The Unreliable Placebo Page 15

  Half a piece of fried bread dunked in ketchup and egg yolk. Swallowing the mouthful, I ask, “What are you doing in London?”

  “It’s a collective enfranchisement case on a big block of obscenely expensive flats.” Sounds like one of Ned’s ‘fucking great cases’ of a standard suitable to Dennis’s elevated talents.

  “Oh yes?” I mumble. I’m still trying to deal with half a slice of buttered bread. I swallow some orange juice to make it go down quicker. Come on Dennis. Help me out here. And he does.

  “A solicitor mate of mine I was at university with needs a valuation done. He suggested me to the leasehold owners and they decided to appoint me. He chucks me some work every so often and I try to reciprocate. Actually I did law at university.” Most of one of the sausages which I cut into chunks only lightly smeared with English mustard though it makes my eyes water rather.

  “Really? Why didn't you become a solicitor then or some other type of legal beagle?” I say.

  “Too much like hard work for far too little financial reward,” Dennis says. “Over-regulation. And of course difficulty getting a training contract at all.”

  I nod as conversation hums around us, people laughing at other’s jokes, cutlery clinking on plates, chairs scraping on the floor. Just about any solicitor I know would sympathise with the sentiments about low pay, excessive hours and cloying regulation by bureaucrats who mostly have no idea about the job in practice.

  Dennis says, “It might’ve been easier to get a pupilage at a chambers but young barristers could easily starve to death before they earn anything worth having.”

  “Yeah. Right.” You shouldn't really eat and talk. I hope something doesn't go down the wrong way and start an embarrassing and prolonged coughing fit.

  “My dad’s an architect. There were usually plans all over the house and construction is so interesting. Far more so I think than dry old legal cases.”

  “You’re probably right there.”

  “I’ve always loved woodwork,” says Dennis. “Also I’d worked on building sites during my gap year and school and uni holidays.”

  Irresistibly I picture a jeans clad topless Dennis, rippling back muscles showing obviously through his tanned shiny skin, effortlessly bearing a hod of heavy bricks up a long ladder. Did he whistle at passing girls from the safety of the scaffolding?

  I seem to have stopped chewing. There isn't much left on my plate now. I look down at my last sausage. I find I’m slightly mesmerised by it. Recumbent but proud in the middle of the plate; large, turgid, well shaped. I detect Dennis’s kind eyes also on my plate, then looking at me instead, the corners of his mouth turned up. I cough and tear my gaze away from it. I have to make conversation.

  “A building site you said?” No, actually I don't say that. I change the subject.

  “Do you have to stay overnight in London? Can't you come home in the evenings if it’s just work?”

  Dennis looks a little uncomfortable. “Well,” he says, “I may be seeing someone. I….er….had to speak at a conference in the North of England a few weeks ago and I met someone there. She’s probably going to be in London next week too, so we….er….hope to meet up for a meal or perhaps a show at least one of the nights.” The other half of the fried bread lavishly doused in egg yolk goes down as I witness his discomfiture.

  And what else, I can't help thinking. But it’s none of my business I tell myself as I hack the evocative sausage to bits trying not to wince too obviously. I start to eat them one by one, and I honestly wish him well, the best in fact, if he’s found someone to be happy with or is about to.

  “Er, well if it’s any help Dennis,” I say, “I’d be happy to look after Trixie for you. The Ar….er….my ex wasn't keen on having any pets but I know all about cats from my grandparents, especially not letting them out when they’re little or when they’re taken somewhere new. And Trixie sounds delightful. I’d be happy to go to your house in the evenings or take her to mine or both. If it helps.”

  “Oh. Would you? Would you really? I didn't tell you about the trip away in the hope you’d offer. It didn't occur to me at all that you might. But now you have, I mean it would be so kind of you.”

  “Well it’s no trouble. I’m not doing anything next week. She can help me wrap some Christmas presents.”

  “She’ll do that all right,” he laughs. “She’s into everything.”

  With relief I polish off the last piece of sausage.

  “And she can come into work with me the day or days your cleaning lady isn't at yours.”

