Big Issue

Big Issue

They were late. They should have been in a cab but the only think they were sharing was an uneasy silence, each blaming, each resenting.  Then the rain came, great globules exploding on the pavement; harder and heavier. It wasn’t her fault. He insisted she look the part. It took time.  She couldn’t help that the Head needed to see her.  She didn’t know the mini cab wasn’t going to turn up and out of solidarity they weren’t going to Uber (not after the incident with Jayne last month) and  a black cab at that hour inn their neighbourhood; so it was Tube: never a good idea at rush hour. He’d suggested walking.

                But the crush on the street was little better than the crush on the Tube. He gripped her hand, tugging her through the oncoming crowd. They rounded a corner, narrowly avoided being impaled on a brolly and dipped under a dripping awning, and that’s when the rain really came.

                He glanced at his watch, gave a resentful sigh and announced, ‘Let’s wait here, wait for it to slacken,’ another flick at the watch and a grimace. The rain was now bouncing.

                ‘I know, I know, I know,’ she wriggled her hand free from his, ‘I’m sorry,’ but the way it was said; she was anything but.

                ‘We’ll be late. You knew this was important.’ They stood, looking out, watching the rain; together apart.

                She glanced at him: He was sort of slumped, hands thrust into his pockets, chin down; fixating on a gummed patch of pavement. He’d got the art of standing in an aggrieved manner down to a tee. It wasn’t her fault: circumstances had been against them. If she could see that, so could he. Yet he exuded blame like that awful aftershave he’d bought at Christmas. (‘Dunamis’ the aroma of power, the scent of potency, well that was the strap line on the box. She’d not understood why, he’d never taken an interest in anything other than soap and water before then, which was fine by her. Yes, he’d done the ‘man’ thing for her – Chanel Number 5. Alright, not very original but at least he’d tried, and it came wrapped in Chanel tissue paper and a Chanel bag which showed he’d shopped properly for it and not gone to some knock off bargain shop. Points for that.) He knew she didn’t like it but tonight he’d slapped it on. She’d pointed out that it was not exactly authentic. He’d scowled and splashed some more on.

The invite required 1940s dress. He’d gone to great pains to explain this. To arrive not properly attired would mean there’d be consequences. He’d been at pains to tell her this. Several times.  But as far she could tell all it would mean would be, you’d be out, seventh circle and all that. He wanted to on the track to the spheres. He’d made that clear.

The rain wasn’t slowing. She gave him a steady, rebuking stare, perfected with the six-year olds in her class, but just as effective with adults.

He caught the look, tried to ignore it but still shivered involuntarily. It wasn’t stopping.  The rush hour crowds had been washed away. He watched a rain drop roll down her nose, pause and then fall. He peered into the rain: not a cab in site, typical.  She’d wrapped her arms round herself to keep warm and there was the guilt pang, single and solitary, gnawing in his gut. He shuffled forwards and reached out, aiming to put an arm round her. She flinched.

‘Look, I didn’t know it was going to rain like this.  Your Parker isn’t exactly 1940s. And it’s pretty strict. Things have to absolutely authentic.’ And if he’d had his way, they’d have taken an Uber and be there now, warm and dry.  

She ignored him, choosing to studiously watch the rain drip from the end of the awning.

What he didn’t understand was why she didn’t get it. He done stuff for her: interminable kid’s recitals, weird dinner parties which always seem to degenerate into a dissection of the evils of current Education policy. A topic that had little or no bearing on him, so all he could contribute were a few blithe comments which were quickly and remorselessly dumped. This was important to him. She owed him. And she didn’t seem to get it.

She was channelling the resentment. Trying to send waves. She was damp, cold and uncomfortable. The wrap dress in a bottle green was fine but its jersey material seemed to be designed to hold the damp. It looked pretty in the picture but on her it felt uncomfortable. And being wet made it cling, and she didn’t like that. The pretty little pumps with cream bows, that had surprised her: she liked them. They were soggy now and her feet were cold. She should have feigned a cold, flu, Ebola. She hated his work things; shallow, fake. But she’d got to the point, so far along that she’d see it through. It felt like this was something to hoard and use. Collateral to bargain with, to get what she wanted or to throw back at him.

