Unzip and Other Compact Stories

  The outhouse was as sparse as modern language. Functional, basic, no designs on beauty. A folding table, two plastic chairs, a fluorescent tube buzzing overhead. Through the half open door a slice of a van, the sounds of a suburban weekday.

  Jackie looked worn. Her highlights had slipped an inch or so down her hair. When she smiled only her mouth moved. As always she skipped the formalities.

  ‘They’ve decided against it. Too costly. They say that maybe if you could cut it back…. But for now it’s off the agenda.’

  She paused. No response. Best to push on to the end.

  ‘Don’t waste any more time on it. It’s dead. Time to move on. I’m sorry.’

  He’d known it was coming, but it still hurt. Maybe even more for that. Like when the thug says he’s going to punch your face just before he does. The anticipation leads to further pain.

  He looked round him: tins of paint, bottles filled with murky liquids, an old sideboard littered with gardening tools. And Jackie, tired and defeated like himself.

  ‘Me too.’

  Except it wasn’t like that. Or at least it was only partly like that. Put that way it sounds too detached, too cynical, as if nothing were surprising anymore. But it was not a script, not a stance. There was no camera.

  Jackie had phoned him the day before and arranged the meeting. It was obvious then that he had been rejected. Why call him in if not? They had been giving him signals for months now; putting him off, changing dates, claiming they had to consult with other departments and the like. Friendly, of course, but elusive. Slippery.

  Nine o’clock. Which meant an early start, as she well knew. To get there on time he would have to leave before dawn, but there was no point in trying to get her to change the appointment, she never did. Or you made it or you blew it.

  So he would have to get up around five and drive through the heavy morning traffic. To make sure he was punctual he’d have to give himself time for unexpected hitches and hold ups. But if it all went well it meant he would arrive too early and have to sit in his car for an hour or so because where Jackie lived there were no services.

  He slept badly, one eye on the alarm clock. Fretful dreams about being late or losing keys. The roads were calm, he arrived well before time. He parked just around the corner, too tired to appreciate the beautiful spring weather, wondering why he bothered to go through the motions when he knew what was coming. Was it good manners, or obedience?

  She opened the door in gardening gloves, which irritated him. Wasn’t she so busy she never changed her schedule? Her hair was a mess, as if she’d just got out of bed. The line of her parting was grey. Otherwise she was neat enough in a blouse and jeans. She led him through to the outhouse.

  It had been meant as a garage and had a large metal door with a smaller one cut into it. It was almost empty apart from a folding table, like a small ping pong table without a net, and a couple of garden chairs of green moulded plastic. For no reason at all the light was on, buzzing like a fridge.

  They sat down at opposite ends of the rickety table. She did not offer him a drink. She tried a smile, but it didn’t happen. Her heart was not in it, and whilst the corners of her mouth turned up, the rest of her face refused to be part of the farce.

  She sighed wearily – this was not going to be easy for her. So straight to the point.

  ‘They’ve decided against it. Too costly. They say that maybe if you could cut it back…. But for now it’s off the agenda.’

  She had not rushed her lines, she had studied them. A police officer announcing the death of a loved one. Apologetic in a theoretical way, a professional knowledge of psychology, a yearning to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

  She tried to catch a glimpse of her victim without his noticing it, but failed on both counts.

  There was a pause. Through the half open garage door came the sound of passing cars and birdsong. She would give him a chance to say something. But there was no reply. So be it.

  ‘Don’t waste any more time on it. It’s dead. Time to move on. I’m sorry.’

  It was harsh, almost cruel, but best that way. Short and sharp and to the point. Life is full of these nasty turns and surprises, she seemed to say. Get over it and get out.

  He looked strangely relaxed, taking in the surroundings. The metal shelves full of tins of paint, jars of preserves, containers filled with anti freeze and pesticide. The dusty white van parked out on the driveway. She wondered what he was thinking. Surely he must have known why she had called him all the way out there? Was he going to make her an offer for that old sideboard? His silence was beginning to unnerve her, like an accusation. She sat tensely. Well come on if you like, I’m ready.

  But instead he just stood up and said, in a deadpan voice that conveyed virtually nothing,

  ‘Me too’.

  That’s better, it’s a lot closer. But no, it wasn’t that, not precisely. From one angle maybe, but there was more, so much more.

