In Pieces (21 page)

Si and Jimmy seemed more openly affectionate than most male pairs she watched in the pub. There seemed to be none of that hearty back-slapping and false bravado. But just as much beer swilling, no doubt about that. When she'd first got to know them, she'd wondered if they were gay. Since her fling with Jimmy, she'd decided that he at least was very straight. But there was something attractive and supportive in their relationship. It raised her spirits to see them together.

As she wiped glasses and replaced them carefully upside down on the shelf, Brenda wondered whether Si had a girlfriend. Funny that, she'd never thought to ask. Si occasionally met girls at The Feathers, but none of them had appeared more than a few times. He seemed the romantic type, though. A bit shy and serious perhaps, but charming and what her mum would have described as One of Life's Gentlemen. Brenda smiled at the thought. No doubt her mother would like her to end up with someone like Si. Some hope. She sighed and rubbed a puddle of spilt beer with a small Guinness towel.

She'd have to ask Si about his love life next time he was in. As a joke, mind, without letting on that she might be personally interested. He would certainly be a good catch for any girl. He had a good job; some sort of journalist, she thought. And no doubt he earned a good salary. If he had his own flat around here, then he must have quite a bit of cash. Yeah, she decided, she'd have to find out a bit more about Si's situation. But more in the spirit of adventure than out of any real expectation of success.

~

Michael was often away on business; the Sleeper didn't know where, but he knew his landlord sometimes went abroad. When Michael was away the Sleeper used to stay in to keep Greta company. She couldn't really come to the pub because of the kids, who called him ‘Baa' because they couldn't pronounce his name properly. But once the kids were in bed, Greta and he would go downstairs and watch TV. It was mostly crap, but he loved sitting there with her, just the two of them.

The Sleeper never really thought that anything would happen. After all, Greta was married, ten years older and the sister of his best pal in London. He never expected anything and certainly the first move didn't come from him. His ma had taught him that it was wrong to get off with a married woman. Also, he wasn't the most experienced man in the world in the women area. So he missed the warning signs. He would have been quite happy just to make the most of the shared evenings, and enjoy Greta's company all to himself.

But she had more in mind than that. About the third time that Michael went away for a couple of nights, the Sleeper came home with some shopping for Greta. He'd been up the shop with Jo buying a
Standard
and having a chat. Jo was an Arsenal supporter and the Sleeper had been giving him a ribbing about how crap they were doing and how Man United were starting to storm back up the league. Even at that stage with Newcastle way out in front he'd been convinced United would win the Premiership. At least the Premiership, maybe even the Double. The Sleeper had always supported Man United, mainly because his family had always done so. But also, back home nobody really thought of them as an English football club. They had always had so many Irish playing for them, even now, with Irwin and Keane and so on.

So, when he got back from the shop, he had a great big grin on his face and was about to tell Greta about what Jo had said when he realised that something was wrong. She was in the kitchen, cooking with her back to him. Nothing unusual about that, but when she turned round and wiped her hands on the apron he could tell she'd been crying.

‘What's up?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing? So why are you crying?'

‘I'm not crying. All I need is a hug.' Greta held out her arms, and although he'd never held her before, it seemed innocent enough to wrap her in his arms. He'd never realised quite how small she was. She buried her face in his jumper and he was surprised that he could see over the top of her head. The kitchen clock showed six forty five.

‘That's better… Thanks.' She gave him a squeeze and turned back to the cooker.

‘What are we eating?'

‘Steak and potatoes and carrots.'

‘Wow. What's the occasion?' Although Greta could cook, she normally limited herself to pasta because of lack of time.

‘No occasion. Could you lay the table, like a good boy?'

‘Sure.'

‘Do you ever miss home?'

‘Yeah, of course. I miss my family a bit. But I think I'll probably go back to see them in the spring. I wrote my ma as much the other day.'

‘That's good. Good that you get on with your ma. Mine doesn't speak to me since I married Michael.'

‘That's terrible. Why?'

‘'Cause he's English and, worse, he's not a Catholic.'

