Fatlands (3 page)

I watched while her eyes widened. With the creases temporarily gone, her face was almost pretty: skin like a fat peach, mercifully untroubled by acne, and what looked like good bones lurking underneath the puppy flesh. She was going to turn some heads soon. If she hadn't done so already. She hesitated, then leant forward and snapped open the little flag. An A-Z exploded out into her lap. In the mess that remained we both saw a mound of tapes, the odd McDonald's wrapping and a couple of packets of gum. I put out a hand and rummaged a little deeper, then said softly, ‘Damn, I must have left it at home. Want some gum?'

She shook her head and scowled again. We were getting nowhere fast. I opted for confrontation.

‘You know, Mattie, we're going to be in each other's company for the next eight hours at least. Either you can be more polite or I can be less. It makes no difference to me. I want to be here about as much as you do.'

The face stayed thunder, but the eyes sparked a little interest. ‘So why did you take the job?'

‘Because of the money.'

‘He's paying you a lot, is he?'

‘More than it's worth,' I said bluntly. ‘Except now I'm not so sure.'

‘Yeah,'she smiled bitterly. ‘That's my father, all right.'

I let a beat of a pause go by. ‘Like him a lot, do you?'

‘I don't know. I can't remember what he looks like.'

‘How about your mum?'

She shot me a dark look. ‘What did he tell you?'

‘Nothing. Except that she's out to get you back.'

She snorted. ‘If she wanted me back, then she wouldn't have left me in the first place, would she?'

And there was genuine pain in her voice this time. That's the trouble with being fourteen. You want people to treat you like an adult, then when they do it hurts too much. I let it be. She sat with her face away from me, looking out. We drove on in silence. Then she put her hand out and angrily took a piece of gum. After she had unwrapped it, she thought long and hard about throwing the paper on to the floor, but in the end stuffed it in the overfl owing ashtray. I was more pleased than I allowed myself to show. Or maybe I showed it more than I thought.

Ahead of us the A303 announced its intention to turn into the M3 with no service stations for twenty-three miles. We both watched the sign and the last service station whip past. It was ninety seconds later she said she needed to stop for a pee. Great. Always guard against complacency, Hannah, Frank said smugly in my ear, it's not in the bag till it's in the bag.

‘Tough,' I said, to both of them. ‘You'll have to wait.' My turn to sulk.

By the time we reached the service station we were in
zero temperature again. She got out of the car before I'd properly stopped, pulling her bag with her, and flounced across the forecourt towards the entrance. I watched her go. It would, I decided, be an act of overt aggression to follow her into the Ladies and stand guard at the loo door. There are some places where even a chaperone doesn't go. On the other hand I was being paid way too much money to be just a chaperone. I waited till she'd disappeared through the main entrance then got out of the car.

By the time I got there she wasn't in the loo, or at least none of the ones that were open. I called her name. No answer. She wasn't buying more cigarettes and she wasn't making a phone call. Neither was she having an overpriced cup of coffee. That left the bridge to the other side of the motorway.

I didn't run, but I didn't exactly walk, either. I love those bridges, concrete corridors going nowhere. I've always wanted to have a last-reel shoot-out in one of them, bullets ricocheting while innocent passersby dive for cover. Either that or me flinging myself through the plate-glass windows on to the back of a passing truck underneath. Alas, today was yet another day when I didn't get to fulfil my ambitions.

Neither did I get to find my client. Either she wasn't there or she'd already left. I hoofed it back to the east side. From the entrance to the forecourt I saw a figure standing next to the car. She didn't look anything like Mattie, but what the hell …

At least she had the grace to be shifty about it. Though, to be honest, it wasn't her face I was concentrating on. I have to say it suited her better: the tattered leggings with the money belt around the waist, the T-shirt under the sharp little leather jacket and the hair piled high like a black fountain frozen in mid-flow. I had a vision of that
nicely pressed Jaeger skirt all scrunched up in the bottom of her bag, but I couldn't summon up any pity for it. She looked—well, she looked more herself.

