Girl Reading (36 page)

Or what about:
I’m pathetic and totally pissed off, everything is falling apart and I can’t cope. I think I’m cracking up! *lol* When are you free?

Jeannine increases her speed, will run six kilometers, seven kilometers, eight kilometers and see how she feels.

Liam has left a sticky note on the microwave.
Out for the night. Luv u.

She is unsurprised. Has not got the energy to be annoyed. Is, if anything, relieved to be on her own. After her workout Jeannine put her new shoes back on to come home in, has blisters on the backs of her heels to show for it. She eases them off now, exhaling at the pain ow ow ow, collapses on the sofa in front of the television with one of her teas to console herself, changes the channels like a teenager. The dirge is hypnotic, sends her into a stupor, and she wishes she could have a proper drink, but there is no alcohol.

Does not move.

Liam has given her space to think. Maybe. Or maybe he has simply done what he would have done anyway. He wanted to go out, so he went out. There you are.

After ten o’clock she watches the live broadcast from the House of Commons. An hour or so later, Jeannine Okoro decides she must get wine from somewhere (it’s London, for fuck’s sake, if you can’t find a drink in the middle of the week in London . . . ), gathers the contents of her handbag, and, because they belong to her, because she is irrational, because she cannot accept that objects of such unequivocal beauty and expense would break their promise of perfection, because she is a woman, she wears the new shoes to go out again.

Chilean Merlot, 250 ml, 13 percent ABV, three units, 170 calories. Medium- to full-bodied with flavors of plums, berries, and mocha. The venue radiates muted colors, lilts with the weekday crowd. One wall is covered in peeling posters cartoons foreign language newspaper bare bricks graffiti. Mao, Banksy, Hepburn, and other icons vie for prominence. Jeannine sits at the granite bar and tries to read, as a distraction from her messy thoughts. She is obscured to one side by an arrangement of cut flowers, red and green spikes like claws in a vase. The interior is reflected back by the street-facing window, the traffic island and the furniture shop and the euphemistic sauna lit in the night. Jeannine’s reversed outline is visible on the glass, an otherworldly creature.

A man sitting nearby is pointing a camera at her.

Are you taking a picture of me? Jeannine stops just short of yelling.

He makes wary eye contact with the woman sitting near him. No. I was viewing the photos I’ve already got. He turns the Cyber-shot over, revealing a frame taken during the day in a London park.

She looks, relents, softens her tone to concede haughtily, Well, that’s all right then. She resumes her reading to salvage some dignity
and fails, she hardly recognizes herself (
shouting at strangers in bars?
). That was very rude, I apologize.

He scratches his nose, perhaps forming a sharp response, but he only mumbles, I can see how it happened, sorry to have intruded.

He has the knowingly untidy appearance of someone who once went traveling and never grew out of it. Scruffy and clean. And wears an old concert wristband, grimy, faded; the lettering bleeds. She thinks to herself,
If I was your girlfriend, I’d make you take that off,
and the idea causes her to smirk.

He catches her watching. Excuse me, did I sell you a house once?

Actually, I’ve never bought property, I’m still renting.

Did we meet at a wedding or something?

No. Jeannine is vexed because her apology has been misconstrued. No, I don’t think so.

My mistake. It’s time for me to leave you to your book, isn’t it?

Yes. Thanks.

Jeannine goes back to reading for half a page, aware she has made a bad impression, makes no progress. He is spinning through the pictures on his camera, a rucksack on the floor, is drinking on his own. Dad would say it is up to us to have good manners, to set high standards, to contribute, it is how we get on in life. Before she can change her mind—

I’m Jeannine Okoro, by the way. And I am sorry about before.

I’m Christopher Rhys. They shake hands as if the whole prickly encounter has not taken place. After the introduction there is a lull. He ventures, Some women would feel funny about sitting in a bar alone, reading. Not that they should, of course, I just mean it’s quite . . . unusual. Is this your local?

Sort of. (Jeannine looks around thoughtfully.) I don’t think I’ve ever been in here before. There’s, like, fifty of these in this area, they merge into one after a while. Necessity drove me out because there was no wine at home.

I see. Tough day?

More like tough week. I thought I would allow myself this luxury, I’m sure I’ve earned it. What about you? How was your day?

