Virtue (3 page)

So I burst out laughing, point at him and say, ‘Come on, bozo. Have you seen the size of me? All you need to do to stop me is hold me at arm’s length.’

He’s not sure whether he’s embarrassed or amused. Decides that being amused is probably the best way of getting his naughties tonight, smiles sheepishly. The gate beeps and clunks open.

‘Come into my parlour,’ I say, gesture him through.

He steps into the yard, stares around and goes, ‘Coo’, or one of those other words people use when they come into our yard for the first time. ‘Come on,’ I say, but he is saying, ‘What the hell
is
this place, anyway?’ which is what people tend to say when they’ve finished saying ‘Coo’. Well, it’s pretty amazing, in the middle of all this prime real estate, to find yourself in the middle of a couple of acres where nothing moves, no one’s parked a BMW and there’s not a scrap of chromed handrail to be seen. Okay, so the railway lines might put some people off, but you’d at least expect some far-thinking council to have built an estate here.

I take hold of the strap of his rucksack, start to pull him in the direction of the tower. I’m used to the yard now, don’t have to run with my eyes clamped on the path in front of me to get through it, but it still spooks me a bit. All those empty spaces; you can never guarantee what’s going to be in them. ‘They’re old boat sheds,’ I inform him.

‘Boat sheds? This far back from the river?’

‘It’s not that far, really; less than a hundred yards. There’s a lock going down to the river, only no one ever notices it because the main road goes over the top.’

‘Christ,’ says Matey. ‘And you live here? How d’you get to live somewhere like this?’

‘My flatmate. Her family had it back when it actually was a boatyard. They’re those sort of people who never get round to selling anything.’

‘Strewth.’

I suppress a giggle. Hearing an Australian say ‘Strewth’ is like hearing a Scotsman say ‘Och aye’. You simply don’t believe that they really say it until you’re actually standing next to it.

Round the D-shed, under the rowan, over the lock bridge and we’re at the porch. Zak? Pack? Shack? stands with his back to me as I fiddle with the keys and mumbles about the industrial wasteland around him. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘this is pretty cool when you get used to it, isn’t it? I mean, like, nobody has this much space in a city. And it’s just you and your flatmate?’

‘Mmm. Yes. Harriet.’

‘You could have,’ he says speculatively, ‘like, a real commune here. Well, obviously not a commune, this isn’t the sixties, but one of those places where all your mates could land when they’ve been travelling. Those sheds would be amazing for parties. Like, a big house area in one, and maybe seventies or trance or something in another, and a big chill-out area in the third, maybe some cushions under that tree we came under, candles, body piercing …’

And then just as I’m thinking: hang on a minute, sonny. You’ve not got your feet under the table yet. Christ, you’ve not even got them inside the front door, he breathes, warm and damp, on my hairline just behind my ear, and I remember what I’ve got him there for.

We go backwards into the hall, locked together like velcro Care Bears, and he drops the backpack just inside the door. Manoeuvres me towards the stairs, which doesn’t take much manoeuvring as I’m waltzing back with him. I get my foot on the first step, and finally our faces are almost level. We haven’t bothered with the lights; nobody bothers with lights when they’re drunk and horny. He hitches his arms around my waist and simply lifts me from step to step, our crotches grinding hard with each swing, and I’m really looking forward to this. I haven’t got laid in two weeks. If I don’t get this guy horizontal – or as near as damn it – soon, I feel like I’m actually going to burst out of my pants. And from the feel of him, I think he might do the same thing.

His foot lands on something which splits, crunches and scatters over the stairs.

‘Shit,’ he mutters. ‘What’s that?’

‘Christ. Bloody Harriet.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. She’s always leaving things on the stairs. I knocked over an entire bag of plaster of Paris the other day and then she dropped a bottle of wine on it. She would have let it set, as well.’

‘Sounded like split peas to me,’ he grunts.

‘What the fuck would she want with split peas?’

‘I dunno. Cook with them?’

‘Harriet doesn’t cook. She’s posh.’

He feels for a foothold among the scattered whatevers, hikes me up another step. ‘Christ, it’s lucky you’re so little. How many steps are there here?’

I push him off, start running up them. ‘A hundred and eighteen.’

‘What?’

I get up to the first-floor landing, outside the bathroom. Call down as he thunders up behind me, ‘A hundred and eighteen!’

