Love Me (27 page)

I shake my head, looking at her. Are there hidden cameras or something? The hell? And why is it she didn't know I was here? I thought her and Zed were tight as batty and bench. I guess not, then.

‘Yeah. Come on.'

In the kitchen I get us each a Coke and tip a desperately needed measure of rum in mine.

‘So . . .' says Max with the most pathetically fake nonchalance I've ever seen. ‘Zed . . . How's he been?'

‘I dunno. OK I suppose.'

She nods, a fragile grin settling on her face. ‘So he's been handling the medication OK?'

‘What medication?'

‘Well I know he's gotta be on tranquillisers or anti-depressants or somefing just to manage being without
moi
!'

That girl he fucked the other week. I don't know. Maybe she counts as an anti-depressant. Max puts out her cigarette in the bowl I use for cereal and goes to light another one.

‘Bloody hell!'

‘What?'

‘It's disgusting how much you smoke.'

‘Alright, alright. I'll give your baby pink lungs a break.' She puts it back in the packet.

‘Yours must look like a couple of old, nasty teabags. Aren't you scared you're gonna die?'

‘Everyone's gonna die, Eden. That's the only thing we know. We're born and then we die and that's it. What difference does it make whether we die aged fifty or eighty-five?'

‘It'll matter when you're forty-nine,' I tell her and she shrugs and lights up a new cigarette. I guess the break is over.

The doorbell rings and her blue eyes go massive.

‘Zed has a key,' I say, and walk out of the kitchen toward the mystery guest.

‘Oh.'

I open the door and Spanish is on the other side of it. I smile reflexively, breathing properly for the first time since I discovered Max sitting in the front room.

‘Look at you,' I say. His hair's pulled back into a big, soft, Afro puff. The slicked-back waves all over his head make him look even more like a Latin boy, but I don't say this. His clothes aren't ripped, frayed or faded like usual.

‘I went to have breakfast with my mom and step-dad.'

‘Bundle of laughs, right?'

‘Yep,' he says darkly.

‘Well, you're here now. So . . . hello,' I say.

‘Hellooo . . .'he mimics in a bad British accent that tickles me. He kisses me in that zealous way he has. ‘Damn! Have you been drinking?'

‘So who's this then?' says Max, standing in the hall, puffing away.

‘None of your bloody business but . . . Spanish, this is Max. Max, Spanish.'

‘Heya!' she says.

Spanish gives her a grunt and a nod. After a few seconds she gets the hint and goes back in the kitchen.

‘Who's the Barbie?' he says without whispering.

‘Zed's girl.'

He raises one eyebrow and gives a cynical laugh. ‘His girl?'

I shrug.

‘Damn. If she was any whiter, she'd be dead! I guess it must be Christmas all year round for your boy.'

I laugh and he starts singing. ‘Riding through the snow . . .'

‘That's messed up,' I tell him.

We walk down to the kitchen and Spanish asks if I've got any food.

‘Didn't you just eat?'

‘Nothing substantial,' he shrugs. ‘Plus that was a while ago now.'

Shocking. Seems like his ascetic lifestyle has gone the way of the tape player.

‘You want a sandwich?'

‘Yeah, cool. Don't know if I'll be able to taste it though. Smells like an ashtray in here,' he says with a nakedly contemptuous look at Max, her cigarette and bowl of ash. She puts it out with a grin.

While I'm slapping on the ham and cheese, he sniffs my drink. ‘I can't believe you out here drinking this early in the day!'

‘There's barely any rum in there at all,' I tell him. ‘You've got a good nose.'

Max looks between us with a smile. ‘So this is your new bloke is it?' she says to me.

‘Yes,' says Spanish.

‘You look pretty together! Spanish,' she says with sudden fervour. ‘Have you ever thought of modelling? You've got amazing bones.'

I groan.

‘That's what you do with yourself?' Spanish asks, flashing me a look.

‘Yeah it is,' she preens.

‘I honestly can't think of anything more demeaning or pointless.'

‘Um, Max . . .' I intervene, ‘Spanish is a musician. He fronts a rock band.'

‘Really?' she replies sarcastically, tossing her hair. ‘I didn't peg him for the moody artistic type.'

