The Good Kind of Bad (5 page)

Another wave of tears threatened, sunglasses necessity rather than fashion statement. I had to stop, to rescue my sanity and fourth application of foundation. Besides, Joe had never seen me cry, a
very
good thing. I usually resembled a red-faced baboon.

Practising a smile, I dabbed a tissue under my sunglasses as the cases emerged, battered and worn from their distressing journey in baggage class.

A quick survey of the entrance gate provided a sea of blank faces. Some were half hidden by unpronounceable names scrawled on ring binders and cards, like a bizarre United Nations. Attack dogs, AK47s and unyielding boys in blue guarded the vast windows over to my left as I looked out to a soundless outside, deaf to the exhausts and shouts and sirens with voices cut from the enunciating lips.

Through the tumult and off to the left was Joe, sunbathing on the bonnet of his Chevelle; glasses on, chest bare and a cigarette on his lips. My heart fluttered, like I’d breathed in too fast. His car was skewed skilfully over the loading bay. That must’ve taken at least three attempts, to sufficiently stick his middle finger up at authority.

Once out in the blinding sunshine and hot spring air, I was doing my best mime impression as I struggled over the concourse with my ten-ton weight of a case. I waved, only slightly manically, for Joe to help me the hell out, though it seemed I was invisible. It wasn’t until I negotiated the barrage of taxis and landed at his side that I poked him in the stomach and he jumped upright, discarding his earphones in the process.

‘Baby! That you? I mean, damn right it’s you. C’mere.’ From his seat on the bonnet he pulled me in, giving me one of those long, lingering kisses I’d already missed. ‘How was the flight? What do you do for nine hours in a tin can anyway?’ His voice was gravelly as he slid down.

As I looked him in the eye I knew it was right, Mother was wrong and I’d found it. I’d found my forever. Doubts evaporating now I was back with Joe, it felt like I’d been pulled from a maelstrom. I hardly minded the cigarette smoke, especially as Joe had misplaced his shirt, yet again.

Instead of moving in for another kiss, he reached for my sunglasses. Joe wasn’t ready for the horror that was
baboon face
, but the boy moved fast. The glasses were whisked away before I had chance to protest.

‘What’s with the tears? I don’t want you upset.’

I could feel them dampening my cheeks. I felt stupid. I felt exposed. Surely I was stronger than this? ‘Why did she have to be such a cow about it? She could at least
pretend
she has a soul,’ I managed through calmed sobs.

Joe held me by the arms, whether to steady or comfort me, I couldn’t tell.

‘You mean your mom? Forget about her. If she can’t be happy for you, she’s not worth it. Now get in, damn it.’ With a grin, he pointed to the Chevelle’s open door.

Re-acquainting myself with the unique interior of Joe’s car, I could see he’d embraced the bag of air fresheners I’d bought him. It was like stepping into a forest of Magic Trees.

‘Listen, I know I was a dick about the wedding dress, about dropping the cigarette on it, I mean,’ he admitted while climbing in.

I batted the new car scent out of my face. ‘And errands.’

‘All right, over the
errands
too, so I’m taking you out tonight, some place real nice. No fried chicken, promise.’

‘No fried chicken. Hmm. Are we going to Wendy’s, per chance?’

‘Wendy’s? Come on woman, what do you take me for? We have a reservation at that place you mentioned. K2, is it?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Hey, anything for my girl.’

It was a dazzling view from the fortieth floor of the Chicago Stock Exchange, the purples and pinks streaking through the aqua. The maître d' had seated us at one of K2’s best window tables, at the corner of West Congress and South LaSalle and every trail of stardust leading out towards the lake; not that Joe was interested in the view.

After five minutes of him fumbling with his tie, he’d fashioned his cutlery into an art piece worthy of the MoMA. Furnished with a jacket and politely asked to extinguish his cigarette, the myriad of glances from our fellow diners had been more than unwelcome. Even if I had chosen a peach Marchesa mini dress, all they saw was Joe.

