Surface Tension - Chapter 7

The day flows, twists and turns. We meander through the past, things of consequence and things that are not. We talk work, we reminisce, college days, where are they now. But always we skirt the dark lands of present. We laugh despite the fact the list gets shorter. We’re greeted by a mixture of surprise, disdain, and confusion but not one of the places claims the key.

We’re heading back in to town. The roads are quiet and we’ve lapsed into a contented silence. I’m mulling over options, what if’s. For the first time I’m ready prepared to concede this is it, there is no more after this. Bill’s staring out her window; I catch her doodling in the condensation on the window.

“What’s that, smiley faces? You’ll leave a mark,” I shoot a grin at her.

            “I've tried to phone him you know.”

            “Sorry, who?” It takes a moment, Jonah.

            “I've tried but no answer. It just rings.”

            “Oh,” I don't like the direction of this.

            “I’ve left messages.”

            I give a non-committal grunt, pretending to focus on the road ahead. I don’t want to explore this. I’m happy to be here in our bubble, the two of us, no intruders.

            “What do you think I should do Tony.”

            I swallow. Leave him, chuck it all in, give up this stupid search and run, “I don't know Bill.  I don't think I can say what you should do.”

            “Oh,” her head droops and she’s looking at her hands again.

            I can’t think of what to say. I’m desperate, I want to help, to be the good friend she wants, needs but there’s something else there. And to be honest it doesn’t feel brilliant.

            The silence comes again. This time it’s leaden. I let my mind slide back to when I first met Bill.

            “What are you smiling about?”

            “Nothing.”  I can feel my face reddening.

            “Ooh that only makes it worse Anthony, you’ve got to tell.”

            There’s a rush of embarrassment.  It rises up and cloaks me.

            “Tony, you can’t go any redder!”  She switches into mock innocence.  “If it makes you that embarrassed I’m not sure I want to know, it might shock me.” And then she laughs, teasingly.  “No, I want to know, even if it traumatizes me.” 

            I’ve gone mute.

            “OK if that’s how you’re going to play it,” she looks around the car.  “Ah, this will do it.”  She reaches down into the foot well and resurfaces with the mail she took from my post box this morning.  “I’m holding these letters ransom, if you do not divulge your secret, I will…” she pauses looking for a suitable threat, “I will throw them out the window.”  She cranks the window down a couple of inches letting in a rush of cold air and then plucks an envelope from the pack and tantalisingly dangles it out of the window. “Well, the truth or the letter gets it.”

            “Funnily enough,” I say glancing across at her as I manoeuvre round a car that nearly pulls out of a parking space without realising I’m there, “I’m not interested in a loan or time share flat or whatever that garish envelope’s selling.”

            “OK, say good bye to it.”  She lets go of the letter.  It’s caught in the car’s slip stream. For one brief moment it performs a skittish dance along the road before landing slap in the middle of the other car's windscreen.  I catch a particular gesture.

            “I don’t believe you just did that!”

            “I’ll do it again.” She pulls another piece of junk mail and lets it go gaudily spinning down the road.

            “Hey that’s littering!”

            “I’m serious. Now you know that I mean the next one won’t be junk mail.”  She fingers the stack of letters, “You really should check your mail more often.  Hmmm, should it be a bill maybe or, or this one.  Oh this looks good.”  Bill holds up a blue envelope so that I can see it.  “Let’s see.  Hand written envelope.  High quality stationary and I’d say that this is female handwriting.  Oh this is mysterious, who could it be from?  Shame we’ll never know.“ She sticks the letter out of the window.  “What do you say Tony?”

            I blank her out, focus on the upcoming junction.

            “So, you think you can call my bluff do you?  Let’s make it more interesting,” she says with a smirk.  She retracts the letter and then runs her soft fingers around the envelope, tracing the contents.  “I think I know what this is, if it is Tony you won’t want to miss it ‘cos I’ve got one too.”  With that she waves the envelope provocatively in front of my face.

            The car wobbles.

            “Hey, that doesn’t help I’m trying to drive.”  I’m enjoying her game.  It's tantalising. With careful precision she slides a finger under the seal and begins to rip it open slowly. “That’s a criminal offence.”  She takes no notice.  “Stop will you.”  The smirk has become a wry smile, she's enjoying this too.

            “Oooh look,” she’s like a child excitedly opening presents. “It is…”  

            “Stop it.”

            Traffic lights.

            “It’s an invite, shame you’ll never know who it’s from or what it’s for.  Are you going to tell me?  All you'll know that I was invited too and we could have gone together.”  Bill is dangling a small piece of card out of the window.  “It’s going, it is, “ and she begins a slow deliberate countdown: “Ten, nine, say goodbye to it Tony; eight, tell me what you were thinking or the letter gets it, seven, six; what a shame, it would have been fun, five, it’s going, four, going, tell me, three, going, two…”

            “OK. It was you,” I glance at her, “the first time we met, at the rugby match, I can remember being together that evening, you stayed with me rather than go the rest.  I wasn’t used to that, someone who chose me.” 

