U: Spokes

Spokes

At parties, I did my rounds putting each male I met in bed with
Caitlin, seeing who fitted. A tall Greek-looking man allowed his hands
to stroke the side of her calves, his fingers delving into the dark at
the backs of her knees. Another man found himself gazing down at the
liquid expanse of her back; the bumps of her spine gave the impression
of salmon fighting their way up stream. The short man who looked like a
vole noticed her dimples most, the way they deepened with smiles and
frowns but disappeared altogether when she slept. They all had alibis,
of course.
Slowly, as the light faded outside, the party sieved down to its base
elements. By midnight there was Charlie, a round, gay Chinese-American
who owned the flat, Adele, the birthday girl, pale and drunk, Caitlin
and me. Charlie and Adele were waltzing while Caitlin and I nibbled
leftovers and made drinks with spirits I couldn't pronounce. On
Charlie's mantelpiece I noticed a photo of Caitlin. It showed her from
the waist up, standing in our bedroom. She was not wearing any make-up
and her dark fringe crashed down across one eye. Her lips were swollen,
squeezed tomatoes, as though she'd just woken up. She was reaching
forward towards the camera; the photographer's hand stretched into
frame to meet her. On the hand was a purple ring like a boil. Caitlin
came up behind me and put her hand on my bum.

"I see you've found the photo from our all night sesh." There was no
hint of sarcasm.

"When was this taken?" I asked.

"You were out so me and Adele thought we'd spend a night of
passion."

"Why has Charlie got it?"

"Well, obviously because he likes to watch."

I looked up into the mirror that rested on the mantelpiece. Behind my
shoulder Caitlin was straining a familiar clown grin, vanilla teeth,
dimples like caves, inspecting my reaction.

"And now you laugh," she said, "God, it's just a photo."

I was starting to look drunk. The luminous ears come first and soon the
full flush closes in like mist.

"I'm going outside for a minute," I told her.

On the street I listened to the music upstairs punctuated by dance
steps clapping on the wooden floor. There was something else though, a
cello maybe, but I couldn't make out what it was playing. I walked away
from the house, stepping in the snow tracks left by departing guests.
Reaching a canal I sat under an elm; its roots had started to warp and
snap the paving stones around it, pushing the slabs up like acne.

It was just before we had come out to Amsterdam that I'd realised
Caitlin was having an affair. Not in that "oh, I just know" way, but in
the sense I'd felt her scene, her soundtrack, dragging over into mine.
They had not left warm indents on the leather sofa and the solitary red
condom Caitlin put in the biscuit tin was unopened, still squirming
between thumb and forefinger. On the marble counter there was a green
stress ball with a smiling face in fading black ink. I could not have
touched it, I knew how it would give; at first resistant, then supple.
There had been a half pink grapefruit in the fridge, its yellow spokes
taut like the line of sinewy muscle down the backs of her calves. It
smelt of a tropical holiday but not in the way that it makes you feel
like you're there, more that it smelt like an advert for cheap
flights.
When we'd arrived in Amsterdam we discovered our baggage had been
lost. The handler smiled as we made wild explanatory hand gestures; he
allowed a few seconds to pass before he helped us in impeccably plummy
English.
We were late. We'd pounded down long streets of small art galleries and
antique shops, following the overhead tram wires as our guide. The
light snow had picked out our steps in small prints that glimpsed
cobblestone through the white. Crossing a bridge the tram lines swerved
left and ran adjacent to a canal. Caitlin called out to me to wait as
her right shoe turned out beneath her.

"Do you realise how late we are? I asked.

"Yes, I'm aware. I didn't ask to ice skate
through Amsterdam in these heels."

Caitlin looked vacantly up at me as she lent over to fiddle with her
shoe straps. She was wearing a knee length black dress that had
something of the salsa about it; layers of rustling frills that
whispered a promise - more flesh underneath. Bent double, with her
right leg angled out and her heel raised off the ground, a line of
shadowy definition climbing from her ankle to her knee reminded me
again of the pink grapefruit, the blinding white of the fridge replaced
by luminous snowfall. Finally, having made whatever adjustment was
necessary, she swung herself upright, blew thick black hair out of her
face and gave me a withering smile.

"Come on then grump, what's wrong? I don't look that ridiculous do
I?"

"No, not at all. I was just thinking how good you look when you're
flustered."

"And how do I look when I'm not ruffled?" She'd raised a slender
eyebrow.

"Yes, very good, we know you're no good with compliments. Can we
go?"

"Spoil-sport."

I have a photo of Amsterdam seen from above after heavy snowfall.
Steep black tiled rooftops, frigid white streets, the tram wires and
winding half-frozen canals peppered with boats of green, blue and red.
It looks like a misshapen snakes and ladders board; I can see us as two
tiny black markers weaving slowly towards the finish. We'd almost
skidded past the door to Charlie's flat. The steps leading up to it
were well trampled. Ringing the bell, we listened. I could hear Charlie
padding down the steps to the front door with what I'd taken to be
feigned calm. The lock slid back and as the gap widened Charlie's podgy
face peered through, wearing the grimace of a surprise party
organiser.

