The Fool (13 page)

This Friday had been a Friday from hell. The
end of financial year accounts about to be closed and set. She
hadn’t even got to the chocolate biscuits ‘til after 2. The phone
never stopped, the fax machine had over spilled twice and her boss
had looked at her with one of those looks. The ‘I know you are so
very busy and you are so very competent, but can I please have the
report on my desk now’ looks. Yes, she loved the bustle. Yes, she
was good enough to do everything well, no matter how busy it got.
Yes, it was great fun. Sometimes. But it wasn’t really her job to
do all of it and it was about time someone recognised that. They’d
almost had words, Jo backing down at the last moment when the phone
had rung once more, embroiling her in another minor crisis in the
photocopying room. She had sent out for coffee and a sandwich, but
either they had never arrived, or she hadn’t noticed them in the
mêlée.

She had felt defeated when it was all sorted
out, not exultant so, when the usual shout had gone up about where
and when the office was congregating for party mode, she’d
listened. She rarely joined in with the Friday night extravaganza
that the bosses actively encouraged the staff into. She was always
late, always tired, and found getting it down and boogying with the
others a waste of time. Today, however, had been different. All she
wanted to do was go out and get absolutely smashed out of her
skull. Forget it all and start the weekend in bed, too past it to
care about anything. She may even get laid, or try to. The safety
of getting drunk in the company of her fellow workers stood against
her managing a little horizontal jogging. Embarrassed encounters
over work areas on Monday mornings were not her idea of fun. Not
that she’d ever had such an encounter, but it might happen yet.
There was a Northern chill to her backbone that usually saw to it
that nothing squidgy happened, despite her fantasies. Perhaps
tonight, she’d shuck off the puritanical streak she hadn’t realised
was part of her until she moved to London.

Unprepared for a night out, she’d made the
decision to leave some of the work undone and rush back home to
change. With luck and the right connections, she would meet up with
the others as they made their way across London to catch a boat
that was going to let them drink themselves sick as it drifted
along the Thames. Experience had shown that this was very
convenient, both for throwing up discreetly, and for controlling
who had access to you in a ‘fragile’ state. With the train now
hurtling away from her into the darkness, there was a good chance
she was going to be late. Thankfully, the next train popped up
quickly, although she was going to have to change at Leicester
Square, which suited her well enough as she didn’t have that much
cash on her. Her temper had cooled as she stopped off to pick up
money from the hole in the wall. Folding the notes into her purse,
she allowed the chiming of the nearby Swiss Centre to register the
time with her, bursting the bubble of her self-delusion. It was too
late. She had missed the launch, they’d be heading downstream by
the time she got there. She didn’t have one jot of a clue as to
where it was picking up along the route, should have listened
better as they all chattered about who was wearing what, who was
gunning for whom.

She fought back the irrational prick of
tears that threatened to engulf her, concentrating on what she
wanted to do now. She was dressed for fun, she was in the right
part of town. She had money in her purse and the night, if not the
evening, was still young. She couldn’t face returning to her flat
so soon after rushing out of it, all caught up with the idea that
she had somewhere to go. Unnoticed by the crowds she slipped into
the first decent looking pub she found. A quick glass of wine, some
time to calm down. A meal, maybe a movie. Something of the evening
would be salvaged. Besides, she’d be so much safer on her own.

Restlessness had brought him out onto the
streets earlier than usual. The day had been hot; sticky and close.
There was a fine drawing of his nerves building; a faint twitch. He
cruised the bars from Soho down to the Square, scanning the eager
young faces he passed. It was too early for the true desperates to
be abroad. He wondered where they went in the city centre bustle
between the hours of the commuter’s rush and the emptying of the
bars. The young and helpless, tricking the night away to fill their
bellies and their veins. The air was grey and stale, not heavy
enough to call with it rain. Deep and dark enough that it lay in
layers around him. The scents caught by each step forward drummed
the sense of city into his bones. Sweat, concrete, cheap perfume.
The sharp and noxious odour of urine, splashed carelessly behind
bins and crates. Dark alleyways completely overlooked by the
tourists. Rotting vegetables and rubbish caught in the trap of the
gutter, wind brushing all to the corners of the streets. Noise
assailed him from the edges of Chinatown, ancient spices and herbs
drifted out to him from the apothecary’s shelves. Tonight was not a
night for easy prey, swift endings. Tonight, he was in the mood for
fun.

