The A-Z of Us (28 page)

‘Gemma…'

‘Don't you fucking Gemma me! I will fucking swear if I want to…'

‘FUCK YOU, GEMMA!'

His face is suddenly flushed with rage. It's immensely attractive.

‘What?'

‘Fuck you!'

‘Fuck me?'

‘Yeah. Fuck you!'

‘Jesus, Raj… fuck you too!'

I sit back, firmly, arms crossed. Rage crackles between us. For people who never fight, I think, this is a pretty good skirmish. I'm surprised how grown-up it feels. How good.

I look down at my lap, teeth clenched. I sense Raj is doing the same.

I might have cancer.

The words I should have said that Saturday night so long ago. Just four weeks ago.

But still I cannot say them.

I look up. He's still looking down at his shoes, hand kneading hand.

Can I say it? Can I? Instead, I hear myself say:

‘I bought some cocaine.'

He looks up.

‘What?'

‘The layabout. He's a drug dealer, he sells cocaine, but just to his friends. So I bought some.'

‘What the fuck are you talking about, Gemma?'

‘Number twenty-two. The black door. I called by, and he sold me some Charlie.' I laugh as I say this, a high-pitched girlish out-of-control giggle. I sound ridiculous, like some sketch on a comedy programme in which a posh woman tries to talk about drugs. Raj knows I've never done drugs, not even marijuana. I've always maintained I don't need narcotics to get a buzz, even when my friends laugh at me.

‘It's in my pocket. Come on, let's go and try some. In the toilet.'

Raj stares at me. He shakes his head.

‘Don't be silly, Gemma.'

‘You think I'm joking?' I plunge my hand into my bag and pull out the small plastic sachet of white powder. ‘See?'

‘Jesus Christ, Gemma, put that away! Are you crazy?'

I hold the sachet in front of him.

‘Come on Raj. Live a little. Come and try some.'

‘Please Gemma, can we just talk about things sensibly here… ?'

I stand, hurriedly.

‘That's just your problem Raj Singh. You're too sensible. You're the most sensible, boring bastard I've ever fucking met!'

I lock the toilet door and sit down on the closed seat. My heart is thumping. When Raj didn't follow me, I cursed him until I got to Molly's large white mosaic bathroom and closed the heavy door behind me, one of Ian's balloons butting the wood happily, as if in celebration.

I know my sister will be arriving any moment. But I don't care. I want to be locked away in her toilet, taking drugs for the first time in my life.

I survey the small plastic bag of white powder. It looks so innocent. I open the bag, dip my finger in. The powder is soft, like baby talcum. I wonder, in this instant, whether anyone has ever rubbed cocaine into a baby's back by mistake.

Suddenly, I wish that Ian were here with me. I feel that in his presence, standing guard at the door, I would be able to do it. He would look after me. Unlike Raj, who cares only for himself, who was motivated to come to see me by loneliness and childish despair rather than wholehearted deep-seated love.

I feel sorry for my husband. He doesn't know how to live. I am only just beginning to know how.

I extract my finger. It's coated with white powder, like frosting. I've seen movies, I've read novels in which people
stick their powdered fingers against their gums to ingest the last grains from the mirrored table top.

My finger trembles. It is, I realize suddenly, my ring finger. I look at the white line where my wedding ring used to be. An inch from the tip of white powder.

I rub the powder onto my right upper gum. Immediately the gum goes numb, as if from a dentist's needle. I taste chemicals and bitterness. I remember putting Ajax cleaning powder on my tongue as a little girl. This is similar. I spit hard into the toilet bowl once, then twice.

I empty the cocaine into the toilet, pull the flush, and place the plastic bag in Molly's bin. I exit quickly, heading for the front door. I open it, and step into the hallway. The lift is coming. I can see the number ascending, so I head for the stairs.

‘Gemma?'

It's Ian's voice, but I cannot look back. I have to leave on my own. I have to be strong. I have to survive.

‘Gemma!'

I call after her a second time, but she doesn't look back. I think about heading after her, but then I see the lift dial flashing. It's Molly. I duck back into the flat, closing the door.

‘She's coming!' I exclaim.