‘Oh.' Although the Sleeper had been brought up on the same precepts as Greta, and had never questioned them before, it suddenly struck him as a bit odd that people should hate other people just because they believed different things and lived in other countries.

He carried on setting two places for dinner, trying to remember if the spoons went clockwise round the table. He never could remember that, and at home he'd always got a clip round his ear when he got it wrong. That happened almost every time it was his turn to lay the table on Sunday. He bit his lip and tried to remember. Clockwise, surely it was. He laid clockwise.

Dinner was quiet. Greta didn't say a thing and only answered his talk with smiles and nods. She asked how the steak was and he told her it was ‘brilliant'. That was about it. He felt pretty uncomfortable by the time they cleared up and went to the sitting room to watch TV.

‘Are you sure nothing's wrong?'

‘No, why?'

‘Well I was just wondering. Maybe I've done something wrong. What is it?'

Greta laughed. ‘You've done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite.' She looked at him with her piercing eyes and without quite knowing why, he blushed. He tried to turn the TV on, but the remote control wouldn't work. ‘Stop playing with the TV,' Greta ordered.

‘Sorry?'

‘I said stop.'

The Sleeper put down the control obediently.

‘You know that nice hug you gave me before? Why don't you come and give me another one… To cheer me up.'

‘Oh… Okay.' He moved next to Greta on the sofa and turned awkwardly towards her. He felt her head come to rest on his shoulder. Then his heart began to beat uncontrollably as he felt Greta's moist kisses on the back of his neck. He was terrified that she would stop when she heard his heart beating. And then it was dreadful because he could feel movement beginning to poke the inside of his fly. He thought he'd die if she noticed. Thank goodness they weren't embracing standing up, like before. She would have been sure to feel it pushing against her.

Greta raised her head from his neck and brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Hey, Baa,' she said, using the kids' nickname for the first time. It seemed to mark a change.

‘Yeah?' he answered, trying to sound normal, but failing dismally. She must have noticed because she giggled.

‘Stop looking so serious.'

‘Yes…. Right.' He tried to look happier, but all he could think about was his erection and whether she'd notice and think he was trying to molest her.

‘Baa? What do you think I'm doing?'

‘Uh… I don't know.'

‘You don't know?' A small smile played at the corners of her mouth and he noticed she was wearing some sort of faint lipstick. He couldn't take his eyes off her glossy lips. They were slightly parted and seemed very close.

‘Well, I suppose, having a cuddle… Yeah?'

‘I suppose so.'

Her lips seemed to be increasing in size and he wondered what it would be like to lean across the few inches separating their faces and kiss her slowly, like in the films. Immediately, he regretted the thought because he felt a nudge from below and realised that Greta would have to be blind not to notice.

‘What else?'

‘What else?'

‘Uh huh… What else am I doing?'

‘Uh… I don't know.' He felt his face burning up. It was like being stuck in a nightmare, except it was really pleasant at the same time.

‘Well, silly. I'm trying to seduce you. Didn't you know?'

‘Oh…' But he didn't say any more because he found out what it was like to kiss those lips, and it was a thousand times better than he'd imagined it would be. And then he stopped worrying about his erection because it became obvious that Greta had noticed, and there was nothing he could do about that.

~

Si had put the page to bed early and was reasonably satisfied with his labours. A story about a rising film star borrowing a dinner jacket to attend the premier of his new film; another about an eccentric raising money for charity by cycling around the borders of Kuwait.

Then there had been the scoop of the day. A long piece speculating about an ex-Cabinet Minister's motivation for joining forces with a new arts foundation promoting a little known sculptor. Si had been able to reveal that the sculptor happened to be the Prime Minister's godson, who had failed to graduate from art school the summer before. Because of the political sensitivity, Si had checked that one with Dougy before he started writing it up.

To Si's relief, Dougy had been delighted. In recent weeks it had become obvious that much of the Establishment was preparing for an Opposition victory in next year's elections. Sir Lesley, ever the political optimist, had instructed his editor to ensure
The Courier
ingratiated itself with the future government. Si's story was pitched just right.

