Sedating Elaine, page 4
Elaine stirred as Frances slid into bed. She made a small grunting sound and something thudded to the floor. Then she rolled over and flopped an arm over Frances’ tummy, and whispered that she couldn’t feel happier.
3
Frances could not feel worse.
It was Tuesday. Two days had passed since their shopping trip and, rather than settling down, life had continued to feel strange. Her familiar old habits and routines seemed another lifetime ago, and as she increasingly felt less and less like herself, Elaine was becoming more and more…Elaine. This is the problem with cohabitation—there is no escaping personality; in fact, it becomes condensed, compounded, exaggerated. A once barely noticed slurp suddenly becomes a deafening guttural sound, some slop caught in broken plumbing between two twenty-foot speakers, drowning everything out. Frances had been in need of some respite, and as the flat was now a place to escape from rather than to, she had started going out, at all sorts of times, trying to find a little peace: a jog, a sudden letter to post, an excuse to go to the shops; anything would do. She had lingered later at work the previous evening until King, the head kitchen porter, ushered her out with his broom, wielding it like a sword, barking, “What you doing? Go home, Puppy.” She had always liked work but now found herself actively looking forward to it. But quite frankly, anywhere that wasn’t home would do.
Midmorning in a normal London café. Her shift didn’t start for several hours and she would normally—previously—have spent this time cooking or reading, but Elaine had taken the week off “to settle in.” It could have been any café, on any street—who knows if it was by chance or design that she found herself here again? In every respect an unremarkable place, much the same as any other: low chairs, high prices, pretentious in its urge to be rustic. Artsy paintings of coffee beans on the shabby-chic walls next to massive images of toiling Kenyans, bent over, beaming at the camera as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The hiss and gargle of the coffee machine, the slide and crash of the till, the queue of people, headphones in, eyes down, shuffling like a chain gang. A long line of bar-stools along a bench by the window, where students sat and watched the shapeshifting crowd. Frances didn’t exactly like it here; it was bittersweet with memories, and the students who gathered in noisy groups, drinking cappuccinos whilst catapulting balled-up sugar packets at one another, frightened the child within her who couldn’t help seeing them as her old high school bullies. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to be a morning pub-goer, so she sat at the back by the toilets, where there were a few dimly lit sofas, tables coiled with cup-marks, fat serviette dispensers poised to catch the tears of weeping women. Occasionally a cleaner would amble by, swishing a mop side to side as if reliving a long-dead dream to become an artist, thudding chair legs with each movement, like they were to blame.
Was it any wonder her mind wasn’t right? Steam from the coffee machine, steam from the coats, and outside the muggy drizzle that had returned despite the forecast for brightness. A stifling, damp heat within and without, and up there, Elaine, sprawled about everywhere, both figuratively and literally. Was it any wonder that Frances was exhausted? Was it any wonder that she felt a little odd? Was it any wonder that she felt she was choking, she couldn’t breathe, she was stuck, trapped? It didn’t matter where she went or when she would go, she could not escape this sense of suffocation, like a stuffing inside her. Was it any wonder that as she watched a woman in sloppy flip-flops come in shaking an umbrella—the squelch of each step, the batwing flap of the umbrella—she suddenly knew she must do something about Elaine. She simply couldn’t go on like this.
She felt hounded in the flat, humped around every time she dared bend over to pick up a bag or the junk mail: Always, there came Elaine and her great groping hands, grinding against her and feeling around. I’m not going to last another night of it, she thought, staring into her cup. I’ll kill her, I swear. And Elaine seemed to be having such a jolly time. She had, after all, found herself in a very advantageous position, one that Frances had never even considered: Here she was, living with the person she loved, the flat filled with her crap, sex on tap, suffering zero financial hardship. Of course she was enjoying herself. Of course she was bouncy and happy and talkative. Of course she was in the mood to sing “Three Little Birds” from the moment she awoke. Nuzzling the back of Frances’ neck, tonguing her tired and vulnerable ear, “This is my message to you-oo-oo,” whilst Frances closed her eyes and clenched her fists and tried to remind herself that every little thing would indeed be alright. Any niggle of guilt was soon eradicated, turned into self-pity, because she alone was suffering, because she alone lived with Elaine.
