Surface Tension Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

The door bell wakes me. It has all the warmth of a Glasgow kiss. It rings again, harsh, abrasive, demanding. I don't want to fight. Reluctantly I open my eyes. I'm grateful. The room decides to remain static.

            I'm flat on my back in bed. The curtains are drawn tight but even so watery light filters through. With an effort I turn my head to where my alarm clock should be glowing. It isn’t. I lurch to the side of the bed. It's about a foot to roll but it seems ten times that distance.   The clock is on the floor upside down. The green numbers are flashing 06:00. There is no way that it’s six in the morning. 

            I'm shocked by a swell of nausea. I flip myself back to the centre of the bed to control the retching. The room whirls. I shut my eyes, scrunching them so tight it hurts in a vain attempt to block the reeling room. There's a moment of clarity - it’s 12:30, lunch time.  Another wave of nausea breaks.  Slowly it subsides. Gingerly I open my eyes. I'm pleased to find the room is obeying the laws of physics.

            The ringing begins again, insistent and persistent; one long ring reverberates round my head, there's a pause and then short ringing jabs which gradually coalesce into the rhythm of ‘Colonel Bogey’.

            The room's stable. The tide of sickness has gone out. I no longer want the bed to fold up and eat me.  With a deep breath I heave myself up. Remarkably, I've my sea legs.  (The musician at the door is now trying Brazilian syncopated rhythms). I drape my dressing gown over my shoulders. I  shuffle into the hall, balancing against the wall to work my way to the door. 

            Stretching for the latch I realise the ringing has stopped. Silence but for the shallow rasping of my breath, I’m drifting, bobbing aimlessly. I strain to hear if someone is outside. There's nothing. I close my eyes content to subside here.

            The ring jolts me and I bang my head on the wall.  The pain rolls round me. I grasp the Yale latch and handle muttering, “It just better not be some delivery man for next door.”

            I give the door a yank. The rush of cold air hits me with a crack making my eyes water, so I don’t recognise the person who brushes past me into the hall, all I get is:

            “What took you so long? I'd nearly given up on you. It’s perishing in that lobby, colder than  outside. I need coffee. My fingers are icicles. I need to hold something warm.” The person heads to the kitchen. I’m still standing at the open door cold licking at my ankles. 

            I’m frozen, but it's is not the cold that's immobilised me: it’s Bill.

            She stops at the kitchen, swings round on her heels and smiles. She regards me quizzically. Wordless she returns. Leaning into me she reaches over my shoulder so that I catch her sweet scent. She pushes hard on the door.  It closes with a dull thud. Her mouth is next to my ear, hot breath warming my neck.

            “Tony,” she whispers, “You look awful.” She pulls away, stops and looks at me, head at an angle, studying me. “Yes, you really do,” and she wheels away up the hall pausing at the kitchen – bedroom junction. She peels off into the kitchen. A moment later I hear the gush of a tap and the kettle being filled.

 

Bill is standing, her hands wrapped round a mug of fresh ground coffee, which hovers just blow her chin. The warm vapour rises and every now and then she takes a deep breath and inhales the aroma. I’m sitting opposite her resting on the kitchen table. I’ve just got a mug of hot water. Trying to make Bill’s coffee was too much; she had to do it whilst I retreated to the other end of the room. The very thought of it just made me sick.

            She’s dramatically dressed. Yesterday, she looked as if she’d folded in on herself, today she’s got purpose. Her white shirt is crisp, freshly pressed. The cuffs are long and neatly folded back.  She is wearing a black jumper, which looks as if it's either two sizes too small or isn’t finished. It stops around her midrift and a white shirt flows out beneath it. The shirt laps over a long, black ankle length skirt, which flows round her as she moves.

            “We were worried,” she explains. “Once James told us you’d been out last night and had a bit to drink, we weren’t too concerned when you didn't turn up before 9 but by 9:30, well. James said it hadn’t been a serious outing, just a friendly drink. And we thought you would have phoned in. By 10, Liz had tried to ring you a couple of times but no answer. So we decided that one of us should go on a mercy mission. So here I am.” She pauses, as if she is expecting some response. She gets none. “Didn't I have a bag when I came in?”