I shouldn’t have been surprised; K2 was the preserve of people more interested in the fellow clientele than the menu. The petit-portioned food was divine, if anyone bothered to notice. Although I was honoured Joe had secured a dinner reservation at one of my ‘posh places’, he hadn’t needed to. I was happier ordering pizza from the sofa and praying they’d be late and we’d get it gratis. On balance, it was preferable to cranberry jus and spinach mousseline.

Scanning the pearlescent room, I’d never noticed how ridiculous this all was; the dinner jackets and Rocco Borghese chandeliers, marble-skimmed walls, palette cleansers and Dom Périg-bloody-non. Not to mention Joe’s pensive expression becoming more amusing by the minute. Of course he didn’t
do
haute cuisine, unless it came with a side of food.

‘What’s with the face?’ I asked while his nose turned up another notch.

‘I guessed it was fancy here, but you never mentioned having to make small talk with the President,’ he shot from the corner of his mouth while his eyes darted the room.

‘The President’s here?’ I took an eager glance behind. When it came to being a dumb blonde, no one could accuse me of not putting in the effort. It took work, damn it.

‘Forget the jacket, they better have a shirt back there for me too. I’m dripping like a fat bitch on a treadmill.’

I flashed my eyebrows. ‘Nice.’

He replied with a shrug. ‘What?’

‘You hate it here, Joe. I knew we should’ve gone to The Wit.’

‘The
Wit
? You said you liked K2! Man, did I mess up? I just wanted tonight to be special.’

‘It is special.’

‘Now you’re back, now I have you to myself?’

Barely a month ago, and we’d been strangers. Now, as silly as it sounded, I couldn’t imagine us apart. Yes, there was the vulgar streak and he was barely treading water in a place I felt at home, but it meant something that he’d booked K2. It showed how much he
cared
. Plus, while the men bestowed Joe with disdainful stares, I watched their bored wives secretly checking him out. It was entertaining at least.

‘I don’t care where we eat or what we eat, just that we do. I’m so goddamn hungry that shrivelled couple are making me drool.’

Sure enough, an ancient-looking pair were eyeing Joe up like he was the dregs of society, a fly in the ointment, plucked off the street to ensure they didn’t forget how good they had it. I watched their wrinkled mouths shape the cracked sentiments. Money talked, though when Joe opened his mouth it didn’t matter how pricey our newly arrived bottle of Roederer Cristal was.

By our table, the waiter confirmed my choice of champagne with a few encouraging noises. Joe, however, winced to aid comprehension of the server’s French accent, though with a shrug and a smile presented his flute, seemingly unaware of his audience.

He may have been clueless on the finer points of dining etiquette, but damn, did he look good in a suit jacket. It was unquestionably my next purchase on the Project Joe shopping list. Oh yeah, Project Joe. It was my plan, to tweak a
few
minor details, but so what? Nobody’s perfect. I certainly wasn’t.

My husband was the epitome of the blank canvas, and that wasn’t just his intellect. Like a TV talent contestant he was primed and ready, poised to be preened and plucked into the very best version of himself. And so was born, Project Joe.

‘So, plans for later,’ he suggested as the waiter departed. ‘I’m thinking Dominion on West Chicago. I know they’re up their own asses in there, but since tonight’s on you?’

I gave him a frown. ‘Who said tonight’s on me?’

‘Come on, baby. Money’s tight. I’m still waiting on Santos for those extra shifts.’

‘Then why don’t we stay in? I’m sick of going to places I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

‘But it’s what we do!’ Joe replied.

‘Well, I want to
do
something else.’

‘We’re not going home early, not tonight.’ It had raised considerably, the volume of his voice. He grabbed the dinner napkin, patting down his mouth.

‘We can go out tomorrow—’

‘No.’ The cutlery trembled as Joe’s fist smacked the table. ‘I said, no.’

I almost jumped in my seat, nearly spilt the champagne. I felt the beady pairs of eyes glance over, flickering like fireflies in the candlelight. They appeared delighted with their unexpected entertainment, a momentary distraction from their Wisconsin veal tenderloin.

