62
Toby now resembled a Gorbals hard nut on a Sunday morning. They’d closed his gashed forehead with eight stitches and his eye had swollen up and taken on the colouration of the late stages of a Caribbean sunset. People kept their distance from him when he walked down the street, even in his brand-new Agnès B jacket and suede desert boots. He was a towering skinhead with a black eye, stitches and a missing tooth. He’d toyed with the idea of having a T-shirt printed up with the words ‘I am a poet’ on the front and ‘I went to a very good public school’ on the back. Everyone he came into contact with recoiled at the sight of him. In some ways it freaked him out; in other ways it liberated him.
It was like being in fancy dress, being at once conspicuous and anonymous. He felt he could take people by surprise, subvert the course of his day-to-day life just by leaving the house without a hat on.
And maybe that was why he suddenly found himself able to take the reins, to take control of his house. He had until next week to break the news to his housemates that he was selling the house and that they had to move out. After that he had three weeks to redecorate their rooms (regardless of whether or not they were still in them) and finish off the house. He couldn’t afford to mess around any more. The longer he left it, the tougher it was going to be for everyone.
He headed for Con and Melinda’s room first. The old Toby would have felt impolite and awkward knocking on his tenants’ doors in the middle of the evening. The new Toby didn’t give a shit.
Con opened the door to him. Melinda wasn’t in the room.
‘Hello, Con. D’you mind if I come in?’
‘No. Sure.’ He was watching something with very loud shouty people in a studio. He reached for the remote control and turned down the volume. Toby glanced round the room, quickly making mental notes for his decorating scheme. ‘Do you mind if I …?’ He pointed at the edge of the carpet and fell to his knees. ‘I just need to see if you’ve got floorboards under here.’ He pulled back the green patterned carpet and peered underneath. ‘Um-hmm.’ He nodded to himself and pushed the carpet back down. ‘Very good.’
Con looked at him. ‘What are you doing that for?’
‘Oh, just thinking about taking up all the carpets, you know, stripping all the floorboards. Just wanted to check yours were sound.’
Con nodded and sat on his mum’s bed.
Toby passed his palm over the velvety crown of his head and smiled. ‘So, Con. How are things? I feel we haven’t spoken for a while. All going well with Daisy?’
Con shrugged and fiddled with Melinda’s hairbrush.
‘Ah, dear, that sounds a bit … unpromising. Is it not working out?’
‘Yeah, well, the whole thing was a joke, really.’
‘Oh,’ said Toby, ‘why’s that?’
‘I dunno. Her family, you know – they were just so …’
‘Condescending? Arrogant? Unwelcoming?’
‘No. None of that. They were really nice to me when I met them, but it seemed a bit …’
‘Fake?’
‘Yes. Well, no. It just didn’t make any sense, that’s all. They’ve got this beautiful girl, they’ve sent her to the best schools, looked after her, watched her going in and out of hospital since she was a kid. I mean, surely they’d want the best for her?’
‘Well, yes, but I don’t see your point.’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Why would they want someone like me hanging around their girl? I mean, they even invited me to stay at their house.’
‘And why wouldn’t they?’
‘Because, fuck, I don’t know – what would we talk about? I mean, just imagine it, all sitting round the dining table eating breakfast, they’d all be reading their big newspapers, talking about politics and world affairs, and classical fucking music. I’d feel like a right spanner. I just feel like they’re only being nice to me because they think I’m some kind of, you know, passing phase. Like I’m nothing serious. Like they may as well be polite because I’ll only be around for a while. I think if they knew how I really felt about their daughter and how she really feels about me they’d run a mile.’
Toby sighed. ‘Have you talked to Daisy about this, about how you feel?’
He shook his head, pulled a hair out of Melinda’s hairbrush and twisted it round his little finger. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘We’re not really talking any more.’
‘You mean, it’s over?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. I guess so.’
‘But, Con, that’s ridiculous. You’re in love with this girl …’
He shrugged again.
‘You’ve cooked for her, written her poetry. This girl was all set to change your life.’
‘Yes!’ Con slapped the hairbrush against his thigh. ‘Yes! Exactly. She was all set to change my life. And I didn’t fucking want her to. I don’t want some girlfriend who spends half her life in hospital, whose parents expect me to hang out with them all, like a big happy family, who’ll be watching me all the time, making sure I’m good enough for their girl. I like my life, you know. I’ve got plans. Things I want to do.’
