Calendar Girl Page 13

  “You’ve only just discovered that?”

  “No. But after a while it was starting to scare me. You’ve always wanted everything to be the same. You want to plan everything forever. That scares me. John was a way of getting round it, but even he was becoming routine. I was bored. No wait! – not bored with you, with us. Bored with me. So I decided to see if I could go away without you knowing.”

  “And you went to New York?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “OK, don’t believe me. But it happened. I arranged a courier flight, flew out on Wednesday morning and flew back on Thursday afternoon.”

  “I’d have known.”

  “You thought I’d spent the night in Bath with Mr and Mrs Duncan from Indiana. Remember?”

  I remembered.

  “But you called me from Bath.”

  “They do have telephones in New York, Maggie.”

  “Well why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I meant to, but it was only the week after your birthday and you were so upset with me. I didn’t know why. You were just going out to the gym all the time, you wouldn’t talk to me. I thought you were seeing someone else.”

  “Well, what about my birthday? His card was dated the night of my birthday. You told me you sat in the car all night.”

  “A slight exaggeration. But I didn’t lie when I told you I was torn between you and my family. I really was. I hadn’t arranged to see John that night. But when we had the fight about it I knew you were right, I couldn’t go to my parents. But I knew they were right too, I should be with them to remember my grandmother. So I stayed away from you both. I called him at work and asked him to meet me for a drink.”

  “And told him all about it I suppose?”

  “No. He doesn’t know about you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. I’ve never spoken to him about you or my family or my work. They were my first rules.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, you’re not bloody Mata Hari!”

  “I know it sounds pathetic and unbelievable but …”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “In Waterstones on Kensington High Street.”

  “What were you doing over there?”

  “Waiting for some Americans. I was taking them shopping. He was nice. We were both looking at the Van Gogh books. They had a sale. He offered to buy me a coffee.”

  She had an answer for everything. But I still didn’t understand.

  “Stop it. Even if I believe your whole bloody story, which I really don’t think I can, I still don’t understand why. Why lie to me? Why lie to him? Why?”

  “Listen Maggie. It’s very hard to explain. I don’t have a nice simple reason. I did it because I could.”

  “Like climbing Mt Everest?”

  “Yeah, only without the sherpas. Sweetheart, I love you. I love you very much. But you’re a very powerful person. You’re used to having things your own way. You don’t like things to change. You don’t like not knowing about everything. You wanted to know where I was all the time. You couldn’t stand it when I went out with my old friends. You wanted me all to yourself. And I needed to keep a bit back for me. I needed to have a piece of me that was only mine.”

  “So you made her up?”

  “Yes. I made her up.”

  By now it was three o’clock in the morning. I was totally confused. In one way I felt better, closer to her than I had in ages. It seemed like we could maybe even try to have a relationship again. Somehow.

  We went to bed, she to our room, me to the sofabed. It was still too uncertain for us to sleep together.

  I fell asleep trying to piece it together. Unwilling to disbelieve her, but still feeling a nagging doubt. Some time in the night I woke up with a single clear thought. I know I should have written it down, that’s what they always say isn’t it? Write it down so you don’t forget. But I didn’t bother. In the morning it was gone and we tried to carry on.

  I know what that thought was now.

  If she first met him in Waterstones on Kensington High Street, why was she already wearing the wig and contacts?

  As I said, shame I didn’t write it down when I first thought of it.

  CHAPTER 22

  Circuit training

  Saz leafed through her copy of Time Out. In the Comedy section Maggie Simpson “Loud and sassy comedienne” was down to perform in two well known venues, and in the Gay section she was listed under a benefit for the Hackney Women’s Centre. So it was a choice between a venue she’d never been to and probably wouldn’t feel too comfortable in as a brand new peroxide blonde, or a place where like as not she’d spend most of the evening trying to avoid catching the eye of various ex-lovers, when she really wanted to have her whole concentration on Ms Simpson. She checked out the other acts – at the Clapham venue on Friday, Maggie was the only woman performing on a bill with one double act, one other stand-up and some “impro” team, while at the Stoke. Newington pub on Sunday (”Women Only”, of course) she was on with two poets and a folk singer. That decided it. Saz figured even an evening of “Could I have a suggestion of a household item, please?” would be better than two poets and a folk singer, and made plans to hit Clapham on Friday.

  Claire called to say that her friend in New York could check up on Calendar Girls, but as it was less than strictly legal it would take some time.

  “Listen, Claire. Tell her she’s got all the time in the world, but if she can get it done within the week, she’s also got my flat for her own London apartment for any fortnight she’d care to name.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Probably your floor honey, just tell her.”

  Suitably prompted, Claire’s friend said she could just about promise copies of deeds and title-holders within four days. And was the middle of August OK?

