The Naked Drinking Club (15 page)

‘You like all the ones I don’t. This one.’ I picked up the one that he’d just said he quite liked. Neither of them noticed that I was unpacking all the time I was talking, and arranging the paintings round the room again.

‘This one, for example, is painted by an older man, and these ones, the ones I prefer, are painted by a young woman. Amazing that, isn’t it?’ How anyone could agree to being amazed at this point even out of politeness was beyond me, but they did.

‘Yep. I prefer the older guy’s stuff – it’s just a bit bolder,’ he said importantly.

Of course you do, you fucking clown, I thought.

I said, ‘There’s one painting here I’ve been trying to sell for a while now. It’s by the same guy.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked the wife. The initials were just a squiggle and I frequently made up names to fit them on the
spot.
On the way into the house there had been a lawnmower on the front porch with Victor written across the front.

‘Victor Duffy comes from Melbourne.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ he said, getting right into it now.

‘Well, this painting I can’t stand. Victor loves it. I just don’t get it, but I keep carrying it around with me when really I shouldn’t bother. But you see, that’s an example of how different all our tastes can be, one person sees something that another just doesn’t, and that’s how I feel about that thing.’

‘Let’s have a look, then.’

I could already hear celebratory music in my head. ‘No, honestly, it’s a waste of time, trust me, it’s going nowhere.’

‘Come on, we’ll have a look.’

I sighed like it was a pointless chore and brought out a painting I genuinely rarely sold of some golden hayfields and an ominous-looking sunset. I held it up and even shook my head slowly.

Colin nodded his head in response and pointed at it, smiling with his mouth twisted into one corner. ‘Now, you see, I like that.’

‘
No!
You can’t, no way. I don’t see it at all.’

‘How much is it?’ he asked proudly.

‘Oh please, no. What about the lovely triptych? Come on, guys.’

‘I agree with Colin. I like it too,’ announced his wife happily. I had them both.

‘I am shocked.’ I threw my hands in the air.

‘I don’t care; I don’t bloody like these other ones. I like that one. How much?’

‘Hundred and fifteen.’ I appeared even more in despair. ‘Are you sure?’ Never thinking for one moment that they weren’t.

‘Cash?’

‘Cash is fine by me, but I can’t say I agree with your choice.’

I win.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

MAC BROKE FIRST
and potted two stripes. I hadn’t seen him for a while, as we had mostly been drinking at the house or in the Red Star, a few streets away.

‘So where have you been, kid?’

‘I like it when you call me “kid”.’ I broke the rest of the balls up, to give us options.

‘I know you do.’ He played with a cigarette between his lips but never once let any ash fall onto the table.

‘Have you got children, Mac?’

He sighed deeply and loudly for my benefit in protest at the question, then belted the white, making it double back and pot another one. He then stopped and looked at me, playing with his tongue in the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh yes, I do.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Take a shot, kid.’

I chalked my cue to stall time, hoping that he would answer.

‘Are they in Australia?’

‘She. Take a shot.’

I missed all the balls.

‘Your mind’s not on it.’

‘It’s only a game. I want to know more about you.’

‘There’s nothing to know, I’ve told you, what you see is what you get. It starts here, it finishes here.’

‘Do you know that you’re intriguing?’

He just looked at me again in that way that was increasingly drawing me in.

I potted two. I felt sexy. Australian life suited me; I was brown with the sun, and had enough cash to afford some new clothes from the Saturday markets at Paddington. I was wearing my new dress; it was tight, red, and made of Lycra. I’d borrowed a pair of Karin’s boots that laced up the front, and had my hair styled differently by pushing it to the side. I reapplied my lipstick while Mac took his shot, and lit up my cigarette with my new Zippo.

‘Hey, what about that Naked Club? That was fantastic. Can we go there again?’

‘Ah, Mr Wilson, eh? I knew that would be right down your street. Yes, gets a bit out of the ordinary down there.’

‘Why do you go there?’

‘The man with the white hair, Charlie, he’s an old mate of mine, it’s his bar. The lunatic that runs the club, that’s Mr Wilson. His father’s a cultural attaché.’

‘No way.’