The music dips, everyone turns to look at the front door. My father smiles at me, I slap the light switch, the room darkens.

My heart is thumping. Faces turned in smiling expectation. Something thuds against the door, a key scratches in the lock. I can sense the rows of faces behind me, each holding their breath, the six syllables forming in their lungs, and the door swings open.

‘Happy Birthday, Molly!' I shout, as Molly falls through the open door, her skirt around her waist, her knickers around her ankles, her blouse wide open revealing a naked breast popping out of a black lacy bra. With her falls a large man, his trousers around his knees, and as he tumbles I see a swift flash of erect penis.

Molly and her ex-husband Will Masterson are having sex.

They land on the floor at my feet.

Gasps ring around the room like air bubbles. Faces staring.

‘What the fuck?' Molly's face is a snarl. Will Masterson is scrabbling at his trousers, desperately trying to stuff his genitals into his boxer shorts.

‘Molly…' I stammer, my voice squeaking. I stare down at them, seeing Molly's beautiful white thighs, the dark triangle between her legs, the cream of her breast. I want to take her right there and then, but Will Masterson has got there first. Long before me.

‘Molly…' The voice sounds like mine. Frantically, Molly pulls her skirt down, pushes herself to her knees.

I feel my anger fold like a blanket, smothering me. The sickening pain of betrayal.

‘What are you doing?' My voice is cracking, I know tears are not far off. I struggle to breathe, to prevent myself crying. Molly is kneeling, holding her blouse shut.

‘Shit, Ian, I don't know…'

I don't understand. She seems a different person. Or am I the different person?

‘How long have you been fucking him?'

‘Oh Ian…'

‘Leave her alone!'

I turn. Will Masterson has jumped to his feet, trousers zipped, standing at Molly's side.

‘Fuck off,' I say.

‘Leave her alone, mate.'

‘Fuck you!'

I step forward, Will Masterson reaches out and pushes me firmly. I stagger backwards, then rage roars through me and before I know what I'm doing, I swing my right fist at him. He steps nimbly to one side, my punch misses by twelve inches, and I continue forwards, ploughing
straight into the pretty dark-haired waitress who is standing admiring the scene, holding a tray laden with champagne.

I fall hard. My knee clunks against the floor. My nose strikes something sharp and solid.

‘Ow!'

I turn my head. I am lying on someone. I look up to see a pair of breasts. The pretty waitress struggles under me. I'm lying in her lap, pinning her to the floor. My nose throbs. I wonder which part of her body I've struck against.

‘Help…'

A tray lies at her side like a fallen shield. I try to ease myself up. As I shift, the waitress manages to roll out from under me, springing athletically to her feet. She looks down at me.

‘“Excuse me” would have sufficed,' she says softly. To my surprise, she doesn't seem angry.

The barman appears, pushing people aside. The waitress turns quickly to him.

‘It's fine Zack, I slipped, that's all.'

I try to stand, but I feel too tired. Will Masterson offers his hand.

‘Piss off,' I say, firmly.

‘Go, Will!' Molly barks. Will Masterson steps swiftly away, exiting through the open front door.

I hold up my hand to my nose. There's a spot of blood, although it doesn't seem broken. Behind Molly, I see faces – her friends, her mother, Stanley Myers. And there, amongst the faces, my father stands, his face white and confused. He meets my gaze for a second, then jerks his head away.

‘Sorry,' I repeat to the waitress. I reach clumsily into my pocket, pull out a twenty-pound note and thrust it up at her.

‘It's okay. It was an accident.'

‘Please.'

‘If it makes you feel better.'

I push the note into her hand.

‘Sorry,' I say once more. She smiles again. It is, I think for an instant, a very kind smile.

‘Anything else broken?' She gestures at my plaster cast.

Everything's broken, I think. I shake my head. She nods quickly, and starts to pick up the broken pieces of glass.

The tears well in my eyes. In that instant, I wish Gemma were still here. I know she'd take over, she'd say the right damning, enraged words to Molly's face, before escorting me swiftly but proudly from the flat. I have to think like Gemma.

‘Molly. Please tell me. What… what's going on?'