  What is lacking? The indescribable intricacy of angles, of pale and sharp reflections, shades of shade? The fine mesh of interwoven senses? Or time? Was that the missing element? Not the chronological order of events; he got up at precisely 5.05; the journey lasted two hours and fourteen minutes. No, not the continuous gnawing of clocks, but the broader sweep, the thick brush strokes. Time not as a measuring tape, a stop watch, but something more elastic and amorphous. There was a couple smoking calmly by the window, (where, when?) and their smoke trickled up to form layers and whorls that shifted with each tiny current. That kind of smoky, gaseous time is always present, and had been wrapped around everything in that stark room. Their straightforward conversation stretched backwards and forwards in time as he saw Jackie in her twenties, Jackie in the office, in her office, their tense moments glimpsed for an instance in the corner of a mouth. Her ages peeling off to reveal another woman, the same woman, only to quickly reassemble on her present face as if it had all been a trick of the light.

  In the objects too, those silent witnesses, apparently so neutral and indifferent but in reality barbed with memories. Tins of paint, half used and probably dried up and useless, each one with its coloured guts seeping out, forming sloppy formation on the shelves. Had those things not also been there when their grandfathers had walked this earth? And this rickety table of the youth hall? Were they expected to ignore it, to pretend they hadn’t noticed, to look away?

  Time swirling around them like chaos, pushing them on, dragging them back, denying them forgetfulness. Evasive, untrustworthy time making the idea of a beginning, a starting point, even an arbitrary one, impossible. There are a thousand choices, but they must decide on one alone, or they cannot even begin to move. Things can be left unfinished, but not unstarted.

  There can be no true point of departure, but let this suffice.

  An idea. Not Leonard’s or Jackie’s (they liked to think they were above such individualistic notions, and to the gallery they were), but just a simple idea that lead to another, and gradually grew into a project. There had been catalysts; his interview with Mario’s mother sprang to mind, and Jackie too had spotted the opportunity for expansion, but neither of them ever claimed authorship of the original idea. One day it existed, and that was that. The plan was simple - they would take the best educational techniques and technology to the country, to the small rural schools which had never seen a native language teacher, or a chemistry lab, had never had access to cutting edge IT training. They envisaged huge trucks or buses, equipped with the latest gadgetry and the finest professionals, pulling into the main street as hordes of excited children and grateful parents swarmed around them. The educational circus has arrived! They drew up names for the project – Future for All, The Big School Bus, The Fast Track Truck and all sorts of nonsense.

  At first it was a private issue, not getting beyond the walls of the coffee bar or the small talk of the dinner table. But they hoped, possibly even knew, that one day they would forward the notion at a boar
d meeting, with facts and figures and a well studied presentation, and they would fight for it. It was their baby, their brainchild, and they naturally wanted the best for it.

  So they did their research, found out who they needed to talk to and how many administrative hoops they would have to jump through. Costs were worked out and possible financing explored. Sponsors, donors, competent authorities, insurers and guarantors. Even the political benefits to be gleaned depending on ideological leaning. They had it all wrapped up.

  That was…. three years ago now? Three years since the presentation, give or take a month. It was late spring or early summer, because the windows were open making it hard to be heard over the roar of the city. But how long since the original idea, that sad visit from Mario’s mother? It must have been, if they were both in Planning, somewhere near ten years, nine at least. Not that it mattered, in real terms, in verifiable units of time. Eight years, eleven years, so what? But on their personal timescale it meant a lot, meant time invested, time shared, time together with a common goal.

  It was that knowledge that was present in the air of the outhouse. They did not need to refer to it; it existed without the need of words. Their old excitement, their collusion, their frustrated desire to create and to educate. The faint, sweet smell of hope almost lost under the bitter tang of paraffin and defeat. Defeat and betrayal.

  Betrayal? Was that the right word? And who or what had been betrayed? Leornard, both of them, her ideals, his innocence? Maybe the word was too emotive, too dramatic. A change of allegiances, a fresh approach to new circumstances, a simple question of evolution. Cooler, more detached phrases to explain bitter disappointment and lost faith. Because, to his mind, Jackie, his one time colleague turned full time boss, if nothing else, abandoned him and the cause, ditched her part in the project and left him out on a limb, alone. That was there in her non smile, in the lack of hospitality, in the inflexible timing of a finally pointless meeting.

  He should have spotted it earlier, but their relationship, one step beyond mere workmates, hindered his vision. No, they were never lovers; there was never even the slightest hint of physical attraction. But they were friends, not intimate, but close. Shared ideals, at least for a while, and sincerely worked together to improve things. When she was promoted they celebrated, half of the department raising their glasses to her success down at Bernie’s. Then she was gone.