But she could hardly kick Elaine out; she hadn’t even received the money yet. Elaine had set up the standing order, and payment—or “rent,” as they called it—was due to arrive on Saturday, which might as well be years away. No, she couldn’t break up with her now—she was going to have to wait until Sunday, at least. She counted on her fingers the days until Sunday. Five days. Five whole, long, Elaine-filled days.
Really, she reasoned, blowing on her coffee, she just needs stifling. Sedating. Calming the fuck down. Frances imagined going home to silence, Elaine unconscious on the sofa, a book on her chest, as if she’d drifted off whilst reading. She imagined the relief of the quiet, the lack of questions, being able to move freely around her home without Elaine sniffing up behind her like a bloodhound. And sleeping, she thought with a sigh. Imagine going to bed at night and just being allowed to sleep, unpestered, untouched, unmolested. Because this was how it felt now, under constant threat of attack. Elaine’s tongue had been useful but Frances had quickly tired of it. It just wasn’t worth it, all the kissing and touching and Elaine’s body and Elaine’s breath and Elaine’s smell just for a few minutes of zinginess. And, to make matters worse, now that they lived together, Elaine scarcely bothered with clothes at all, she just walked around naked all the time, which made her seem even larger and to sprawl even further, as if zips and buttons had been reining her in all this time and now flesh came bursting out in all its orgasmic freedom. Bulbous boobs, big bush, a broad stomach with a bit of a pot belly, especially as she stood with her hips thrust out and her hand on her waist. A simple mathematical face, triangular nose, round eyes, curved, sarcastic mouth. And her thighs. She had runner’s thighs. The muscles bulged as she walked, twitched as she stood, and could clasp almost any item—a cup, a book, a head—in their incredible grip until the only option was to tap out. Frances felt both repulsed and fascinated by those thighs. She was, in truth, both repulsed and fascinated by Elaine. Coaxed and poked at by those huge hunter-gatherer hands, Frances’ face would mutate from disgust, to confusion, to bewilderment, to awe, to incredulity, round and round, expressions shuffling like a deck of cards. It was like living with a huge teenage monkey, grabbing and fucking wherever she could. Even the early mornings—always Frances’ most special and sacred time of the day—were now spoiled by hands that crept beneath the covers, landing—first attempt, with a surgeon’s precision—on a breast, or buttock, or thigh, and gripping on as if to say, “Where do you think you’re going?” Frances set her alarm earlier and earlier. She’d arrived at the café as the shutter was being lifted, like a battered wife in a moment of respite.
She bought another coffee and returned to her sofa, wondering where the line lay between consent and abuse, what exactly you called this muddy area of resentful tolerance, worn down by pushiness and persistence and inevitable, eventual arousal. It seemed to her that with consent, like anything else a person wished to extract from another—be it money, forgiveness, personal property, anything at all—all you had to do was chip away for long enough and you would get there in the end. Consent not so much volunteered as exhaustedly submitted, as a bargain, in exchange for a bit of peace. Up there, in the bed, Elaine lay in waiting. She knew that no nastiness stemmed from it, and sighed at her own tragic magnetism. “I can’t get enough of you,” Elaine often whimpered, head down, eyes up, tongue out, the words slobbered and mumbled as she lapped like her gums were swollen. “Hngeye cang geh enguff of ngoo.” And she clung on with those two massive hands as Frances looked to the heavens beyond the lampshade and let it happen, the terrible orgasm betraying her. Frances tried to picture Elaine differently now. Glassy-eyed, drugged to a limp oblivion, and she pictured coming and going as she pleased. She could shower in peace. She could lie in. She might even be nice to her, stroke her clammy forehead, bring her drinks, which would sit, untouched, on the bedside cabinet. A suitable drug should be easy enough to procure; sedatives of all varieties were Dom’s speciality and he usually had them ready at a moment’s notice. Now she had promised him the money, he might be willing to help. In this way Frances might survive the rest of the week without resorting to violence. Then she could pay Dom back and finally be rid of Elaine once and for all.
