Picture Imperfect

Sunday 15th



Well, today’s the day. I sit down, staring out of the window, sipping a coffee, but really I’m watching Mark out of the corner of my eye. He got all his stuff together last night but is leaving it until today to actually pack his suitcase. Predictably, he’s having trouble closing it. He’s also faffing about with what to with the stuff in his new carry-on bag. He wants to put all the books he bought in it, because he still can’t make his mind up which one of them he wants to read on the flight over.

I tell him to pick the two most likely and to put the other four in his suitcase. He has two jumpers in his suitcase and a sweatshirt. I tell him if he took those out and put the books in, he’d be able to close the suitcase. The likelihood of him needing a jumper in Greece at this time of year is remote; the average temperature is about 28 degrees. If he gets there and he’s in the middle of a blizzard, then he can go and buy a woolly coat in a shop or something. To be honest, I’m a little sick of giving him advice now. He’s lucky that Danny is dealing with all the money, as he’d never had had time yesterday to sort out traveller’s cheques and local currency.

Callum, before his tragic drunken idiot bike accident, had paid Danny to get him all the tedious money stuff (sensible boy!), so all Mark has to do is to give a cheque to Danny, which he will then give to Callum. The cheque, it goes without saying, would be written out to Callum. Does that sound too complicated for a banking lecturer? Well it was.

Mark was fretting about Danny and/or Callum ripping him off with the exchange rates and bank charges for using cheques or something like that. It’s as if even thinking about money makes Mark go all edgy and weird, although he seemed to be OK yesterday when he was treating himself to about seven hundred pounds worth of holiday goodies. What is it about guys and money? Why is it so important? Is it fear of uncertainty in a baffling, confusing world or something? Crippling insecurity combined with the conviction that everyone is trying to work you over? Did he get it from his parents? Who knows.

‘I’m not sure about these flip flops now.’

‘Well, it’s too late. You’ve bought them now. You’ll probably hardly wear them anyway.’

‘Maybe I can pick up another pair at the airport. It’s just that these ones feel scratchy when you put them on.’

‘Did you try them on your bare feet in the shop?’

‘No.’

‘Then, sweetie, you only have yourself to blame!’

His voice changes. It’s suddenly petulant and mean.

‘You’re really uptight about me going on this holiday, aren’t you.’

‘What brought that on?’

‘Just then. Having a go at me about the flip flops.’

‘How was I having a go at you?’

‘You were blaming me for buying a pair I hadn’t tried on, but everyone knows that nobody tries on flip flops in the shop.’

‘I do.’

‘Well of course you do. Little Miss Perfect.’

‘Oh, f*ck off Mark.’

As you can imagine, the atmosphere in the car on the way to the airport was not filled with deliciously sparkling wit and light-hearted repartee. I’m holding the steering wheel so tightly that I’m worried it might come off in my hands.

I thought I’d be a little nervous or angry or intimidated when I finally met Mark’s holiday chums, but by the time we got to Heathrow I was in a far more balanced state of mind. Mark and I are both adults. Someone asked him to help them out by taking the place of a friend who, though no fault of his own, was no longer able to join them on a quick jaunt to Greece. A quick sun-drenched, fun-packed jaunt to Greece.

Mark and I had plans for this coming week, but nothing that couldn’t be done another time. Mark has been working hard and he’ll have fun. He deserves the break. If I could have afforded it, I might even have joined them. Also, I’ll have close on a week to see if I can get some work done on my canvases. I can be focussed and not have to worry about Mark being around and having to tidy up every day at five-o-clock. It’ll be good.

God – I almost convinced myself for a moment.

Danny grins and shakes my hand. He addresses Mark like I’m not there.

‘So this is the little lady, then! You didn’t tell me you were shacked up with a top model, Mark!’

Oh. My. God.

Danny is – and there’s no kind way to say this – a prick.

He’s short, sweaty and overweight, and as he talks to Mark, he looks me up and down in a way that makes my skin crawl. He continues to speak directly to Mark about me, his piggy little eyes darting over my boobs every couple of seconds.

‘Shame she can’t come! I’ll bet she scrubs up lovely in a bikini, eh?’

Pervert.

