Under My Skin (17 page)

I nod.

‘Promise you won’t tell?’

I nod.

‘It’s a pain in the ass.’

‘Oh!’

And he looks at me and we both start to laugh.

‘Actually,’ he says then, and now he is serious and somehow young, ‘it’s kind of…
lonely
sometimes… now how about some ice for your chin?’

‘Goodnight, Hopeful,’ Frankie says, and when he kisses my cheek he puts his lips close to my ear.

‘Be Careful,’ he says.

On the way home Larry is quiet.

‘Did it look bad?’ I ask him.

‘What…?’ he asks and he starts to laugh. I look out the window as he drives and think about how the knife sounded when Jonathan buttered my toast.

‘I don’t like him,’ Larry says suddenly.

‘I think he’s sort of OK actually.’

‘I don’t like the way he looks at you.’

‘He doesn’t
look
at me.’

‘Yes he does… he
looks
at you.’

‘He’s my boss,’ I tell him.

‘So…?’

‘And he’s married.’

He parks the car outside our flat and when he turns off the engine he looks at me. He watches me for a second with his dark eyes blinking and then he replies, ‘By the way… so are you.’

Trauma n. – 1. An extremely distressing experience that causes severe emotional shock and may have long lasting psychological effects. 2. A physical injury or wound to the body.

Pappy was a heart-breaker. That’s what Juna says. When he was younger he was very handsome and he was always surrounded by girls.

Pappy was a heart-breaker.

He still is, I think.

Suddenly I am fourteen again and this morning Pappy is late. I wake up early. I think a little about Daniel and then I go downstairs and open up the shop. The stock is not selling now and the red apples are starting to rot. The bread is not fresh. Yesterday he moved the red chair back and threw out the rusty scissors and took the razor blades. At eight o’clock he is still in his bath. From the shop floor I can hear the squeak of the cold tap. Splash. Splash. He is washing and he does not say a word now, not even to himself.

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

Mrs Deegan crosses the street.

She buys one loaf of stale bread.

This is a sympathy loaf and the shop is empty again.

On days like this I talk to Daniel. There are no angels anywhere now and no God either, I think. The world is empty and rattling without him.

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

I look at the payphone in the corner and I want to lift the receiver and dial Juna’s number and listen to her voice. Tomorrow she is coming to stay with us and everything will be all right again.

The shop is quiet.

The street is quiet.

Pappy is quiet.

The house behind me seems to be asleep.

And then I walk quickly to the door and turn the sign so the shop is suddenly closed.

‘Pappy!’ and my voice is suddenly lifted up high in a shout.

‘Pappy!’ and I shout it out again.

‘Pappy!’ and I am shouting it out now on every step of the narrow stairs.

The bathroom door is closed.

There is no steam.

No sound of water moving.

No words.

‘Leonora,’ but it is me that says her name.

Tap-tap – gently – quietly on the door.

Tap-tap – again – again on the door.

It is not locked.

In this house we do not lock the doors.

It swings open easily and without a sound.

White room.

Room white.

Bright tiles.

Tiles bright

No steam.

Cold water.

Water, changing colour.

Tap-tap and my hand is still knocking into space.

The restaurant is painted pistachio-green. The tablecloths and napkins are starched grey and white. The waiters smile at me and they stand in a row in short white aprons and black bow-ties. There is a round walnut table near the window and
when I walk inside Jonathan jumps up and says, ‘Here’s the birthday girl.’

When Frankie mentioned it was my birthday Jonathan called the restaurant and booked the table himself. He sits next to me now and his leg brushes against mine. He even asks about Larry again and what sort of food he likes to cook. He listens to everything I say about my clients and he nods as if it all makes sense. He orders more champagne and as the restaurant becomes quieter he pushes a small parcel over the tablecloth to me.

‘Happy birthday,’ he says and he is awkward and giving me that little smile. Inside there is a small silver cross which he helps me to put around my neck. He looks at me and says softly, ‘Something to keep you safe.’ The waiter fills our glasses again and when I look at Jonathan he leans over quickly and kisses me – very gently, just once – on the cheek.