  By nine o’clock on Friday night the back room of the pub was pretty full and Saz was beginning to doubt the wisdom of her choice. The room itself was no worse than hundreds of other pub rooms – dirty, smoky and aesthetically nothing. The crowd was fairly ordinary too – there seemed to be at least two stag party groups, one similarly raucous group of young women and the rest were in twos and threes. Not a single person among them. And all were drinking heavily. Saz had spotted Maggie Simpson when she came in, she’d been standing at the back of the room talking to a young guy who later turned out to be the compère. An Australian, he’d come in for a fair bit of heckling from a couple of the more inebriated young men, but after a couple of well placed put downs, mostly along the lines of an Englishman’s inability to drink without telling the whole world about it, he soon had them under control. The double act were on first. Like all the others, they were young men and seemed to spend most of the next thirty minutes abusing each other, much to the delight of the loud groups of similarly abusive young men. Then Maggie came on. Saz had to admit that if nothing else she was brave. And if she hadn’t known she was a dyke, she’d never have guessed. Certainly the boys on the front table couldn’t tell either. The only hints were in a couple of jokes about “My lover”, where there was no specific reference to any form of personal pronoun, and they were far too obtuse for the boys slavering over her to notice. Once she’d realised that, Saz saw beyond the obvious meaning in most of Maggie’s jokes and ended up enjoying herself more than she’d thought she would. Almost as much as the pissed guys on the front table who’d spent most of Maggie’s act trying to matchmake her with the prospective groom.

  At the interval Saz went to the bar. She was just about to pay when she caught sight of Maggie to her left. She seemed smaller off stage. Smaller and younger. Saz smiled at her.

  “Um, Maggie. I really enjoyed your stuff – can I get you a drink?”

  Maggie looked at her. She seemed taken aback at first and then, looking closer at Saz, thanked her.

  “Ah, yeah. I’d like a gin and tonic. Please.”

  “You’re very funny.”

&n
bsp; “Thanks. That’s the idea.”

  “You’ve got some great material.”

  “I saw you laughing. You’re a good audience.”

  “I think I got some of the jokes.”

  “Well, I would hope so.”

  “No, I mean some of the ones that went over the boys’ heads.”

  “Oh right. Those. Well, they’re a pretty straight bunch, but I can usually spot the dykes in the audience – they get the subtle hints.”

  “Special lesbian code, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  By the time they were on to their third drink and the worst of the impro was over, the two women were chatting. Not exactly getting on well, Maggie seemed too reserved for that, but at least they were talking. Saz had avoided questions about her own work by saying she was on Enterprise Allowance, which at least was true. She’d also made clear to Maggie that she was single – and available, but so far the hint had not been taken up. By the end of the night Saz had just about given up on Caroline’s lead. Maggie had made not one mention of a girlfriend and from the way she talked it sounded like she lived alone. Then Maggie looked at her.

  “Saz, this is going to sound really strange …”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, your hair, is it natural?”

  “God no! It’s peroxide. Can’t you tell?”

  “Yeah, I know it’s peroxide – I mean – is it real or is it a wig?”

  “Oh. Oh no. It’s real, see – doesn’t come off.”

  Saz tugged at her hair.

  “Why? Does it look like one?”

  “No. Sorry. It’s just that – a friend of mine had a similar wig. Same colour. It makes you look a bit like her. I thought you were her at first. From behind. When I saw you standing at the bar. You startled me.”

  “She doesn’t like pubs?”

  “No, it’s not that, I just wouldn’t expect to see her here, that’s all.” Maggie seemed agitated and very glad to see a large man coming towards her.

  “Oh, Chris. Great. Got lots of cash for me then have you?”

  “Not bad. Good night tonight love. Have I booked your next spot?”

  “In a couple of months I think.”

  “Good, well done. Glad you’re back. We missed you.”

  “Thanks Chris. Well, Saz. Got my money, time to go. Been nice talking to you, thanks for the drink.”

  “Ah yeah. Look, could we meet again some time?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not really free. But thanks anyway.”

  With that, she picked up her bag and practically ran out of the room.

  At home Saz called Caroline.

  “And James hasn’t tried to contact you?”

  “Well, if he has, he’ll only get an unobtainable tone.”

  “Was there enough money for the phone?”

  “Plenty, you’re also paying for my dinner tonight, thank you.”

  “Good, very nice of me.”

  She told her about meeting Maggie.

  “Well, they definitely used to go out together and she obviously knows about Calendar Girls if she knows about the wig.”

  “Not necessarily, she could just have seen September in it. For a fancy dress or something. I think, given how much we know of September’s lying or fantasising with John Clark, we can’t just assume she’d tell her girlfriend all about it.”

  “Yes, but while she may have lied to Clark, she might have been totally honest with Maggie.”

  “Sure. Really. Would you like your girlfriend working there? Besides that, if September was running coke or whatever it is from the States, and you were Maggie, would you go out to grotty clubs to be funny for nasty drunken youths for a mere eighty quid?”

  “Depends. Maybe she likes grotty clubs.”