Mark laughs at Danny’s hilarious banter. It occurs to me that this, this person couldn’t be called anything else but Danny Crump. I almost feel sorry for Mark, having to spend five minutes in this man’s company, let alone five days. It’s hard to believe that they’re about the same age. Danny looks about fifteen years older and considerably more shagged out, though not in a good way. I almost feel sorry for him, too, but not that much.

‘Yeah. Yeah she does. This is Chloe Dixon. Chloe, this is Danny Crump.’

Danny shakes my hand again. Either he likes the physical contact or he’s so stupid he’s forgotten that out hands have already shaken thirty seconds ago. I think it’s the former. He continues to clasp my hand after the shaking has stopped.

‘Chloe, eh?’ says Danny.

The two girls, who have been silent and staring, look from Danny to Mark and from Mark to Danny. I keep forgetting that they’ve never met Mark before. Or me, for that matter. I’m wondering if this has occurred to Danny. I extract my hand from Danny’s.

One of the girls is tall, pale and fairly pretty (is that bitchy enough for you?). She has one of those complexions where you just know she’s going to be the same colour when she comes back from five days of intense Mediterranean sunbathing. She’s quite busty and I can see her nipples through the top she’s wearing. I imagine she’d get a lot of attention on the beach. She’s grinning at me. I don’t know why.

The other girl has a permanent smile on her face and cute dimples in her cheeks. She’s got blonde hair which has been cut short. Ear piercing on the right ear. Good cheekbones. She’s shorter than the other one. Wide hips, small breasts. She keeps fiddling with her hair and nervously tapping her foot against her suitcase, as if checking it’s still there without having to look down. She’s a little overweight. She could be Danny’s younger sister, if he has one.

Danny nudges the tall one and points to me. ‘This is Chloe, Mark’s main squeeze. Chloe, this is Margot.’

I shake hands with Margot. We smile at each other. Did Danny just say ‘main squeeze’?

‘It’s such a shame you can’t come, Chloe.’ says Margot, looking at the floor.

I don’t know how to respond to this.

‘Well, I’m very busy with work. You know how it is.’

Margot looks up and smiles vacantly. She doesn’t know how it is.

‘And this beauty,’ says Danny, indicating the shorter one, ‘is Ruth.’

Ruth and I shake hands. Danny doesn’t take his eyes off Ruth. Either they’re already bonking or it’s something Danny has in mind for the future. Does that mean that Mark gets to have busty Margot? I must kill these thoughts before they start roosting in my brain.

There’s an awkward silence. I decide to break it. I look from Margot to Ruth, grinning like an idiot. ‘Do you both work with Danny?’

‘I work with Danny.’ Replies Ruth. ‘Margot is a friend of mine.’

That’s that out of the way, then.

‘I don’t work with Danny.’ adds Margot, helpfully.

I watch as the four of them exchange brief holiday chat and fiddle with their bags. Mark shows Danny a couple of the books he’s bought. Ruth asks Margot if she’s got any moisturiser. It’s as if I’m invisible. I feel like a mega-gooseberry and want to get away as fast as possible.

‘OK. Good. Well I must dash. Don’t want to pay a fortune to the car park people here!’

Mark smiles at me and takes my arm, moving me a few feet from the others. ‘Thanks for letting me do this, baby. We’ll have a ball when I come back, I promise. You are a star.’

‘You have a nice time. I’ll expect to see a fantastic suntan when you return.’

‘I’ll be totally bronzed! I’ll send you a postcard. Two postcards.’

‘If he’s ever sober enough to write one!’ shouts Danny, who’s been listening from a distance.

Ruth picks her nose when she thinks no one is watching.

Mark kisses me on the cheek. We all say goodbye to each other and I finally disengage myself from Mark and walk to the exit. I think Danny wanted to give me a kiss, but I positioned myself so that couldn’t happen and gave off bad vibe body language. I turn around to take a last look at them all. They’re looking for seats at a nearby coffee place. Margot is laughing at something. A fat chap with a moustache is looking at Margot’s boobs. Danny is looking at Ruth’s boobs, then at Margot’s boobs, then at Ruth’s boobs again. As I head towards the car park, two Italian-looking guys walk past and they both look at my boobs. One of them makes eye contact with me and smiles sweetly.

On the way back in the car, I stick Yeah Yeah Yeahs first CD on at high volume and sing along, banging the steering wheel with both hands in accompaniment. Five days. Not even a whole week. I’m sure it’ll go really quickly. Tenerife is in The Canary Islands.