‘You can do those things with Daisy, surely?’
‘What –go off and live in the Caribbean? And what happens next time she gets a lung infection, or a chest infection or, fuck, you know, something even more serious? What happens then, when we’re a boat ride and a plane ride away from the nearest decent hospital? What do you think mummy and daddy dearest will think about that? No, man – it’s just too … I can’t do it. I can’t.’
‘Well, couldn’t you tailor your plans a bit? Maybe you could, I don’t know, island hop in the Channel. Guernsey, Jersey, Sark, the Scillies. Or around the Med, the Greek islands?’
‘No,’ said Con, ‘no. I had a plan. Eighteen more months at Condé Nast. Get my licence in South Africa. Head to the Caribbean. I’m sorry, Toby, I know you were really into the whole me and Daisy thing, and I really appreciate everything you did. But it’s just not going to happen. OK?’
Toby sighed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think that’s a shame, I really do. Real love, it doesn’t just pop up when it’s convenient, you know? It doesn’t just turn up and fit in with everything. Real love is a pain in the arse. You have to make compromises for it.’
‘Yeah, well. I’ve made enough compromises in my life already, you know?’
‘What sort of compromises?’
‘Looking after my Gran, feeling too guilty to go out and leave her on her own. Working in a shitty job. Sharing a room with my fucking mum.’
‘I thought you liked sharing with your mum?’
‘No. Of course I don’t. It’s all right when she’s working nights, but when she’s on days it sucks.’
‘Then why don’t you tell her it’s time to move on?’
‘No way! I can’t kick my own mum out.’
‘Why not? She’s done it to you.’
‘Yeah, but that’s different.’
‘Why is it different?’
‘I don’t know. It just is.’
Toby sighed. This called for drastic measures. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘how much does it cost to get your pilot’s licence?’
Con sniffed. ‘About twelve grand.’
‘And how much have you saved up?’
‘About five.’
‘Right, so you need another seven grand. And you reckon you can save that up in eighteen months?’
‘Yeah. If I’m good. If I keep away from the clothes shops, you know.’
‘I think that would be pushing it. I think it’ll take you more like two years, on your salary. So here’s a deal. I lend you the seven grand, you go off and get your licence, pay me back when you get a job. But there are two things I need you to do in return …’
Toby’s next stop was Joanne’s room.
He’d barely seen her since the night the man claiming to be her husband had turned up out of the blue. She’d disappeared for a fortnight and returned three days ago, her hair cut short and bleached white, with a pink nose stud in her nostril. Nobody, of course, had asked her where she’d been. Curiosity was futile; everyone in the house knew that.
Toby had a plan. It was a simple plan, and one he only now felt able to put into action. His plan was to play her at her own game. He would be as brusque, rigid and inhuman as Joanne, and it took a man with a skinhead and a black eye to pull it off. Toby breathed in and patted her door with his knuckles.
‘Yes?’
‘Joanne. It’s Toby. Could I have a quick word, please?’
It took a full minute for Joanne to come to her door and when she did she opened it an inch and a half, revealing just a slice of her face to Toby.
‘Yes?’ she said again.
‘Could I come in?’
Her eyes flashed at him in alarm. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’
‘Right,’ said Toby, ‘well, then would you mind coming to my room?’
Joanne narrowed her eyes at Toby. She breathed in deeply and then exhaled, loudly. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘when?’
‘Well, now would be good.’
‘Fine. Give me a moment.’
She was wearing pyjamas when she slid through the door of Toby’s bedroom a minute later – red tartan pyjamas and her red-framed spectacles. The pyjamas were far too big for her and her hair was a mess. She slid across the room attached to the wall as if by some magnetic force. ‘What happened to your face?’ she said.
‘I fell into the shallow end of a swimming pool, head first.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Did it hurt?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it did.’
‘And is that why you’ve got no hair?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘that was Melinda. She decided I had too much hair and took matters into her own hands.’
Joanne nodded and inched a bit nearer. ‘It looks better,’ she said, ‘I agree. You did have too much hair before. It didn’t look hygienic.’
‘Oh,’ said Toby, ‘right. I’d never thought about it like that before.’ He paused for a moment, absorbing the fact that he’d been walking round with unhygienic-looking hair for years. The thought saddened him. ‘Anyway. The reason I wanted to see you was to find out how you’re getting on.’
