The A-Z of Us (13 page)

It's perfect. Too perfect?

I exhale quickly when I see the taxi pull up and Molly get out (oh, the legs, the arse, the breasts) and smile at the driver (she can be sweet, can't she?). I am strangely nervous, as if on a first date. It is, I realize, as if I've been waiting for this moment since my return from Venezuela, as if this is the culmination of something. After this encounter, I know I will be able to move forward, to formulate a plan and take control of my life. After sex with Molly, I will become me once more. And we will move on to the next level in our relationship.

Suddenly I wish I'd changed into something more sartorially seductive, not the Adidas jogging trousers that slip easily over the bulky plaster cast, and my black Nike sweatshirt. But Molly isn't going out with me for my sense of style, as she's pointed out on more than one occasion.

I wait five minutes, not wanting to appear too eager,
then hobble as fast as I can across the street, grocery bags flying, thrusting the crutches on to the asphalt like super-robotic limbs and pushing down so hard I almost fly through the air, my feet leaving the ground. I am a limping, grinning, winged god of love.

She opens the door to her apartment after a couple of rings.

‘Ian. What are you doing here?” she says, without taking breath. She's wearing work clothes – a striped shirt, wool knee-length skirt, calves long and naked below the hem.

‘I just wanted to see you… It's been too long…'

I lean in and kiss her. It's not a bad kiss, I'm pleased to say, on the lips. She doesn't resist.

‘How's Gemma?' I mumble, my erection already rigid in my trousers.

‘She's okay. It was good to talk.'

Molly glances down at the bulge in my Adidas trousers. I turn slightly, trying to hide my obvious arousal.

‘Sorry. I should have called you. I just thought…'

Suddenly, Molly leans down, whips down the elastic of the trousers and boxer shorts and takes my penis in her hand. I drop the grocery bags. I think I hear eggs breaking.

‘Molly…'

I try to push her gently back, but she holds my penis hard, with an expert grip, as she jerks her hand rapidly. She leans in against me. Her hair is warm and very soft.

‘The bed…' I mumble, as I glimpse egg yolk and white seeping across the floor. ‘I bought condoms…'

But she's not listening and then I'm not listening.

I come.

Molly stands, turns swiftly and hurries to the bathroom. The sound of running water.

I am standing with my tracksuit trousers around my thighs, in a pool of raw egg. I collapse on to the bed. Molly returns shortly afterwards.

‘Better?'

She buttons up her blouse. I'm annoyed, because this is a sure sign that sex is over for the time being, and I want to touch her. I want to take control of her, to make her squirm and gasp as she's just done to me. She sits down in the armchair opposite the bed, crosses her legs.

‘I've got a new account.'

‘That's great, Moll.'

‘I've got to go up to Scotland in a couple of weeks.'

‘Okay…'

She sits in silence for a few moments, as if contemplating something. I decide to wait, to let her speak. Which she does almost immediately, in a soft and stammering voice.

‘If you wanted, you could get a writing assignment, come up for the weekend.'

I look at her, and I'm surprised to see something in her eyes that I've not noticed before. It's… what? Vulnerability? Fear, even?

A strange and novel sensation floods through me. It feels like the rush before the onset of tears, from stomach through chest to throat and eyes. A surge, almost electrical, unforeseen and virulent. It's surprising.

‘I'd love to Molly… it's just…'

She cocks her head slightly to one side, analyzing.

‘Just what?'

I tell her everything. I tell her about the Choronì article, about my firing from the newspaper. I tell her about my anger and my disbelief and my shame. I tell her about my insecurities, about how I feel I should be somewhere else in life at the age of thirty-one, and she listens without laughing.

‘Wow. Unfortunate,' Molly murmurs. ‘So, what's your plan?'

‘I'll get work. I'll call around the papers tomorrow. I can bounce back.'

‘Up, up and away,' she says, smiling, for what seems the first time since I arrived.

‘I'd love to come to Scotland,' I say, quickly.

‘Great.'

I smile, and reach out to touch her hand. She squeezes my fingers gently, then stands from the chair.