The idea settled quickly, changing from daydream to plausible possibility within three sips of coffee. Well, why not? she thought. Why not do it? She raised an eyebrow at herself. I could. I could drop a little something into her food. It would be so easy. Swiftly, almost excitedly, the idea changed from possibility to decision; there seemed to be no alternative. It was best for them both, given the circumstances. A few minutes later, finishing her coffee, she even nodded, as if she had been told this was unavoidable and categorically must be done. She put the empty cup down with a feeling of acceptance: Sedating Elaine was the only way forwards. It was unfortunate, but that was how it was. She could imagine Elaine finding out, walking in as Frances crushed pills into her lemon squash, and Frances heard herself wailing, “Well, what was I supposed to do? It’s not fair.”
As with all breaking points, there was more going on with Frances than there seemed. She could not say precisely when, but at some point during the aftermath of heartbreak, she had fizzled out and become numb. Senses quelled with beer or bourbon, emotions exhausted, sleep-deprived and rolling through repetitive days, she felt sort of…flat. It had been about a year since the break-up. She had of course raged at the time—inwardly, at least—the ravaging, passionate depression of the jilted. The phone calls and accusations and the hurling of a clay cat, which had split into three neat pieces—head, body, tail—Super Glued back together sometime later as she sobbed on the sofa. But at some point all of this emotion had reached if not a conclusion, an end, at least, not so much healed as devoid of energy. Like a boxer at the twelfth round, sweat-drenched, arms as wobbly as winter branches, her emotions had stumbled off, and there, in retreat, they had become stuck. She could no more find the gusto for anger than the boxer could strike a knock-out with an uppercut. I’m done, she had thought, when the moment came. Yes, she remembered it now: She had been standing on a platform, waiting for a train. It was during her phase of going on excursions to desolate beaches or dismal cities, taking photographs of herself looking half-mad and wind-swept, which she would then send, confrontational in their misery, to her ex-beloved. “Look what you have done,” her frenzied hair seemed to say. But as she stood on the platform, the rage quite calmly slipped out in a downwards motion, like she’d expelled a very wet and easy infant, and she found herself staring at the tracks, her rucksack like a boulder on her back, her legs inexplicably weak beneath her. I’m done was the single thought, followed immediately by the knowledge—sudden, like a brilliant new idea or invention—that she could simply wait for the next train speeding through, and step off the platform. Bam. It would be over. The temptation was great. But she was not one for impulsive gestures or making a mess, and the train whizzed through unhindered, and so this flatness filled the space where rage had previously occupied, and there it had remained. It was largely thanks to this benumbed and drugged feeling that she had managed to tolerate Elaine for the previous three months, much like tolerating a persistent electrical hum. But the noise and smell and presence of her had interfered with it, ruined it, and she needed that numbness back, because she needed peace, and the two had become synonymous. It was imperative to feel nothing, or else risk feeling everything. The booze and weed were not enough alone. But with Elaine sedated she might quickly get back there again, untroubled, undisturbed. Coping.
She bought another coffee and took it back to the sofa. And it was then that she realised, sipping, I could put it in her cinnamon latte.
Cinnamon latte, for heaven’s sake. Even the woman’s drinks were ludicrous.
* * *
—
Frances rolled through the kitchen door shoulder-first, tying her apron, head down against the burst of steam and barrage of noise, demands being bellowed, jokes being yelled, orders being questioned, dumb waiter being slammed, the radio blasting out some crackling heavy metal, and the dishwasher clattering open and closed, open and closed, which was where she headed to now. Weaving her way between the chefs, repeating the mantra “Behind you, behind you, behind you,” she arrived at pot-wash, where her drenched and dead-eyed colleague ripped off his apron, said, “All yours,” and left. The pile was at its usual rickety, teetering level. Pots, plates, pans, utensils, all in various states of congealed mess. Those weren’t the worst ones, though. The worst ones were already soaking, having usually arrived with a grin and quick, “That one’s caramelized, sorry,” chef-talk for burnt. She turned the water temperature up, her bare hands underneath. Gloves prevented you feeling grease; only skin could feel if a plate was really clean. And after so many years working here, she had developed what they called “asbestos hands.” It seemed even the flames of hell couldn’t burn her now. Just another part that lacked feeling. She pulled the hose over a stack of twenty or so plates and got to work.