Mac softly lined up against the cushion, sending the white rolling softly close to the edge all the way down, nudging in another. ‘He’s one of those disinherited characters, roaming around the place.’

‘A dropout?’

‘Of the highest order.’

This was the most straightforward conversation I’d had with Mac since I met him.

‘He hires the place once a month, or something like that.’

‘Can we go out again one time, Mac?’

‘We’ll see, shall we? Take your shot.’ Mac clicked his fingers and pointed down to the table when Val, the barmaid, looked over.

‘Where is your daughter now?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you don’t give up, do you?’

‘Just interested.’ I propped myself against the wall, leaning on my cue, while Mac cleaned up.

A boy brought our beers over.

‘Val wants to remind you about your tab. She told me to tell you that.’

‘Oh, did she? Well, I’ll deal with Val later.’ The boy went back to the bar.

‘What did you do before you came over here?’ I asked, taking my beer.

‘I was at sea most of my life. I’ve done a bit of everything, really.’

‘What about your wife?’

He was about to pot the black but stopped and rested his forehead on the pool table.

‘This is normal; it’s called getting to know someone.’ I laughed, trying to lighten things a little. He walked over to me, looking into my eyes at close range. I could smell his cigarette-beer breath. It reminded me of the dirty old newsagent I worked for as a teenager on a Sunday job.

‘OK, listen.’

I nodded slowly, looking back at him, matching his intensity.

‘I never married her, not the first one, never got the chance. Never see the daughter, don’t know what happened to her, and don’t know her fucking name for fuck’s sake. Her mother saw to that. The second one I married, she divorced me over here. That’s it.’

‘That’s really sad,’ I said, trying to hold back from throwing my arms around him.

‘That’s what happens, kid. You do stuff and you live with consequences.’ He potted the black, then the rest of mine and placed his cue on the edge of the table, like I suspect he’d done every night for quite a while.

‘Hey, you know who you remind me of, Mac?’

‘Don’t tell me.’ Mac perked up, grabbing the chance to deviate from his life story.

‘Well, you talk like Humphrey Bogart in
Casablanca
. Have you seen that film?’

‘Course I’ve seen that fucking film, I remember when it came out the first time, unfortunately.’

‘You remind me of him, all wounded and washed up in a bar where you feel far away from anyone who can hurt you again.’ I felt confident and insightful; I potted another spot, pleased with my analogy and my pool playing. Mac, however, didn’t look impressed.

‘Well, of all the bars, she’s not going to fucking walk into
this
one.’ He finished his drink and looked over at the bar to catch Val’s eye for a refill.

‘Very good, very good.’ I loved our banter on the
Casablanca
theme. I had that exciting, carefree big-night-out-ahead feeling in my stomach. ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

‘What?’ He waved at Val. Val shook her head and mouthed for him to fuck off.

‘Why wouldn’t she come in here?’

‘Because she knows I’m here. Now can we finish this?’ Squinting against the spire of smoke that constantly trailed up from his mouth he belted his last ball, accidentally taking the black with it.

A few beers later, Mac suggested we leave for somewhere else. I wasn’t fussed but got the impression that he didn’t like Val and his cronies seeing what he got up to too much. Not that I was sure what he was up to, but I had the feeling that something would happen between us tonight.

Outside, Mac hailed a cab with a two-fingered whistle, which always impressed me.

‘Don’t you ever walk anywhere?’ I asked, straining my voice above the late-night traffic.

‘Not if I can help it.’

Inside the car he didn’t smoke, which gave him nothing to do but look at me. I was laughing and sticking my head out the window, messing up my new parting.

‘You look different from before,’ he said.

The cab driver was playing some weird, overpowering classical music, which was totally inappropriate to my playful mood.

‘I’ve got a tan,’ I said, playing down my sexiness. ‘Everyone looks good with a tan. Turn it up, man, that’s fab.’ I leant forward. Mac laughed. I turned back round to look at him. He looked at my tits, which looked big in my dress. I felt young and light and strangely full of fun for me. I leant in to kiss him, touching the side of his face; he shaved well and smelt of nice aftershave. I was too drunk by now to notice any of the bad smells I noticed earlier. He was all good. We kissed. His lips felt thin and soft, and he kissed half-heartedly without any force.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Have some fucking decorum,’ he mumbled.

