Evenings and Weekends, page 13
Keith says, ‘Yeah?’
‘Just do what’s right for you.’
‘OK. Alright. Fair enough.’
‘You’re going to have a great time.’
‘Hopefully.’
‘You’ll swim in the sea.’
‘Yeah. Feels a bit surreal.’
‘Anyway, I better go get ready. Me and mum are going to Westfield.’
‘Phil.’
‘Sorry. I gotta go. See you later, man.’
Phil rushes down the corridor.
Man. Why did Phil say man? He spoke to Keith like a bloke, not a lover.
He makes his way back to his bedroom. He can hear news of the eviction filter through the warehouse as people down tools to discuss it in upset voices. He hears someone say that they should cancel the party tonight. He hears someone else say they should have a bigger party than ever. He doesn’t stop to talk. He no longer has any opinion on the party.
He goes to his bedroom to take a breather before preparing to meet his mum. He closes the door and bends down to retrieve a stale sliver of toast from the floor but instead of picking it up, lowers his entire body and lies on the dusty rug, which is meant to look antique, as if it belongs to a Victorian gentlemen’s club, but really is from IKEA, dark red and richly patterned. You don’t notice the dirt if you’re standing up, but from down on the floor, Phil can see that it’s filthy, flecked with severed toenails, cat hair, dust and dead flies.
He admits to himself that this rug has not been hoovered in quite some time.
He used to fantasise about moving to the countryside with Keith, or to a smaller city like Glasgow or Sheffield, or even just going on holiday to one of these places. They always said that they’d go to Derek Jarman’s house in Dungeness, to look at the gardens, the nuclear power plant from Modern Nature. Folkestone isn’t too far from Dungeness. Maybe that’s why they’re going: to turn their lives into a Derek Jarman roleplaying exercise, to imagine themselves as bohemian, gentle, close to the earth. Phil, for his part, had fantasised about comfort. He had wanted to wake up hungover and have someone to watch YouTube with. He had wanted them to go to Barcelona together, do the Spanish Civil War Walking Tour, see the old hotels that the anarchist unions briefly, spectacularly collectivised, history invisible to the naked eye unless you knew where to look. He had wanted to take in the sights of a new city together, drink beers in an ornate old square overrun with tourists, get drunk on the nude beach, dicks quite shrivelled by the cool sea and Mediterranean breeze, among the seedy middle-aged gays and elderly straight swingers, sunburnt thighs and brilliant blue skies. He had wanted the guarantee of love, someone to protect and feel protected by.
These are now desperately humiliating things to have wanted.
He is desperately humiliated.
Well, Frank was right. This is the problem with polyamory, relationship anarchy, ethical non-monogamy, whatever other terms. You’ve got no security. Nobody stays.
He thinks of Maggie and Ed, the family they’ll have, the home. He envies them, their legitimacy, how everyone would look on their relationship as a real and serious thing. On paper, Phil’s relationship with Keith never existed at all. Just like their tenancy of this warehouse, Phil and Keith’s relationship was under the table, implicit, unofficial.
He lies on that floor and quietly cries. Embarrassing. The melodrama. He tries to lighten the mood. Pop songs about this very activity are common enough for it to be considered a cliché. He thinks of karaoke. He can hardly listen to a song without imagining himself on stage. As a child, he used to picture himself as a pop star, but is now content with the humble dream of a modestly well-received karaoke performance. The problem is that when he sings, he becomes so self-conscious that it’s hard to enjoy himself. Not like Keith, who is excellent at karaoke; funny and self-deprecating without being annoying, and a decent singer too. Another problem is that Phil looks to karaoke to be a profound tool of communication, a sacred exchange, when really, it’s no more than casual fun on a night out. Phil is always demanding that mundane activities take on a significance above their station.
The doorbell rings. His mother is here.
. . .
ROSALEEN SITS ON THE CAT-HAIR-CARPETED COUCH IN Phil’s kitchen. Phil arranges biscuits on a plate, and she can think of nothing to do but ask for the WiFi password, interrupting Phil mid-sentence, who has been babbling ceaselessly, nervously, and somewhat incoherently about the massive improvements Tesco has made to their own-brand range of biscuits over the past few years. He calls out the password, and although it doesn’t work when she types it into her phone, she continues to frantically enter it over and over again, until eventually, she types a lower-case ‘c’ instead of an upper-case ‘C’ and Phil, still in the midst of a monologue about big Tesco, places the plate of biscuits on front of her.
She tries to think of things to talk about.
She tries to keep the conversation going.
But there is too much happening; too many people coming in and out, building things, cooking things, singing songs, exchanging gossip. Someone is always making a pot of coffee. One girl walks in, talking as she enters, addressing the room at large and no one in particular, complaining about the suburban mums she works with.
She stays for nearly twenty minutes without asking Rosaleen her name.
Rosaleen looks around, but there is too much to look at. There are too many people coming in and out, too many dirty dishes, too many stains, too many broken toys and books and fake plants and real plants and cushions piled around the place, too much grease caked into the cooker, too much black mould growing from the corners of every windowsill.
