Spin Cycle (15 page)

CHAPTER 15

Rachel put down her notes and cleared her throat. “OK . . . right,” she said, taking another bite of Marmite toast.

“Has it ever occurred to you there are certain things you’ll never hear a man say and certain things you’ll never hear a woman say? For instance, who’s ever heard of a bloke turning to his girlfriend and going: ‘I think we have a problem with our relationship’? . . . or a woman gazing at her naked fella and uttering the words: ‘My, what an attractive scrotum’?”

She took another bite of toast. “Yeah. That’ll work,” she said contentedly. She sat back in her chair, folded her arms and smiled.

Rachel’s comedy writing was coming on extremely well—probably, she decided, because it provided a welcome escape from the Adam-Matt issue. She couldn’t get over how quickly the ideas had started to flow. By yesterday evening, she’d printed out her first draft. She knew it needed a bit of editing and polishing, but she was pretty sure she had the basis for her five-minute comedy contest set. She hadn’t dared to think it till now, but it was starting to occur to her—particularly after what Lenny had said the other day about her being the best-known unknown on the circuit—that she might just stand a chance of winning this competition.

She folded up the notes and put them in her bag, which was on the kitchen table. Then she looked at her watch. It was gone half eight. She had less than half an hour to get to Xantia’s. Having missed two days’ work because of her sprained ankle, she didn’t want to be late.

It was only as she stood up that she realized she had nothing on her feet. Her ankle was virtually pain free now, but still pretty bruised and puffy. Discovering late last night that she couldn’t even begin to fit her foot into her sneaker, she’d phoned Shelley in a panic to see if she owned some Wellingtons or a pair of galoshes. She didn’t. The best Rachel could come up with was a pair of multicolored Bolivian yak wool slipper socks with ten knitted toes and ankle tassels. Her mother had given them to her one Christmas—round about 1983—and she’d never worn them. Ridiculous as they were, the slipper socks—being warm, stretchy and having a grippy rubber sole—were perfect.

Rachel dashed into the bedroom, picked a sock up off the bed and put it on over her bad foot. She then looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The effect of the slipper sock and her combats was hideous, to say the least. She dithered about whether to wear the other one, but decided she’d look even odder in nonmatching footwear.

She went back into the kitchen to fetch her bag and keys. Then, sticking a cold triangle of Marmite toast between her teeth, she headed toward the front door.

* * * * *

“Hi, it’s only me,” Rachel called out as she let herself in chez Marx. When she got no reply, she assumed Otto and Xantia had left for the day.

She began in the kitchen, wiping over the counters and emptying the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs to the first-floor piazza to change the bed linen and clean the bathroom. When she’d finished, she took the vacuum, the dusters and polish to the top of the house and started cleaning her way back down to the bottom. An hour or so later she’d dusted and vacuumed the entire house. There wasn’t a corner she’d missed. Finally she went back into the kitchen to fetch a bucket of water. Having vacuumed the wooden floors, she now had to mop them. She was standing at the sink, squirting wood cleaner into the bucket, when she suddenly became aware of somebody behind her. She shot round.

“Xantia,” Rachel cried, her spare hand leaping to her chest. “God, you made me jump.” She put down the bottle of wood cleaner and turned off the hot tap.

“Did I?” Xantia said with an easy smile. “Sorry.”

“Forgive me,” Rachel said, still breathless with shock, “but I’m a bit confused. I’ve just cleaned the whole of upstairs and I didn’t see you. Or Otto. And you didn’t reply when I called out to say I was here. I don’t get it. Where were you exactly?”

Xantia cleared her throat, a touch nervously, Rachel thought. “But darling,” she gushed, pushing a stray dreadlock back inside her shroud, “Otto and I have been in the work piazza, working. Surely you saw us?”

“But I’ve just dusted and vacuumed the office,” Rachel protested. “You weren’t there, either of you.”

“I can assure you we were,” Xantia said a little testily. “I bet the doctor prescribed you strong painkillers for that ankle of yours. If you’re anything like me, they play havoc with the memory.”

“But I’m not on painkillers.”

“Oh well, I don’t know then,” she said dismissively. “But we were definitely there.”

Rachel shrugged and shook her head. She could see no point in getting into an argument. But there was no doubt in her mind that when she went into the office to dust, Xantia and Otto had not been there.