Spanish eats his sandwich. I stare at my rum and Coke and wonder if my drinking it will make me look like a lush. And Max fiddles compulsively with her packet of Marlboros.

‘I was gonna have these later but . . .' He's polished off the sandwich in no time flat and now he's taken out a little bag of dry mushrooms. ‘No time like the present. I think I need a break from reality right now, anyway, with the morning I've had.'

‘Are you sure that's a good idea?' I ask. The past few days with him have been trip-free. I thought I was all the escape he needed. ‘I don't think you're in the best mood for it.'

‘Wow. The party's started in here, hasn't it?' says Max. ‘I can't believe you had a go at me for smoking.'

‘Number one,' Spanish holds up an index finger, ‘you impose your nasty cigarette funk on everyone around you, while me taking this God's flesh is a
personal
choice and it's got
personal
consequences. Number two: you smoke 'cause you're an addict. I take mushrooms because I want to be involved in a communion with nature and reality.'

‘Can I have some then?'

He cuts her a dirty look. I remember him out in the park the first time I saw him, a romantic little hippie with his guitar whom I could imagine saving insects and talking to flowers.

‘You're gonna take those now?' I say.

‘Tell you what. I won't if you give the sauce a break.'

‘What?'

‘Eden. It's not even noon yet,' he says. ‘You're out of control.'

And he looks accusingly at me and Max, lumping us together. It's so unfair. Ten seconds ago he and I were on the same team and now he's better than both of us.

‘Bloody hell! It's just one . . .' I sigh. ‘So if I throw the rum down the sink, you'll forgo the “out of body”?'

‘Yep.'

‘Fine.' So I empty my glass.

‘What about the bottle?'

‘That's not fair! You didn't have to get rid of the mushrooms!'

‘No problem.' And he chucks the bag at Max.

‘Are you serious?' she says, handling it carefully.

‘Knock yourself out.'

‘But this isn't even mine!' I lie, putting the bottle in the nearest cupboard. ‘It's my aunt's!'

‘Sorry. Too late. These are mine now,' says Max, stuffing the bag of mushrooms in her handbag.

And then Zed rolls through the door and I get the feeling the four of us together are gonna be a bad taste.

‘
WHAT ARE YOU
doing?' I say quietly, right into Spanish's ear. ‘Stop it.'

‘Tell me you don't like it,' he whispers.

‘Not here!'

Spanish and I sit on the sofa in the living room, Max in the armchair, Zed on the floor, some new rap artist on the stereo. Spanish's quick fingers are in my knickers, rubbing me hard in the soft bits while he and Zed argue about music. Only a light print throw keeps my privates private.

‘Spanish,' I say, trying to breathe evenly.

I hit him on the arm but he pretends he can't hear me over the music.

‘Don't you think it's time,' Spanish says, his voice vibrating through my back and the sensations all rushing together, ‘that we stop churning out this minstrel shit? This is why I fucking hate hip-hop these days. It's clown music.'

And his fingers speed up.

‘Here we go,' says Zed, puffing on a zoot, ‘with your judgemental ass. All people can do is talk about their own experience. Not everybody can be about wearing a fucking knitted hat and rapping about oppression.'

‘You sound really stupid right now, man,' Spanish says all calm and furious behind me. ‘Own experience? Most of these motherfuckers ain't lived it. They just talk about it. If you really lived it, you don't
want
to talk about it. All they do is play up to a stereotype so they can sell records. And they corrupt an entire generation in the process.'

‘Spanish!' I say quietly.

He murmurs into my ear, ‘We could have been alone, but you didn't want to so . . .'

‘. . . Why the hell has a rapper gotta be a role model, anyway?' Zed is saying. ‘It's bullshit. Every black man doesn't represent me in the same way that every white man isn't represented by Hannibal Lecter or Pee Wee Herman.'

‘You know it's not the same for us! Black art is important . . .' And his fingers really hurt and I want him to stop but my body betrays me. Zed is right there. Right there. Not even three yards away. Damn, that's freaky. ‘It's our biggest ideological defence in a culture that's destroying us!'

Tense. Rushing toward the sparks. Spanish still smells of that cologne. Zed's voice is chocolatey. I hit the wall and see nothing. Hear nothing. Release and contract. Flutter down like a feather.