Oh. It was okay, thanks. I was visiting my brother. Half brother, to be exact. He’s studying fashion and this is his first year. I promised I would come, but I put it off for ages; I avoid London if I can.

Where did he take you?

He showed me around his halls of residence and his college. Then all the tourist traps, I’m afraid: Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Hyde Park. We went on the London Eye this afternoon.

One thing about living here is you never do all that stuff. I see the Eye virtually every day, but I haven’t been on it. Because it’s there, you tend not to bother. Are you doing more sightseeing tomorrow?

No, I’m getting the train back to Colchester tonight. I’m just killing some time.

Oh, an Essex Boy?

I’ve never heard that before.

Of course you haven’t. Jeannine fiddles with one of her earrings, then makes herself stop. I love fashion. Your brother is going to be a famous designer, then? Milan, Paris . . . ?

I think if he just earned his living by it, had a shop in Camden or an online business or whatever, that would make him happy. He’s determined, and very talented. I think so, anyway, not that I know much about it.

I bet he was glad you visited. It’s a big deal, moving away, going to college. Your approval would make it feel official. What’s his name?

He’s Jasper. Would you like to see a photo? Chris finds one and shows Jeannine on the LCD screen: the boy is grinning, wearing guyliner, a black and yellow check scarf with a white shirt, looks pretty enough to be in a boyband.

She remarks, Ahh, he has a baby face. You don’t resemble each other.

No, but we get on—now. Do you have brothers?

One sister, Sophia. She has children, Yasmin and Josh, so the pressure is off me . . . She sips her wine. You’re a property developer, are you? Because you asked me if I . . . ?

Christopher looks uneasy, confirms he is. I do places up. I was a carpenter before, but now I’m also a decorator and a plumber and a whatever.

And how do you get into all that?

In my case, it was just a matter of going to an auction and buying a house that needed some work done . . . without actually having any of the finance in place.

You did
what
?

Yeah, that was a pretty stressful few weeks, and involved talking to a lot of mortgage companies.

But why?

Because the house had potential. And it paid off. It had to, or I would have been in trouble. I got better at it after that.

How’s the property game, then?

Slowing down, the proverbial bubble was bound to,
you know,
sooner or later.

There are always going to be people who want to buy. Like me.

He rests his chin on his hand: Could we talk about something else? I feel like this has been the only topic of conversation for the past ten years.

We are a bit fixated, aren’t we? Jeannine winces, leans down to hold one of her shoes, shifts her foot inside it.

Are you all right?

Yeah. They’re just new.

They’re very nice, but you probably shouldn’t wear them if they hurt you.

Mum used to make us wear new shoes with thick socks around the house, called it “breaking them in.” I hated it at the time, but . . . Jeannine straightens. Did it—when you were being shown around his college by your brother—did it make you want to go back? be a student again yourself?

Chris Rhys folds his arms. I didn’t go to university, as it happens, I stayed on at school initially but I wasn’t sure what I wanted. And seeing what Jasper has to cope with—the fees and the loan and the overdraft—if I was his age, I wouldn’t be going today either. He’s stoic about it, but I worry for him. If I had studied, I like to think I would’ve done graphic design or photography, something like that. Actually I’m on Flickr, have you heard of it?

Yes, I know the site.

Photography is something I became interested in when I went traveling for a few months.

Oh,
really
? (She dials down the condescension, he doesn’t know how transparent he is.) I never went myself, I had too much else I wanted to do, career-wise. Where did you go?

Thailand, Australia, New Zealand, all those places.

Did you find what you were looking for?

Not really, but I went to some great parties.

And why haven’t you pursued photography professionally, if you love it?

Christopher taps the digital camera as though testing it for authenticity. Maybe I flirted with the idea, but I’m not good enough, plus it’s a perilous career path.

As is the one you chose.

True enough, I suppose. Nonetheless, I don’t mind being an amateur. There’s something pure about being able to please myself. And it’s the only art form where you can make accidental masterpieces, which I think is quite special.

Good for you. And Jeannine genuinely means it, feels happy for him. What’s your username? I’ll look you up.

He blushes. Immaterialism.

Like Berkeley, right?

Um, yes. You’re the first person I’ve met who knew that.

Well, I did do some philosophy modules, as it happens . . .

