Cathexis (12 page)

“Wow, you've been busy” I said.

“You too” she said, cocking her head towards the garden. “Are you well?” Her eyes rose up to mine and returned to the batter, but shot up again in a perfect double take. She'd noticed
...excellent. And her eyes, alive again, a light in them.

“Would you like coffee?” She put the bowl down and glanced intermittently at the jeans hanging off my hips.

“No, you're busy”.

“It's no trouble” she said, rinsing her hands. “Anyway, I need your help - you must try these to make sure I'm not going to poison eight mothers and eleven children”.  It was Sasha's birthday party, she was seven. My disorder, so deep seated, I wanted to run.

“My hands are dirty” I said feebly. She approached with a small, yellow cake, drizzled with white icing. I almost fainted. Looking into my eyes, she held it up to my mouth.

“Open” she said. I began to sweat as she grazed the icing across my lips. “Do it for me, Minette”. My mouth sprang open and I bit down on the soft, sweet sponge. The searing, sour lemon tweaked my rusty taste buds into a spasm of needling salivation. My face contorted and I covered it with my arm, as if I'd eaten hemlock.

“That bad huh?” she said dryly.

“No” I protested, “it's very nice. I'm just not used to, erm, lemon. Let me try another bit”. Opening my mouth again, she pushed the rest of it in with her thumb, laughing. “Verr gub” I nodded enthusiastically. We sat in the garden while she fed me an orgy: chocolate cake, banana bread and fairy cakes. I suppose I could have washed my hands but I preferred it this way. I rolled a cigarette and she disappeared, then skipped back with a Marlboro Light.

“See what a bad influence on me you are” she said, holding the cigarette in front of my face as if I should eat that too. I wanted to eat her.

“Minette, can you get me one of those, you know, they climb” she said, wiggling her fingers and rotating her wrists. “They have purple flowers in chains”.

“Wisteria” I punted.

“Yes, that's it”.

“You'll be lucky if it flowers here, chopping my arm before me. “You're north facing”.

“Oh please, for me”.

“Of course” I said indulgently. She only went and kissed me on the cheek.

The unmistakable chuff of a delivery lorry broke up our intercourse. There was no high ab arm so the driver and I unloaded each roll of turf, carrying them down to the basement and stacking them against the house. There were 60. Delivery drivers always seemed to go the extra mile for me. I liked to think it was gallantry rather than pity. I'd heard local builders’ merchants had refused to serve Clive – drivers had told me 'he's bang out of order'. I signed the chit with a muddy pen.

“Good luck, girl” said the driver, clapping me on the shoulder as I loaded the rest of the old turf into Fritz's flat bed. When I'd finished, I returned to the kitchen.

“Would you like to lick the bowl?” Nancy said.

Despite the contraction that gripped my pelvic floor, I regarded her flatly.

“I need the loo”. I pulled off my boots and set them neatly on the dustsheet.

“I love your boots” she said. “They're so you”.

Sitting on the loo where Nikolai had locked himself in, I pondered her mixed messages and my wee took a long time to come.

The traffic gunned around me on Holloway Road on my way to the tip. She'd given me two cakes for the journey, with pink icing and two half cherries perched on top. They sat on the passenger seat like two little tits. The dustcarts wobbled me and Fritz as we waited in the queue. It was 2.45pm, the end of their day. I sat calmly and ate the cupcakes.

As soon as I opened the door, the chatter and bray of Mumzillas, my face contorted in much the same way as it had when I'd bitten the lemon cake. I tried to gather some civility - they might be potential clients after all. There was much hoo-ha upstairs as well, thudding, screams and the cacophony of sticky children, high on sugar.

“May I introduce Minette Bracewell” Nancy said, with absurd yet endearing Romanov formality.

“Hi!” honked the eight in chorus, their wafer thin smiles evaporating as they turned to one another to continue their vacuous conversations in earnest. Nancy smiled to herself and turned out the last of the cakes on the cooling rack.

“Nette! Nette!”
Sasha scampered down the wooden stairs, skidding precariously in her socks and motioned for me to catch her from the third step.

“I wouldn't if I were you, baby” I said. “I'm all muddy”. She jumped anyway. Nancy rolled her eyes in mock disapproval.

“Sasha, go and put some shoes on” she said.

“Happy birthday to you” I said, touching her nose. “Whad'ya get? Whad'ya get?”

“I got pencils and pens and five cameras” she squealed.

“Five?” I said, splaying my fingers at her.

“Yes, five! You take the photos then you just throw them away”. Her arm arced a lobbing mime.

“Shouldn't you get them developed first?”

“Oh yeah” she giggled. ”I'm gonna take a picture of you. Wait there!”, galloping upstairs.

“Shoes!” I shouted after her.

I watched Nancy stack the dishwasher.

“Nette, say cheese!”

“Cheerios” I beamed. A flash and Sasha diligently thumbed the winder.

Each time I walked through the kitchen with a roll of turf, I noted where Nancy was: by the sink, in the fridge, at the breakfast bar; hardly ever with the mothers, except to offer food and collect plates.

On my 41
st
entry, Nancy, wrapping left over sandwiches in cling film, starting the tear with her teeth and pulling away a floating length, her curly tendrils gravitating towards the static square, balling it up with a sigh
...becoming annoyed.