‘Fuck you,’ I said, turning round the other way. I looked out of the window for the rest of the journey, which wasn’t long, and got no reaction from Mac, who instead smoked and tapped on his leg in time to the music.

As soon as the car stopped, I stormed out, still playing the part of the stroppy female, leaving Mac to pay the fare. I liked our row: I felt safe and married and belonging to someone.

‘Where are we?’

‘Coogie.’

We were near the sea; I could hear the waves lapping.

‘Here we are,’ he said, walking across the road. He went into a bar blasting out some live sixties music followed by a round of applause and whistles.

‘A lot of English people drink here,’ he said as we walked in.

Inside it was heaving and I forgot instantly about my huff. Mac loved the music and uncharacteristically even began singing along.

We got some drinks without paying from a friend of his behind the bar, another older guy. Mac said something about him and introduced us but I couldn’t hear. I just smiled and raised my glass to him, mouthing thank you. The band was a perfect pub band: nice, simple, tried-and-tested covers that pleased all. They played a mixture of Kinks, Beatles and Stones. I sang my head off to ‘Waterloo Sunset’ with Mac standing behind me, both of us facing the band. I reached down a couple of times to hold his hand, only to get burnt by his cigarette, which made him laugh. Three tracks passed, and we drank a whisky and Coke for each song. The room became more and more packed, causing Mac to press into me. I said nothing except thanks for each new drink.

The band played ‘A Whiter Shade Of Pale’.

Mac leant down to my ear. ‘So sad. This is so fucking sad.’

I let my head rest back on his shoulder, and he played with my hair. I decided I must be in love with him, because it was too odd to be anything else. I couldn’t keep my head there for long as it gave me the spins, which was a sign to slow down. So I slowed down everything.

I kissed a random man on the way to the toilet, as usual. The back door of the bar was open; I went outside for a moment to get some air. The door led on to a narrow passageway, which led on to the street. At the end of it was a pay phone. I had some change in my bum bag round my waist. I took out the crumpled piece of paper with Hank’s number on it, but I couldn’t read it. I tried calling the number which I was convinced was right, but the voice on the other end claimed not to know him. The voice was patient, considering the time, but him not being, or not knowing, Hank angered me, and I accused him of lying. He put the phone down. I soon forgot to be bothered, took deep breaths of air and went back inside.

I was very drunk for me. I didn’t notice if Mac was any more drunk than usual but he must have been, because when I went back inside he grabbed me and started kissing me quite hard. We alternated between that and singing along to Rolling Stones’ hits. We leant up at the bar for some time; it was difficult to keep track of what we were doing, or saying. His friend at the bar spoke to him while I held onto Mac, more drunk than ever.

‘Let’s go back, you’re drunk,’ he said.

‘You’re drunk,’ I said back.

The cab driver had his radio on unnaturally loud. Mac asked him to turn it down as soon as we got in the cab, but he ignored him. Mac sat simmering, tapping his legs and I didn’t say anything. I just stared out at the streets. Just as we hit Darlinghurst, the voice of Joyce Cane came on saying all carpets were slashed by sixty per cent. At that point Mac leant forward with his head down, clutching his hair in his fists.

‘What’s going on?’ I slurred.

He lunged forward towards the radio.

‘TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN, MAN, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’ He grappled with the cab driver who grabbed his hands from the radio. The car skidded to a halt and we were thrown out.

We walked the couple of remaining blocks in silence. I tried to talk to Mac about why he was so pissed off, but he just smoked a little faster than usual and ignored me. It didn’t
bother
me much; he was a moody bastard and nothing would change that.

When we got back to the Honest Irishman, Val was still up smoking and drinking with a couple of regulars. The doors were locked, but they saw Mac at the window and let us in.

‘Oh, here he is, then,’ said Val, as I followed him across the floor to the back stairs that led to his room. He didn’t acknowledge her, and hadn’t spoken since he shouted at the cab driver. The stairs were old, wooden and narrow. He gestured to me to be quiet as we walked passed a closed door. He paused outside what I took to be his door and looked at me, tidying his hair from the mess he’d pulled it into. He got a key out of his pocket attached to a curly piece of plastic that stayed linked to his belt loop, and opened the door.