Part of him wanted to give in. He could see she was cold. A toddy, warm blanket, cuddle and who knows where that might lead was attractive but, honestly, when had that last happened. Too often they retreated to their corner with it becoming an endurance test, first to bed was the looser.  Where had the spark gone? And it annoyed him that she didn’t get how important this was to him, his career.

He ducked back against the shop window as a bus spluttered past. She’d had to jump to miss the bow wave spray. It made him smile. It shouldn’t but it did.  He turned catching a glimpse of himself in the window. He smiled again: he looked good.

The am-dram in him liked the dressing up, the sense of performance. And the boss liked that. Kind of thing that gets you noticed. This was a celebration – they’d been unbelievable successful and this was the blow out to prove it. And the Blue Reef account was up for grabs; score points here and, hey, tomorrow. Plus, he liked the way the dark, double breasted suit, with its chalk stripe and peaked lapels fitted. It felt good. It felt cool. He looked good, channelling William Powell in the Thin Man. Damn fine. And he was wearing the aftershave his boss had bought him.

He was preening. She’d seen him adjusting his tie in the window. Creeping vanity. Not that he didn’t look good, he did. It was the fact that he knew that galled her. It wasn’t always that way but the job was driving him and looking right in front of the client was key. To be honest it was looking good in front of the boss that worried her. It was fine working for a woman. When he began, he’d come home talking about stuff and how impressed he was with her; that it was different working for a female boss, how she nurtured but still took the difficult decisions.  But then he stop talking about her, it was all generalities and no specifics like he was skirting round a black hole. Now that worried her.

She jolted, his hand was on her shoulder, ‘Come on, it’s stopping.’

‘I don’t think so, it’s bouncing off the road still.’

He glanced at his watch, genuine, Grand-Da’s, bought to celebrate his demob. (She’d been less than thrilled with the mothballed dress. They’d dug it out of the back of the wardrobe. It was his Gran’s and she’d been less than thrilled when it fitted perfectly. Not now though, the rain. It was sagging.

‘Come on. We’re going to be late.  He reached for her and she shrugged him off. ‘Come on. We’ll be stuck with losers.’

She’s stared, fixating on a spot across the road. That was it, being stuck with the wrong set, that’s what mattered to him. Shallow.

 ‘Look, there’s a cab.’ He pulls her to the curb as he flags the car down, and she sort of resists.

Then he goes and says something stupid, so stupid; like shaking bottle of pop and being surprised when it explodes. ‘Look,’ he says again, ‘This is my time. I need this. I’ve sat through enough of your ridiculous, pointless, waste of time kids things. Come on.’ And he pushes her towards the cab which has pulled up.

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Big Issue?’  From nowhere this man materialises between them and the cab. He’s thin faced, bearded with a hoodie pulled so tight it’s surprising he can speak. He’s clasping to his chest a plastic bag of magazines and in his other hand he’s offering the latest edition which is sagging in from the wet. ‘Big Issue?

He’s now got her firmly by the elbow, trying to push her toward the cab. The seller steps in front blocking the way to the cab.  They step to the right; he steps to the left: ‘Big Issue?’ They go left, he goes right. ‘Big Issue?’ The man stands firm. ‘Big Issue,’ he insists.

From the shop a couple burst through the doors, ducking through the slowing rain. The cab’s door pops open and the couple duck in without even noticing them. The cab spins away.

‘Look, will you look. That’s it gone. What’s the point? We might as well forget it.’

‘Big Issue?’ He waves the man away.

She’s looking down at her shoes, watching the damp mark climb up the leather.

‘Why’d you even bother. You’ve not wanted this. You knew this was important to me.’

The man wedges himself between the two of them: ‘Big Issue?’