            I shrug

            “Must have left it in the car.  I'll be back in a mo.”  She disappears and a hear the door open.  A few moments later there is a hurricane round my ankles.  She must've left the door ajar.

            Yoghurt! It must be the champagne yoghurt that I had yesterday for lunch.  I remember getting home last night around 11:30 and feeling fine. Yes, I had that slightly blurry feeling, with everything pleasantly frayed at the edge, but nothing series. I’d done the couple of pints of water just in case and gone to bed and it must’ve been an hour or so later when I woke with an ominous feeling in my stomach and just lain there waiting until Vesuvius erupted.

            There's a glimmer of something else, a vague satisfaction with a sense of anticipation about today.

            The key, James had given me the key and it had come direct from Bill. Is that why she’s here? She wants to talk. 

              What if she wants it back? It's been a mistake and all this is just a sham to get me to hand it back. I can feel the bitter taste of bile at the back of my throat again. I take a swing of water.

            “Here I am on a mercy mission and I forgot to issue the Red Cross parcel.” Bill  returns with an anonymous looking white plastic bag which she places in front of me on the kitchen table. She peers into the bag and with a flourish pulls out a hangover remedy.

            “I’m not hungover, I’ve got food poisoning. I had the fermented yoghurt at the back of the fridge yesterday.”

            “If you say so.”

            “Honestly, I’m not, I know the difference.”

            “OK, if that is the case then there is this.” She plunders the bag again producing a small pot of tired African violets, “Flowers to show our concern.”

            “Well, you couldn’t have been that concerned judging by the state these are in!” I say holding the pot and gently turning it, marvelling that something so wilted could be sold as a living plant.

            “Tony! Firstly, for a hangover it is lucky we got you anything. Secondly…”

            “It wasn’t a hangover.”

            “Secondly...” she raises her fingers to show the count. “Be kind to the flowers, they mirror the state you’re in. What they need is some attention... just like you. Thirdly,” (along with a third finger), “It's the thought that counts and fourthly, if you're getting sarcastic you must be feeling better. So whether it is drink,” (raised eyebrow look), “Or fermented milk products, (same difference, yeah?) that have knocked you out you need to eat.” Reaching into the bag for a third time she pulls out a white sealed carton. “Chicken soup,” she proclaims triumphantly, “What do you think? Ready for a spoonful?”

            And, yes, to my surprise I am.

            The soup takes a few minutes. Bill busies herself with the domesticities, hunting through draws for the necessary implements and digging out bits of greenery from the fridge. I’m content to watch her. She moves fluidly. There’s lightness in her touch which conjures up music.  On tip toe, she stretches for a spoon and I find myself smiling at her, the tight jumper shows off her breasts. It's pleasing.

            “What are you smiling about?”

            I redden. I look down at the table, fidgeting with my fingers. Bill turns back and stirs the soup. As the burning dissipates I watch her again. As she tastes the soup her hair falls across her face. She draws it back revealing a smile.

            “You’re looking better Tony.” She proffers a bowl to me then brings bread and salad, and then she sits with her bowl. She looks down and laughs, “Cutlery!” and I direct her to the appropriate draw.

            “Good?”

            “Ummmm”

            “I’m glad.” She pauses, “I’d like to talk.” 

            Though it's a statement she tilts her head away, allowing her hair to fall across her face. She needs a cue from me to say that this is going to be OK. I take a mouthful of soup. What to say, standing on the precipice waiting to tumble.  Do you jump? I nod acquiescence. Bill smiles back, almost as if she is surprised by.

            I've jumped.

            Very deliberately she puts her spoon down and spends time straightening it, ensuring it is perpendicular to the edge of the table.

