White City Blue

  Right at this moment I’m not sure whether it’s Vronky or me who’s being stupid, or if we are, or how. But we’re locked into something and neither of us is intelligent enough to find a way out.

  It is in the way she butters her toast that I know she’s furious. There’s more pressure going down on the bread than is necessary, so that you can actually hear the scrape of the stainless steel against the brittle surface of the bread. She’s giving it too much attention, as if it were a complex operation. Taking the butter exactly to the edges then trimming, so that every square inch is covered.

  The roses – twenty of them, red, still damp from the water in which I have kept them secretly, overnight – lie neglected on the table in front of her. She did thank me for them, but it was perfunctory, muttered through teeth that were fixed together as she spoke. A thorn on one of the stems pokes through the decorated wax paper. A card remains unread in its envelope.

  I can understand why she’s angry. But now I’m getting angry that she’s angry, because it’s making me feel guilty. So I put my cup down on the saucer too hard, sounding a crack. It’s in order to make a point. She twists her head towards me, stretching the skin on her neck into a shifting pattern of tight, evenly spaced ripples.

  What’s the matter with you?

  Her mouth is full when she says this, so a little spray of crumbs comes out from between her unpainted lips and cascades on to the table. She brushes them on to the floor, without looking to see where they go. Some disappear in between the gaps in the polished floorboards.

  There’s bright sunlight coming through the window. It’s the perfect weather for an August day. I exhale air through my nose. It’s meant to be a sigh, but it comes out as a snort.

  You’re the one who’s got the egg on.

  She untwists her neck, stares out of the window in weighted silence.

  I thought we had it all straightened out, I continue. I try to keep my tone neutral.

  She doesn’t move. Then she turns her face away from me. Now I can hear little more than a low, even hiss of words.

  You had it straightened out. You didn’t exactly give me a choice.

  With this, she gets up and – still not looking at me – abruptly moves to leave the room with short, fast, determined steps. She is naked, and I notice that the pinkness between her legs still seems moist, expanded from the sex. That was just thirty minutes ago. Everything seemed fine then. Days have weather, don’t they? Hours have weather.

  While she is gone, I sit there, knotting and unknotting the problem in my head. A fatalism then overtakes me; the problem is discarded as insoluble. I walk over to the closet and try to haul out a large white plastic cylindrical bag, only the base of which is visible under the row of my shirts that cloak it. Parting the hangers exposes the heads of a half-set of golf clubs. Some of the club heads are caught up with the shirts.

  This tangling of metal, wood and cloth underlines my sense that the day is turning against me. I pull hard at what appears to be a number-three driver. The club head will not come free. I pull again, violently, this time. There is a tearing sound. The club comes loose. Wrapped around the head of the driver, a piece of fine, powder-blue material. A scrap of my favourite shirt, a present from Veronica on Valentine’s Day. Veronica, I know, is going to say that this is symbolic, this tearing of her first gift. She thinks the world talks to you through what appear to be random events. She sees meanings everywhere.

  I stare at the scrap of cloth and feel some of my fury earth into the soft blue cotton. What’s left decays into resignation. How could she be expected to understand, after all?

  I knew it was going to be trouble when she told me which day she was born. I couldn’t believe it. If the world really does talk to you, like Veronica says, what was it saying by arranging that particular collision? But then I don’t believe that it does talk to you, the world. It’s all just accidents, circumstance, stuff happening.

  Veronica walks back into the room. She’s wearing a big, pastel-pink, mumsy dressing gown. Padded, with floral designs. On her feet, there are slippers made to look like the heads of small bears. Their expressions are meant to be winsome, but they look frightened.

  She still doesn’t look at me. She sits down again and goes back to work on the toast. The yellow butter has dissolved now into patches of silvery oil.

  When I speak again my voice is smaller than I wish it to be.

  I ripped my best shirt. On my number-three golf club.

  I wave the scrap of material towards her like a flag of surrender. She looks up and inspects the cloth intently, as if it bore secret messages within its weave.

