‘You’re not going to make me do the voice, are you?’ I say. My words are blurry. The cocktail was stronger than I thought.
‘No! God, no. It’s just – wow. You know, I watched that show all the time as a kid. We all did, the whole family. I used to love that dog, all the tricks he could do.’
‘We had nine of them.’
‘What, dogs?’
‘Yes. We had to keep replacing them because they kept dying.’
I’m a little too drunk, I think. I’m being morbid. Need to snap out of it. I smile, show some teeth.
‘Sorry. Have I ruined the magic for you?’
He laughs at that, smooths his hand down the front of his shirt. I’m getting a good look at him now as his lips draw back into a long, languorous smile. His eyes are dark like twin pools of ink. I don’t like him at all. Too old, too clean-looking. He looks like a sleazy dad jettisoning his marriage. Wedding ring in his jacket pocket, condom in his wallet.
‘Listen, can I, uh’ – he scratches his cheek with his thumbnail, looking uncomfortable – ‘can I buy you a drink, Katie?’
I look over my shoulder but I can’t see Carmel anymore, so I turn back to the man and smile brightly. ‘Sure, why not.’
‘Great!’ He seems genuinely pleased, and I’m weirdly flattered by his attention. I never get recognised anymore. Marigold! didn’t achieve cult status; no one wants to see reruns of it, and it’s never been out on video or DVD. It sank, a rusty anchor tolling off the fathoms, without trace.
Later, we leave the bar, both of us staggering against each other a little. It has started to rain, and the air has that sticky, urgent feel of a summer storm. He gives me another one of those lupine grins and makes a show of looking at my shoes.
‘You can’t walk in those. We’ll need to get a cab.’
‘Has that line ever got you laid?’
‘You tell me.’
I stiffen and turn towards him. To my surprise he doesn’t pull away and now our faces are very close, his mouth just inches from my cheek. The intimacy is almost unbearable. This close I can smell him; smoke and whisky and bright white tropical heat. His skin is clear and his cheekbones high, flat blades severing his features. Dark hair wavy, as though combed by fingers.
‘I have a boyfriend.’
‘Liar.’
My mouth drops open. He closes it with gentle pressure, just the pads of his fingers, laughing. My pulse flutters in my neck, my wrists, where the skin is transparent and thickly veined.
‘Come on, I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Piss off.’
He laughs again. ‘Okay, let’s make a deal. Okay? Little deal. Humour me. I’m going to take you for one more drink. One drink. That’s all I’m asking for. If you still think I’m an idiot after one drink, then . . .’ He shrugs.
‘One drink?’
‘Yup. Back at mine.’
He is still looking around for a taxi. When he sees my expression he laughs.
‘One drink, I said. I didn’t say where.’
The next morning I wake with a throbbing head and an oily taste in my mouth like rancid butter. Another hangover, a blinder. Beside me, in a bed I do not immediately recognise, in an unfamiliar room, a man is sleeping with his back to me. His broad shoulders are decorated with freckles like an unknown galaxy. I move slowly, so as not to wake him. Inside my head bells are ringing, clamouring. I wonder if it is possible to die from a hangover, and I think then as I always do: I am off the booze for the rest of the month. Lips that touch liquor shall not touch mine. Lord, my head.
My phone shows me that Carmel has been calling and calling. Wondering where I had gone, I suppose. If I was safe. I should have told her I was leaving, I think as I gather my clothes into my arms. I shouldn’t have just left the way I did. I look back at the sleeping figure in the bed and suppress an involuntary shudder. What had I been thinking? I know what Carmel will say. She’ll tell me I have ‘daddy issues’. She’s probably right. God.
On the train, early Sunday morning; the tube is full of black-eyed revellers with sour morning breath, ravaged and blinking in the sunlight like released hostages. On the platform at London Bridge, I spot another of those posters, the one for the new film coming out that Carmel had taken my picture in front of. It’s called Bossman. An action film. I walk past it quickly, feeling my heart and my head throbbing. My memories from last night coming back to me. They feel feverish, a cartoon. After leaving the cocktail bar, the man and I had taken a taxi to another dive with candles burning in gothic-looking sconces. A kiss on the bank of the Thames beneath a line of fairy lights, gently swaying, the smell of the river, brackish greasy. A passionate embrace inside the hallway of his building which had left the ghostly imprints of our bodies on the glass panels.
But in the morning, asleep, one hand thrown over the covers, he had looked old. There were threads of silver in his hair, long lines about his mouth. Thank God, I think, as I finally reach our rented flat and fumble for my keys, that I never have to see him again.
Three days later I see him again. It’s lunchtime and I am not at work. I’m in a pub just round the corner, sitting facing the wall so that no one can see my tears. I wish I could smoke. I’ve ordered a gin and tonic with a whisky chaser, but the thought of food makes my stomach shrivel. I left work half an hour ago, and I don’t think I’m going back this afternoon.
‘Katie?’
I don’t recognise his voice, and I don’t turn around at the unfamiliar name. He approaches the table and says it again, tapping me delicately on my shoulder. I can hear the rustle of paper as he moves, and I wipe my fingers under my eyes carefully. Still, his smile rapidly fades as he sees my expression, dissolving into a look of concern. I note he is holding flowers. Peonies the colour of antique silk, hand-tied. They’re beautiful. My throat swells with emotion at them: how fragile they are, how short their brief lives. I can’t speak and so he sits opposite me. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I don’t remember his name. He pats my hand with awkward familiarity. ‘I was on my way to your work but then I saw you through the window. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise . . .’ He falls silent. I smile weakly.
‘These are for you.’ He indicates the flowers. ‘Uh – I’m not normally this clumsy, I promise. I had a better speech than this planned out.’
‘I’m sorry I ruined it.’ I press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets until white flashes appear behind my lids. ‘I’ve had some bad news.’
He doesn’t ask. Instead he asks if I want another drink. Yes, I tell him, something strong. He comes back with a gin and tonic – a double measure, he tells me – thick slices of lime, ice chattering in the glass. I take a sip.
‘How did you find out where I worked?’
‘The hotel on Pelham Street, you said. I only went into three before I found the one you worked in. Don’t you remember? You told me.’
‘Did I?’
He laughs. ‘Not very memorable, then?’ he asks, and I have the decency to blush. ‘You know who I am, at least. That’s something, right?’
He waits, tapping his fingernails against the table. There is a smile lurking behind his frankness, a carefully disguised tease.