This Charming Man

  She swallowed another mouthful of liquid glitter and cushioned herself further into the glow.

  She’d never before walked out of work in the middle of the afternoon.

  First time for everything.

  A stab of conscience. The documents that needed to go in today’s post? If they were that important, someone else would do them.

  And Daisy and Verity? They’dbe fine. Everything was fine, fine, lovely and fine.

  ‘Another one.’ She waved her glass at the poker-faced barman.

  Everything felt gorgeous, except she’d like someone to talk to. And who better than Rico? Just as Guy had promised, he had kept well clear of her all week, but actually, actually she was very fond of Rico, extremely fond, and suddenly she wanted to see him.

  She fumbled for her mobile. ‘What’s the name of this pub?’ she called.

  ‘The Wellington.’

  In the Wellington. V&T?

  She held her phone, waiting for a reply. Go on, she urged. Go on.

  B wit u in 5!

  Five minutes! Fantastic! She ordered him a drink and watched the door, thinking about how fine everything was, and then there was Rico! Hurrying towards her, a big grin on his face. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you.’

  She couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you either. Here’s your drink.’

  He downed it in one and they both dissolved into manic laughter.

  ‘Did he make you go to AA meetings too?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, but they had to be in the evening, they had to be different to your ones. Mad, isn’t it? The whole thing? Guy’s a headcase.’ He nodded at the barman. ‘Two more.’

  She’d forgotten how good-looking Rico was. She nuzzled his neck. ‘I’ve missed you, you know.’

  ‘Missed you too.’ He put his lips to hers and thrust his tongue into her mouth. Nice. Sexy. Sort of.

  The pub was filling up now; people in antlers and draped in tinsel.

  ‘Time’s it, Rico?’

  ‘Ten past five. You’re not going to skip out on me?’

  She should go home, everyone was expecting her. But she had a husband and a nanny to take care of her children.

  ‘Me? No, going nowhere.’

  Another unwelcome stab of conscience. She should ring them, it wasn’t right to worry them, but they’d only give her a hard time and she was feeling so happy and she so rarely felt happy…

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, I have to tell you about –’ She took a long swallow from her glass, ice cubes banging against her teeth, and when she put it down again, Guy had materialized in front of her. Cushioned though she was, it was a shock.

  ‘… Guy, I…’ She sought an explanation but couldn’t fashion one.

  He loomed over them, tall and haughty, while she and Rico looked up like guilty schoolchildren.

  ‘Marnie.’ He handed her a white envelope. ‘One for you too,’ he said to Rico.

  Then he left.

  She and Rico turned wide-eyed to each other. ‘How did he find us?’

  ‘God.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘We’re sacked. He’s sacked us!’

  She tore open her envelope and they pored over it together. Words jumped off the white page. ‘… drunk…’ ‘… patience…’ ‘… warnings…’ ‘… dismissed with immediate effect…’

  ‘It’s true, he’s done it, he’s sacked me.’ She couldn’t stop giggling.

  Grim-faced, Rico ripped his envelope open and scanned the page. ‘I don’t fucking believe it. He’s sacked me too.’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘I didn’t think…’

  ‘Why would he sack me and not sack you?’

  ‘Because I’m a fucking genius.’

  ‘And I’m not?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Well, fuck you.’

  ‘And fuck you. You’ve just lost me my job.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘If he didn’t have a thing for you, he wouldn’t care what I did.’

  ‘Look, he doesn’t mean it.’ She ran her hand up Rico’s thigh, stopping just short of his crotch. ‘We’re not sacked, he’s just trying to scare us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s obvious!’ Wasn’t it?

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Look, am I wasting my time here?’ She drummed her fingers on the top of his leg.

  ‘Oh.’

  Now she had his attention. Discreetly she began stroking the fabric, finding and encouraging his erection with her fingers. He kissed her again, deep and searching, and slid his hand down the back of her skirt, under her tights and knickers, cupping her buttock.

  They drank and kissed and drank and touched and when the barman bent over their table, she thought he was collecting the empties. Then he spoke. Quietly he said, ‘We’d like you to leave.’