  “Oh. That’s wonderful. It’s actually such a weight off my mind.”

  “I’m glad it is. You should enjoy yourself.” I nearly say he deserves it (which I think he does because he’s so likeable) but it might seem patronising.

  I’m just cleaning my plate of the last of the egg yolk and ketchup with an extra slice of bread and butter I’ve added to the feast. I find I can't manage any toast and marmalade and time’s getting on anyway. I down the remains of my coffee and orange juice and Dennis and I agree a time on Sunday evening when he’ll bring Trixie round to my house with all her paraphernalia.

  As we walk out together, I catch sight of Ned peering at us closely over the mountain of food he’s managed to fit onto the modest sized plates the hotel obviously felt would be big enough to contain most people’s reasonable needs. I’d been so deep in conversation with Dennis that I didn't even notice Ned arriving. Ned is seated with the breakfast organiser and some of his other cronies, all of them at least two or three times the body weight they should be. The serving staff must be having to call for emergency rations.

  I HAVE A BUSY Friday at work, quite a bit of it spent trying to dodge Ned and avoid having to explain how I now appear to know Dennis so well, and then a totally arid Saturday and Sunday at home and I sleep badly Friday and Saturday nights. I find I’m looking forward to curling up with Trixie in bed Sunday night.

  Sometimes, as on this Sunday morning, I wish I was an ardent Christian and church-goer. It must be very satisfactory to wake up knowing one’s day is organised in advance for one with a set of imperatives to be spent with like-minded people who are sympathetic to one’s separated state and the reasons for it, to have this blind faith capable of banishing all logical argument against it possibly being of any value whatsoever, bringing about mental peace and harmony to the emotionally needy such as myself.

  I decide to join the village walking group for a three mile ramble in the afternoon. I think that qualifies as “getting out” and it’s only a short walk so that I’ll be back by five to greet Dennis who plans to go to London that evening. As I tidy up for his arrival, I wonder if the carnal activity in London, if there’s to be any, will start this evening and I try to cast such thoughts from my mind.

  Dennis arrives bang on time and I let him in with Trixie’s bed, litter tray and a large bag of litter. How much poo I wonder can a small kitten produce in three days. He has to take another trip to the car to get more of her stuff and then another trip to get Trixie herself in her cat carrier. We decide to put the litter tray within obvious and easy reach in the middle of the sitting room floor for the time being and to let Trixie out straight away. She really is adorable. A darling charming furry fluffy little bundle of energy.

  She starts to examine every inch of the room, mewing every so often and running back to Dennis for reassurance. We both kneel on the floor and cuddle her then she romps off again for more exploration. Dennis hands me a folder containing her veterinary records and some notes. Lots of notes actually giving his address, directions, all possible contact details for him while he’s going to be away; notes on her care, her daily routine, the vet’s number, her eating preferences, what to do if she gets any sniffles, the cleaning lady’s details. The list goes on and on. Every section is clearly headed and there’s also some cross-referencing.

  “Sorry,” says Dennis seeing my eyes glaze over.

  “No, no,” I assure him. “She’s only
little. You can't be too careful.”

  Dennis stays for an hour and a half. I make us a quick snack. Then I think to ask him what time his trains leaves and he checks his watch and gasps.

  “I’ll have to go now. This is so very kind of you.” Trixie by now is asleep in my lap having had her dinner and worn herself out with her explorations. She’s also, to a great deal of praise from both of us, found the litter tray and made a small deposit in it. “You sure you’ll be OK?”

  “`Course I will,” I say. “I’ll be straight in touch with you if I need to. Just go and enjoy yourself. I hope….er….everything works out OK. I mean with the job and so on.”

  “Hmm,” he says.