"Oh, you fuckers! Where have you been? Actually, I don't care. Come
in."

"It was thanks to Mister Navigation here that the taxi dropped us off
on the other side of Amsterdam."

"It was just across the Leidseplein actually," I said. Caitlin and
Charlie exchanged glances.

"Ah yes, the famous David Papps sense of distance," continued
Caitlin.

"All right Miss Sarcy."

"Don't?"

"?Shut up you two," Charlie intervened. "It's all right everyone, it's
only the slackers," he yelled up to the lounge.

We'd clopped up the steep wooden stairs into the open white of
Charlie's small studio apartment. From behind doors, sofas and round
corners the guests reappeared as we entered. It was a few minutes later
that Adele had rung the door bell.

"Party poppers poised please," Charlie whispered.

Adele had come up the stairs first, Charlie behind, holding her coat
and trying to chat; afterwards Caitlin told him he sounded far too
straight.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to the Opera tonight. What an awfully
civilised way to spend your birthday."

We listened as the sound of Adele's heels changed from a dry thud on
the landing lino to a hollow clopping on the lounge floorboards.
Jumping out, we netted Adele in yellow and purple string. She looked
Viking I used to think but on this occasion, with her hair Opera'd up
and a tight white dress that snaked to her ankles, it was more ice
queen than Nordic warrior.

"Charlie, I thought we agreed that you were going to warn me about
surprises."

Within moments Adele had imperceptibly switched into a comfortable
persona as host; she seemed to glide, hover, kissing cheeks, slipping
compliments into drinks and playing the overwhelmed. She swaggered over
to us delicately pinching a flute of champagne.

"Surprise," Caitlin said, "you're late for your own party."

"Surprise, you're already drunk," Adele replied.

Adele had tamed her wavy blonde hair, clipping it up with green stoned
clasps. As she talked to Caitlin I saw that from behind her ears the
most rebellious strands waved defiantly. When she sipped champagne her
large amethyst ring clinked on the stem of her glass.

"David, come meet James, you'll love him," Charlie had called to
me.

"Charlie is his most camp at social gatherings," Caitlin
whispered.

James had sharp features, dark eyes and thin, sloping shoulders. He was
wearing a baby blue T-shirt and cords. I visualised tucking him in
behind Caitlin as she lay sleeping on her side. His thighs slotted
neatly into place right next to hers. Half-awake she held his hands to
her chest and they breathed in steady harmonies.

When I got back to Charlie's flat I had to ring the doorbell three
times before they let me in. Caitlin asked me where I'd been. "Just
out," I said. Next to the photo of Caitlin on the mantelpiece was now a
candle that had been burnt half-way down. Bulbous streams of soft wax
clung desperately to its side. The wick's lewd curve let off a trail of
twisting smoke. Adele tottered over to us; she had spinach in her
teeth, flashing with every vowel.

"Did you have fun, love-birds?"

"Wonderful, my sweet."

They hugged, the purple amethyst ring on Adele's finger running up
Caitlin's back.
The next day, on the plane back to London I just out and said it.

"You're fucking James, aren't you?" We talked about it. She had never
even met him before.

"You know I get jealous too," she said as the air hostess lent over to
give me my beef medallions.

Later she wrote a list of people she had imagined me fucking that day.
'That blonde girl who works in W. H. Smith, the fat mother of three
down our road and all three air hostesses.' She made me write her a
list on a British Airways napkin. 'Four guys at the party, then there
was the pilot ("in the cockpit I should hope", she laughed,) and six
city types in the departure lounge.'
I held her list tightly in my pocketed hand. I could still hear music.
When we landed at Stanstead it was just audible below the dull jet
engines. In Arrivals I heard it amongst the squeaks and pops of the
tannoy. I tried to hum it but couldn't.

"I hear a melody, your melody," I said.

"What?"

"That's why I thought you were," I stopped to flash my passport, "you
know, with James."

"Because you hear 'a melody'? Oh come on, David." She held her passport
open to the booth. I could see her photo, she wore ruby lip gloss that
glistened in the camera flash. I was convinced the attendant
winked.

"The reason I'm jealous is because I imagine you might fuck someone,
not because I've got some pop song stuck in my head."

Coming home from work I would sometimes find names on the fridge
blackboard. 'That woman on the tube with the cowboy boots. The black
waitress who served us in Mesto's. The girl who asked you the time on
the Portobello Road.'

Caitlin is getting undressed. She unbuttons her jeans and lets them
fall. With ballerina toes she steps out of the pooled trousers at her
feet. Grabbing the shirt tails she allows her arms to fold in, lifting
my baggy pin-stripe up like a yawn, momentarily shrouding her arms,
neck and face. The man kneeling in front of her is reminded of a white
porcelain lampshade he once saw where the base was the body of a naked
woman. Caitlin lets the shirt drop to the floor from her fingertips.
She is lying naked on our bed like a question mark. The duvet has been
taken off. She beckons the naked man towards her. His name is David and
he looks just like me. Pulling the man on top of her she tells him that
she wants to do a role-play. In this fantasy she wants him to be a
motorcycle delivery driver and she'll be the ambitious junior partner.
She rolls back on to her side. David traces the indent in her calf.