  What?

  We’d like you to leave.

  Her face flamed with mortification.

  ‘Finish up your drinks and leave.’

  ‘Now, look –’ Rico started threateningly.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s just go.’

  ‘Fuck them, we’ll go back to mine.’

  Their faces averted with embarrassment, they swallowed the remains of their drinks and gathered up their stuff.

  At the door, Rico suddenly stopped and called back over his shoulder, ‘Fuck you. You couldn’t pay me to drink in this shit-hole.’

  ‘We were actually drinking in that shit-hole.’ Marnie couldn’t stop laughing and she knew she was getting on Rico’s nerves. The more irritable he got, the more she laughed.

  ‘Fuck you.’ She imitated his voice. ‘You couldn’t PAY me to drink in this shit-hole.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  They fell in the door of Rico’s apartment and she tumbled onto the floor, pulling him down on top of her, causing him to bang his elbow hard.

  ‘Christ! For God’s sake, Marnie, that really fucking hurt!’

  ‘Shut up, you milk-sop, I’ve got THREE CRACKED RIBS. I know ALL about pain.’

  ‘Stop laughing! Get up and get your clothes off.’ He pushed her towards the bedroom, tugging at her skirt.

  ‘I want a drink.’ She lay on his bed and yelled with mirth, ‘IWANT A DRINK.’

  ‘There isn’t anything.’ His eyes were half shut and his mouth was slack. Being drunk didn’t suit him, it made him blurry and soft around the edges. ‘I’ll have to go out and get some.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she cried. ‘Really? Nothing? Why not?’

  ‘I drank it all.’

  ‘Hah! You drunkard.’

  ‘Marnie, if you don’t stop laughing, I swear I’m going to smack you one.’ He loomed over her and pressed himself against her, his erection digging painfully into her pubic bone. She made herself focus on him: his face looked like it was melting.

  He ground himself against her and thrust his tongue into the back of her throat. She wasn’t enjoying this and she didn’t know why.

  She wasn’t drunk enough. That was what the trouble was. They’d been ousted from the pub too soon.

  ‘Stop.’ She was pushing his face away and trying to clamber out from under him.

  ‘What? Why?’

  Why?

  ‘I’m married.’

  He pulled back in amazement. ‘It’s never stopped you before.’

  So she had slept with him. Oh no, no, no. She couldn’t behave as if this was news.

  ‘It should have stopped me.’ She wanted to leave. She was revolted by him. ‘I love my husband.’

  ‘What?’ He was shocked.

  I love Nick and I love my children and I don’t know what I’m doing here. ‘Rico, I want to go.’

  ‘Go on, then, go.’

  Out in the street, a taxi driver with a yellow light slowed down, then speeded up again when he got close enough to take a proper look at her. She shivered on the street corner, scanning the cars. Without a coat, the cold took bites out of her.
Lots of taxis were around but they were jam-packed with office-party types, leaving a suggestion of discordant bugles and cheap red-satin dresses in their wake as they whizzed past. By the time the yellow light of an empty taxi finally hoved into view, her feet were numb – but this driver also refused to take her!

  ‘I’m freezing,’ she pleaded.

  ‘You’re pissed,’ he said, and accelerated away.

  She stared after him; she had no choice but to walk back to the office and get her own car. It wasn’t so far, perhaps a mile, but it took a long time; people were everywhere, spilling out of pubs, singing, shoving and shouting.

  When she reached the car park, she had a moment when she wondered if she was sober enough to drive – and decided she was. That walk would have sobered up George Best. And although she grazed the car slightly on a pillar as she pulled out of the parking space, it was a good thing because it reminded her to drive extra carefully.

  The roads were full of pre-Christmas traffic. People driving like nutters, and pedestrians falling out into the street, almost under her wheels. It was like an obstacle course. Then she got stuck in front of a police car, racing off to some crime scene, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing. Right up behind her it drove, destroying her concentration.