  Good. Her voice is frosted, unyielding. Perhaps someone’s trying to tell you something.

  I turn my face upwards, move my eyes towards the top of the lids. This immediately feels fake, a gesture I’ve seen on TV. I give it up and lower my head to an angle where I can see the clock. It reads 9.45. That leaves me about fifteen minutes.

  I walk over to where she sits, in a slight hunch over the breakfast table. I put an arm around her shoulder and squeeze. Again, it feels wrong. She doesn’t shift an inch, except to stiffen slightly. I move the arm away, let it dangle at my side hopelessly. Now she uncoils, turns to me. Her lips are pinched together before she speaks and show white where they curve towards the inside.

  It’s not that you even like them very much. The way you talk about them when they’re not here. You do nothing but criticize them.

  That’s not true.

  You said that Tony was a… She chews her teeth for a second, as if balling up a word to spit. Then she says it too fast, as if she wants to get it out of her mouth urgently. Cuntlastweek. That was the actual word you used.

  Veronica hardly ever swears. She says sugar instead of shit, fudge instead of fuck. So now I know how angry she is. I feel faintly shocked, but obscurely pleased. There’s something sexy in it. Seeing her stretched mouth bite off the end of the ‘t’ with the tongue flicked hard against the teeth.

  I said that he behaved like a cunt. With Christopher Crowley. With which you could hardly fail to agree. And I said I liked him first. I said, ‘Tony’s a great bloke but sometimes he can be a bit of a cunt.’ It’s not the same thing as saying someone is a cunt, in a full-time capacity, so to speak. And I didn’t say anything about Nodge or Colin.

  You did. You said that they were redundant.

  I search my memory to see if this is true and come up a blank. So I improvise.

  I said that they felt redundant. Sometimes, just sometimes. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about them. Anyway, I haven’t said anything to you that I wouldn’t say to their faces.

  This is untrue and a slight tremor underneath the words betrays it as such. Veronica, however, isn’t listening. When she talks, she overlaps the end of my sentence. Her voice blisters, like paint under a blowlamp.

  Do you know what denial is, Frankie?

  Duh. Yeah. As I understand it – stop me if I get this wrong – it’s what I’m in when I say something you disagree with. When I say something you do agree with, that’s called facing up to things. Have I got that about right?

  Veronica ignores the sarcasm. I’m not even sure that she registers it. She just carries right on.

  Why are they so important to you? You see more of them than you do of me. And why do you hardly ever take me to meet them? Are you ashamed of them? Or is it me you’re ashamed of?

  I sit down at the table next to her. I can’t say the answer, which is, paradoxically, both. I lean my head forward and rest it on the tips of my thumbs. The thumbs compress the flesh between them. You can sometimes tell when I’ve been upset because of the faint pink welt that appears in the centre of my forehead.

  I’m not ashamed of anybody. They’re my friends. They’re my best friends. We go back years together. You just don’t always like the people you – you know. Not all the time. That’s normal.

  I say this slightly pointedly, to try and emphasize that I don’t
much like Veronica at the moment, but leave it ambiguous enough to deny the intention if necessary. I knead the flesh between my thumbs. My eyes, which have been screwing closed, open. I can see through a gap between my fingers that Veronica is pressing her thumb softly against the exposed thorn on the rose stem. A pinprick of blood appears.

  I’ve tried to explain to you. We have a… what would you call it? A custom. No, it’s more than a custom. It’s a pact.

  And none of you has ever broken it.

  She says this with a slight mocking singsong, her head bobbing from side to side.

  That’s right. None of us has ever broken it. One year, Tony flew all the way back from France to be here. Another time, Colin had fractured an ankle and came on crutches. We arrange our holidays so it doesn’t clash with it. This year is more important than ever, because… because… well, I’ve been trying not to tell you this, to keep it secret for Tony’s sake. I pause to blink in astonishment at what I think I am about to say. Tony has found out that he has some kind of blood disease.

  I gasp inwardly at the size and improbability of this lie. Veronica doesn’t buy it even for a second and turns sharply to look at me, an expression of complete disbelief on her face.