So . . . Jeannine (he says her name gently, as if picking up something delicate), what do you do?

I work at Westminster as an assistant for an MP. He’s a backbencher, no one you’d recognize. Jonathan Ewan, MP for Bexhall South. He’s good. He’s in the constituency a lot, very active.

You work at . . . ?

Parliament, yes.

And this is the job that has caused you to . . . ?

Go out in search of a big glass of wine. Kind of. Opposition, not government, before you ask; don’t judge a book by its cover.

Chris is about to comment on this, possibly even joke about it, but the words escape him, die on his lips.

Jeannine Okoro reads something into his reaction and forms her own conclusions. She gets enough grief about her job as it is, and sometimes lies about it, thought this was one occasion when she did not have to. She glares at him, then turns away, stares at a couple at the opposite end of the room for a while. They seem in love.

He coughs before continuing: Why did you assume I’d criticize?

Her voice is shrill. I didn’t.

(The double and triple layers of female communication; he sets this to one side.) I think it’s admirable to do something you believe in.

Yeah, I suppose it is. Jeannine finishes her drink with a flourish. I wasn’t a very good philosophy student. My talents lay elsewhere. I
enjoyed it, though, the bit I did. If I were to study again, I would do something completely different like that, random and fascinating, something just for me.

You still could.

Mm . . . maybe.

Christopher glances at his mobile phone, then comes to a decision, flips it shut, and hides it in a pocket. Can I buy you another?

Jeannine closes her eyes and opens them. Have you got time?

I’m in no rush. The trains run from Liverpool Street all night. (His palms are moist, so he runs them over his jeans.)

Thank you. (Clears her throat to speak more clearly.) That would be very kind.

He catches the attention of the barman, also inquires after a first-aid kit. Jeannine protests, but the barman efficiently locates and offers blue Band-Aids in various sizes. Grateful in spite of herself, she applies two; they take the edge off the soreness, prevent further friction. The drinks are served and they resume their conversation.

In case you haven’t guessed, I want to be a member of parliament. One day.

That’s incredible. Though now you come to mention it, I probably figured it out.

Did you? (Disbelieving.) What makes you so sure you had me worked out?

You strike me as a person who decides what she wants and then gets it.

That isn’t a completely flattering description.

It’s meant to be. Following an ambition is a responsibility, if you have got one. Not like me, I just want to pay the bills, I’m not cut from that cloth. But Jasper is, he’s like you, he knows what he wants and has the ability to follow it through. It would be scandalous not to.

You don’t think it’s a stupid thing to want?

No-o. It sounds difficult, but you should have a go. There is great beauty in risk.

That’s sweet. Sometimes people are turned off when I tell them because . . . for many different reasons.

I think it’s worth drinking to. Christopher touches glasses with her.

There was an important vote in the Commons this evening. I don’t suppose you heard about it?

He shakes his head slowly.

Of course not, because you’re normal. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, my family isn’t affluent or anything, but my parents are fairly right wing. Dad set up his own company, like you, printing shops and copiers. He made it from scratch and was constantly afraid of a lefty government squeezing it dry. Mum just loved Thatcher because she was fierce. Most people tend to have the same politics as their parents, but I actively chose the party that was best for me. The one that wants to give people real choice over their lives. My sister and I were the first in our family to go to university. I don’t say that out of vanity: it was Mum and Dad’s achievement as much as ours. They made it possible for us, for me, to have more than they did, to go farther in life than they did. That’s the way it’s supposed to work over the generations, especially in families who start out with nothing but conviction. I know politics can be dry, but I wanted to be part of the machinery that makes things possible. I was resilient when I was younger. Headstrong. No one could talk me out of anything or stop me doing something I wanted to do. Recently I have begun to have doubts. Recently I’ve realized that that version of myself has gone away. When we were kids we weren’t wealthy, but we were secure and we knew right from wrong, and we didn’t want for anything because it was all out there to be earned by those who worked hardest for it. We were encouraged. I
do believe that choice and aspiration are necessary for each other. I think proper governing is about making opportunities for people to help themselves, giving power and responsibility back to individuals. But if we promise that, then we have to deliver that. My little niece, Yasmin, I see so much potential in her that has to be safeguarded. And I never want for her to be tyrannized by society . . . or by a man. I want better for her. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I’m in a funny mood.