  Now he recalled, and his new knowledge coloured events. She graciously allowed him to present the project as if it were his own, backing him up with statistics only when strictly necessary. He thanked her profusely for that act of modesty, truly believed that she was maintaining a low profile for his benefit, so that he could take most of the credit. Now he realized she was already distancing herself from the whole idea. He felt she had failed him, and that is what he saw in her lacklustre hair as she opened the door.

  She must have known that he knew that the appointment was a farce, a perfect waste of time. She must have known that he would be angry with her for making him go through the motions, for the early start, the dumb wait in the car. Perhaps the gardening gloves were an oversight. Or not. She was, after all, pruning.

  And whose idea was the outhouse? This Spartan setting for a clipped dialogue? It had clearly been intended for use as a garage and was neither comfortable nor inviting, having been transformed into a room as an afterthought. So why there? Was she merely informing him of an executive decision, or was there more to it? Was it a humiliation of sorts, or perhaps some kind of bloodletting? Could he not have been informed at the office? Why this trek into suburbia, this minimalistic stage set, this apathetic communication? Jackie’s idea, or was she following orders? And if so, whose orders? And if so, why agree to them, why carry them out to the letter?

  Their old friendship lay in the corner of the garage by the old sideboard, a tattered and oily rag. Someone should throw it out, he thought, but there it stayed, stained and ugly.

  She was keen to get it all over with as quickly as possible, to make the journey even more futile. I won’t take up much of your time, she seemed to say, so don’t you feel foolish having come all this way to hear just a few curt lines? Indifference is the pivotal point. Indifference breeds indifference. But as we branch out into friendship and on to love, so we see the other side stretch into enmity and hate. They correspond.

  ‘They’ve decided against it. Too costly. They say that maybe if you could cut it back…. But for now it’s off the agenda.’

  They. ‘They’ have decide, ’they’ say. Shifting the blame while she dealt the blow. It was difficult to know if that was cowardice or diplomacy. Was she washing her hands of the affair, claiming innocence, my hands are tied? Or was she trying to win him over, I’m on your side, can’t you see? And this mix of Jackie-speak, ‘too costly’, with corporate jargon, ‘off the agenda’, as if implying that although the real woman still existed, she was, don’t forget, a high flyer.

  A flippant blow to the head. Short, deadly phrases carefully pronounced, but quickly, a left jab. A little teaser in there for a second, a false ray of hope, of hopelessness in that ‘maybe if you could cut it back…’ meant to soften impact.

  Pathetic excuses. ‘Too costly’. As if the economics of the scheme hadn’t been laid out a thousand times. It was cost zero, with excellent prospects of side benefits from merchandising and the like.

  Lines that cannot be contested, words like slamming doors. It would be futile to cross examine; sentence had been passed.

  She could not hold his gaze, not from the moment she had shuffled to the front door. A wan smile was as much as she could muster. Was that due to guilt or weariness? Was he merely another stone in her shoe, a scratch on her new car? Is that why she wanted to get it all over so swiftly, the empty space, the lack of refreshment, the condensed message? Or was this an embarrassing situation for her, a thankless task, who will rid me of this troublesome loser?

  He knew she had paused to see if he had anything to say. He also knew that she had foreseen his sullen silence. Dialogue was off the agenda. She would speak, he would listen. Once informed, job done and good day to you, sir.

  And through the half open garage door the rest of the world peeped in to keep things in perspective, to remind them that it was only an instant, a speck of time.

  She sat on the plastic chair in a temporary manner, at an angle instinctively adopted to discourage intimacy, her body language proclaiming that he would be dealt with deftly. Agony would not be prolonged. As forms of execution go she was a guillotine.

  She moved slightly, and he knew she was about to deliver her final words. Maybe she was suffering too, in her limited way.

  ‘Don’t waste any more time on it. It’s dead. Time to move on.’

  Philosophy lessons to boot. Spilt milk, the king is dead. A little psychological advice for old time’s sake. Then, almost in the same breath, but with a minimal yet patent pause, a hesitation.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Hollow. Blurted out without conviction like please and thank you. A conventionalism to be observed, a detail for the record.

  She tried not to let it show but he could almost hear her muscles relax as she uttered those last insincere but conclusive words. It was done. The tension that had been built up in her body now diffused into the surroundings. The oily rag, the tins of useless paint, the flies crawling up the dirty panes that gave out onto the garden, they all absorbed their share. The air was trilling with heat and birdsong, untrustworthy memories, frustration, broken friendships and dashed hopes. Time and vision like an accordion, collapsing, swelling, its melody a chaotic collection of smells and stomach pains, of traffic noise and insecurity, a thousand fretful thoughts intermixed with a certain notion of nonchalance, of a phase terminated, of a new beginning.

