19
A fine day, sunny at first with light showers developing in the south-west
HE COMES OUT of thin air. He loves it when I flinch. He lets out one of his giant elf laughs. I hear him breathing, thinking. I hear him moving, beads raining. He rests on the table, tipping it, blowing through his mouth, calculating my reaction. He smells of popcorn and BO. The hairs on his legs look blond under the desk lamp. Where Ned’s overall blondness went I cannot say, lost in the past with whatever it was we used to be.
He is semi-dressed, my clothes mainly. Upside-down words are written in black pen on his arm. He knocks my paperwork to the floor: electric bill, BT, estate agent correspondence. His hands sign.
Gog. Very bad headache. Bad. Bad. Medicine now.
He peers sleepily through his hair. How come his skin looks good when he barely washes?
He does this, interrupts. What he needs. More important, always was.
I don’t sign, I speak.
Hold your horses.
Ow, he signs again. Ow me. Head. Bad, bad.
Doing it, aren’t I? I shout. I sound upset.
Ow! Ow! Ow! He pulls my arm.
I close my eyes. Drives you round. Literally drives you.
Keep your hair on, I tell him.
He gasps. He thumps me on the shoulder. I turn to look at him. What in f*ck’s name? I shove him in the chest. He runs to shove me back but I move first. I push him all the way till we hit the wall together. I leave him there.
I stroll to the cupboard, take out the aspirin bottle. Child lock. Three goes it takes to unscrew the lid. Camel’s back anyone? For f*cks! It gives. Finally. Ned watches, blowing through his mouth. I chuck the lid. Then because I can’t stop, because I’d like to strangle him, squeeze his throat until. I shake out the pills all over the floor.
We stand and watch while they skitter in all directions, hundreds of them running for freedom. As the last one settles I lob the empty bottle into the air, a final gesture, pointless. I giveth not. It bounces off the draining board, lands in the washing-up bowl. Olé, arsehole. Ned watches with suspicious interest, like when he’s watching Sky News. One or two tablets are crushed under my shoes as I go. I slam the door the way she used to; it bounces open behind me.
He never heard a single door she ever slammed, I heard every one. Some things he will never know. I leave him there surrounded by enough cut-price aspirin to top himself before tea if he’s lucky, do us all a favour. Buenos noches, Knobflap.
I fetch my key. I let the back door slam. He will feel it. I am making a point. He knows full well where the aspirin is, how to switch on the hot water immersion, but he won’t do it.
Lee does it three hundred and sixty-five, no time off for good behaviour. But Ned is the genius, the superstar. Why doesn’t he do it? Why me? No point carping. C’est la vie, Lee. No one hears. No one answers. I hear enough for two. No big deal, just outlining the facts.
*
I’VE STARTED TO read Lorelle like a book. Body language. Say what you like but your body says it better. Bodies tell the truth. As a matter of fact, due to this knowledge, I know I’m in with a chance. Result.
The giveaways are (1) Neck and throat exposure and (2) Hair-swinging. If she touches her hair, neck or throat you’re done and dusted. Game on. Which is how I know I’m on the grid. I know what you’re thinking, but. There is nothing Lorelle could deduce from my body language that would give her a clue as to how I feel. The reason being that I am body-aware. For example, I adopt a neutral stance: feet apart, hands in pockets, noncommittal eye contact. I don’t move a muscle, I do not touch my hair. I look ahead, give nothing away. Granted, I smile, but I keep it short and sweet. Women don’t like to see a man expressing himself, it puts them off. If you want to get their attention, stealth is the word.
You’re not supposed to understand them, Lee, they’re made different. Ready? Lift.
Mr Parker is a big man. Takes two of us to move him. Four of us would be easier. We have to bend our knees.
One two three.
We catch our breath. Derek’s not one for body language.
Ne’er the twain, says Derek. Many before have tried to read a woman and failed, he adds.
One two three.
We are halfway between the drawer and the table. A rock and a hard place, Derek says. We stop to catch our breath again.
You’ll never get the gist of a woman, Lee. They are leagues ahead. See us coming, son. Just when you think you’ve got the measure, they pull a swift one. They can’t help it, nature of the beast. Stand up for yourself, never fails.
Derek is panting with all the talking and lifting. He pauses. It occurs to me what a right knob anyone would feel dropping dead trying to shift a cadaver. I keep that thought to myself. I count us in instead.
Uno dos tres.
Mr Parker is on the trolley. We high-five. We bend over our knees. On the trolley Mr Parker will have to stay, it is the manual hydraulic hoist type for ease of height adjustment.
Derek gasps. The armpits of his shirt are wet.
Get that kettle on, he says, before one of us drops.
With that, one of Mr Parker’s arms swings off the trolley. Timing. The dead have it in spades, same as the living.
Today when I woke my first thought was Lorelle. Don’t get me wrong, Caitlin is a lovely girl, but. Lorelle Connelly you’ve got me on my knees. I thought about popping into Fleurtations. I could say I found myself in the vicinity, something like that. I decide to do so from the comfort of my own bed. A private encounter, the kind that rarely goes wrong when it’s just you and your imaginings. Live it in your own head. Result. And wouldn’t you just know it, she’s on her own minding the shop, while the others do deliveries.
Buongiorno.
We start off polite.
How’s it going? Not too bad, yourself? What you been up to? This and that and you? The same. Usual, as per.
After which it’s time to kiss her.
Oh my God, Lee.
Come here, I say.
She wraps her arms around my neck. Passionately.
Oh Lee, she says.
I bend her backwards over the ferns. We peel off our shirts without breaking the kiss. You thought only movie stars could do that. Wrong. She angles sharply for a second kiss, tipping dangerously. A tub of roses goes over. I catch her before she topples. The phone rings. Knobs to that. I stub my toe on a tin bath but not before I clear the desk in one swipe: stapler, cards, wrapping, the lot: on the deck. You thought only movie stars could do that. Wrong again. She laughs. I lift her on to the desk. She pulls me towards her. I balance on my knees, support her waist. The desk bumps the shelves which wobble the display which hits the selection of terracotta pots which knock the filigree ironwork, making everything go ding ding ding. I lift her off the desk. We land against the storeroom door, which we slam: tres, cuatro, cinco. Until it shuts.
Lorelle is wearing me out and we haven’t even gone on a date yet. I haven’t asked her. I will. I don’t want to frighten her off. Timing. Stealth. Artichoke hearts. One hundred squids. A bit like waiting for rabbit with the .22, no good rushing in waving it about. Patience. Dead men teach it best.