‘I need a shower.'

I look up at her. She does have a wonderful body. I sense my erection stirring again, which surprises and delights me (usually I need a short nap). I want to join her in the shower, but she's never offered such a step in our relationship, and anyway I can't get my plaster cast wet.

‘Maybe you should call Gemma, check she's okay?'

‘Yeah. Okay.'

As Molly disappears into the bathroom, I pull myself up, feeling an overwhelming sensation of joy. I pick up the ultra slim phone and joy flips to confusion, and panic. I came to Molly's apartment hoping for sex and good tidings, but not this. This is bigger. This is huge. These are feelings. Feelings I hadn't planned to
have for ages, until some distant, undecided time in the future.

I'm relieved when Gemma doesn't answer the phone. I leave a short, heartfelt message, instructing her to call me on my mobile as soon as she can. Then I haul myself up the bed, lie back and close my eyes, listening to the sound of the power shower, wondering how cheaply I can get a flight up to Edinburgh. Maybe I can find some publication to take a piece on the Scottish capital, perhaps one of the supermarket mags or credit card magazines which seem impervious to economic downturns. New shopping? Edinburgh markets? Post-devolution chic? I will find a way. I am Ian Thompson.

I pull off the Adidas trousers and my boxer shorts, enjoying the warm summer air on my naked body. I drift into sleep.

When I wake forty-five minutes later, Molly is just exiting the bathroom. She's wearing a pair of blue striped flannel pyjamas, her hair pulled back in a pony tail. She asks if I want anything to drink. I ask for some juice, she returns with two glasses. The late afternoon sunlight cuts through the blinds, streaks of gold. I wonder if I will remember this moment for the rest of my life.

‘Ian, I've something to tell you…' Molly says suddenly. I look up. Her voice is shaky. She continues quickly. ‘I don't know… I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it.'

I sit up as quickly as I can. I think I see tears in her eyes.

‘What? What is it, Moll?'

This is new. I realize that in eight months of dating
her, this is the first time I've seen her cry. It is both terrifying and wonderful, like a sudden wave or a freak hailstorm.

‘I don't know why, I don't, but maybe it's what I needed, maybe it taught me…'

I push myself up from the bed and hobble, naked, towards her. I sense my erection, surging, I want to take her right there, fully, properly, right now. I move against her.

‘No, Ian.' She steps back.

‘It's okay baby, whatever it is, really.'

‘While you were in South America, I saw my exhusband.'

I look at her.

‘Saw?'

‘We had dinner.'

‘What?'

‘Dinner.'

My breath catches in my throat. Yet my erection remains, large and towering. My hand tries to push my penis down, but like a remnant of an old machine that has outlived its purpose, it continues to thrust upright.

‘It was just dinner.'

‘Really?'

She nods, although not fervently.

‘Just dinner. Nothing else?'

Molly doesn't respond.

‘Anything else, Molly?'

‘No.'

I don't believe her. Something in her eyes, the way they flick away when she answers. I want to shout.

‘I don't believe you.'

‘It's true.'

We look at each other like gunslingers. I want to believe her, but I don't. Suddenly, I see Will Masterson's arse, thumping above Molly's naked body. I hear his laughter, which I imagine to be huge and manly. My fist clenches. My erection dwindles.

‘You slept with him, didn't you?'

‘What?'

‘You fucked your ex-husband.'

Molly stares at me, as if looking at something in a foreign country that is both shocking and baffling, like a dying bull or a plate of snakes.

‘Jesus Christ, Ian!'

She shakes her head once, then turns swiftly, marches to the bathroom, and slams the door behind her. The lock clicks. I lumber to the bathroom and hammer on the door.

‘Molly!'

I can't believe what's happening. I can't focus, I can't take it in. My heart is racing, I am breathless. It's horrible, a pain, sharp and whole in my stomach. And the pain is spreading swiftly, from my abdomen outwards like an ice flame.

I hammer hard, again. It feels good to hammer.

‘Did you sleep with him?'

Silence.

‘I asked you a question. Did you?'

A small voice emanates from behind the heavy door.