The pub was packed and she’d found her way
to both the bar, and an empty table, with a lot of pushing and
jostling. The table was crowded with bottles and had an overflowing
ashtray. She edged it away, wrinkling her nose in distaste. The
table was tiny, a fake hardboard top over a fake beer barrel. There
was only one stool but she’d be nearer the door where there was a
sense of fresher air to be found. Squeezing into a gap in the
heaving bodies around her she settled into the seat, ruefully
reflecting that the fresher air from outside was just as cloying,
if somewhat drier than the sweat and lager laden fug around her.
She scanned her somewhat sketchy memory of the area for
rememberings of a good restaurant. One with air conditioning.

The street was a small one, lined with pubs
and wine bars. The prices in each varied greatly. He’d learnt that
such a range offered interesting possibilities. He took his time,
savouring the appearance and demeanour of everyone around him.
There was a tow-headed young man, a boy really, sitting on one of
the cheap plastic seats outside a cafe. He looked as if he’d just
been jilted, his eyes staring intently at the label of the bottle
he held. He almost didn’t fit the new jeans he was wearing, his
shoes scuffed and rather more worn than looked cool. Promising.
Next door, a wine bar with pretensions of glamour. The woman taking
advantage of the dim light of an alcove was in her late forties.
High quality make up sought to cover the lines and wrinkles of
excess, powder clogging her pores, eye shadow making pretence of
much younger looks. Good clothing, bag and matching shoes.
Expensive perfume barely masking stale body odour. Dark roots just
peeping into view. There was a harshness, a nervousness about her.
Eyes constantly roaming, searching, eager. Her hands were never
still, the rings surrounding her fingers twisted and turned this
way and that. She brought her hand up to her face regularly,
hiding, entreating. He savoured her plight, how easily she would be
caught. He shook his head, not for this evening, although he may
return at a later date, not doubting that this was a favourite
haunt.

The boy had gone when he returned to the
street, his place taken by three giggling girls, their almost
skirts not quite matching their almost tops. Make up applied with
more enthusiasm than skill, their flesh tones lost in a jumble of
clashing shades and colours. Long gangling limbs embraced in cheap
bangles and bracelets, shoes all bought in a sale. A vestige of
some shared shopping spree no doubt. He smiled at them as he
passed, evoking shrieks of delight and raucous comment on his
intentions. The smile was genuine as he savoured the raw scents
they spread around him. Musk, heat, and the fresh tang of just
washed flesh exerting its own perfume over that of soap and
deodorant. He mellowed into the chase, thoroughly enjoying the pace
and selection the evening had so far offered. He tipped them a wink
and moved on, relishing the sounds as he passed them by.

Jo found her glass of wine soothing. It had
a sour taste, kept overlong in a bottle behind the bar, but the
alcohol warmed her blood. It was a stupid thing to do, get so
frazzled, just for another pointless office party. She studied
those around her, making guesses at who they were and what they did
for a living. The main performer in a tightly woven pack of young
men looked over at her and winked. She smiled, dropping her head to
look at her glass. When she looked up he was engaged in another
tall tale, his mates well on the road to joining him in a night of
excess. A small part of her was disappointed that she’d been
dismissed so easily, laughing the slight off with a quick toss of
her head. A gesture for a mythical companion who was at the bar
buying the next round, or weaving his way back from the Gents. A
clear signal for the one who’d passed her over so quickly. It
didn’t make her feel better; it made her feel worse, more aware of
how vulnerable she was feeling. It was stupid to take it to heart,
she was alone after all. No matter the attraction, the guy who had
winked would have only broken ranks to approach her if she had been
surrounded by her mates. Something for them all to get their teeth
into. Shares for everyone, that was the pack rule. As she drained
the glass her stomach announced its immediate rebellion. She must
eat, must fill the void. Collecting her jacket and bag, she rose to
leave.