            She’s looking at her hands again. “Thanks Tony, I am touched.”  She’s blushing, “That's so sweet.”  I’m concentrating on the road, not that there’s that much traffic but it’s easier. I hear the smile in her words and then, to my surprise, she lightly presses her hand on my thigh in reassurance. I snatch a look. She's back to staring out of the window, the letters are on her lap, the blue envelope and the crisp white card are still held tight in her hand but no longer under threat of expulsion.

            “That's the time I first met Jonah.” 

            I was about to ask what the invite was for but her words condense on the windscreen and mine lay leaden on my tongue.  I see my tightly drawn picture from a wider perspective. Yes there's Jonah, quiet and sullen by my side.  Reluctant to talk, distracted, Bill cosying up to him.  Fragments of conversation, long dormant, float into consciousness and even alone I now see that we talked about Jonah.  It wasn’t me it was him. Even then it was him.

            The card and the envelope fall autumnally into the foot well.

            “I’ve had enough Tony.  This is stupid and a waste of time let’s turn round, and forget it all.”

            “You sure?  We’re nearly at the next one.” 

            She sighs and chews her lip, “OK. Last one, Tony, last one.  How many are on the list?”

            “We’d got 10 we’d agreed on, we’ve done six, so with this one we’d have four left.”

            “This is it then, the last one.”

            “Actually, there are two here, next to each other.”  I say swinging the car round a corner and then turning off the road. 

            At either end of the empty car park are two buildings.  One, like most of the others we've visited is a modern pre-fabricated place, its only distinguishing feature being its livery.  The other is a three storey building; its arched windows betraying its former life as a chapel now resurrected as a temple to the body. We clamber out of the car, which I’ve parked equidistant from the two buildings.  The wind whips through, cutting through our coats.  Bill folds her arms round herself, a package wrapping itself.  She stood that way the day we first spoke.

            “OK, so if it is just one more, which is it to be Bill?”
            “Toss a coin.” 

            Obediently I do. “Heads we go the plastic looking one, tails it’s the old church,” My 50p makes its silvery arc.  It lands on the tarmac with a light tingling sound. “Heads,” and I set off towards the modern building. I'm half way there when I realise Bill's marching the other way. “Hey, hey, you are not playing by the rules,” I call out joshingly.  Bill doesn't break stride. “Hey, this way, we agreed.” She keeps going. I turn back and have to break into a trot to catch up with her. As I draw level she says simply: 

            “It wasn’t right. How many of the places have we been that looked like that one,” she indicates the one I'd chosen, “This is right.” She points to the chapel. “If Jonah’s work was going to have some fitness club it would have to look the part.  If you're going to do deals on the squash court or broker agreements on the treadmill that is the place that you’d want to go.”

            A soft amber light filters from the high windows, the building exudes calm.  There are no posters on the walls pushing a life or body style but there is a simple gold and black plaque next to the entrance proclaiming that this is the 'JLC Racquets, Sports and Gymnasium Club, membership by application only'.  The doors are heavy oak, not the original church ones but just as forbidding.  All the other places we'd visited had glass doors so you could be lured in; here it was like they were trying to keep you out. 

            We're surprised by an electronic voice cackled: “JLC Racquets, please show your membership card.”

            Bill quickly scans the wall and finds a small black card reader to the left of the door.  Above it is a camera.  She positions herself in front of it.

            “We're parked in the car park behind the club,” enunciating each word she illustrates her point, needlessly waving her arms in the direction of the car. Given the angles Cyclops wouldn't be able to see it.  “And we found this key.” Here she waves Jonah’s key in front of the eye.  “It looks like a locker key, could someone from her have dropped it?”

            Cyclops swivels, zooms, pauses and then:  “Have you tried the other establishment,” a disdainful pause, “the Health Spa.” 

            “Yes,” lies Bill, “It is not from one of their lockers.  Someone checked.”

            There’s a discrete click as the latch on the oak doors is released.  Chivalrously, I pull the door open for Bill and am somewhat taken aback by its weight.

            “Well, there’s no need to do weights here, just stand and open the door.” I mutter as she brushes pass. 

            We walk into a vestibule and here are the plate glass doors.  Ahead is a reception desk with a neatly manicured girl sitting at it.  She has a plasma computer screen in front of her and round her lightly tanned face is a hands-free telephone headset.  She barely acknowledges our presence.

            “What's this,” I lean close to Bill’s ear catching the fresh scent of her hair, “some kind of decontamination cubicle.” 

            The cubicle responds as if mildly offended. With a shoosh one of the panels swings open and we are allowed to enter. From hard floor, where heels click and clack we move to plush carpet, which swallows my shoes.  The carpet swirls beneath us as we walk blue, red and gold.  Light oak panelling runs round the reception area.  There's nothing to mark the space, no pictures, no plants, except one vase on the edge of the desk.  It has a picture perfect rose in it, red petals set perfectly against the oak.  It's at that point where it is unfurling itself, graciously revealing its beauty.  There's a rush of heat too and I can feel my skin beginning to prick and burn underneath my layers.  Bill is reddening in the warmth too. I feel uncomfortable trussed up in my overcoat, faded jeans and scuffed shoes. 