            “I feel I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have got you to come on Tuesday and when things didn’t pan out I got angry at you. Truth is it should've been Jonah. I’m sorry. You’ve always been a good friend, someone easy to talk too. You were the right person at the wrong time.” She pushes herself away from the table, putting distance between us. The chair grates on the tiles in protest. “And then there’s yesterday,” she sighs. “I was really rude to you Tony and it wasn’t your fault. If it makes you feel better, everyone got it in the neck.” She’d been talking to the table but now she looks up directly at me. He brown eyes are crystal clear, no shadows. She knows exactly what she wants. “I got home on Tuesday night and me and Jonah,” she stops, “Jo and I had an argument.” She stands and moves away from the table, resting against the sink at the opposite end of the room. She turns to face me so that the kitchen window is directly behind her. She's silhouetted in the greying daylight. I can barely make out her expression. It's only as her hands tense and un-tense that I can see the turmoil she’s in.  “He’d got back in before me, expected me to be home and I wasn’t. He said he’d tried to ring me but afterwards I checked my mobile and he hadn’t. I think he was trying to make me guilty. And then we had one of those fights.  Not just about now but anything,” a shrug, “Everything.  We took it in turns dredging up stuff that you think you’ve forgiven or forgotten.  We... I knew it was wrong, stupid, but it just kept coming.” She stops, gathers herself. “He walked out Tony, he walked out.” She says softly as if it's the first time she's put these words in that order.

            I’m rooted to the chair, there is too much turmoil inside. I blurt, “Is that what you and Liz were talking about yesterday?”  The words hang there.  I know it was the wrong thing to say. Even in this twilight I can see she scrunches her face at this.

             “How d'you know that?”

            My head starts to ache.  How could I be so stupid?

            “James told me he’d seen you together.” I lie, she un-tenses: a confidence hasn't been broken, she's not been betrayed.

            “Yeah, I talked to Liz yesterday. That was before I knew Jo had gone.” Bill pauses, looks away, her finger tracing patterns on the wet kitchen surface.  It gets darker.  “Anyway the stuff about the key came up again. I demanded to know what it was all about. I was so angry I threw it at him. He denied it, straight to my face Tony.  Do you know why Tony, do you?”

            Even if Bill could see my shrug it wouldn't have made a difference.

            “He had no idea what the key was for. It couldn’t be for the gym locker because, because Tony he'd got his own key.  Jonah had got his own key.  He showed me.  He'd lied to me Tony.  He'd gone and joined the club.”  Bill's hands cover her face.  Her hair falls forward and she brushes it back.  She rubs her eyes. It is the only evidence I see of tears.

            “We went to bed separately, got up separately and went to work without speaking. I asked Liz what to do and she said you’ve got to talk so I went home ready to do that and he’d gone. Not taken much.  There was a note saying he needed a few days to think things over.  And that's it 'cept for the key to his locker.”

            She shivers, though I’ve had the heating on full belt. She wraps her arms tight across her chest. I feel her chill and find myself wrapping my dressing gown tighter against the emotional cold that’s fingering its way across the room.  Silence envelopes us. The longer we remain like this the harder it is to speak. All I can think of are platitudes.  The kitchen clock ticks furiously.

            Bill walks across the kitchen and flicks the light switch.  The sudden light momentarily hurts.

            “It was the note that did it. I felt so angry with him. If he couldn’t be bothered, neither could... Can I?” She rest’s her hands on the chair opposite me, “Today's the first day and what happens with him, well,” and she twitches as if trying to remove something that’s causing discomfort.  “Liz said I should forgive Jonah.  I was going to but there was something else inside, a question. 

            “When I saw James he told me that you were out last night together.  And I had an idea, I'd get him to pass the key, my key, the one Jonah swears blind he doesn't know what it's for, and I'd get James to give it to you, for safekeeping.  Just in case.  Well, Jonah's gone. I know he's not being truthful. I’m not going to play the game his way.  I want to know what my key is for. I want to understand how Jonah had it.”

            She sits, holds me in her gaze and then reaches out, cupping my hands in hers, “Will you help?”