  He stood up, much to her relief. Now there were only formal farewells to handle, the worst was over. ‘I’m sorry’ she had said. He looked down upon her ageing figure, her outworn features, he
r spent charisma.

  ‘Me too.’

  As a parting shot it was not much, as his dull intonation seemed to accept. But they did the job. They were done now, once and for all.

  She suspected that he saw things like that, was still squirming with impotence and abandonment. It was an aura that surrounded everything he did, a halo of disappointment. His shoulders slack, his head slightly bowed, his mouth still angry and a little arrogant even in defeat. Poor Leonard, he took things so much to heart, that was his major shortfall. Now she had the distasteful task not only of officially closing the file on his pet idea, his only idea, but of finalizing their relationship. Because she knew he would never forgive her for not having championed the cause, would never understand how she had ‘sold out’ and clung to her position rather than fight an unwinnable battle for…. For what? For honour’s sake? It was futile – she had inside information. The wisest thing to do was forget it and move on. Great idea, wrong moment. No hard feelings and better luck next time. But not Leonard, oh no. He was a crusader, a killer of giants and dragons, a bringer of light and truth. That’s why he was still where he was after all these years. A dreamer, a romantic.

  She knew he would be sitting in his car, just around the corner, unable to arrive before time in case… In case what, Lenny, do you really think it will have any bearing on things at this point? She checked her watch. He’d be up the path in about ten minutes, so she had time to cut a rose before he came, cheer the place up a bit.

  It had been a long night. Conrad had tossed and turned, coughing and constantly going to the bathroom. He had left early, but she had been unable to get back to sleep. Now she felt exhausted, even more so when she contemplated the dour and basically pointless meeting with Leonard. Why had they insisted that it be her who bang the nail into the coffin? What weird sadistic message was that? Boardroom psychology, the bastard’s approach. Well, she had agreed to it tacitly so there was nothing more to do than get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  The familiar yet always slightly menacing sound of the doorbell, a silhouette framed in the crinkly glass – Leonard.

  Instinctively she opened the door. He greeted her with a glance at her gardening gloves. A silly mistake. They had not got off to a good start. She smiled by way of confession and apology, but her heart was not in it. She objected to his accusation, because she knew exactly what he was thinking. Wasn’t she supposed to be so rushed off her feet that he would need to make the effort to travel out to her house for the appointment, as she quite simply did not have time for anything these days? Fuck you, Lenny, cutting a rose takes two minutes. I also go to the toilet every now and then, ok?

  She motioned for him to follow her. They could not use her office as it was cluttered with material that belonged to a new and as yet unrevealed project. Not for your eyes, Len. And to use her living room was too… too cosy, would give a false impression of intimacy. So she thought that the outhouse would do the trick. No frills, no comfort, but no corporate overtones either. Just a simple room for a simple message. Quite fitting in a way.

  A simple task? Who was she trying to fool? She sought protection in these worldly-wise phrases, she knew, tough lines with street cred worn like a bullet proof vest. But she could not dwell on the past, or dwell in the past like Leonard. It was too painful. So she took refuge in the shared philosophy of social success, safely clad in her verbal armour. Today she would be curt and precise. There would be no concession, nor reference to times gone by. Businesslike, unemotional, professional. It was not easy, it was not pleasant, but it was what was expected, demanded, of her.

  It should not have been like this, of course, it could have been so different. Leonard, how are you, so nice to see you again. Come on in. what do you fancy, a coffee, a tea, something a little stronger? I’m so sorry it had to come to this, but…. But Lenny had made all that impossible by somehow making her responsible for the rejection of the programme. As if she had any real say in what was accepted or not. Now he plodded behind her in his casual office wear like a man being led to the scaffold.

  She had tried to rehearse her lines, to come up with a few well-intentioned words that would pave the way for her final, disagreeable task, but had abandoned the idea. He would only think her cynical anyway. Because no matter what she did or said Lenny had already judged and condemned her. So she would play it off the cuff and see how it worked out.

  In the outhouse the folding table awaited them, two plastic chairs placed at either end as if she had arranged it all beforehand, though it was in fact pure chance. What an awful impression she was giving! But she shrugged it off; she had so much to do.

  ‘They’ve decided against it. Too costly. They say that maybe if you could cut it back…. But for now it’s off the agenda.’

  That grated, that ‘off the agenda’ bit, but it was too late now, it was out. She was not too sure why she had added the white lie about cutting back; it was unnecessary and even a little dangerous. What if he picked her up on that and inquired about a second, third or fourth chance?