On my 42
nd
entry, my gaze found Sasha's, urgent with terror and confusion. She looked up to her mother. Nancy, eyes wide, brimming tears, her big hand flat on her breast bone, mouth open in silent exclamation, a twist of cling film stuck to the sleeve of her cardigan. Dropping the turf, I ran behind her, clasped my arms around her midriff and jolted her as hard as I dared without breaking her. A patch of cling film coughed from her mouth and she collapsed back on me as we slid to the floor behind the breakfast bar. Shuddering, she drew in great lungfuls of air. My arms and legs around her, fighting a powerful urge to squeeze her to death, taking the opportunity instead to immerse my face in her hair. Placing my hand on Sasha's stubbornly socked foot.

“It's `OK, Mummy's OK now” I said. Mouth agape, two delayed reaction tears peeled down her cheeks. I helped Nancy to her feet and Sasha cleaved between us.

The 'not so yummy mummies', oblivious to the drama, munched cakes and recounted tales of lost gerbils and impertinent shop assistants.

“Are you OK?” I whispered into her hair.

“Yes, that was close” she said, not meeting my eye. I could smell her fear chemicals. “Thank you”. She brushed her hand across my forearm and went upstairs.

Sasha, staring at the ejected jelly fish on the floor, drew up her camera.

When I'd lugged the last of the turf into the garden and stacked it in a pleasing pyramid, the party was winding down. Rather than feeling heroic, the incident had left me with a hollow exhaustion, bordering nausea. The claggy ground would not capitulate as I levered up the obstinate clods and smashed them into dogmatic pugs. I sank to my knees and then to all fours as the last of the cake fuel ran out. A flash and I looked up to the living room window, Sasha winding on the small yellow box.

Dragging the dust
sheets together, I shook them into the garden and hoovered up the silt they had sifted. Leaving my muddy boots on the doormat, my socks slipping on the stairs, I made a last visit to the loo. Nancy at the front door, waving goodbye to reversing ladies. When I came back down, Sasha in my boots, not clumping so much as sliding gleefully, spreading muddy smears across the white floorboards.

“Look, Nette” she chirped. “I'm wearing your boots”.

“That's very good” I said, lifting her out, “but also a bit silly - look at the mess you've made”.

She cast her eyes over the dirty gestures with dismay. Nancy skipped down the stairs with a 'thank God that's over' face, which soon darkened when she saw the filthy floor. Sasha's complicit little hand slipped into mine.

“As if I haven't got enough to do!”  Nancy's voice assumed the dangerous contralto I'd only experienced when she was arguing with Todor or having sex with me. Sasha side stepped behind me and gripped the tail of my shirt.

“It's my fault” I said. “I'll clean it up”.

Nancy, eyes ablaze. “Just go, Minette!”

“But I can just mop...”.

“Get out!” she screamed, pointing to the door. Gently uncurling Sasha's fingers from my shirt, I pulled on my boots. Turning my back on my mercurial beloved (I wasn't angry), I slammed the door with all the meaning I could muster, generating the only ambiguous door slam in history.

The locket grew hot in my fist as I sat on my new acquisition, a faux leather junk shop sofa, deep in thought. Why had I angered her? Not because of the mess; she knew it was
Sasha's handiwork. Perhaps she was shooting at me to vent her frustration at those idiotic women. Minette, the sitting duck
...no, that wasn't her style. I'd got too close again. She still wanted me, I could smell it. Just as I knew she wouldn't be there tomorrow; if she wasn't, that would prove it. I didn't need to consult the cards, I couldn't lose. She was able to be angry with people she loved in a way I couldn't
...perhaps it was healthy.

Chapter 20

Windowlen
e, washing powder and Play-Doh was how the biologically wiped basement corridor of 12 Palladian Road smelt. Blinking in the gloom, preferring attunement to the fierce 90 watt bulb. My immaculate boots squeaked across the glossy floorboards, but halted when a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Despite the filigree silhouette, I didn't for a second think it was Nancy; shorter and stouter, it relied heavily on the banister.

“Hello” I ventured. “I'm Minette, the gardener”.

She wheezed laboriously, pausing on each step before stopping halfway. “Mrs Ivankova?”

Moving towards her, I offered my hand. When it became apparent she wasn't going to take it, I casually placed it on the rail, a few inches from her sizeable mitt, as if it were the next best thing. I noticed a Russian wedding ring. There was little of Nancy in her, perhaps Nancy's mouth would go that way, somewhat wide and froggy – but I didn't think so. Her hair may have started out like Nancy's, but now it was frizzled and dyed a discordant carmine.

“You are gardener?” she said in a smoker's husk, more of an accusation than a question. Her r’s rolling resplendent.

“Yes”. I smiled genially.

“Don't make dirt!” she snapped, turning for the ascent. “Nancy not here” she added.

“Nice to meet you”. I beamed at her retreating slacks.

Tools still in the shed from yesterday, I got stuck in turning piles of peat into the ground. A light drizzle sheened my face and I donned my army surplus hat with the ear flaps and unravelled my waterproofs. After I'd tamped the earth down by doing the 'duck walk', I rolled out the new, green baize, ensuring the edges butted up correctly, like the lips of some mossy old vagina. The rain fell steadily and I felt eyes on me as I worked, giggling at the unlikely prospect of Mrs
Ivankova standing in the landing window in her sturdy Playtex.