“So how
is
the ankle?” Xantia asked, her face oozing mock concern. “Still painful?”

“No, the pain’s gone. But it’s still a bit swollen.”

“Excellent, because I need to ask you something. Otto and I are giving our annual pre-Christmas lunch party on Wednesday the eighteenth, and I was wondering whether you’d be available to take coats and help serve drinks and nibbles?”

“Sure,” Rachel said. “So long as I can get some child care. ’Cause Sam will have ended school by then. But it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wonderful.” Xantia moved to go and then turned back. “By the way,” she said, “are you going in for the Joke for Europe contest?”

“Yes,” Rachel replied, slightly taken aback. “I am. How did you know about that?”

“I was on the phone to my niece—well she’s Otto’s niece really—and she told me that she was entering. Surely you’ve come across Vanessa. She’s been on the London circuit for ages.”

Rachel stood and thought. Vanessa. No, the name meant nothing to her, which was odd since she was sure she knew all the London comics entering the contest.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t think I have.”

“You really should keep a lookout for her. Hugely talented young woman. She told me that when she finished her audition at Channel 6, the panel actually stood up and applauded. Just between you and me, I think she’ll walk all over the competition.”

“Really?” Rachel said, trying and failing to keep the iciness from her voice.

“Oh yes. Otto and I went to see her at the Comedy Café on Saturday night and she was the only one there with anything even approaching star quality. I mean I’m sure you’re quite good too, but Vanessa’s an absolute natural. Her parents haven’t got much money, so we’ve been supporting her while she’s been struggling to make a name for herself. But her talent is so immense, I’m sure she would have made it even if we hadn’t been around to help.” She paused and shook her head. “I just can’t believe your paths haven’t crossed.”

“No, neither can I,” Rachel said, forcing a smile.

As Rachel stood there deciding that even though she’d never met this Vanessa woman, she already hated her, Xantia was busy staring at Rachel’s feet. It seemed to have taken her until now to notice them.

“Umm, interesting footwear,” she sniggered. “I had no idea the slipper sock had made a comeback in the suburbs.”

Just as Rachel was considering strangling Xantia with one of her dreadlocks, Otto appeared. He was wearing a lavender silk kimono over baggy white trousers and a matching T-shirt.

“You know, my darling,” he said, opening one of the kitchen cupboards, “you shouldn’t be so dismissive about the slipper sock.”

“I shouldn’t?” Xantia said, frowning and tilting her shrouded head coquettishly to one side.

“Absolutely not.” He took out a packet of Penguins and started opening it.

“You see,” he went on, biting off half a Penguin, “what you are failing to appreciate is that there is something intensely intrepid and courageous about the way Rachel is disregarding contemporary style and fashion in favor of these obsolete, laughably absurd
objets trouvés
.” He paused to shove the last half of Penguin into his mouth. “I would suggest furthermore,” he went on, “that there is an irrational, iconoclastic, almost neo-Dadaist quality to this display of hers. Moreover, the blaze of hugely contrasting colors used on the toes of the slipper socks leaves me in little doubt that in her efforts to establish a new artistic language, she has fallen under the powerful influence of the Fauvism school as well as Art Informel.”

He finished eating the Penguin and started to unwrap another while Xantia looked thoughtfully at Rachel’s slipper socks.

“Do you know, Otto,” she said eventually, “I think you’re right. And would I be correct in thinking I also detect a subtle nod toward Art Brut?”

Rachel recognized this term from A-level art. It referred to works of art created by criminals and the insane. But because she was being so supremely entertained by the Marxes’ pretension and stupidity, she was no more than mildly offended.

“Very possibly,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Very possibly.”

“So do you think we should ask Rachel to wear the slipper socks to the party? Or even better, perhaps we could get all the waiters and waitresses to wear them. The likes of Charles Saatchi and Damien Hirst would think it was just so witty.”

“Superb,” he declared, starting on a third Penguin. “And why don’t we even go a stage further by giving a pair of slipper socks to each of our guests as a Christmas present?”

“That is inspired,” Xantia declared. “Utterly inspired. Otto, you are a genius . . . don’t you think so, Rachel?”

“Oh definitely,” Rachel said, laughter hovering at her lips. “Definitely.”