Right on cue, Joe recoiled at my startled expression, shifting like he was sitting on a pin cushion. ‘What I mean is, we should celebrate together, and not at home with a deep dish from Lou Malnatti’s.’ He pulled the menu higher, until I could barely see his eyes. ‘You decided what you’re having yet? I need the waiter back over here for an English menu.’

‘It
is
an English menu,’ I replied, less than impressed with his table thumping, though I did catch his wink.

‘Nah, I got the French one.’

It was quite funny, for Joe. ‘You’re a real comedian, do you know that?’

‘Does the crusted Berkshire pork cheeks mean I’ll be eating pieces of ass?’

I allowed myself a giggle as Joe threw down the menu and reached to his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Arching his back and placing a hand on the nape of his neck, he expelled a line of smoke.

‘What are you doing? You can’t smoke in here,’ I hissed. I was folding and unfolding the napkin now, rearranging cutlery like Mother dearest, but I was dismissed with a waved hand.

‘They won’t mind, we ordered the expensive stuff.’

‘You can’t smoke in this entire building. Come on, cut it out. People are staring at us.’

‘People were already staring at us, like you hadn’t noticed. This champagne we’re sipping costs what…’ He snatched the menu and began reading aloud. ‘Three hundred a bottle? Shit, I make in a year what these assholes earn in a goddamn week. It don’t take a genius to work out I shouldn’t be in here.’

‘Is my money not good enough for you?’

‘If I come as part of the deal, your money’s not good enough for
them
. It never will be. Don’t kid yourself.’

‘About what?’

‘Thinking you can have it both ways. Thinking this is all fine and dandy. Thinking this is you and me and everything else is bullshit. The world don’t work that way, not the world I know.’

His eyes were darker, a kind of inky black. The nervousness remained, though I understood now why he was pensive. His world had been distinctly rule-free; now he couldn’t go for food without being dressed by a restaurant.

One pair of spectators, Joe’s shrivelled theatre-menu couple on the neighbouring table, vilified him with shaking heads.

‘Can I help you with something, mister, or is your wife just checking me out?’ Joe shouted over. ‘If she wants something to look at, I can always pull my pants down.’ He pointed a sideways thumb at me. ‘Ask her, she knows. She’s my wife. Not my girlfriend or date. My
wife
.’

Mrs Shrivelled looked like she’d choked on her martini olive.

‘Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to keep it down. You’re upsetting the other diners.’ The maître d’ was back and this time with a firm hand on Joe’s shoulder.

I leant towards our visitor, discretely mouthing, ‘I’m sorry. He’ll behave himself, I promise.’

After a few courteous nods, the maître d’ agreed to leave it at that and retreated.

‘You see? What did I tell you? Any excuse to turf me out of here. I thought you were on my side. You shouldn’t be apologising to them,’ Joe chastised with a pointed finger.

‘I am on your side, Joe.’

‘Then act like it, dammit!’ he shouted, mocking annoyance with the champagne bottle held aloft. ‘More Cristal, wifey?’

He was right. Joe was right. What did I care what they thought? They were the ones staring at
us
. Despite the scene he’d caused and that my husband didn’t fit in anywhere but the pool hall, I couldn’t help but smile. Project Joe
was
a little hasty. I should’ve given the real man a chance to shine through, though judging by his last vulgar offering, that could be pushing it.

Our wedding was a pantomime, the man a stranger, and yet I understood him more than I’d ever known Will. Hiding behind the months and years meant we’d never asked the questions that mattered. A month with Joe and routine was already so last season.

Random was the new black and however removed from reality Joe’s world was, I couldn’t turn back now.

The next morning, I woke early.

With Joe on his way to wherever (it was Saturday, so work was a no-no), I was itching to make a start on the day. Hangover-less due to Joe necking most of the champagne last night, what felt like pre-dawn grocery shopping at Fox and Oban involved wandering aimlessly down aisles of
city
food. It drummed home I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, staring at food I’d never eat or need. Even London with all its cosmopolitanism didn’t have Yuzu marmalade and Parmigiano for sixty dollars a pop.