  Luckily he said nothing. He was going to make this easy for her after all. She tried to catch his eye for a second, then felt better of it. Detached was the best approach. It would soon be done.

  ‘Don’t waste any more time on it. It’s dead. Time to move on. I’m sorry.’

  That sounded as if she were talking to herself, she realised. Good advice, but impossible to follow. This would never be over, never be dead, never forgotten. Lenny and Jackie went back a long way, and despite all the will in the world, he would forever form part of her life, at least her working life. And of course she would now have to learn to live with the memory of this ‘interview’, this beautiful spring morning, the sunlight infusing their otherwise bleak setting with a warm, promising glow that reminded her of television adverts and childhood. A bitter pill to swallow over and over again. I’m sorry, she had said. That was sincere.

  He staggered to his feet. He wanted to convey a lack of surprise, a fait accompli, but instead he just looked as tired as she felt. Did he have a speech prepared for this moment? Some damning farewell? She thought not; Leonard was not a man of many words.

  ‘Me too.’

  At first she didn’t understand. Me too what? Then she clicked – he too was sorry. Well that was fine, then, wasn’t it? There was little point in dragging it out any longer, so they parted in silence.

  How logical it all sounded recounted in that way, what a seamless flow of coherent thought. It was the analysis of years concentrated into a brief meeting between two estranged colleagues. Once more there was a lack of surprise, a lack of emotion. They sounded weary in their maturity, felt comfortable with their cynicism. Experience led to monotony and zero expectations. They moved in an adult world of apathy and indifference, and their reactions were invariably cerebral; emotions can lead to pain and are best kept under wraps.

  But in reality neither of them was guilty of infanticide; the children they once were still existed not only in their memories but in almost everything they did. Under the surface of conventionalisms and decorum their souls were not divided into clearly defined segments – childhood, adolescence, adulthood. Rather they were an amalgam of infantile desires, illogical fears, and fantastic hopes. Of prejudice and of irrational likes and dislikes. Of selfishness, self hate and self esteem. Swamped by a mass of sensation and information, the only thing that kept them from going insane was the straightjacket of language and acceptable behaviour. That, and an instinctive urge to overcome, to survive.

  How much was deliberately ignored, wittingly denied? And how much subliminally received? Lenny had been jet black, with a head of hair that reflected his strength and rebelliousness. Now it was jet stream grey, receding, wiry, whilst his thick eyebrows remained as dark as ever. Why did she find that repugnant? The less attractive he became the less she wanted him as an acquaintance? An unfounded accusation... with a germ of truth in it. And his scent, a smell of men i
n days gone by, of teachers and uncles and fading screen stars. What was it? Spice, tobacco, testosterone? He was stocky, wide shouldered and short legged, a hairy man, a robust man, and somehow that made him… what? Old-fashioned, unmodern? He was never fully shaven, could never be silken and distinguished like Conrad, and that strangely annoyed her, had always strangely annoyed her. That was one of the things she denied. It was too subjective, too unfair. He wore large chunky watches on his tennis player’s wrist, and she pretended not to notice, not to mind. That was his business, his personal preference. And he was not hairy from choice, had had no say in his construction, could not be held to blame. It was simply that she found it a touch repulsive, a shade disgusting. But, she would theoretically insist, that had never clouded her feelings towards him. His genetic heritage was worthy of respect. They were not destined to be lovers, to find physical attraction the one in the other, and that was probably for the best.

  As for Leonard, what was it about her yellow eyeshade that he had never liked? It was not anything he had examined in depth; he had no idea if he thought her eyes were too round, too small, too over-painted. Was it the colour, that nondescript halfway house between blue and grey? The eyeliner perhaps, the mascara? Or did they droop, pulled down by the bags under her eyes? He didn’t know, not consciously, but he had never enjoyed holding her gaze, not even all those years ago when she could still wear designer jeans and run her fingers through her hair without looking absurd.

  As the distance grew between them so their saving graces waned. The same personalities no longer held surprises, pleasant or otherwise. Each of them had been analysed and suffered a thousand times, resulting in tedium. His innocence evolved into stupidity, his nonconformity into stubbornness. Power transformed into paunch, verve subdued into plod. Her drive, her once healthy ambition, had turned sourly into ruthlessness. We all possess beauty, and Jackie’s lay in her fingers, incredibly long pianist fingers, light and agile, supple and perfectly manicured. But when they were hidden under heavy duty gloves she lost all charm, became middling. Middle-aged, middle class, middle-management.