The Costellos’ door is closed when I get home and every room is shut up and dark. When I look at the phone there is no message from Larry and just one envelope with a postmark that says ‘New York’. I recognize Jack’s awkward handwriting. He moved away five years ago and he is married and living in Brooklyn now. Every year he sends me a birthday card. He already owns a house in Cape Cod and I know he makes money putting down hardwood floors for famous people – Sandra Bullock, Billy Crystal, Robert De Niro.

I find Larry standing in the kitchen and the table is set with silver and crystal and a white linen cloth. There is a bottle of champagne in the sink and there are pink tulips wilting in a vase.

‘I waited all afternoon,’ he says and then he shrugs and holds out his arms.

‘Happy birthday,’ and he hugs me. ‘I wanted to tell you something… and then I thought… why put that on a card? I should go home and say it myself.’

He kisses me again and smiles into my eyes.

‘I love you,’ he says and he puts his arms around me. ‘Another long client lunch?’

‘I guess.’

He kisses the top of my head and rests his chin there – and when he looks down again he says nothing and just touches the silver cross.

Email to Frankie Preston 4.12 p.m.
From Hope Swann
Re: How many Art Directors does it take to change a light bulb?

Email to Hope Swann 4.13 p.m.
From Frankie Preston
Fuck off, I’m not changing a thing.

Larry sleeps and I lie quietly and listen to his breath. It is a light sweeping noise, rhythmic and even, and until now it was the safest sound I knew. Outside the traffic has stopped. The flat is quiet and across the city Jonathan and Nina are getting ready for bed. She is wearing a white cotton nightgown – and he is leaning against the sink in his pale green bathroom cleaning his teeth. In my mind he stops for a moment and looks into his own eyes and tries to see me and then he wishes that his wife was asleep or better still, somewhere else. When I open my eyes wide I can see the green luminous figures on the alarm clock and then the chipped plaster on the ceiling overhead. Every day it makes different shapes for us –
here is a dog – or a horse – whichever Larry can think of as we lie on our backs late in the morning and we are both happy to think about the same things. Now I stretch out and feel alone and in the dark and I wonder why I am thinking like this at all.

Larry turns over in his sleep and I kiss the back of his neck and put my arm around his waist. Still sleeping, he finds my hand and folding it into a small fist inside his, he holds it under his stubbled chin.

And finally I sleep – we both sleep – and begin a dream of different things.

Email to Jonathan Kirk 4.38 p.m.
From Hope Swann
How many client service people does it take to change a light bulb?

Email to Hope Swann 4.40 p.m.
From Jonathan Kirk
Have you nothing else to do, Hope?
P.S. How many?

Email to Jonathan Kirk 4.43 pm
From Hope Swann
How many would the client like it to take?

Frankie talks about Seattle and then Vancouver. Places we could escape to, if only in his mind. He jokes about taking me to St Lucia and how we might run away one Monday morning and forget for ever about work. He tells me that the lifeboat is almost ready. That all his plans to leave advertising are in place.

‘I have the gas camper on my desk,’ he says, ‘the tinned food, the powdered milk, the boiled sweets.’ He is ready to escape from his job, to break out, to crawl under the wire ahead of me.

‘Does anyone know that you’re leaving? Do they suspect?’ I ask.

‘No, no, Jesus no… you are the only one I’ve told,’ and by now the dogs in the streets, the birds in the trees, the clouds in the sky, have it like a jingle: ‘Frankie’s leaving his job, you see.’

‘I have mastered the art of disengagement,’ he says with confidence. ‘I am there but not really there at all.’

I am smiling at him now, enjoying his company.

He looks into his wine. ‘The ship is sinking,’ he tells me and we are trying to be serious and not laugh too much at our hopeless careers.

‘The thing is… I am at my meetings… but I am not at my meetings.’

‘I can see that,’ I reassure him.

‘I show up and I’m there – but I’m not really there.’

I tell him I understand.

‘I’m at meetings… but I’m not at meetings,’ and I smile at him again.

‘The lifeboat is ready,’ he says again sadly, and we both know that it is moored safely and not going anywhere and that Frankie will never leave.