For a moment, Molly's face is impassive. I try to think of other words, to force some change in her facial expression. Then she nods once, biting her bottom lip. I love it when she bites her bottom lip. She looks so vulnerable. But it's just a trick. She's playing me, like a professional.

‘Why, Molly?'

She speaks, finally.

‘I don't know. I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry.'

Her voice is small. I am going to be sick. Another voice rings out.

‘Ian!'

I look up. Raj is pushing through the faces, thrusting out my crutch towards me. I take the metal neck and push myself up.

‘Thanks,' I mutter. Raj nods, then shrinks back into the onlookers.

I have to move.

‘Ian…' Molly whispers. I hobble past her to the front door. I walk out in to the hallway and close the apartment door behind me.

I wait for the lift. I wonder why I don't feel more angry. I just feel exhausted. I want to leave, to disappear. I want to get on a plane and go to somewhere hot and difficult, where I can be worthy and interesting and detached.

The door to Molly's apartment opens. Justin Wilson appears. He's wearing a Barbour jacket over his checked shirt.

Justin holds out his hand. I shake it.

‘Tough luck, mate.'

I can't look at him, shame burning my neck and cheeks.

‘It's… I don't know…'

Justin nods, once.

‘Thanks for the party.' He pats me on the shoulder and pushes open the door to the stairs. I look down. Justin turns round once more.

‘You really are a stupid fuck, aren't you Thompson?'

‘Pardon?'

‘Either that or you're just stubborn.'

‘Stubborn?'

‘Don't you see it? Molly isn't worth it. She's a looker, but she's not a stayer. She doesn't deserve you.'

‘Why not?' I want Molly to deserve me. I want us to be together. I want my plan to work.

Suddenly, Justin's hands are on my shoulders, grasping me tightly.

‘You're only going out with her because she's a replacement for her sister!'

‘What?'

‘Gemma is the one, you crazy bastard! You two have been nuts about each other since the first time you met!'

‘Nuts?'

‘Yes. Fucking nuts! You fucking nutter! For fuck's sakes, go and do something about it!'

Just as suddenly, Justin releases me.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘As plain as raisins. You love Gemma, and she loves you! It's so bloody obvious! It always has been. Nobody can believe you two never got it together.'

I stare at him. Justin smiles broadly, then pushes the door, and disappears down the stairs.

I am a nutter. I am nuts about her.

Suddenly, it's clear. I know what I have to do.

I open the door to Molly's apartment. Fortunately, the South African barman is in the hallway.

‘Pass us that knife would you?'

‘What?'

‘The knife you were using to cut up the lemons.'

‘Sorry mate,… I can't do that…'

‘Come on, just for a moment. I'm not going to do any damage…'

‘What do you need it for?'

‘I'll show you. Look, here's ten quid.'

The barman looks at me. He takes the ten-pound note and hands me the substantial serrated black-handled knife.

I lean down, slip the blade into the small gap between my shin bone and plaster cast, and pull the knife upwards. The plaster parts a little. I start to saw, back and forth, down the length of the cast. The dull top edge of the blade digs into my flesh, but I don't care.

‘Hey…' the barman is leaning around the door, watching me. I look up.

‘It's fine.'

The plaster splits easily. I pull the sides away with my left hand, ripping, tearing, enjoying the energy, my anger wrenching the innocent white plaster apart.

‘No, you'll break the knife…'

‘It's fine. I'm fine,' I look up at him with a wide, maniacal grin. I split the last of the cast, drop the knife to the floor, and rip the plaster shoe in two. My ankle and foot seem so thin, fragile and white, like something dug up after two thousand years in a bog. I wriggle my toes. They feel okay. I am free.

I hand the barman the knife.

‘I'll have to wash it now,' the barman moans. I pick up the pieces of plaster cast, cradling them in the crook of my arm like precious relics.

‘Do you have a bin?'

‘Jesus Christ mate, anything else you want?'

I nod.

‘How much for your shoes?'

I head due east, along Old Street. The barman's Puma trainers are just a little too small, which, considering they
cost me £120 in cash, is far short of a bargain, but they are better than the alternative of walking two miles wearing a single boot.