  Then very quickly he’s gone, and Trixie and I spend the rest of the evening watching Sunday night TV. I start yawning about ten and bear Trixie upstairs to my room with the litter tray. Then I go downstairs and get another tray Dennis has left for her food and water bowls which I wash and fill with fresh food and water and take upstairs. I find Trixie on the floor next to my bed on her back fighting with the tassels of my bedspread and intermittently getting up and chasing after things that aren't immediately visible to me, jumping into the air trying to catch them before going back to the bed and resuming combat with the bedspread. I hope she doesn't keep this up half the night but as she seems to tire quite quickly, I leave her to it while I go and have a shower in the en suite and clean my teeth.

  Back in the bedroom I find I can hardly keep my eyes open and soon get into bed. As I’d hoped she would, Trixie comes over and begs to be lifted up onto my bed and we lie there together, Trixie kneading the bedspread and purring while I wonder how Dennis is getting on and whether he’s already humping the woman he’s gone to meet in London. If it’s going to happen, then it’ll happen I think but also that if it comes to any sort of encounter, he’ll be a lot more relaxed knowing Trixie’s in good hands. I can't work out if that’s actually a good thing or not.

  Suddenly the mobile rings next to my bed and lo, it’s Dennis hoping it’s not too late to ring and asking after Trixie’s health and welfare. I tell him there’s been little discernible change since he left, i.e. recurrent energetic bouts of play interspersed with periods of deep sleep. And I’m ashamed to say that I strain to hear any possible sounds of female company from Dennis’s end, such as an electric toothbrush from the bathroom, make up being removed, nails being filed, heavy breathing next to his ear. But there’s nothing at all even remotely suggestive of any hanky panky. I put my phone briefly next to Trixie so that Dennis can hear her purring. He seems happy with the state of things and my report and rings off.

  So I lie with my hand resting gently on Trixie wondering if Dennis and I have started on a course leading to a point after which it might become impossible to engage romantically at some time. We are becoming friends, relaxed in each other’s company, even relating to each other our attempts to find romance with others. Like old clothes that you’re happy in, comfortable to slop about the house in but not wear for best, it’s becoming the sort of companionship you might hope to have after fifty years of marriage as you’re entering or well into your eighties or nineties; not necessarily after three or four meetings. I’m considering that maybe this state of affairs will set in making it impossible later, even if the time is right, to have a proper relationship because it will seem almost like incest.

  Worryingly, it’s rather like those placebo things. You think something’s going to happen, or rather in this case not going to happen, and so, in this case, it doesn't. Or mayn’t.

  And suddenly it occurs to me that if this thing with The Lady of the North takes off, I may well get roped into further episodes of looking after Trixie while Dennis gallivants about Yorkshire with some surveying version of Cathy Earnshaw. Dennis of course doesn't smoulder enough to be an effective Heathcliff but I feel that nonetheless he could stride manfully across any moor, his dark hair blowing wildly about, spectacles cast aside and thrown to the four winds. But, I smirk to myself, didn't Cathy come to a bad end, dying in childbirth! And it wasn't Heathcliff’s child either, so there Lady of the North; stick that in your clay pipe and smoke it!

  But I mustn't let my imagination run away with me as it always does. I’ll be burning effigies of Cathy Earnshaw next and I really can't afford to get into such a daft and negative state of mind again. So if it is a Trixie-carer I am to be against a background of Dennis and a Bronte character traipsing about Yorkshire, then so be it. That will have to be my lot.

  Chapter 10 Justine / Sheila

  WE HAVE A NEW paralegal in the office. She works in the wills, probate and trusts department. Doesn't sound very thrilling but they have to know a lot about trusts, tax saving measures, asset management, advising the elderly, etc. and people are prepared to pay considerable sums for it. Just thinking about setting up a trust makes my poor raddled brain start to throb and my head feels as though it's expanded to at least twice its normal size. I feel faint and have to sit down for a time until the subject moves on to something else.

  She's called Justine this new paralegal, a very pretty name I think and I don’t hesitate to tell her so. She is divorced and I am happy to spend time in the kitchen with her slagging off the ex-spouse in her case and estranged spouse in mine. Her ex apparently simply left the house one morning for work and never came back. She tracked him down with the help of her brother who located him at a commune which included male bonding rituals.