Otto and Xantia disappeared into the hall, busily debating how they would get two hundred pairs of slipper socks knitted in time. A few minutes later Rachel heard their driver beep and the front door close.

She decided to put the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil she found herself smiling at the extent of Xantia and Otto’s affectation. After a moment or two, her smile turned to a puzzled frown as she pictured cleaning the couple’s office. They hadn’t been there. They just hadn’t. There wasn’t an iota of doubt in her mind. This constant vanishing act of theirs was starting to trouble her. Where in the name of buggery did they go? And why?

As usual she finished work just after one. Instead of going home she was meeting Lenny. He’d heard about her ankle from Chris, the booker at the Bathmat, and had rung to see how she was. As they chatted they realized they wouldn’t be seeing each other before the contest as neither of them had any more gigs booked.

“Tell you what,” Lenny had said, “I’ve got nothing on tomorrow lunchtime. How’s about I buy you a pie and a pint?”

They arranged to meet at the Red House, around the corner from Rachel’s flat. Being close to home, it didn’t involve her ankle in any extra driving. “It’s easy to find,” she told Lenny. “It’s right next to the photocopying place.”

* * * * *

The pub was pretty packed. There were the men in suits sitting alone with their pints and plates of Terry the landlord’s homemade Pad Thai, the groups of girlies sipping spritzers and a few old codgers reading the racing pages, determined to make one glass of Guinness last well into the afternoon. Lenny was nowhere to be seen. Rachel looked at her watch. Even though she’d stopped at home to change out of the slipper socks and into a pair of summer flip-flops, she was a few minutes early. She decided to get a drink. As it was one thirty and approaching the end of the lunch hour, the initial rush for drinks and food was over and the area round the bar was nearly deserted. The two barmaids were busy clearing away empties and Terry was standing chatting with a customer while he polished glasses with a tea towel.

“ ‘Ere, Tel,” the bloke sitting at the bar was saying, in a broad Liverpool accent that Rachel found strangely familiar. “Have you heard about these new Viagra eyedrops? They do nothing for your sex life, but they make you look hard.”

Terry chuckled. “Nice one,” he said, hanging a couple of wineglasses on the rack above his head.

Rachel stood still for a moment, taking in the bloke’s blue velvet jacket and the wild hair that looked like it had a family of starlings camping in it. “Oh no,” she murmured. “It’s him.”

It was Tractor, the irritating but amusing leather-trousered wally who had tried to pick her up the night she’d come in to buy a carton of orange juice for Sam. Just as he had that night, he was sitting with a copy of the
Sun
in front of him.

“Says here,” he said, draining his pint glass, “some explorer bloke froze to death at the North Pole. Makes you think. I mean if you froze to death and went to hell, wouldn’t there be some point along the way you’d be really comfortable?”

She found herself smiling and shaking her head at the same time. If she went up to the bar he would probably recognize her and start coming on to her again. She decided to sit down at a table in the corner and wait for Lenny. He could fetch the drinks and save her the embarrassment of another encounter with Tractor. But the only free table was a couple of feet from the bar. Reluctantly she took it. She sat down with her body turned away from the bar. Then she took her comedy notes out of her bag and started reading through them. But she couldn’t concentrate. Terry and Tractor’s conversation kept bursting in on her thoughts.

“So,” Terry was saying, “any sign of a job yet?”

“Nah. You see, most employers want you to take a written math and English test. But ’cause I’m dyslexic, that’s where I fall down. But apparently they’re advertising for lifeguards at the indoor pool down the road. Thought I might give that a go.”

Terry laughed again. “Do me a favor, Tractor. You’ve got the body of whippet with growth hormone deficiency. Plus you told me ages ago you couldn’t swim. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I always thought that was a major requirement of a lifeguard.”

“Yeah, I know, but you don’t half get some fit birds up there.”

“True,” Terry said, still laughing. “And when one of them starts drowning in the deep end, she’s really going to let you give her the kiss of life after you’ve dived in to rescue her wearing your Flipper rubber ring.”

“All right,” Tractor said dejectedly. “I get the point.” He licked his finger and turned over the page in the newspaper. “Look,” he said, stabbing at a picture with his finger, “there’s that actress. You know, the one with malumbas so large she couldn’t ring your doorbell without backing up first. God, what’s her name? Anyway, she’s had twins. Girls.”