Upside Down Inside Out (5 page)

I

humane. Come on, see you down the Rat and Leopard at eight, what do you think?’ ‘George, I can’t. I’ve got work to do tonight.’ ‘Again? Joseph, have some fun. Have some lager. The entire British economy won’t crash if you give yourself a night off.’ ‘I couldn’t take the risk, George. How could I sleep at night, with that resting on my shoulders?’ ‘To hell with your shoulders. Think about my marriage. I’ve got some more Tshirts for you to take to Australia in any case. You have to see me before you go.’ Joseph looked at his computer, blinking at him on his desk. Yes, he should be starting on the conference presentation. But the thought of a pint with George was the best idea he’d heard in a long time. ‘Okay. See you in thirty minutes.’ ‘The marriage lives on, Lou,’ he heard George call. ‘It’s a miracle. Joseph’s taking a night off. For us. The man is a saint.’ Joseph hung up. He hadn’t seen George in months, a shame really. They’d gone through university together and kept in contact ever since, even going on holiday with their girlfriends once, George and Lou, Joseph and Tessa. He and Tessa had broken up just a few months later. George had been briefly sympathetic then very blunt. ‘I’m not surprised, Joseph, really. Nice woman, but so serious. And much too tidy. You need more fun in your life. More mess, anyway.’

Tessa was an interior designer who took her work very seriously. His flat had driven her mad. The books especially. He wondered sometimes if that had been the final straw. ‘They just look so untidy,’ she’d said one afternoon, standing with her hands on her hips looking at the bookshelves. Joseph had thought she was joking. ‘Untidy? How can books look untidy?’ ‘AH the different coloured spines. And the different sizes. Maybe it would be better if they were new. The secondhand ones just look so, I don’t know, raggedy.’ Joseph didn’t like new books. He liked secondhand books. Raggedy books. He always had done, since he was a kid. That had been his mother’s treat each week. They would go down to one of the markets near their house in Kensal Green and Kate would announce that today was either a two-book Saturday or a three-book Saturday, depending on how much money she had spare that week. The two of them had spent hours rifling through boxes of secondhand books. Joseph’s first art and design books had come from market stalls. His first copy of Swallows and Amazons. He’d got all the Penguin classics, bought as a job lot. Books on Incas. Books about the planets. About Africa, Australia, Asia. ‘Some of them have even got other people’s names written in them,’ Tessa had said with some distaste. That was another thing Joseph liked about them.

He liked the idea that other people had lived with these books, handled the pages, thought about their contents. He and Tessa had eventually agreed to differ on the books. There had been plenty of other things to disagree on instead. In the end, their parting had been a mutual decision. There hadn’t been any huge, final row. Just the realisation one night, nearly two years ago now, that they weren’t going anywhere together and it was better to start travelling in separate directions. ‘She wasn’t right for you, Joseph,’ George had said. ‘Lou said the same thing. She’s got a theory about it, if you want to hear it. She reckons people are like onions, that there are layers and layers to them that you have to get past before you get to their hearts. And that’s where it gets scary because you can’t be sure what you might uncover each time you peel back a layer. That’s the gamble.’ Joseph had thought at the time that the onion was one of Lou’s madder theories. He remembered it again now. Perhaps there was something to it. In any case, what was the alternative? Skipping the layers and asking the big questions straight away? Perhaps he should have asked Tessa the first day he met her whether she liked secondhand books or not. He decided to shower and change before he went to meet George. On the way to the bathroom he switched on the television to get the news headlines.

It was tuned to the music video channel, showing a promo for a forthcoming eighties retrospective. All the bands he’d grown up with: Elvis Costello, Echo and the Bunnymen, Talking Heads, Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Watching it, he imagined a retrospective on the past few years of his own life. That would really send the ratings skyrocketing. Man working in office, man working at home, man working in office, man working at home …

He pointed the remote control and changed channels to a re-run of an old British sit-com. Penelope Keith and some man with a hangdog face were sitting up in bed together, propped against their pillows. She was reading what looked like a manuscript, he had a book in his hands. As Joseph watched, the man said something, a wry, deadpan look on his face. Penelope Keith threw back her head and laughed. The volume was down but Joseph could imagine the sound of her laughter.