It was the kind of old Italian restaurant that seemed to have been there for a hundred years, and it showed. Both food and servers were stylish and authentic with a quirky, rugged edge, so the place was popular enough to stay afloat but could never afford to redecorate or modernise. It struggled against the tide of chain restaurants nudging ever closer, as all small family-owned places did these days. It was a strain they tried to hide upstairs in an ambience of relaxed yet fun hospitality, customers greeted with smiles and charm, informed about specials and recommended wine, given equal portions of banter and professionalism. But downstairs, in the kitchen, the strain was evident within the steam and curse words as the chef patron—a normal human being outside of the kitchen, if by random chance anyone ever saw him there—was hourly crazed and infuriated by a lack of orders or incorrect food or running out of a dish or having too much left over. “What the fuck are you doing?” was regularly bellowed across the counters during an unexpected rush. “Where the fuck are the people?” was cried when no tickets came in. The poor man was despairing. He had been despairing for several years. But he’d be damned—or so he said—before any fancy piece-of-shit restaurant that didn’t even make its own pizza dough was gonna put him out of business. Mopping brow with tea towel, hands on hips, he’d announce this to the chefs as they prepped, again, in the dead hours, and yelled it at them again during a sudden rush. “Those cunts won’t take us down!” he’d shout, and they’d all respond as one: “Yes, Chef!” Thus the chefs and the restaurant as a whole maintained a weary but strong integrity as the underdogs of the battle, where their reputation and unique food were their only weapons, and it should have been enough for a clear win if the fight had been fair, but they were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, and the enemy had them surrounded; all they were ever really doing was holding them at bay. Still, it kept the kitchen team loyal and strong, despite the unpredictable hours, because no one had the heart to leave and because they were all proud to work at Gabe’s House, including Frances.
She had been a kitchen porter since she left school, not because she couldn’t do better but because she loved the job, and with her share of tips the salary was better than many expected, enough to keep her afloat, anyway. She didn’t care that it was hot, she didn’t care that it was dirty, she didn’t care about the hours; it was loud loud loud and it kept her thoughts from dwelling on herself. The hours were unpredictable and unsociable, which suited her unsociable personality. In fact, these guys were the closest thing she had to friends, ticking as many of the criteria for friendship as she personally required; they listened to her and joked with her, and when her heating broke, the sous chef called his brother-in-law, who fixed it for free. There was none of the drama and hassle of real friendships, no obligations to go to the cinema or attend birthday parties, because none of them had time for such things anyway. So it was perfect for Frances; she had the benefits of friendship without all the maintenance and, most importantly, none of them had time or the inclination to ask her probing questions. They didn’t care about her past, her parents, her problems. They bantered about the Italian sausage and flicked towels at one another. It suited Frances nicely. It was enough.
And she was regarded as the best KP, barring King, obviously. Valued as a hard-working and trustworthy soldier in the battle, maybe not on the frontline, but strongly bringing up the rear. King had asked her once or twice, “You don’t wanna be a chef?” as if it was that easy, because it was: There isn’t a kitchen in the world that won’t spot a semi-capable KP and try to swap their scourer for a Sabatier, and Frances was evidently more than capable, but always she shook her head side to side and said, “No, King, it’s not for me.” She worked at a frantic pace with a methodical process, dunking plates, soaking pots, scrubbing pans, slamming them into the huge dishwasher, wrenching them out as soon as it finished, still gushing, like reaching into a fiery waterfall. She knew the timing of the dishwasher precisely; she’d have the next load ready to go the moment it had finished. There was a satisfaction in it. She even liked the smell. It didn’t matter what had been cooked, the smell was always the same, a meaty, pungent smell, slightly sweetened by sweat and washing-up liquid, which lingered in her hair and up to her elbows. The long hours passed quickly and, within the chaos, she found an almost meditative peace.