  What crap.

  It’s true. It could be terminal. I mean, the tests aren’t conclusive or anything. They need to be confirmed. Maybe, just maybe it will turn out OK. But what if it doesn’t? How would I live with myself? And I’m amazed at your attitude. A friend of mine may be, may be dying, and all you think about is –

  Frankie, stop it. Just stop it.

  No. I won’t stop it. You’re being callous and unworthy of yourself. I adopt a lofty orator’s tone now, becoming more and more enfolded in the layers of the lie. It’s not so much for me. It’s for him, for Tony. There’d be no competition if it was just for my sake. I’d love to spend the day with you. You would come first, make no mistake. I’d forget all this 14 August stuff. But it’s very important to him, you see.

  Frankie, you’re such a liar, such a liar, such a LIAR.

  I’m not a liar.

  That’s a lie too. And if you’re not a liar, why do they call you Frank the Fib?

  I told you, it was a schoolboy thing. No one’s called me that for years.

  Well, that’s what I’m going to call you from now on. Because you’re the worst –

  Look. All right. I do lie sometimes, I admit it. But I have always – always – been totally honest with you.

  Really?

  Really.

  You absolutely swear on the grave of your father.

  Absolutely.

  OK.

  She reaches over and picks up her handbag and starts rummaging inside. I don’t like the look of this. I begin to feel nervous and rub my birthmark gently in every decreasing circles.

  After a few seconds she produces something small and rectangular out of the depths of the bag. I can’t at first make out what it is. She waves it back and forth in front of her. Now I can see that it is a microcassette tape. For a moment, I have the mad idea that she has been bugging me.

  What’s that?

  It’s a testament. It’s an X-ray. It’s who you are.

  Looks like a cassette that’s been in the spin-drier to me.

  Vronky takes out a small dictation machine and places the tape inside, then presses the start button. I hear a loud beep, then, absurdly, Tony’s voice.

  Hi, mate. Tony here. Long time no see. Fancy a beer? Give me a call. What about them Rangers, eh? 2–0. Look. Got to go.

  BEEP.

  Francis, it’s mum. Can you pick me up some potatoes from the late-night supermarket. Only I’ve not been feeling well. Sorry to be a trouble, love. Don’t forget it’s your grandma’s birthday next week. Call me soon. Bye.

  BEEP.

  Frankie, can you call me? It’s Nodge.

  BEEP.

  Veronica has her face bunched up like a fist. I’m still confused. It’s clearly a tape – an old tape, judging by the messages – from my answering machine, but I can’t imagine what possible…

  BEEP.

  Giles? Hi, it’s Frankie Blue. Yes. No, I’m down at Olympia now with Ms Tree. Is Rupert there? He is? OK, I’ll hold.

  It’s my voice, leaving a message for me, on my own answering machine. There is a long wait. I can hear my own voice in the background, although I still can’t isolate the moment. Then my voice comes up to the forefront again.

  Rupert, hi. I presume that little maisonette behind Bush Green has gone by now? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh. That’s a bit of luck. Who’s got the keys? Good. No. Pretend they’re lost. Just hold them off. I’ll drop by in… hold on just a minute –

  Now I’ve got it. Christ, where did she get that? It’s the first time we met, when I was showing her around one of the flats. I was just trying to pull her then. I was pretending to ring the office. Now my voice has moved into the distance again. This time it’s audible.

  Listen, Vronky. We might have struck it lucky here. There’s this property that came on just this morning, that we got as part of a multiples deal. Farquarsons, and Braxton-Halliday are marketing it too. The vendors are desperate to sell, but I know that Farquarsons had a cash buyer lined up. They’ve rung twice for the keys. There’s just a chance that we may be able to beat them to it. But I think we’d have to go over there right now.

  Veronica’s voice sounded once more from the tinny speaker.

  I – I can’t. I’ve got to be back at work in half an hour.

  I start to get agitated, try and grab the tape machine out of her hand. She moves it quickly out of reach.