‘No. Of course not. Don't be so fucking childish.'

I snatch up my clothes, pulling on my trousers and
sweatshirt, then grab my crutches and propel myself towards the door. I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going. I know only that I have to leave.

‘Where are you going?'

Molly is standing in the bathroom doorway.

‘Don't leave, Ian. If you leave…'

I whirl, a bristling bundle of anger.

‘If I leave, what?'

‘Just don't.'

‘Why not? What are you going to do?'

I glare at her.

‘Just don't go!'

‘Fuck you, Molly Cook!'

I open the door and hurtle out into the hallway, thumbing furiously at the elevator button. She will follow me, she will try to pull me back inside. I wonder in that instant if I will go with her, to listen to what she has to say. That would be right.

A ring. The lift door opens. I look around. Molly's door is open, but she's nowhere to be seen.

There are no taxis. I start to walk, as hurriedly as I can. I don't look back, I won't give her that satisfaction.

I realize I've left Gemma's groceries behind. Some friend I am.

Passers-by look alarmed at my velocity, an invalid rocket, a robotic mutation with partly ripped Adidas Goretex trousers thrusting down Goswell Road like something from a badly designed production of
War Of The Worlds
. By the time I get to the Barbican, I'm exhausted. I look around for a taxi – this is the City, there should be dozens.

But it's just before six, everyone is leaving work, hundreds of people pouring into the tube stations, cramming onto buses, thinking of home and loved ones waiting for them. All the taxis are taken by commuters.

‘Shit!' I bark out loud, not caring who hears me, the secretaries and money traders and investment bankers. They're all shits, they're all like Molly. They're all laughing at me, the Vicar's son who can't get laid. Maybe I am the biggest fuck-up, after all.

I look around me at the besuited men, with their expensively gelled hair and minutely checked shirts, and I want to see Will Masterson, the Master of London town, so that I can hit him. I want to do some damage to someone, to something. I wonder if I'm near the bank that he works for, where is it, Moorgate or somewhere? What would I do? Charge in there? Scream and shout, throw a few punches? He's bigger than me, judging from the pictures. He'd probably knock my head off.

I look up, trying to regain composure. I must orientate myself, get my bearings. Maybe I should go back to Molly's apartment? Should I apologize?

I'm standing at the entrance to one of the corporate offices with its modern glass frontage, its fish tank and abstract modern art in the lobby and its pretty, smartly dressed receptionist. I glance at the shiny silver plaque by the revolving doors.

Price, Chambers and Grosvenor.

I know the name. What is it?

A law firm. The company that Raj Singh works for. Gemma's husband. Who screwed up her life, just as Will Masterson is trying to screw up mine. Who reacted to a
few words like a girl, not a man, and left her without looking back.

The bastard.

Before I have time to think, I find myself pushing through the revolving doors (‘I'm not taking the fucking invalid door!') and marching up to the receptionist who smiles at me with the poise and ease of someone who smiles up at a hundred and sixty men a day.

No one at the office knew that Raj Singh was living in a cramped room at the Holiday Inn Express in Holborn. He could not afford to show any signs of weakness. Peter Saville was on his back about the Vickeray deal and Stephen Chambers himself had looked in a couple of times, inquiring as to how things were shaping up. It was Raj's biggest project yet, a $25 million franchise leasing deal with a US coffee shop chain. The pressure was high, with the deadline looming for final contracts. He had to perform.

It wasn't easy. He wasn't sleeping (the hotel room seemed terrifyingly stark at 3 a.m.), he wasn't eating (he bought greasy late night takeaways that he threw away the next morning, barely touched), he felt as if his liver, kidneys, lungs, heart and intestines had been ripped to shreds by something cold and mechanical, and yet he had to keep up with the reports, the emails, the calls, the documents, the research.

He arrived at the office early and stayed late. Anything to avoid being alone, to avoid thought and feeling. The work was his outlet. He needed the focus, the routine. It scared him a little, the ease with which he was able to just get on with it. There was something robotic about his methodical application. In his work he could avoid any flicker of emotion.