitting room! she cries. Running through hours like water then. Losing track of everything. Drink, lines, blood
in my brain. Talk to him or her. People I know, or not, the same. Fine to be out of my brushed-off skin. Anyone can dance with me and I can dance with anyone. Saying only sometimes This fella I knew     And who cares anyway now? Hither me, thither me. Smoke on that. Drinking drinker. Vodka. More of. Gone to play and such distance made that when some fella says Sit on my lap, I do.

Numb mouth mirror and roaring eyes, we go reeling down her path. Take my hand, he offers. You a funny guy. What're you on? he asks. Lots of miles an hour. Better than drunk I'd say and quicker and faster for the sharper world I see. Trees black under a blacked-out sky. Cutting cut out stars over black bits white. The grass and wind. Has my hand now. My heart going go go go. I can't tell though, stop from go. Just this big fella with new smelling hair. I'll see his Pericles Prince of Tyre. I know I know his name. Sure he's all lips and muscles – what more do I want? Where're we going? To get a night bus. I'm whirling. Slip. He catches me. Sit down, no sit down there. I a-seat myself. I agree with his kiss. I love an Irish redhead. Can you see I'm not? Well, and were you raised by nuns? Convent girls are best. Best what? Conquests, apparently. Go on with your conquering, but fall in with his way. See me. Skirt high on Adelaide Road. That's a party. The way I want. Taste this man, but see the. No. Come down you sweet little roses, I sing Come down you little rose in the garden. Bus stops. I slip. He pulls me up. Transfigured night ahead. Wild one convent girl, come on. The tug of him and the brawl in my mind. Don't, I say Leave me alone. Sister, I know what's to be done.

England?   Camden?   Kentish   Town?   Turn like someone's snapped my twangs. A man's blond hair. His broader back.
Mouth raw. Jaw stiff. Hey, wake up! Was I snoring? No, fucking hell! Relax, he yawns It's only me. Blinks of dancing. Where is this? Finchley. Really? Jesus Christ. Nothing either of any sex
though pretty sure there's been
. In fact, none of the night I see. Just being there, being here and empty in between. Fuck! What happened? What do you think? Where'd I get these bruises? You fell on the bus. Really? Several times. I don't remember. That's weird, he frowns But then, all that vodka when we got in. You were a right laugh though. How'd you mean? Well the guided tour. Oh God! No, he laughs It was good, especially all the ‘head, own hair' part. Scan for iotas but all that's blinded out and the nothing's rushing fast. Then like playing Dallas, I sheet my breasts Did we use     something, at least? He picks at a tissue Yep we did.
Not as handsome
. Not as tall.
Relief but laying itself across what's certainly, seriously disappeared. I should go. Bra skirt shoe shoes knickers top. And when I'm dressed, he says Cheers for that. Yeah, I say You too.

Out to the out. Bang the front door. City blast in my ears. Pigeon shit on sycamores. Don't panic. I already am. Panic like a mad one the whole way home. London crossing before me, preoccupied with itself. Content I'm the girl who does this for a laugh, but later, alone, bats an eye.

Good party? the landlady asks. I offer my best occluded self and Didn't get much sleep on her sofa though. Oh, she guiles I'm sure the drink didn't help. I smile to let her in and keep her out. Any nice boys? No, not at all. Ah, time enough for that. Exactly. Go on so – I am dismissed – have yourself a little lie down.

Still. I can. I make myself still until I hear her leave. And into the bath to scrape skin off. Rubbed under bubbles til I'm pure gold butter dripping from my tongue. No. Never that
again. But everything else? I might have. I can just about guess by the aches and pains where his larking was. Think. Don't. Think of. Him. Just go to my room and as the day goes down, light a cigarette. Then let it find its own information, for pain knows what it is. Better there where I can see. Better than his mystical fading. Landlady later screaming You used my hot water again!