  “She seemed pretty eager to get out of there tonight.”

  “Or eager to get away from you?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maybe she’s suffering from Protestant work ethic.”

  “Half her stand-up routine’s about being Catholic.”

  “Well – how’s this? She felt too guilty spending September’s ill-gotten gains and determined to earn her own money.”

  “No. It’s something else. She looked really scared when she first saw me at the bar. She went white.”

  “As a ghost?”

  “No. More like she’d just seen one.”

  “Careful!”

  “Oh come on Carrie, she’s hardly an ice-pick wielding dyke!”

  “Ice-pick wielding dykes don’t kill each other, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Silly me. But short of going round to her place and forcing her to let me in on the hunt for the elusive September, what can I do?”

  “Talk to Annie about her.”

  “I hardly know Annie.”

  “I do. She’s nice. Talk to her. You’ll find a way, you’re the detective. And give her my love.”

  “Oh? Is she someone else from your past? Someone you maybe ‘forgot’ to tell me about?”

  “She’s not. But her brother is.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Sweeties for the car

  The next few days were difficult. It was sharp, our “relationship”, like walking barefoot on frost. I waited for it to pass. We were new again, scratchy. And polite, we were very polite.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Oh no. It’s fine, I can make my own.”

  “Really, it’s no bother.”

  “Well, if you’re sure …”

  “You do have sugar don’t you?”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, thanks.”

  We were like new flatmates before the first fight about who’d finished the milk.

  It was OK in a way though. I think we both felt chastened. Calm after a night of rain. We wanted to try again. At least we looked like we did. I did. I wanted to find a new way to make it work. If such a way existed. And I think we would have too. If they’d just have left us alone.

  But people never do, do they? They’re always there. Looking over your shoulder. The only time they leave you alone is when you really need them. When the night terrors hit and you wake alone. Covered in cold sweat and crying out for a hand to soothe you. That’s when they leave you alone.

  And then he arrived. I guess I first saw him a couple of weeks ago. Monday, maybe Sunday. He was sitting in a red car parked near our flat. Round the corner. I noticed the car first. Expensive looking. American or European – left hand drive. I don’t suppose I thought anything about him until I realised he was still there three days later. He looked expensive too. I couldn’t have said then if he was tall or not. I only saw him sitting in the front of his car. Smoking. He was quite good-looking I suppose, if you like that kind of man. Clean cut, square jaw, fair. My mother would have called him a “matinee idol”. Too good to be true if you ask me.

  It didn’t occur to me that he mattered. He was just a bloke in a car.

  We were getting on all right. We were wary and careful of each other. Still sleeping apart. It seemed more sensible. Though she crept into my bed late at night a couple of times – sort of sexual, sort of just warm. We tried to have sex once, but I couldn’t come and after a while of trying I told her it was OK, maybe tomorrow. She drifted off to sleep and I lay there a long time listening to her breathing. It sounded the same as it always had. Like her lungs couldn’t tell what a state my heart was in. We’d have long, late night conversations about “our relationship”. I’d always promised myself I’d never do that. Never “work at” a relationship. I’d thought that if it didn’t work of its own accord, I’d just walk away. But now, though staying with her seemed marginally less difficult, walking away seemed impossible. We were tied up, tied together. We owned furniture. Separating a record collection is easy. You can always make a tape of the Tracy Chapman. How do you share out a sofabed?

  I remember I went to a gig on the Thursday night. I left ab
out eight and he was still sitting there, car parked under a streetlight, reading The Standard. Looking back on it, his interest in The Standard seemed a little too avid for such a lightweight paper. But I didn’t know how tall he was then. I didn’t know much at all. He wasn’t there when I came back just after midnight.

  I told her about him. Just mentioned this bloke in a car.

  She nearly hit the roof.

  “Where? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Gone home I ‘spose.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “No. I told you. He was there earlier. He’s not there now.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know.”

  “Calm down sweetheart.”

  “What?”

  “It’s only a man in a car.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Oh right, what is it then?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yep, I don’t. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Christ!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Where’s his car?”

  “I don’t know, it was just around the corner.”

  “But not now?”

  “No. Maybe he’ll be there again tomorrow.”

  “Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I didn’t know you cared! Look, what the fuck is your problem?”

  “I … I. Oh nothing. Nothing.”

  “Nothing my big fucking toe.”

  “Don’t shout at me.”

  “I am not shouting.” I whispered “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s probably not even him.”

  “Who?”

  “No-one. Forget it.”

  “Who? Is it your Mr Clark?”

  “No. ‘My’ Mr Clark looks nothing like your idea of a matinee idol.”

  “Well who then?”

  She wouldn’t say. Refused to talk about it. Wouldn’t even let me bring the subject up. But I know she didn’t sleep that night. I heard her prowling the room all night. I heard her because I didn’t sleep either. He was there again the next morning, Friday, but not in the evening. I didn’t see him for the next few days. We got some sleep.