‘STOP IT!'I say more loudly than I intend to, eyes closed. I hear Spanish chuckle as he finally does what I say.

‘You alright, Eden? It's cool. Just a little discussion,' says Zed.

‘Yeah.' I open my eyes and my voice shakes a bit. There's sweat on Zed's dark forehead. ‘Yeah. Just . . . well I think you're both right.'

‘Whatever you say, dear,' says Spanish. He discreetly slips his hand from under the throw. Pats my shoulder. Then he reaches over to get some tortilla chips from the bowl we're all sharing. ‘Want some?'

‘No.' I get up, fixing my clothes in the process. I grab the bowl, Spanish stops me, holding it on the table, staring me down.

‘I'm gonna get some fresh ones,' I say. ‘These ones have been out for ages. They're starting to get soft.'

‘They're fine . . .'

‘I'm taking them!' I say, and pull the bowl. It goes flying and there are tortillas all over the floor.

‘Sorry,' says Spanish, ‘let me . . .'

‘I'll do it,' I say.

‘Eden . . .'

‘I'll do it!'

Eventually it gets weird for them to sit in silence, watching me pick the floor clean of snacks, so Spanish tells Zed that black people need to take their art more seriously because we are marginalised as a people. And Zed says that if everybody took responsibility for their own family, then maybe we wouldn't be relying on Trick Daddy Mack to set an example.

‘It's not a fucking joke!' yells Spanish. ‘I'm so sick of nobody taking responsibility for what's happening in our culture. We have the power to really affect the next generation.'

Zed rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘Parental responsibility, man . . .'

‘Alright,' says Spanish with a sudden, devious smile. ‘Alright, my
brother
. If you're so laissez damn faire about the whole situation, why did you leave your crew?'

‘Spanish, we ain't gotta talk about that, man . . .'

‘It's valid, ain't it? Look, there you were with a damn good deal, thousands of dollars on the table, and you walk. Leave your crew, your management, your label and bounce to Europe. Doesn't make no sense unless your ass had a crisis of conscience.'

‘Zed?' I say, confused. ‘I thought you said things weren't working out with your crew and that's why you left and came to London?'

‘It's 'cause you couldn't live with yourself being a fake-ass gangster! Tell the truth . . .'

Zed looks studiously away from me, his movements caged, frustrated. ‘I just wanted to get back to myself, that's all, the best part of me. I was getting lost.' His eyes find me. ‘I forgot.'

‘Then why,' says Spanish, still on a swell of being right, ‘is your material different now? Last year you were rhyming about shanking niggas, shooting niggas, robbing, pimping . . .'

‘I wasn't, man!'

‘You, ya crew . . . same thing! It's all on the same track, same record! But nowadays you all talking about love and the universe and shit.' Spanish laughs cruelly. ‘You're sitting up here saying artists ain't gotta be role models, but you straight up left a lucrative deal with a
major label
because you couldn't sleep at night.'

‘You're right. I couldn't,' says Zed. His gaze lights on me and then away.

‘Zed . . .' I start, before Max barrels in with, ‘Yeah, well I just think it's all a bunch of bollocks! People are people. If we all just got over ourselves, the world would be a better place. We're all mixed anyway. Especially you, Spanish. Yeah, this music is bloody stupid sometimes, but everyone knows that all black guys don't sit around all day in gold chains talking about money and women . . .'

‘What the hell do you know, Snow White?' spits Spanish. ‘You can afford to think that way because everything is geared towards you. Have you ever had to search stores for products to suit your hair and skin? Or for magazines that represent you? Until you have, you'll never understand!'

Zed looks at the ground. I can see he's not listening anymore.

‘Come on! It's bloody modern times, Spanish! You can find whatever you want. Eden, tell your ignorant boyfriend what it's like living in the twenty-first century!'

‘I'm ignorant?' Spanish stands up. ‘I'm fucking ignorant? You're one of those blind, deaf and dumb white people who'll believe anything just so they can live a guilt-free life!' I grab him by the arm.

‘Shut up, Max,' I say, suddenly fed up of her stupid head.
She ruined everything by coming here. ‘You don't know what you're talking about! So just butt out of the discussion.'