  Yet under that veil of boredom, the dull sheen of repetitive daily obligations, they both sheltered an innocent. A child in fancy dress, in her mother’s gown and lipstick, teetering on high heels, or masked and caped, ready to take on the world. It had been fun then, and the laughter they had so well controlled still lurked under the surface, waiting to be called back to life. Leonard had spotted the absurdity as he sat in his car, smell of damp, stale carpet smothered by artificial pine, hunting for scratchy tunes and local advertisements on the car radio, watched by his watch and the curious passersby. He almost giggled as he stretched and caught his sullen face in the wing mirror. Death row look. Instead he told himself it was no laughing matter. And when he had caught her in the gloves hadn’t she almost chortled, it’s a fair cop, like a naughty child found raiding the larder? All opportunities to break the ice had been instantly and mutually suppressed. The charade was professionally serious.

  It had crossed his mind as he dragged his feet up the path to the front door. Perhaps he could spare her, and himself, the trauma, tell her not to worry, water under the bridge and the like. But it was just a notion, nothing he had really planned to put into action, so when she opened the door and he was received with such idle nonchalance, he let it drop. Later he would convince himself that the gloves had put him off, though in reality he knew that he was not going to offer her anything of the sort, was going to enter the house as silently as he was to leave. Why should she be reprieved if he was to be condemned? Let her do her job; that was what she was paid for.

  Which was exactly what she intended to do, however he present himself. She had secretly hoped that he would come the way he did, like a lamb to the slaughter, because it made everything so quick and easy. How much more difficult a chatty, friendly, old time’s sake Lenny, hoping to bend her will through bonhomie and humour. It had been decided, and Conrad had agreed. She was to be distant and aloof. No sympathy, no pity. Keep it short and to the point. Make it clear who took the decision and why, then get him out of there asap. It was, after all, her home.

  That was Jackie the climber, the bread winner, the competent and competitive businesswoman. It was a role she nurtured, but it was not her only side. In her more tender moments she imagined sitting Lenny down on the sofa, motioning with her finger to her lips that he was not to interrupt. She wanted to explain. There was no cause for grief or sorrow; they had simply taken different paths. Like two trains that for a few miles follow parallel tracks, but at one point diverge, fork off into separate directions. That is not enmity; it is just the course of life. We travelled together, now have parted, because our destinies are different. No more than that, Lenny, believe me. I derive no pleasure from this. I know how much this project meant to you and your future, and if it were up to me… No hard feelings?

  An impossible dream, because he would interject continually, no, no, you don’t understand, course of life? Come on! It is not my future we are talking about, and what trains for heaven’s sake? He knew how to counter attack, how to pick holes in every argument, every turn of phrase. She would end up exhausted and mute. So she would let him have it from the hip. Drop it, it’s finished, move on and do something else. Case closed.

  They were two neighbours chatting over the garden fence, each one safely inside their territory and their convictions. They knew each other well, too well, but would both keep up the semblance of friendliness necessary for peaceful coexistence.

  Leonard had dug himself in over the years, and now only his balding head could be seen popping out from his foxhole. Jackie enjoyed saying it in a French accent – entrenchment. The unbuttoned shirts, the expensive sneakers, that half sporty half family estate car that he ran. He spent a lot of time playing tennis or eating out. His children, whose names read like an insurance firm, Brent and Stacey, were indolently independent, their originality bordering on offensiveness. They slouched and sneered and guffawed, rubbing their up-to-dateness in your face like an insult. And Lenny just looked on, impassively, almost proudly, while Karen, the alternative yet oh so fuddy duddy Karen, ran behind them, unsure whether to scold or praise them.

  People like Lenny thought that people like Lenny would change the world. Maybe not directly, but certainly indirectly, through their offspring. This new generation would turn the whole fucking world upside down! No standing on ceremony, no vested interests, no accumulated wealth. That was the pigeonhole Lenny had worked himself into, had managed to squeeze himself into along with so many others. Now his avant garde ideals were set in concrete. Not exactly Jackie’s type.

  Jackie did not consider herself a foot soldier. She had no bone to pick with society, no social chip on her shoulder, unlike Lenny. Naturally she belonged, that was inevitable and advisable. But she belonged, as did Conrad and her very close friends like Marty and Christine, or the Kleins, to an open ended group of successful professionals. They should not have to apologise for that. Yes, she worked hard to achieve status and well-being, strove for comfort and security, was ambitious and aspiring. The sky’s the limit, as Conrad always said. What she did not need or accept was Leonard’s sullen, understated, insidious criticism. His jealousy, in short.