She stood waiting for my disapproval. I stared at her and saw myself aged fourteen, hair like a sheepdog, miniskirt barely covering my knickers and a long string of beads undulating over lumpy teenage breasts: just another suburban rebel desperate to catch up with the sixties when the decade was already over. In retrospect it had been less about fashion than identity. And I had thought I was so wonderful. It still comes as a shock when I look back at the pictures and see myself as overweight jailbait. Now those would be a set of negatives to kill for.

She was still waiting. I tried to take it seriously. The generation gap demanded it. But I just couldn't do it. I looked her up and down and shook my head. ‘You look great. Let's hope your temper improves with your appearance. Shall we go?' And she gave me just the smallest of smiles.

Back in the car we were Thelma and Louise. She strapped on her seatbelt and hit the glove compartment. For a second I thought we might be back to the dope, but instead she had her hands full of tapes, making an instant inventory of the music. I'd seen people more impressed by my taste. She took her time. We were already in the fast lane when she said,

‘Who's Bob Seger?'

‘He used to play back-up to Frank Sinatra,' I said solemnly. ‘Go on, give it a try.'

She slid the tape in and I turned on the stereo, loud. The opening chords of ‘Blow Me Away' lifted the car about an inch and a half off the ground. And this time the grin reached her ears. Rock 'n' roll. Bringing the world together.

We hit the rest of the gum and moved towards family
matters via education, on which we had similar views, albeit for different reasons.

‘They're just stupid most of them. They're so
young
, even the older ones. Half of them are still slobbering over Jason Donovan.'

‘Jason doesn't do much for you, then?'

‘God, do me a favour.'

‘How long have you been there?'

‘One hundred and ninety-six days,'she said immediately. ‘Not including holidays.'

‘If you hate it so much, why don't you ask your father to take you away?'

‘Because he wouldn't listen.'

‘Have you tried?'she scowled, which was her way of telling me the question wasn't worth answering. ‘So where did you go before?'

‘A place in Suffolk. Then when we came to London, a day school in Acton. That was OK. At least you could get away from it.'

‘But then your mum left and he felt he couldn't cope, was that it?'she chewed on her cheek. ‘Maybe he thought it was best for you.'

‘Well, then he was wrong, wasn't he?'she snapped back. ‘But he doesn't care. As long as he's got his rats to play with.'

‘What does he do?' Because she obviously wanted to tell me.

‘He's a scientist. Trying to cure the world of cancer.' And although she spat it out, you could feel how it had been a thing of pride not so long ago.

‘But not so good with his own family, eh?' I let it sit there for a while but she didn't pick it up. I tried again. ‘Is that why your mum left? Because he worked all the time.'

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘She just didn't like the idea of being at home any more. Can't say I blame her.'

It was the second time she had refused the jump. Whatever or, more to the point, whoever had made her go, Mattie didn't want to talk about it. Between the lines it was all pretty classic stuff: an only child who'd got all the attention for so long that when the parents started to think about themselves, they discovered they didn't really like each other any more. So Dad compensates through work, and Mum … well, maybe she started to talk to the milkman.

‘But he does work too hard?'

‘Why not? There's no one at home to make him stop, is there?'

‘Maybe they'll get together again,' I said, only because I thought she might want to hear it. ‘And you could come home.'

‘You must be joking. They don't give a toss about each other, any more than they give a toss about me.'she slammed her finger on to the stereo button. ‘This music sucks. I'm going to put something else on.'

Watching her face in profile, I had a clear memory of that kind of anger, the one that overtook you from behind and burnt up everything in its path. Mine had been about … well, what had it been about? Having parents that loved me too much and wouldn't let me out into adulthood as fast as I was determined to go. At least there was a real reason for her anger. All dressed up for life and nowhere to go, except the school playground or the no man's land of a marital war zone. God, if there's one thing worse than growing older, it would be a slow return to adolescence.

The blue motorway sign told me London was less than an hour away. I thought of other things we could talk about. But she beat me to it.

‘How old are you?'