A rush of envy surprised him. That’s what was missing in his life these days. Fun. Laughs. Like Penelope Keith and this man, he thought. Sitting up in bed having a laugh together. Good friends. Having fun. Not taking their work too seriously …

He suddenly laughed out loud. Oh, brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. He was envious of some bloke in bed with Penelope Keith. Things were worse than he thought.

I

‘They’re causing us trouble before they’re even born, Joseph. They’re not even a foot long yet. What the hell are they going to be like when they’re free, walking the earth? Marriage breakers, the pair of them.’

Joseph shook his head at his friend. ‘George, I don’t believe a word of it. Last time we met you were over the moon about having twins and Lou was the best woman in the world. I don’t believe that much has changed in two months.’

George took a sip of his pint then grinned, a little shamefaced. ‘It hasn’t. You’re right. I am happy about it, I really am. I just needed to vent some spleen. I was starting to feel like I was being buried under a pile of baby blankets. See, Lou was right. She said you’re good for me, you calm me down, she says.’

‘I’m glad. The Valium friend. Everyone needs one.’

‘No, she has a theory about you. She says that growing up without a father means you’re a nicer person. That you’ve been taught to respect women. Be kinder.’

‘Thank her for that, won’t you. I’ll be sure to let Kate know her divorce was the making of me.’

‘Well, it’s a theory, anyway. You know Lou and her theories.’

‘One for every occasion, as I recall,’ Joseph said with a grin. He liked Lou.

‘Where is your father these days? Lou was asking me that tonight and I couldn’t remember.’

‘Still in Australia, last I heard,’ Joseph said shortly. ‘Australia? So are you going to meet up with him while you’re there?’ Joseph shook his head. ‘No, it’s a business trip. I’ve no idea where he is anyway.’ ‘But aren’t you having a holiday after the conference? Couldn’t you track him down?’ ‘No need to. Another pint?’ George laughed. ‘Ah, that old Wheeler nifty change of subject. Sure, thanks. You know Dave Grey, old Boomer Boy from university, is living in Sydney now. You should look him up at least. I’ll email you his address, will I?’ ‘Great. Two pints, I’ll be back soon.’ A few minutes later Joseph returned with two brimming pint glasses, holding them high out of reach of the crowds in the busy Shoreditch bar. They talked about the latest soccer results for a while. Then George leaned back in his chair and fixed Joseph with a look. ‘So, that’s sport covered. Any women on the horizon?’ ‘Lou wants to know, doesn’t she?’ George gave him an innocent look. ‘She just wants you to be happy, Joseph. She’s always on to me about what a catch you are, how she’s got a whole line of friends waiting in the wings to meet you, just as soon as you give her the go-ahead. So, how about it?’ Joseph just laughed.

George shook his head. ‘I told her you wouldn’t answer me. “We’re men, Lou,” I said to her. “We don’t talk about feelings, about our emotions, we talk about sport.” “What is it with you,” she asks me sometimes. “Are you made of stone? Are you granite man? Easter Island statue man?” “Of course I’ve got feelings, Lou,” I tell her. “All men have feelings. We just don’t go on about them as much as women do.” Bad mistake. Now she knows I’ve got some feelings she wants to hear about them all the time. Honestly, what is it with women, they say…’ Joseph waited for the rant to end.

George stopped himself finally and laughed out loud at the expression on Joseph’s face. ‘All right, all right, I know. Enough of that stuff. Back to business.’ He handed his friend a big plastic bag. ‘Here are those Tshirts. A month’s supply at least. Just what you need to impress the Aussies.’

‘Thanks, George.’ Joseph flicked through the pile of Tshirts. Since George had started his own printing company, he’d kept Joseph supplied with Tshirts promoting every new band that had come onto the London scene in the past few years. ‘You couldn’t give me a crash course on who the bands are as well, could you?’

‘There’s no point. Half of them will have split up by the time you get back from Australia anyway. Two weeks in the sun, you jammy thing, I’m very jealous, you know. Flying business class, I suppose?’

‘No, economy class actually.’ ‘Economy? Those cheapskates.’ Joseph smiled. ‘No, it’s voluntary. I’ve been asked to submit a design for a new economy-class seat. You know, to combat all this DVT business. This is part of the research.’ ‘You’re not just overworked, you’re seriously ill. No-one in their right mind swaps a business-class ticket for an economy one. Not on a 22-hour flight.’ ‘It can’t be that bad, surely.’ George had first-hand experience of a long-haul flight. He gave a strange, enigmatic smile then took another sip of his pint. ‘You’ll find out, Joseph my lad. You’ll find out.’ He held up his glass. ‘So. To your trip.’ ‘To my trip.’ Their glasses clinked.