  Come on, Vronky. That doesn’t count. It’s just the job. It’s not like real lying. You can’t –

  She holds up her finger to her lips, to make me listen. I close my mouth, stare angrily at the window. I hear a barking, lecherous laugh – mine – sound from the speaker of the tape recorder.

  Noooo. It’s not that at all. She’s just a very nice young woman. Yes, that too, if you must know. Mmm-hmm. Yeah, well, believe it or not even I have a heart sometimes.

  Well, says Veronica, stopping the tape. That’s nice to know.

  When I speak, the sound is of anger, carefully controlled.

  Where did you get that from?

  I was looking for a message a friend had left for me at your flat and I just stumbled across it.

  And you kept it secret. Isn’t that a form of lying too?

  Frankie, don’t flatter me. I’m not in the same league.

  Never defend yourself. Attack. Basic rule for liars.

  When did you find that tape?

  Ages ago. A week or two after we met.

  So you knew then that I was a liar. So why didn’t you ditch me then? Why did you even say yes when I asked you to marry me?

  Sometimes I wonder.

  Well, why did you? Why did you say yes? Come on, tell me. I remember that day. You didn’t seem exactly thrilled. You didn’t precisely climb the walls. Whatever possessed you to want to marry an evil wicked dissembler like me?

  Fuck knows.

  Swearing again. She must be upset. But I can sense she’s going on the defensive. I decide to push on.

  Come on. Tell me. Why did you want to marry me?

  Leave it, Frankie.

  Why? Why? Why?

  She looks up, eyes flashing bitterly.

  You really want to know?

  Yeah, I really want to know.

  Fine. It was because the light was broken.

  What?

  The light in the restaurant sign was broken.

  What the fuck are you talking about?

  Now I’m on the defensive. I’m bewildered, lost. Veronica looks sad now, but determined. I suddenly don’t want her to speak. But she talks, in a low, clear monotone.

  At that very second you asked me in the restaurant, I didn’t know what to do. I thought I would almost certainly say no, actually. I thought you were too… young. Not in years. Just young. Hadn’t seen what I’ve
seen. At the hospital. Little kids dead on the slab. With faces that said, I’m sorry. Women strangled and raped. Men whose hearts have exploded, whose livers have rotted away. You know. All that stuff. So I was just about to say, I’m sorry, Frankie, no. But I wasn’t absolutely sure. There was this strange shadow of doubt. Then, I just, I just looked around the restaurant. Perhaps something would help me.

  What could help you?

  Veronica ignored this.

  I was looking around, looking around. Then I saw it. Right in front of me, behind your head. The light was broken. The restaurant sign.

  I don’t understand. What are you talking about?

  The restaurant. It was called Angel Eyes. Do you remember that?

  Of course I remember it.

  Well, the ‘e’ wasn’t working. Do you see? Do you understand?

  So the ‘e’ wasn’t working. So what?

  So it didn’t say what it meant any more. It said something else.

  I scratched my birthmark, hard, until it hurt.

  So it said ‘Angl Eyes’. So what? Then I saw, suddenly, what it was she was saying. The sign said ‘yes’, didn’t it?

  That’s right. It said Angel: yes.

  Angel: yes. And you agreed to marry me because the sign was broken.

  Not only was it broken. Not only was it broken so that it said ‘yes’. But it was a, literally, a sign.

  It was a restaurant sign. To let you know the name of the place.

  The fact is that the function of that arrangement of lights was to tell people something. That’s what a sign is for. It gives messages. Then suddenly I knew, I knew I had to say yes. See, I believe I have a guardian angel. I truly do. So Angel: yes. How could I ignore that? Someone was telling me something. The world, Frankie. It speaks to you. I can’t explain it. I believe in logic. I’m good at it. I use it every day. But logic isn’t everything.

  I felt flabbergasted. I remember the panic in that restaurant, imagining that she was balancing the reasons – her desires, her hopes, her love for me, her fears before answering. That long, embarrassed pause.