He catches me up between that landing and the one outside my room, grabs me behind the knees and flips me handily to the stairs. Panting a bit, I notice, but not so much. Some people are so winded by the time they’ve got up here they’re no good to anyone for ten minutes. But not Lug. He’s all over me like bath oil, has his hands under my skirt, gripping my buttocks, and is making it very clear that he’s up for a bit of a party. And my insides are doing that familiar cha-cha-cha and I’m already starting to sweat a bit.

‘Jeez, you’re gorgeous,’ he says, which of course means, ‘I’m so horny my geography teacher would look gorgeous’, but hell, I don’t care, it’s not like I’ve never said anything like that myself when I thought I was going to get a good going-over, then he gets his hands inside my pants and starts to pull them off. Lovely, lovely, lovely. He’s got button flies and they’re practically popping. There’s no way we’re making it any further up these stairs.

I manage to unplug my mouth from the fine game of tonsil tennis we’ve got going, and say, ‘Have you got any condoms?’

‘Shit, no,’ he says. ‘Down in my backpack. Christ.’

‘’S okay.’ I’ve still got my bag with me, so I look for my purse, find a johnny in behind the business cards and pull it out. I know they’re always telling you that men think that women who carry condoms are slags, but I’m a happy slapper and I don’t care what anyone thinks. I like scoring, I like getting my legs round a nice warm man and seeing what we can do for each other. Call me a slag, it’s fine: I’m having a good time.

‘Oh, thank Christ.’ He snatches it from my fingers, rips the wrapper open with his teeth, kneels up to put it on. A lock of bleached hair flops into his eyes and I look at him and think: yeah, sweet guy, spends a lot of time doing pointless physical things; this will be fun. He meets my eyes and his face melts into one of those soppy, puppy-dog smiles that breaks your heart. ‘Are you ready for this?’

Am I ready? I’ve been up for it for hours, you fool; just come here and do your thing.

Downstairs, there’s a crash. Then Harriet’s voice floats up, ‘Oh, pants. Who bloody broke my bag of popcorn? Anna! Are you up there? Did you break my bloody popcorn and just leave it on the stairs? I nearly broke my bloody neck, you stupid cow. Where the fuck are you?’

My lovely boy is sheepishly trying to stuff himself back into his trousers, jaw hanging in panic. I sit up, pull on my knickers, haul my top back down over my tits. ‘Yeah, I’m up here,’ I call down.

‘Well, what are you doing leaving popcorn all over the stairs?’

‘I didn’t know it was popcorn. I didn’t turn the light on. Anyway, it’s you that left the stuff on the stairs in the first place.’

Her footsteps clomp in our direction. Muscleboy sighs with relief as the last button pops somehow back into its hole and Harriet comes round the corner: navy-blue pleated hockey skirt halfway up the thighs, white blouse liberally stained with gravy and red wine, striped tie at half-mast, high-heeled T-bar sandals, blonde hair tied up in a pair of plaits coming from the top of the head like Pippi Longstocking, filthy old riding mac thrown over the top. Harriet has worn that riding mac every day of the ten years I’ve known her, and it’s never been cleaned. Which at least means that she can travel on the tube unmolested.

‘Oh,’ she says to the slightly pink bambino beside me. I didn’t ask him, but he looks in this light as though he might be in his gap year. ‘Don’t get up.’

He doesn’t, so she continues, ‘Let’s not bother with introductions, eh? I daresay I’ll forget the minute you tell me, anyway. Is that your backpack I fell over when I came in?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies.

‘Ah. Backpacker, are you?’

‘Traveller, actually.’ He tries a tentative smile.

‘Ah, yes. Tourists without baths.’

I close my eyes and pray: please, please don’t let him start explaining the difference between a tourist and a traveller.

God answers my prayer. He just grins and says mildly, ‘Yeah, I reckon. But we have email addresses these days as well so we can keep in touch with all the other travellers and never mix with the natives.’

Harriet seems satisfied with this, continues up the stairs, hops over his knees. ‘I’ve had a shitty night. Totally shitty. Like, shit city with the fan turned on. You won’t mind if I don’t stay and make small talk, will you?’

She looks seriously grim. Harriet puts so much effort into work that she’s often totally drained when she gets home. Sometimes she’s so tired that I don’t just find myself running her a bath from pity, I have to come back and haul her out of it, or she’d just sleep there until she died of hypothermia.