In Dublin, Eva Kennedy had just climbed out of a taxi and was letting herself into the small mid-terrace cottage she rented in Stoneybatter. She was in a very bad mood. She’d had to wait nearly an hour in the taxi queue down from the wine bar. Her umbrella had become more and more bedraggled by the wind, while she got angrier and angrier about Dermot. As she opened the front door, she half hoped Meg would be there to distract her and half hoped she wouldn’t be, so she could lick her wounds in peace. Meg wasn’t home. The living room was quiet and warm, a small fire burning in the grate. Meg had left a note letting Eva know she’d gone out to see a film with some old schoolfriends. ‘Back late I hope!’ she’d written. Eva prowled the house, a shaken-up mixture of anger and hurt. That creep. The foul, stinking creep.

Sneaky, conniving, dishonest bag of But you weren’t honest with hint either, a small voice inside her piped up. You were only going out with hint because you were flattered and because there was no-one else on the scene. That’s different, she snapped back. Why? the voice said. Because I wasn’t going out with him for financial gain. He paid for your dinners. He took you out. Money was involved then, wasn’t it? That is not the same thing. He was just using me. And you weren’t using him? To break a boyfriend drought? He hardly kidnapped you and dragged you out on dates at gunpoint, did he? No, but In actual fact, you’re feeling relieved it’s all over between you and Dermot, aren’t you? You knew in your heart he wasn’t right for you. And now he’s even saved you the bother of making the break-up happen. You didn’t even have to make that decision for yourself. And it’s not his deceit you’re most upset about. You’re just cranky because he hit the nail on the head. He was right. You aren’t creative any more. You are only a shop assistant these days. Eva stopped the conversation right there. There was nothing else for it. She’d drown that small voice. In a gin and tonic.

With the drink made - not so much a gin and tonic as a gin-gin-gin and tonic - she wandered into the living room. She needed to do something, quickly, before she started remembering again what Dermot had said about her. It was much more satisfying to just feel outraged. The last thing she wanted was to find any truth in his words. She set eyes on a pile of books under the computer table in the corner of the room. She’d picked them up at the secondhand shop on Camden Street the week before and still hadn’t got around to either reading them or putting them on her bookshelves. The very thing, she could sort them out. But it was no good. She’d no sooner sat down on the floor in front of the bookshelves, doing her best to banish Dermot’s words from her memory, when Meg’s words popped in for a visit. ‘I told him I’m happy to look just as ordinary as you while I’m working here.’

What was going on this week? Was there some conspiracy to completely destroy any self-confidence she had? She decided to forget about the books. Gin and tonic in hand, she walked into the bathroom and gazed at herself in the mirror. A pale, dark-haired woman looked back. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. Yes, that was fairly ordinary. Ordinary. An ordinary body. An ordinary, nice enough face. She had a good smile, people had told her that. Even Dermot had

told her that. But she wasn’t striking-looking. Not model material. She wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. What did those magazine articles say? Everyone has good points. She looked for hers. They must have taken the night off. She looked again. All right, her skin was clear. Clear-ish. She blushed a bit too often, two sudden spots of colour on her cheeks. Clown-girl. But there wasn’t much she could do about that. She had an occasional dimple, but that couldn’t be relied upon; sometimes it would appear, sometimes weeks would go by and she wouldn’t see it. Her straight black hair was shiny. That was good, wasn’t it? A sign of good health, like a dog’s wet nose? It was tied back in a plait tonight. It was usually tied back in a plait. Just the thing for a shop assistant, nice and neat. Except for the one piece that always worked its way loose and would wave around her face. She tucked it behind her ear again now. ‘Lovely eyebrows,’ a maiden aunt had said to her once. Well, that was a real plus. If Brooke Shields ever needed a stunt double. Her eyes were hazel. Not stunning green, not deep and mysterious brown, just somewhere muddled in between. She’d tried life with purple eyes for a short time a year ago, when her sister Cathy, an optician in Manchester, had sent over a trial pack of coloured contact lenses for her to try. But it had been a disaster. The customers in the shop couldn’t decide if she was