‘Getting on with what?’
‘Oh, you know, just generally. Are you happy with the situation here?’
She nodded tersely, wrapped her arms round herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘on the whole. I like the new bathrooms and the kitchen.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘good.’
She slanted her eyes and pursed her lips. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You. You’re different. You’re all … spiky. What’s going on?’
‘Spiky?’
‘Yes. You’re being all pushy.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. You’re different.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose that could just be your perception of me having changed due to my new image.’
‘Hmmmm.’
‘Anyway. What I really wanted to talk to you about was what happened here last month.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nick. Your husband.’
‘I told you. I don’t have a husband. He was just some lunatic – a druggie, probably.’
‘Well, how did he know your name?’
She shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘And if you don’t know him, then why did you disappear for two weeks?’
‘I told you. I was on holiday. Have we finished now?’
‘No. We haven’t. Here.’ He passed her a can of lager. She took it silently and opened it. ‘You wrote to me two years ago. You told me that you were an actress at an interesting juncture in your life. You told me you’d be acting in a film and that you wanted a room here to give you the freedom to research your role before filming started. That was 2003. It is now 2005 and all I have seen you do is go to work and return home most days with some shopping bag or other. Which leads me to conclude that you have a lot of expendable cash. Which makes me wonder what you’re doing here?’
Joanne flushed, the first time Toby had ever seen any colour pass through her face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you don’t know anything about me …’
‘Indeed I don’t. And that’s what I’m concerned about. All I know is that you have lots of money, lots of clothes, an attitude problem and a very unhappy husband called Nick. Now, if I knew more about you I might be able to muster up some sympathy for you, but, as it is, I’m finding it harder and harder to feel anything for you at all.’
‘I’m not asking you to feel anything for me.’
‘No. You’re not. But you are asking me to live with you, when you could afford to live pretty much anywhere.’
‘I don’t have to live here.’
‘Because …’ She paused. ‘Because this is where I live.’
‘But you don’t even like it here.’
‘Who said that I don’t like it here?’
‘My friend Leah.’
‘From across the road?’
‘Yes. She said that you said that you found it hard living with us, that you dealt with us by pretending we weren’t here.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘But it’s true?’
‘Well, yes, to a certain extent. Sharing a house with people is difficult.’
‘Which brings me back to my original question. Why do you live here, when you could afford not to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Right, well, I think I know the answer. I think you live here because it means that you don’t exist because your signature isn’t on anything. I think you live here because you’re hiding from something or running from something. And I think that something is Nick. Your husband.’
Toby paused, waiting for Joanne to deny once more that Nick was her husband. But she didn’t. Instead she stared at him for a moment, then let her head drop dramatically onto her hands. ‘He’s not my husband,’ she said, softly.
‘Then who is he?’
‘He’s my fiancé. Was. He was.’
‘Did he come back again? While I was away?’
Toby nodded.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. He said absolutely nothing. But he asked me to give you this.’
She looked up at him. Toby reached behind him into his drawer and pulled out a letter. He passed it to her.
She held the envelope in her hands for a moment, running it across her fingertips, staring at the handwriting on the front. Leah had almost persuaded him to steam it open yesterday, to read it. He’d only just resisted the temptation. Now he held his breath, wondering if she would open it now or take it to her room.
‘Did he say anything else?’ she said.
‘No. Just to give you that letter.’
She nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘will you open it?’
She nodded again. ‘Would you mind,’ she said, ‘if I opened it here?’
Toby gulped. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘Good.’ Her hands were trembling slightly as she opened the envelope. She slid the paper out slowly and unfolded it. Her bottom lip was caught under her top teeth as she read.
After a moment, she refolded the letter, and slid it back into the envelope.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘is it what you expected?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ she nodded.
‘Yes.’ She stood up. ‘I think so. I, er …’
Toby waited for her to continue. Her lips were moving strangely, trying to form words and control tears at the same time. ‘I think, if it’s OK with you, that I might, erm, go back to my room now.’
‘Yes,’ said Toby, ‘of course. Will you be all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and thank you for the beer. And the talk. It’s been good. I need to go now, and think. Bye.’ She threw him a tight smile and left the room, the over-long sleeves of her tartan pyjamas bunched up over her hands, the letter clutched tightly in her fist.
Toby turned back to his computer and sighed.
Two down, two to go.