There is too much to say and no way to say it. It’s impossible for anyone to describe the detail of their life, the minute-to-minute transition from one thought to the next, and unless you speak to a person on a regular basis, how can you know what their life is like? You can’t. She wants to know everything: his love life, whether he’s still with Keith, and if so, what’s Keith like, is he kind, does he treat him alright? She wants to know about his job, his manager, if he’s doing OK for money, does he get the bus to work, does he read a book on the bus, and if so, what book is he reading, and what does he do to unwind when he gets home in the evening, does he watch films, does he watch the telly, and if he does watch the telly, does he pay for Sky or Virgin or Netflix, or does he download it illegally and is he ever afraid of getting caught? All the while, the bread sits in her handbag. What words should a person use when giving a loaf of bread to another? I’ve made this bread, or you might enjoy this bread, or here: it’s a loaf, it’s yours. It should be simple, but it’s not.
‘So how are things?’ says Phil.
She thinks, ‘I’ve got cancer.’
She says, ‘We’ve no news.’
‘Do you want another biscuit?’
‘Thanks. These are lovely biscuits.’
‘I’m glad you like them.’
She pulls at her sleeves. She thinks, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
She says, ‘It must be lovely having breakfast in here.’
‘It is.’
‘What do you have for breakfast yourself?’
‘Usually porridge. Sometimes I stir peanut butter into it.’
‘Peanut butter in porridge? I’ve never heard that one before.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Porridge is great for energy, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘It is.’
The conversation continues like this until the biscuits are gone and the loose thread on Rosaleen’s sleeve has unravelled to such an extent that a gaping hole emerges, even though she only bought it in the Boxing Day sales, and it had seemed like good quality at the time.
She remembers: the whale.
‘Have you heard of this whale?’ she says, ready to suggest they go and see it right now.
‘Me and Keith went to see it earlier.’
Oh, she thinks, pausing for a second before realising it’s her turn to speak.
‘Oh,’ she says aloud, pausing again, and embarrassed by the pause, she says in a louder voice than intended, ‘I was hoping to see it myself.’
He nods, says something about how it’ll probably be there for a few more days.
‘Will I get to meet Keith?’ she goes on.
‘Maybe. I’m not sure where he’s gone. He might be in his room.’
The doorbell rings. A man crashes through the kitchen on his way to answer. From what Rosaleen can gather, the only way to the front door is through the kitchen. He pauses briefly to say ‘Hello! Nice to meet you. My name’s Keith. I’ll be back in a second’ before disappearing again, and returning a moment later with another man, who warmly bends down to shake her hands, maintaining alarming eye contact the whole time, as if he were a politician dependent on her vote. ‘Hi, hi, hi, so pleased to meet you. Louis.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’m Rosaleen. Are you Phil’s housemate?’
Louis clears his throat, smiles, and says, ‘Keith is, yes, but I’m just an occasional lodger. I’m not stopping long, I just need to collect some tools. Are you having a nice day?’
‘We are. We’ll go to Westfield in a bit, won’t we, Phil?’
‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ says Louis. ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you? There’s actually an interesting bit of Irish history around here that you might like to see. There’s a graveyard in Southwark, where these nineteenth-century Irish labourers are buried. They must have come here around the time of the Famine, but some of the headstones are very beautiful.’
Rosaleen nods, thinking that this was a strange thing to say.
‘Have you Irish family yourself?’ she says.
‘Me? No, no. My great-grandfather was Greek, but apart from that, all English. I’ve never actually been to Ireland – that’s terrible, isn’t it? – but I must go sometime.’
People in England are always apologising for having never been to Ireland, as if what they do with their annual leave is a matter of grave importance to Rosaleen. They speak as if they’re royals, with a God-given duty to travel to all corners of the Empire.
‘I’ll be back in two seconds,’ says Phil abruptly.
He leaves the room, followed by Keith.
‘There’s been such beautiful big poetry to emerge from that island,’ continues Louis, unperturbed and possibly even oblivious to the interruption of his monologue. ‘It’s always punched above its weight, hasn’t it? In the realm of literature certainly.’
‘I was friends with a poet once,’ says Rosaleen without really thinking.
Louis gives a look of enthusiasm. ‘Oh really? What was their name?’
‘Oh, it’s no one you would have heard of. Her name was Pauline.’
‘Does she have any work online? I’d love to hear some.’
‘You can’t. It was a long time ago. It’s not that kind of thing.’ She rearranges the cushion behind her back. ‘It’s lovely to be out. I normally work on Saturdays.’
Louis nods vigorously. He strokes his face.
‘Where do you work?’
‘I work in a call centre.’
‘Really? That’s so fascinating. Really interesting stuff. You know, I read this great book recently about labour conditions for call centre workers. I can’t remember the writer’s name’ – he pressed his fist to his forehead – ‘it’ll come to me in a minute, but he did this really sophisticated, really nuanced, sort of historical materialist analysis which drew comparisons between the development of call centre working conditions in the twenty-first century and the development of factory working conditions in the nineteenth century. Do you know it?’
‘I haven’t heard of it.’
She tries to laugh a little, but isn’t sure if this is a part of the conversation during which laughter is appropriate. She smiles, feels stupid for smiling, tugs at one of her earrings.