            Finally Cyclops’s master looks up. “Yes?”

            Bill takes the challenge: “This is the key we found,” and she proffers it to the sentry.  She chooses to ignore it, studying her computer screen just long enough to add to our awkwardness.   Then she reaches out a carefully manicured hand and takes it.  She pauses, choosing not to look at the object in her hand.  A bead of sweat forms on my brow and begins a gentle journey down my face. Finally, after a few, swift key strokes, she surveys the key in her palm, first one side and then the other, flicking it over with one of her long glossed nails.  Slowly she looks up, glacial eyes taking us in, each in turn.

            “Yes, this is one of our locker keys.“ She turns back to the screen and then adds a dismissive “Thank you.”  The door behind swooshes open.

            We stand, not sure what to do.  We hadn't rehearsed what would happen if we found the key's owners.  We look at each.   Bill's eyes widen and she nods at me in a way that suggests that I should say something.  All I can think is that she looks even more appealing.  I shrug in response.  She stares at me even harder, eyebrows raised, her jaw tightening at the same time, showing her alarm, willing me to do something.  I cough politely.  Nothing happens.  I cough again. The sentry looks up.  She conveys two emotions at once, surprise that we are still standing in front of her and concern about why on earth we should still be here.  She'd thought she'd disposed of us.

            “Yes?” her voice is as cold as the wind outside.  And then with a mixture of contempt and indignation, “We don’t pay a reward for this.” 

            “Er no, nothing like that,” I splutter.  The air in the room is so dry I can feel my tongue beginning to stick to the top of my mouth.  “We’ve been looking for a gym, er, health club; could we take a look round here?  How would we become members?”

            The request surprises the girl and it takes a moment to gain her composure. 

            “Well sir, this is a members only establishment, nothing ad-hoc, and we are expensive,” the last phrase has added emphasis, and then more carefully, “Have you tried the other club.”  It’s a command not a question. The glass doors behind us remain pointedly open.

            Bill takes a careful step forward so that she is standing right in front of the reception desk.  She leans slightly forward, so that the receptionist has to look up at her from her seat.

            “Are you implying that we cannot afford your prices or maybe that we are the wrong type of people for this club?  That is an awfully big decision for a… telephonist. Do you know who we are?  Think carefully.” 

With a slow hush the glass door behind us closes. With tight lipped enthusiasm the girl replies, directing her response to me, ignoring Bill: “You can take out two levels of membership, sir and we prefer members to be introduced rather than,” this is addressed to Bill, “just walk in off the street.  We are an exclusive club, which prides itself on the quality of the facilities.  However, we would be prepared to show you the facilities, though we normally do this by appointment only” Turning back to me, “Would that be appropriate sir?”

            “Er, yes that would be OK.” Bill smiles and reaches out for my hand, which she squeezes hard.  A door pops open to the left of the reception with gentle click and a huff.  I’m expecting some track suited demi-god, tussled, gelled hair (wet look) to give the impression that he’s  just finished pumping something, white T shirt with a discrete logo, blue track suit, white trainers and the scent of honey and peppermint trailing behind him as if this is either what he sweats.  It’s been the form most of the day. This time it’s different.  We still get the Adonis but he’s older in his 30s, everyone else has seemed to barely out of school.  He has the same tight cut black hair which shines as if he has just stepped from the shower.  But what sets him apart from the others is that he is wearing a blue suit, not a track suit nor something from the high street, this is expensive. Stretching forward to shake hands the vibrant red lining of the jacket shows.  His white shirt ripples, whilst the collar strains to keep his neck in check. He wears a plain navy tie with a sheen that reflects the light in a peculiar way.  I feel very uncomfortable. I feel very out of place.

            “Hi, my name is Thomas, I believe you are considering joining our establishment.” He grabs my hand and shakes it in such a way to let me know that I’m on his territory, he’s the alpha wolf and I’m part of the pack.  With Bill he’s different, he regards her with a certain insouciance, I can see he’s tracked, assessed and weighed her and he’s pleased by what he sees.

            “Mr and Mrs...?” He asks Bill.

            “Sybil, but please call my Bill, Richardson and this is my friend, Tony Dafoe.” She switches on a smile.  Our Samson bobs his head gratefully, enjoying the smile that's been bestowed on him.  He distractedly shakes my hand more resenting the time he has to give me.

            “Well Bill, Tony ,” he rolls Bill's name round his mouth salaciously, “I’d be happy to show you are facilities.  I believe Angela has told you that we have two levels of involvement with the Club.  I think the best thing would be to show you what we’ve to offer. Then you can decide what’s best for you.”  Then to Angela, “Thank you.” 

            The guardian to the sanctum has receded in the presence of one the temple’s priests, she almost looks pale.  Thomas opens the door and beckons us through.  Angela looks disappointed not to be joining us.  Bill's holding my arm.  I whisper into her ear, “Does she fancy him or something?”

            “Most definitely, poor girl. He knows it too.”