Sunday

Door opens on the scrat of party debris and her howling at the sink. What is it? I got here quick as I could. She Did you see him on his way out? Who? She means me. You duplicitous shit! He lights his rollie Anyway I'm off. Wait, I say What's going on? But he's already out the door. Oh God, pink marigolds hit the floor. Her sliding after them down on her arse. Come here, I say Tell me what's wrong? as hicks and kinks go mad. Pick by bit though it comes out He just told me    only now    that after Christmas after Christmas. What? He's marrying some Czechoslovakian bitch – shrouds of crying and sheets of snot – It's a visa thing. It's a what? So she can stay. So it's not for real? He's really marrying her alright. Is she paying him or something? It's for his fees! Well that means it's only the money. Oh come on, she says We all need that but I'm not marrying strangers for a few thousand quid. I touch her lovely haircut But. Don't defend him to me. I'm not, he's a gobshite. He is     whatever that means. Another rumple of awful tears. Ah don't, I say Sit up here, I'll make you a cup of tea.

Weeks roll over to December. Room and school the same. A month of holiday meeting every eye and today is the last day.

There's a message for you on the notice board. Just a number
and ‘Please ring him' below it. It's got to be your Him, she says Who else would it be? Will I? Or Fuck him! It must be five weeks,
never mind what else I've been at.
She says Forget about that, he has no right to know.

Hello? Hello there, how are you? Fine. What are you up to? I'm off to Ireland tomorrow. For good? No, for the Christmas break. So     are you around tonight? Actually this afternoon's our Showing, then we're all going for a drink. Right, Doctor Faustus, I remember    well    break a leg maybe catch up in the But I could do later on? Okay, Prince Albert again? Round nine? Half past, I say – to be the final word.

Clearly none of you have a clue what this play is about. Do you know how it feels to be in the grip of evil? To have a desire for which you'd sell your soul? To have sold your soul and owe the devil? The Principal waits, pacing, until it's clear we don't and then he really starts. Guts spill and – though it's no surprise – we flinch against the music of our own tearing sound. Bloodless. Sexless. Stick insect. Blank card. Beat to low by the end. But afterwards, shoving flats back into the furniture dock, hanging costumes on rails, packing, we laugh and think of drinks ahead. One or another peel and pick off to the Fiddler's Elbow or Barnacle Bill's for chips. I, slow and almost last, love the dust of the day closing off. No more Song Exercises. Drums. Madding about. Night showing itself beyond the canteen light and forgotten water bottles on its floor. Past cutlery dumped by the serving hatch door. Tide-marked jockstraps on the sofa. Scripts. London's Calling fliers ripped for a roach. Spotlights with our favourite actors' pictures torn out and mugs on the tile tabletops. One
white sheet on the notice board reads: School reopens 10 am 9 January 1995. And I choose these months – for everything – as the very best of my life, so far.

Later

Breath of winter on me, brain crawling little from drink, I sit where he was with The Devils that night and read my book like pub doors are quiet and will not look up for him. Then at my shoulder Women in Love? – stoops to my cheek but gets an earlobe – Thought you'd be long past the Lawrence phase. Well, hello to you too, I lifting my eyes to him, damp and cold-faced from the wind. Have a few in you already? I do. Better catch up, and to the barmaid – rubbing heat into his hands – Two, when you're ready, and a salt and vinegar please. Come on, that table's free.

Stretching his legs out When are you off? Tomorrow afternoon. And when are you back? Sixth, I say So what have you been up to since? Writing mostly, he smokes I got into a jag – which is why I haven't called      sorry about that. Oh right any more nosebleeds? No touch wood, and leans to kiss at my lips.
Oh God. Terrible, how pleased he is to see me when I did what he did to make hard things easy with someone else, for a laugh.
Alright? he asks. Why? Funny look in your eye. I close them There is something     I. Okay       go on. I      well I      slept with someone else. Out in the innocent world a cash register dings and a woman whinges I asked for change. Oh I see, and how was it? he says. I don't remember, I was a bit out of it. Probably not the best idea that. Then why are you smiling? No reason, he smiles You're lovely when you're feeling guilty is all. Aren't you angry? No, why would I be? I'm not your boyfriend and you're eighteen, what else would you do with yourself? So this
is the way of the world it seems.
Catch up.
Quick shed my guilt to match worldly with him Does that mean you've also slept with someone else since? The cigarette rolls in his mouth. Nod. How was it? Fine. Are you going out with her? No. Are you seeing her again? No. Why not? He shrugs Why would I? Now, another round?