‘Ah well,’ he goes on. ‘When I remember, I’ll tell Phil so he can tell you. Anyway, I don’t want to interrupt too long, but lovely to meet you. Hopefully see you again soon.’
Louis leaves the room, and Rosaleen waits quietly for Phil.
When he gets back, Rosaleen tells him that Keith and Louis seem like nice lads.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘They’re a couple.’
‘I thought you and Keith were a couple?’
‘Not really. Only a bit.’
She takes a big gulp of her cup of tea and cracks a smile. ‘What does that mean? When me and your dad were young, you were either with someone or you weren’t.’
Phil laughs.
He throws up his hands like a saint about to martyr himself in a Renaissance painting.
‘If only it were still like that!’ he says.
. . .
AN HOUR LATER, ROSALEEN TRIES TO TAKE A SELFIE outside Westfield Stratford. She can’t get it right. How can the photo look so different from her face in the mirror? The proportions are off. One eye is bigger than the other. Even her hair is the wrong colour. She experiments with a few angles, facing the sun, then away from the sun, taking twelve photos before eventually giving up and posting the best of a bad bunch. She captions it: ‘Lovely day to go shopping x x’ and tags Westfield Stratford and Phil. Within a few seconds, the likes come rolling in.
She puts her phone away, and they make their way inside. They plonk themselves down on the brick-red seats of Costa, each with a cappuccino in front of them.
She thinks that this is where she’ll tell him about the cancer. She gathers her words.
She smiles and says that this is just like old times.
‘It’s nice to be able to catch up,’ he agrees. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘I have too. Remember when we used to go to that place in the shopping centre at home? Me and you always went there. I remember when you were about twelve and unhappy at school, and you’d pretend to be sick. I knew you weren’t sick, but I never said anything. I always took you there on those days. We’d have great chats, you and me.’
‘I remember. I used to love that.’
‘We must go back. See if it’s changed.’
‘That’s a good idea. I wonder what it’s like now.’
‘Not that you come home very often, mind you! We’re lucky to see you twice a year.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve meant to visit more. I’ve just had a lot on.’
He speaks differently than he used to, but it’s hard to describe how.
‘Ah, I know you have,’ she says. ‘We’d love to see more of you, but it’s not the end of the world, not in the grand scheme of things. What have you been up to anyway?’
‘Just work really. I’m very boring these days. How have you been?’
She takes a second to answer. She looks at something in the distance, and then looks back. There are so many people here. The air conditioning is too cold.
She thought she’d say, ‘I’ve a bit of news’ and ‘It’s cancer’ and ‘It’ll be fine’ but instead, what she says is, ‘Same as ever. We’ve got a new team lead at work, who’s much better than Julian, thank God. And I spoke to Joan Seymour last night as well. The poor woman’s not doing great, but she tells me that Ed and Maggie are moving back to Basildon, a baby on the way! Do you ever think you might settle down?’
Phil takes a sip from his coffee.
‘What do you mean?’ he says.
‘Well, you don’t have much stability. Everyone needs a home to call their own.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, bristling. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘I know you like your housemates, but they’re not the same as family.’
‘Hmm.’
‘One thing I’ve learned is that you can’t trust people. People are crap. You meet someone and you think you can rely on them but they let you down. I trust you, your brother, and your dad, and that’s it. Your brother, he’s saving for a mortgage. Ed Seymour, he’ll almost certainly buy a house as well. Ed’s a good lad, Phil, and Basildon’s not a bad place. It’s changed since you were there. There’s a new gastro pub. New cinema.’
‘Mum.’
‘The Tesco has a great vegetarian selection.’
‘So does every Tesco.’
‘I just think you need a home, Phil. Somewhere to call your own.’
‘I suppose,’ he says, ‘where I live now is my home.’
He looks into his coffee.
‘My friends are my family.’
Rosaleen pauses.
She thinks of the girl in Phil’s house who hadn’t even asked her name, and all that junk piled up, and the wet bathroom floor. She thinks of the dirty dishes and the cat hair and the grease caked into the corners of the cooker, mucky grease hardened to a crusty shell.
‘Do you think gay men settle down later?’ she says.
Phil speaks with his old guilt, trying to apologise for something he never did.
‘Yes, maybe,’ he says, ‘but I’m telling you that I’m already settled down. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. There’s no way I’ll ever live like Ed or Callum.’
She thinks about Pauline. She wants to laugh and cry at the same time.
Pauline wouldn’t have wanted to move to Basildon either.
Pauline wouldn’t have touched Basildon with a ten-foot pole.
Music plays from the shopping centre speakers. It had blended with the background before, but it suddenly seems loud. It captures her mood so well that it’s embarrassing. Excruciating. She wishes badly for the song to end. It’s a piano ballad. It could be Adele.
‘Well, if you’re happy, then I’m happy,’ she says. ‘That’s all anyone can ask for.’
. . .
THEY FINISH THEIR COFFEES AND WANDER TOWARDS THE fancy supermarket in the basement of the shopping centre. She navigates them to the meat aisle, and she tries to buy him a ham.
‘Would you eat this?’ she asks.