  Always on the defensive, that was Jackie. So ready to become indignant, almost yearning for the chance to be offended. Only had to mention the new Mercedes for her to draw in her breath and pull herself up to her full height, ready to launch a counterattack. It was so hard to have a natural conversation with people like that, people who thought, or rather imagined, that everything you said was an outright attack on their way of life, on their dearly held beliefs, when in reality half the time all you wanted to know was how much a car like that would set you back. Did she feel guilty? Did she secretly accept that she had made it to the top of the castell by climbing on others’ backs? Because Jackie and Conrad had certainly moved up and on over the years. Huge house in the outskirts, a beach
apartment, luxury holidays, three expensive cars on the drive. Impressive. All accompanied by an air of superiority as impenetrable as a safety deposit box. Did she really believe that all her worldly possessions were the true reflection of her worth? And if so, what was her worth? The ablity to nip inside half open doors, or the callousness to slam them in others’ faces? Her willingness to advance in her career despite? Despite everything and anything? How far would she go, how far was she prepared to go? This woman who happily made you travel into the distant suburbs, getting up at the crack of dawn, so that she could have the satisfaction of telling you to your face that you were, once again, a loser. You have been cut out, Lenny, out of the equation. Again. Will you never learn? That was the class of woman Jackie had actively turned herself into. No love lost.

  For her own personal gain she had gleefully fallen into line with the cynics. Why do anything altruistic, why plough money back into the local community, where is the profit? Short-sighted greedy executives whose raison d’etre was to make a fast buck and to hell with everything and everyone else. Education for the rural masses? Break it down into cost effectiveness and attractive returns for the shareholders. Zero cost. Fine. Quick profit not guaranteed? The benefits are not tangible? Off the agenda. Fuck Mario and his simple-minded mother. Tell them to move to the inner city and stop complaining. Whose was this idea anyway? Then would she wash her hands.

  That is how he saw her now, except that there was also a filter, a lighting effect that smoothed her features and softened her appearance. Because they had been friends once, and although he had compared that to an oily rag, it was more than that. The liquid of detail had evaporated, but the crystallised memory remained. She had stood up for him on more than one occasion, and if it hadn’t been for her string pulling Brent would never have got into Shetland College. He would be eternally grateful for that. And she was not a ‘bad’ person, far from it. The way she spoke, her intonation, the pauses, it was all designed so as not to cause offence. It was apologetic, understanding, tolerant and sensitive talk. Even the way she walked, as if tiptoeing lightly past sleeping children, daintily, unobtrusively. It was instinctive, automatic, and perhaps for that reason appeared studied and deliberate. He still had the watch she gave him, in the bottom drawer of the bedside table, the strap too worn now and a little dated, but it was there, like a reminder of their lost intimacy. No, she was not remotely calculating or evil. She was no better or worse than most. Selfish was probably the closest adjective. Jackie cared for Jackie, and by extension for Conrad because he formed part of the present tandem. But there was never any intention to hurt, no desire to do harm. She merely played her part and shrugged off the consequences, like most people.

  So what a person said, how they said it, what they meant, what they hoped to convey by that particular choice of words, that intonation, that phrasing and delivery, was also coloured by the mood of the receptor, their attitude at that given moment, if they felt grateful or aggrieved, sympathetic or retaliatory. And underlying all that, a general conception of what the speaker represented socially, philosophically. The depth of their empathy.

  ‘They’ve decided against it. Too costly. They say that maybe if you could cut it back…. But for now it’s off the agenda.’

  Was it to be ‘poor Jackie’ or ‘what a bitch’? Both probably, and more. ‘How could you?’, ‘did I hear you right?’, ‘this must be so difficult for you’. Listen in sullen silence or cut her short? Make it hard for her by insisting on redebating every point, or let it drop? Ignore the tenseness in her lips and her neck, or notice the embarrassment in her hastily removed attempt at eye contact?

  His wife would ask ‘so how’d it go?’, pretending indifference as she prepared something or other, afraid that if she showed too much interest he would become suspicious and less communicative. Karen liked to think that she could catch you off guard with her psychological tricks, and that the best, the truest answers, were given in such circumstances. What would his edited reply be? How would the historian recount the past?