‘Good stuff, Si, but play down the PM angle. If it's got more than a grain of truth in it, then let's stitch up that brown-nosing bugger.' He was referring to the ex-Cabinet Minister. ‘No doubt he's after his peerage. Let's hope we can blow the whistle on it, eh?'

So that's how Si had written it up, suggesting that the PM was an innocent party and that his godson was not to blame for accepting the foundation's support, but that either the ex-Minister and the foundation were bad art critics—in which case they shouldn't be responsible for such large endowments to artists—or that something more devious lay behind the grant…

Si waved goodnight to the remaining Diary staff. Bill was still around. He seemed to be getting keener recently and there was no longer any doubt about his ability. The lad was improving by the week. Although logic told Si he had nothing to fear from his assistant, he couldn't help feeling less than pleased to see Bill still beavering away on the phone. Bill raised a hand in farewell as Si went off towards the lifts.

He soon forgot his work. Sitting in the back of the taxi on his way to Mary's flat, he was as excited about the Manchester United match he planned to watch on TV as about spending an evening with his girlfriend. Better be careful not to show it, he told himself; she wouldn't be impressed.

Things hadn't been too good with Mary recently. He partly ascribed this to some lingering guilt he felt about his encounter with Lou—he shivered when he thought what might so easily have happened. It was stupid to feel guilty, he told himself; he hadn't really done anything wrong. But he couldn't totally exorcise the darker feelings that he'd faced that night.

But the deficiencies in their relationship went beyond anything the Lou incident had uncovered. Si noticed that the gaps between his meetings with Mary were lengthening and they spent much of their time bickering. It was increasingly apparent that something needed to change; only Si didn't feel like a crisis at the moment. He resolved to wait until there was no alternative to taking a decision, one way or the other.

However, Mary was not as contemplative and indecisive as Si. He'd hardly got through the door when she set into him.

‘Where have you been? I thought we said seven?'

‘Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I got caught up and I thought that you wouldn't be here till later. Sorry.' Si shrugged pathetically.

Mary scrutinised him as if he were a small, hairy, many-legged animal. ‘Well, don't think I'm going to sit around here and watch the football with you tonight. I've been patient enough already. Let's go out and eat, okay?'

‘Can't we watch Jimmy for a while? It's already half time and it's a big match. Only his third first team start.'

Mary's fierce glare cut him short.

‘I guess it would be over by nine fifteen…' Si tailed off.

‘You stay here if you want. I'm off.'

‘Where?'

‘What do you care?'

Good question, thought Si. He said nothing. He knew from experience this was the best tactic.

‘Well?'

‘Well, what?'

‘What are you going to do? Are you going to watch the football or come with me?'

‘Uh, I don't know. Let me think about it a sec…'

‘Oh!' Mary stamped her foot with rage and reached for her keys. ‘You're impossible. Anyone would think you were more in love with your friend Jimmy than me. Well, I'm not going to put up with it. You're just like my mother said you would be. I'm going to take one of the rich good-looking guys at work up on their offer and have a really good night out. There's enough of them after me, you know. I can't think why I haven't done something about it before.'

Si wondered whether she hadn't in fact. Where else had this sudden attack come from? He suppressed the suspicion as, with irritation, he recognised the symptoms of jealousy. After all, he wasn't so virtuous himself. ‘What do you mean, I'm like your mother said?'

‘What?'

‘You said I was like your mother said I would be.'

‘Oh, I don't know. She just said you'd probably turn out like my father. Wet, and a failure of a man.' Mary looked sad.

The storm seemed to be passing. But Si was struck by her words. Did one have to be successful and aggressive to be a real man these days? Whatever happened to all that talk of men becoming more sensitive and understanding and women preferring it that way? Obviously not, at least in Mary's case. She shared her mother's views. The thought made him shudder. But Mary looked vulnerable now, standing confused in the doorway. Neither in nor out, like the rest of our generation, thought Si. What a mess. But he could feel his heart melt and he stretched out his arms. Reluctantly, Mary allowed herself to be drawn into them and leaned her head on his shoulder.