The glimpse of white caught his eyes as he
scanned the packed pub from outside. Too many people was as
dangerous as too few. He preferred to analyse the opportunities
from the large display windows theme pubs were beginning to build
into their decor. She was in her early twenties, fading tan bought
from a machine. Hair an untidy mop of curls, a better perm than it
looked, dried with less care than the style demanded. She’d had it
trapped up all day, released it without washing, the ridges from
the clasps still evident. Her hair and eyes were the same warm
colour of earth. Nothing too exciting, but a nice complement to her
facial skin, which was paler than the rest of her. She read the
magazines, this one. Knew to keep sun away from her face, even as
she allowed it domain over her body. Make up had been hastily
applied, the dress showed signs of a recent hanging in a crowded
wardrobe. The single ring on her right hand was no more than a
cheap silver memento of a Greek package tour. There was a
drowsiness around her: fatigue. Her head came up and eyes made
contact with someone else in the crowd, her smile warm and
inviting. The movement of dropping her head to coyly study her
glass entranced him. She was both naive and aware, testing her way
along the path of the evening. Her face hardened as she realised
she’d been overlooked, her head shaking away the slight. Look what
you’ve missed, she was saying, look what you passed up. He
smiled.

The air was slightly clearer as she left the
bar, although it was still too warm, too old. As if it had been
used too much that day, been dragged in and out of many sets of
lungs. The greying light was losing its unequal battle with the
electric lights all around, the street leached of its colour. It
left a chill on her, made her feel transient, transparent. She
really had to get some food. She perused a series of windows,
ostensibly checking prices, really having a good look inside to see
who was sitting down, what sort of feel the place had. Too many
places were packed, overflowing with good cheer and heated bodies.
Almost in desperation she headed for the Steak House on the other
side of the Square. It was a tourist place, overpriced and stuffy.
It would not be cool to have admitted eating there from choice but
the green velvet booths would give her some space, the air
conditioning respite from the now expected early summer. There was
a small queue, which she didn’t mind. Other places had far larger
queues and she quite enjoyed the wait, watching the life and colour
return to the Square as natural light retreated and the neon took
over. As she reached the head of the queue the maitre’d raised his
head and smiled to the right of her.

“For two, sir?”

Startled, she turned to find a man standing
slightly to one side. His face registered his own confusion at the
question. Flustered, he looked first to Joanne, then back to the
maitre’d.

“The lady is not with me.” He caught her
gaze again and smiled at her. “Unfortunately.”

She grinned back at him in thanks for the
compliment. He raised his arm, to allow her full access to the head
of the queue and the now impatient staff.

“A single, madam?”

The voice betrayed his feelings on one of
his precious tables being given over to a single occupant on a
Friday night. She nodded. He looked past her again, to the
gentleman whom he’d mistaken for her companion.

“And you, sir, a single also?”

The second nod of the head sent him in a
scurry of disdain as he searched through the room for evidence of
two small tables about to come free.

“It may be some time... unless...?”

The maitre’d allowed the word to hang in the
air, hoping the two dim and sad people cast upon his restaurant on
a busy evening would come to their senses. Joanne started to
fidget, unprepared to deal with such complications. The man stepped
into the breach, silencing the sighs of exasperation that were
beginning to make their way up the ever lengthening queue. He stood
forward, side by side with her, acting as if both the maitre’d and
the queue had disappeared.

“I would be honoured if you would join me
for dinner.”

His smile won her, the touch of
self-deprecation in his humour, the secret he was sharing with her
that anything was worth getting out from under the eyes of the
officious man whose evening they were disrupting. Even so, she
hesitated.