  She slowed down. ‘Go on,’ she called in frustration. ‘Overtake me.’

  Unable to take the wailing, she nipped into a bus stop so they could zip past her.

  But when they pulled in behind her, filling her car with blue light, the truth was like a punch in the stomach. They were for her. For her.

  There were two of them, men. She rolled down the window.

  ‘Step out of the car, madam.’ A look passed between the two coppers. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  A police car brought her home. She’d gone through a red light. She’d been arrested for drunk-driving. It was eleven o’clock at night. Nick would go berserk.

  The lights were off, thank God. They were all in bed. She might have got away with this. Quietly she let herself in and went straight for the cupboard under the kitchen sink; some months ago she’d decanted a bottle of Smirnoff into an empty bleach container, as an emergency stash. There was some upstairs in her wardrobe, a bottle that Grace hadn’t found, but she’d wake Nick if she tiptoed in and rummaged for it.

  She’d noticed the envelope propped up against the pepper grinder, as she located a glass and a bottle of tonic, but it was only when she sat at the table with her drink that she picked it up. No address, just her name in black type.

  Another letter from Guy, perhaps? Reinstating her?

  The memory of getting caught by him in the pub felt like a cloud passing over the sun. And then being asked to leave…

  God.

  She opened the envelope. The letter was typed on heavy cream paper and it wasn’t from Guy. It was from a company: Dewey, Screed and Hathaway, Attorneys at Law.

  What was this?

  It wasn’t about her job.

  It was something to do with Nick.

  She forced her eyes to focus and to stop sliding into double vision long enough to make sense of the words.

  Nick had left her. He had taken the children. The house was on the market.

  She’d thought there had been a strange feeling in the house, now she knew what it was – there was no one here.

  She sprinted up the stairs and into Verity’s room. Empty. She wrenched open the wardrobe door; bare hangers rattled. Then she raced to Daisy’s room; bed neatly made and empty. Into her own room, up on a chair, opening the highest cupboard: this would be the proof. What she saw made her actually gasp: all the Santa presents for the girls were gone. Impossible though it was, the emptiness seemed to pulse.

  He’d left her, the bastard. And he’d taken the girls with him.

  She sat on the top step of the stairs, swallowing and swallowing, trying to wet her dry mouth.

  They would come back, they were just trying to scare her. But it was a bad, bad thing to do.

  She heard her own shriek and was on her feet, tugging her hand from his, without knowing why.

  A cigarette. He’d put his cigarette out on the palm of her hand. He’d gripped the hand so hard the bones had squeaked, and ground his cigarette into the centre of it.

  Red mist floated before her eyes. She couldn’t see.

  He stared at her palm, at the round red burn, the grains of ash still scattered across it. There was a strange smell and a plume of smoke rose from the wound.

  ‘Why… did you do that?’ Her teeth were chattering.

  ‘It was an accident.’ He sounded stunned. ‘I thought it was an ashtray.’

  ‘How?’

  The pain was too bad, she couldn’t stay still. ‘The cold tap.’ She stood up and all the blood left her head.

  ‘I’ve proper bandages,’ he said. ‘And antiseptic. Don’t let it get infected.’

  He dressed her wound, he gave her codeine, he brought her dinner in bed and fed it to her bite by bite.

  He’d never been more tender.

  Lola

  Thursday, 11 December 21.55

  I quietly opened front door and tiptoed out of house into dark night. Cast furtive look around. No sign of Jake the Love-God, thanks be to cripes. Although he could be out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows, ready to ambush me with his surfy love.

  21.56

  Limbo’d under wire fence and knocked on Rossa Considine’s front door.

  ‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  Awkward conversation ensued as we sipped beer and waited for Law and Order to start.

  I cleared throat. Asked, with attempt at cheeriness, ‘All set for trannie night tomorrow night?’

  Was only trying to fill silence but my chance remark triggered a revelation – a trannie is not the same thing as a cross-dresser!

  ‘Trannies are gay,’ Rossa said. ‘Cross-dressers are straight.’