I wondered how to put it. ‘Over thirty.' I shot her a
glance. You could see she was shocked. ‘But it's all right. I work out mentally.'

If she found it funny, she didn't let me know. ‘You're not married?'

‘No. No, I'm not married.'

‘So how many men have you slept with?'

Served me right, really. I mean you can't make the conversation personal and then cry foul. I pretended to give it some consideration. As it happens, I already knew the answer. Men in my bed: just another of those lists one resorts to late at night when counting sheep doesn't work. That and the names of the girls in my last year at school. A bit harder that one, but then we're talking larger numbers.

‘Eighteen.'

‘Eighteen.' despite herself she was impressed. You could hear it in the voice.

‘Yeah, but a lot of those were SLBA.'

‘SLBA?'

‘Sexual Liberation Before AIDS. I'm much choosier now.' Or
they
are, I thought, but decided not to say. She was silent for a while. My God, I thought, I really have shocked her this time. Then she said, ‘My friend Helen's having an affair.'

‘Is he better than Jason Donovan?'

She snorted her disgust. Then said, rather eagerly, ‘He's the school gardener.'

‘Very Lady Chatterley.' I had a thought. ‘You know Lady Chatterley?'

‘Of course,'she sighed. ‘I read it when I was ten.'

‘Fine. So, do they meet in the potting shed?'

‘He's got a room. In town. She goes there on Saturdays.'

‘Ah yes, the morning off.'

‘She has multiple orgasms.'

‘Lucky her. How about him?'

‘He does, too.'

‘Well, that's all right, then.'

There was a slight pause. ‘You don't disapprove?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Her father would.'

‘No doubt.'

‘But then he still thinks of her as a child.'

‘Yes, well, he would, wouldn't he?'

She looked at me sharply to check whether or not I was laughing at her. I must have passed the test. ‘So you don't think she's too young, then?'

‘I don't know. How old is she?'

‘Thirteen.'

I glanced over at her. ‘You want a serious answer?'

She hesitated, then nodded.

I smiled. ‘For me it would have been. In fact I know it would have scared the hell out of me. But maybe for her it's all right. Sort of depends on how he treats her, really.'

‘Oh, he's nice to her. Well, most of the time.'

‘Then it's probably good preparation for the rest of her life.'

She fell silent. I wondered what I'd just been told. Another sign whizzed past me on the left. London, twenty miles. I looked at my watch. 9.55. The day stretched ahead of us.

‘You'd better take the M25,'she said suddenly. ‘It'll get us into town quicker.'

I shot her a glance. ‘You want to drive or can I stay at the wheel?'She grinned. ‘Fine. You got somewhere in particular in mind?'

‘Yeah, Knightsbridge.'

I shrugged. ‘I've got the time if you've got the money.'

In answer she unzipped her money belt and flashed me a thick wad of notes. There must have been four, five hundred
pounds there. I wondered, not for the first time, just how much money someone was paying her father to find a cure for cancer. Maybe the story about the wife and the custody snatch was just a front. Maybe the real reason he needed a private eye was to make sure his daughter didn't get mugged with the family fortune.

‘It's a lot of money, Mattie,'I said softly.

‘Yeah, well, it's my birthday, remember.'And not for the first time she sounded older then her years.

S
omehow we ended up in Harrods. Not what I expected. Given the service station transformation I had her down more as a Joseph kind of girl. But the little black and grey numbers left her cold—she didn't even get as far as looking at the price tags—while around the corner the castle of fairy lights beckoned. One of the seven wonders of the consumerist world.

I had a spiel about Harrods. It went down well with paranoid Americans—a potent story of Western capitalism now owned by the Middle East. A history of our time. Except I didn't think Mattie would be interested. We started in the food hall. Her suggestion. We bought chocolate and almond croissants from the pastry bar and ate them out of the bag with our fingers. Mattie had two. I was impressed. For a fourteen-year-old she seemed enviably oblivious to the evils of carbohydrates. Then we took the lift up to Way In, Harrods'boutique answer to youth culture.