  Men, some men at any rate, seemingly feel emasculated by the feminist movement and the rise of women in the workplace and need to re-kindle and reinforce their self-worth by entering mud huts with other similarly-minded men in the dead of night with peat fires burning in a makeshift hearth in the middle of the floor, stripping off, rubbing unguent all over themselves and each other, chanting ancient sounding but in fact probably made-up and rather silly incantations for six hours, then running outside and rolling in the snow if there is any or else plunging into a fast flowing, freezing cold hillside stream. Then they return to the communal living accommodation, get dressed and go off and do their day jobs.

  I tell her about the Arsehole and his antidote to married life, not of course half so novel or extreme as male shared unguent application, but at least as hurtful and wounding.

  "Oh. I wasn’t hurt or wounded," Justine says.

  "You weren't?"

  "No. Of course not. I wanted him to leave, the total wimp, the cretin, the walking dick without a brain to make it function successfully. The breast-handling machine with no finesse or refinement."

  "Well," I laugh, "you can't blame a bloke for hankering after the odd fondle or fifteen!"

  "He could hanker on as far as I'm concerned," says Justine, "He just never appreciated what a woman wants. You know, really wants?"

  I want to ask what exactly that is. Tough love? Rough love? Dogging? But I'm not clear what she's talking about. Perhaps she'll say outright herself if I leave her to. But just then Ned walks in. Justine visibly bristles. I don't know why. I mean Ned, though rather short, is a bit over the top aggressive, ultra-masculine hyped up sort of bloke, but harmless enough, I've always thought. He has after all a wife and children who presumably love him. He manages family life, even if he does come over as a bit of a shit in office life. People are like that. Different at home than they are in the workplace.

  I mean, I do try myself to seem serious, sensible, professional, a bit hard even at work, but that's not how I really am. In fact people have said that I’m very clear thinking, almost ruthlessly logical. This doesn't tally very well with what I think about myself which is diametrically the exact opposite. On the other hand a lot of people who’ve expressed this are clients so I’ll allow that maybe I only appear more mentally streamlined regarding work related matters. Or perhaps it’s entirely relative because the clients are in unfamiliar territory and it only looks as though I’m on the ball.

  I'm quite prepared to believe that at home, Ned is a total softie, dotes on his kids, giv
es his wife regular tremblers, remembers Valentine's Day and her birthday and their wedding anniversary etc. All right he's not keen on dykes as he calls them and makes no secret of the fact. But I don’t think it's prejudice. More that he just can't imagine why a woman would fancy a woman and isn't able to stretch to the notion that in the same way that he can't see why anyone would be attracted to the same sex, gay people naturally can't get interested in the opposite sex. It's just not something he can understand.

  But I wouldn't know why that would create antipathy on the part of this Justine who's only been here five minutes.

  Ned nods at us and backs out saying he'll come and get his coffee later. Justine looks after him as though she could murder him. Then:

  "Oh well," she says looking more relaxed, "it takes all sorts. Do you fancy coming round for a meal one evening. I've just got my new flat sorted out and I don’t know many people round here yet. I'm dying to show it off to someone."

  "Oh, that's really kind," I respond. I'd more than welcome an evening with another female chewing over the cud of our dissatisfaction with men and life in general, even if her attitude is a bit extreme actually. "I'd love to."

  We agree on an evening later in the week. I start to look forward to a major Arsehole slagging-off session. I rake over our last few months together and what I know of what he's done since he left. I haul out and brush up all my grievances and make mental notes of things to raise. I feel sure she'll be sympathetic.

  MEN CAN BE SUCH bastards. Especially collectively. When one of the PI lawyers Sheila had a baby a few years ago and came straight back to work, she made no secret of the fact that she expressed milk into the sink in the ladies toilets at regular intervals throughout the day to keep up the flow she said. She didn’t care that the rest of us women saw her doing it. Actually it was quite riveting. We used to time our trips to the loo to coincide with Sheila’s expressing pattern. I would never have realised so much liquid could be produced by a lactating female. There seemed to be gallons of it bucketing out, looking like Jersey goldtop and making the Ladies temporarily smell like a buttery.