  Now I understood why Noel from Dole continued to eschew the word ‘trannie’ and would only answer to ‘cross-dresser’!

  ‘To be honest, Rossa Considine,’ I admitted, ‘just thought they were different ways to describe same thing.’

  ‘Like Snickers and Marathon?’

  ‘Correct. Like Ulay and Olay.’

  ‘Like porridge and oatmeal?’

  Pause. ‘Please do not say “oatmeal”, Rossa Considine, is irritating word.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cannot explain. Just is.’

  Sudden strained atmosphere. Rossa Considine focused with hard stare on the telly. Lengthy ad break before Law and Order. Taking long time to start.

  When Rossa Considine had so unexpectedly shown up as ‘Chloe’ almost four weeks ago, I had been shocked, bewitched, stunned – many emotions. Astonished at my poor powers of observation – had been living next door to trannie (beg your pardon, I mean cross-dresser) for some weeks and hadn’t had a clue. Even more astonishing, that taciturn – at times, yes, even surly – man could be transformed into radiant woman, all smiles and chat and perfumed kisses.

  Had been quite dazzled by her and readily accepted invitation to view Law and Order with, of course, that caveat that if we got on each other’s nerves, we need not repeat the experience. She insisted we exchange mobile numbers so, if required, we could end the arrangement by text. Nicest way, she said.

  But! Oh yes, but! The following Thursday night, as I furtively exited the house (by then, Jake’s nocturnal lurking was well under way), and slipped under the wire fence that separated me from Chloe’s/Rossa’s, I realized I felt shy. Immensely strange situation, entirely without precedent. Had been invited by adorable Chloe – but unkempt Rossa answered the door and relieved me of bag of tortilla chips and cans of beer. Odd. Like going on a date set up by absent, matchmaker-style third party. Very, very strange, if I thought about it too much. So decided not to. Had other things on mind (which will get to – yes, yes, will get to).

  Despite acknowledged tensions between us, the first Thursda
y had gone well. Law and Order watched and savoured and conversation light and pleasant.

  Second Thursday could also be deemed a success. Also third Thursday. However, here we were on fourth Thursday – perhaps no longer on our best behaviour? – and it seemed, as a result of my oatmeal comment, we might be running into difficulties.

  I asked, ‘You going to sulk now, Rossa Considine?’

  ‘Why would I sulk, Lola Daly?’

  ‘You are quite sulky, as a rule.’ Had a thought. ‘At least as a man, you are. But as a woman, you are charm itself. Perhaps you should be a woman all the time.’

  ‘Couldn’t go potholing in high heels.’

  ‘That is defeatist attitude. May I ask you further questions about this trannie/cross-dresser dichotomy?’

  ‘Please do not say “dichotomy”, Lola Daly, is irritating word.’

  ‘Wh –? Oh is joke. Careful, you almost smiled there.’

  His lips were definitely turning upwards.

  ‘Come on,’ I coaxed reluctant smile, ‘show us your teeth.’

  ‘Am not a baby,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Very well. Now. Will employ frankness, Rossa Considine. All my “girls” are straight, i.e. cross-dressers. But I like the word “trannie”. What am I to do?’

  ‘Sue is gay.’

  ‘Really?’

  (Sue was new. Noel/Natasha had located her on chat-site and invited her along the previous week – much to my dismay. ‘No more, Natasha,’ I had begged, when they showed up together. ‘No more.’ But Noel regards our Friday nights as cross-dressing homeland. Everyone welcome, by dint of their cross-dressingness, regardless of how much – little, actually – room there is.)

  ‘Okay,’ I began again. ‘All my girls except Sue are straight, i.e. cross-dressers. But I like the word “trannie”. What am I to do?’

  ‘Learn to live with it.’

  ‘No. Don’t think I will.’

  ‘No matter what I said, you would have done the opposite.’

  Pause while I considered his comment. About to deny it then realized would be proving him right. ‘So it would seem, Rossa Considine, and I am at a loss as to why. So yes, even though it is wrong description, I will continue to call them all trannies.’