  In curt, stark detail would be Jackie’s way. Conrad would inquire without enthusiasm, and she would deal with both him and the affair in less than a minute. He would pick up on that and leave her alone. Because it would be almost impossible to relate. To do so she would first have to analyse what she had felt and perceived, to ask herself why she had behaved as she had, why she had treated him that way, and she was not sure that she was capable of that, at least not yet, not so soon after the act. It had all been so uncomfortable, so awkward, intimidating even. It was like being asked to slaughter the chicken for lunch. An everyday atrocity best carried out by others because it was not as easy as some thought. Disagreeable, very hands on, and in the long run perhaps even avoidable, unnecessary. Or was that too melodramatic, too queasy? It was extremely complicated to know exactly where the balance was. Too this, too that? Had she been too distant, too cold, too professional? Or too weak, too transparent, too nervous? Should she have made more of an effort with her clothes, her hair, those damned gloves? How much was she to blame for the way things had turned out, and how much was she simply reacting to his attitude? Could he have made things smoother?

  She had to thank Conrad. His discretion was a boon. How on earth could she have narrated events in any coherent way if she was still in turmoil herself? What a day. A day for frowning and a wringing of hands, for vague regrets and stoical self confirmation. That project had meant so much to him, too much apparently. It had been his saving grace, his good action, his chance to save his soul and that of his family. It was community, the common good, altruism, philanthropy. His Lincoln, King, Ghandi moment.

  In short, unrealistic.

  He was barking up the wrong tree. Did he really expect a profit making organisation to foot the bill? Could he not see that his economics were fatally flawed? She was sure that he had become blinded by the idea, had lost all perspective, was obsessed. And that in itself was enough to kill it off. He became involved, personally, emotionally, and that was what eventually turned the board against the proposition. She had tried to warn him, had even suggested that he pass it on to a colleague, someone less passionate and therefore able to see what needed tweaking and why, but... His baby. A lost cause.

  What did she mean by that? The project, or its father? She was unsure, maybe both in a way. Still, it was over now, and she was tired, tired of going over and over it, of rewinding and fast forwarding the whole sordid event like an insistent detective, hoping that at one point in the film she would be able to say ‘stop there, there, look, do you see that?’ Knowing that her life was not a film, not a tidy sequence of frames with a soundtrack, a beginning and an end, (no memory of birth, no news of death), but a kaleidoscope made of fragments of coloured-glass time, action and reaction, emotion and imagination. A tale untold, untellable. Signifying nothing? Most likely, but that didn’t matter; as if things had to have a meaning.

  She tried not to think about it, but was unable to shake it off despite her weariness and her desire to forget the whole episode. It would not leave her alone, refused to go away.

  What was it she had said?

  ‘Don’t waste any more time on it. It’s dead. Time to move on. I’m sorry.’

  It was his reply that bothered her now. That ‘me too’. Was he answering the final line, the ‘I’m sorry’? That would be the most logical. So why did she have a nagging doubt, the feeling that he had not meant that at all, but that he was responding to another part of her speech. ‘It’s dead’. There had been something, a movement, a shift in light of some kind that she had picked up on. It was as if he had been about to speak even before she had finished, before she had said ‘Time to move on. I’m sorry’. He was already forming the words in his mouth, that resonating ‘me too’. What was it, an accusation? You have killed me? Or a realisation, an acceptance of his new situation? Or worse still, a resignation. Not from the job, he could not afford such arrogant luxury, but from their relationshi
p, their worn out friendship? He was sorry, sorry it had come to this, sorry she had been unable to stand by him in his hour of need, sorry she was such a cold-hearted bitch, sorry he would never have anything to do with her again. Was that it?

  She thought about that over supper. It was cruel, and out of character. And there had been that fleeting moment, that shiver of anticipation as he prepared to say ‘me too’. That she had noticed and it was not to be denied or ignored. So his sense of self defeat was more in line with his personality than his scorn. More comforting like that. More digestible. Because if she had really hurt his feelings to the point that he would strike her off his list, then... That was unbearable. Unbearable at work, avoiding each other like ex lovers. Unbearable on his part, blaming her for his cracked ambitions. Unbearable for her heart, too, to think that, even if inadvertently, she had caused so much pain and hatred. A sick feeling in the stomach, a streak of adrenalin at the thought of it. That could not be her conclusion.

  They would sleep on it. In the morning they would see things in a new light, a clearer light, at least for a while. Later the uncertainties would return, and they would go over the scene a few thousand times, watching in non-surprise as the script evolved, became amorphous, lost definition. Then it would be drained of all colour, bleached to an anecdote. Their words paraphrased and noted in reported speech – then I said, she added, he responded. Their clumsiness would become comical, their discomfort would be gracefully removed, until they had something they could live with.

  The whole immense and intense exchange would finally be compressed into a few kilobytes; the essentials compacted into a manageable-sized file that took up virtually no space at all. A condensed, abridged version that was easier to understand and that would, in time, completely replace the original.

  FADE IN, FADE OUT

  PRELUDE