‘No worries,’ says Thunk.

We sit together on the steps listening to her plod up to the living room, her voice, sweet and loving as she greets Henry, who must have been waiting just inside the door for hours. ‘Hello, my darling. Hello, my fine gentleman,’ she coos, and the door clunks to as he yowls in response.

Lug-Mug-Fug says, ‘Is she always that charming?’

‘No.’ I have my hand on his knee, but somehow the atmosphere has slipped. Something of Harriet’s contempt still hangs in the air, and there’s nothing like contempt to kill the sexual urge. ‘I think she liked you, actually.’

‘Aouh yeah?’

I love the way Australians can fit three vowels – sometimes even four – if you’ve ever heard a Melbournite refuse a drink, you’ll know what I mean – into a word where every other nationality would make do with one. I nod noncommittally.

‘Guess she must’ve liked school, if she’s still dressing like that?’

Irritably, I shake my head. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ I can’t be bothered to explain.

He puts his hands out in defence. ‘Okay, okay. Sorry. No need to drop the dummy.’

I shrug. Think, well, might as well get something going again, stand up and say, ‘Might as well go to my room and try again?’

He struggles to his feet. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘but I could do with a drink, maybe? You got anything up there?’ Puts his hand out and runs it over my breast, and I realise that the mood is still there, shallow buried, ready to come out and play again with a tad of encouragement.

Smoothing my skirt over my thighs, I turn upward. ‘There’s bound to be some wine up in the kitchen. My room’s the next one up.’

He takes this as an invitation to go in and get settled. Gives me a don’t-be-too-long kiss, says, ‘Strewth’ when he turns the light on, and I leave him to it.

Stump on further up the stairs. I’m sure there is a bottle of plonk somewhere, probably a bottle of house wine from the restaurant which sometimes just falls into one or other of our bags. From above, I can hear the boom of the television and the clatter of dishes. Henry is sitting at the head of the stairs, the king demanding his dues before anyone can pass. ‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ I chuck him behind the ear and he rewards me with two smacking kisses, one down one side of the nose, one down the other. ‘H’raaow,’ he purrs.

‘How are you this evening?’

‘A’morrwai,’ he replies, ‘m’you?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Good,’ says Henry, stands up to usher me into the royal receiving rooms. Walks regally ahead of me with his tail proud in the air, plumps his bottom down on the rug to the side of the door and begins to play the cello. I rub him on the back of the neck and proceed into the living room.

Harriet is eating a sandwich and pulling off her tie while watching the ads on Channel 5. ‘What’s on?’ I cross over to the fridge – the living room, which takes up the whole top floor of the tower, triples up as a kitchen and, over by the windows on the opposite side, a studio where Harriet splashes glue, paint and bits of whatever she’s found in a skip onto the carpet, and smears the walls with blobs from her oily rags. The whole place has a permanent light scent of turpentine, coupled, occasionally, with the unwashed-hooker smell of Copydex. Sometimes you see a faint look of fear cross people’s faces as they are about to light a cigarette; more often, you see fear on their faces when they think they might be asked what they think of Harriet’s work.

‘Foft porm,’ Harriet splutters round a mouthful of cheese and onion. ‘Veeve Frenf meople memp on a micnic and vem all veir mloves fell off.’

‘Mmm.’ I look in the sink cupboard, where the wine rack lives. God knows why we have a wine rack. I bought it in a rush of optimism when the Belhaven estate said we could have the tower and it’s never had more than three bottles in it since. I think I had this fantasy that we’d get cases delivered by a discount warehouse, maybe have dinner parties or dos with cheese straws and things involving anchovies. I find a bottle of Prefect’s Perks, the second-from-bottom house wine from which Roy makes far the biggest mark-up on the grounds that the kind of people who order the second-from-cheapest in order not to look mean deserve everything they get. ‘You know you’ve got a right to be fed at work, don’t you?’

Harriet swallows the last of her sandwich, breathes fetidly over me. ‘It’s all tapioca and spotted dick on the menu tonight. And fish cakes with mashed swede.’

‘Ah.’

I fish in the drawer for the corkscrew, settle for a knife. ‘How was your evening?’

‘Shitty. Totally shitty. Though I managed to give someone a caning he’ll never forget. Who’s the man-child?’

‘Dunno. I found him at the Royal Geographical Society.’

‘Does he have a name?’