Burlesque - 8

She shouldn’t have left him, she knows she shouldn’t have left him. But then she never could say no. Not to him.

Val leans back into the pillows, her eyes flickering across the detritus that has reduced her world to king-size double divan: cigarettes, overspilling ashtrays, mugs harbouring every stage of evolutionary slime and pots; empty pots. Pots piled on pots all bearing the same unmistakable logo. Sliding her hand blindly under the bed she drags out a brand new one, it’s heavy with consolation. As she twists the chunky plastic lid the seal snaps with a satisfying clonk. A rich, chocolatey odeur evicts without notice, the faint but emphatic nag of damp that lords in the dim basement flat. Plunging her long handled teaspoon into the jar, she scoops hard, sliding piled salvatory goo through parted and expectant lips. ‘Oh my god!’ The sugar rushes; but sometimes even Nutella can’t hit the spot. One big, fat tear wibbles, closely followed by all his little brothers and sisters. Val spoons and sucks, spoons and sucks and sobs. She has to speak to him. She has to know why he went,where he went, why he came back. She fingers her phone, scrolling down to the number he tapped in before she left. (Why didn’t you come back with me Gabriel?)

She’s got to that spoonful; the one that comes just after the one that should have been the last. Her head flops back as the chocolate gobbet slowly melts on tongue. Blood sugar spiking, despair steps quietly aside ceding passage to the roll of anger that rises, kicking and screaming from bilious belly .

‘How much have you forgotton Gabe?’ She punches the dial button and listens. Momentary transportation as his soft voice informs the world of his current indisposition and wholehearted desire to return your call. BEEP…’Gabriel, I’m in bed Gabriel. You know, my hole; where I go, where I’ve always gone. I said I wanted my bed and you said I looked like I needed sleep! You really think you can swan back in and send me off to bed without a word of explanation? Gabriel answer the bloody phone! What else have you forgotton Gabe? What else?’

Telecommunications can be so damned unsatisfying.

Val drops the phone and reaches blindly for the jar.

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Phil at this moment is also in his pit. He’s not quite sure how he got there. Doesn’t really matter though, (blown it with The Babe, bollocks.) She was here, he remembers that much, but now there’s just an empty dent in the pillow. Was he always such a loser? He thinks maybe yes, it’s just getting harder and harder to camouflage the evidence. Sliding his hands up from under the sweaty duvet he gingerly palps throbbing hooter, it’s also getting harder to get out of bed. (I wonder if Billy’s about yet?) Glancing at the glowing digital hum on the bedside table phil heaves another sigh, grabs at the edge of the matress and drags himself closer. (I am NOT wearing fucking glasses) It’s eleven o’clock and the chances of Mister Whizz being up and about are zero. Rolling back into a second slump, Phil re-curls, willing sleep. ‘Shit!’ The skittles of terrible recollection topple and clatter - that bloody butterfly - pinging the poor chap upright. The mist may be lifting but he has absolutely no intention of studying the affair from his bed. Images jostle - clowns and Val and doors; and Babe, snottily sobbing and - legs twist and buckle as he wrestles with teenage tight denim, ’Fuck a little hairy monkey!’

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‘Boss!’ Gabriel sports a mile wide smile.

Phil is just plain confused. ‘The door?’

Yes, the door. Good as new - the only evidence of it’s recent distress, the sawdust that snuggles in the bristles of the broom on which Gabriel is nonchalantly leaning.

‘It’s Sunday morning, how did you?’

‘Oh, Sunday schmunday Boss. God can’t stand between a man and his DIY.’ Gabriel indicates a pot of bottle green Dulux poking out of the ruffle of a B&Q plastic bag. ‘By the way, the cleaner rang, seems she’s got some family problems and won’t be coming in for the foreseeable future.’

‘Oh for the love of…’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it Boss, these things usually turn out for the best. I have it on good authority that she was slipping more than the odd bottle of Bud into her shopper at the end of her shift.’

If Phils brow curls any higher it’ll rival his quiff.

‘I don’t want to be presumptuous but,’ Swinging the pole in his hand, Gabriel nimbly hops, performing a kind of minimum wage sword dance, ‘I’m quite handy with a broomstick.’

Phil’s kind of lost for words, he stares at the figure before him; not a trace of greasepaint, the crusty clown clothes replaced by clean jeans and Omo white T. (Turn out for the best?) The shadow of a solo Sunday wavers before defenceless minds eye. His guts gurgle. ‘Have you had breakfast yet?’

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