Calendar Girl Read online

  “No, it’s fine, just say Saz called, I’ll call her back. Just ask her if her headache’s OK.”

  “Oh, her headache’s gone now, she threw up not long after her first meeting, ordered a BLT and tomato juice and is feeling just fine. I’ll tell her you called. Bye Ms Martin.”

  Saz called the number on her hand. The voice on the other end of the phone told her she was being held in a queue and would she mind holding. Saz didn’t mind holding, what she did mind was having to listen to ‘Greensleeves’ as she did so.

  “Can I speak to John Clark please?”

  “John’s not here.”

  “Well, could you take a message please?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said ‘No’, I can’t take a message because John’s not here, he doesn’t work here any more, he quit.”

  “When?”

  “About half an hour ago, took ‘voluntary redundancy’. They’ve been offering it for over a year and he decided to take it two weeks ago, only he forgot to tell me until this morning. I told him he might as well go now as far as I’m concerned. So he did. Now look dear, I’ve got plenty to do with the assistant manager having just quit on me without spending all my lunch hour answering stupid questions, so if you’re his girlfriend, then I’m bloody sorry for you, but why don’t you just try calling him at home? I’m sure Mrs Clark would love to hear from you.”

  “Ah, his wife?”

  “Yes darling, wife. You’re not the first to have called this morning, seems all the chickens are coming home to roost, no wonder he’s been looking so bloody worried. Now come on sweetheart, bugger off, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Just one last thing, where am I calling?”

  “Where? That’s a silly bloody question isn’t it, luv? This is British Telecom. Anything else I can help you with or can I get on with something that actually matters?”

  “No, that’s plenty thanks, unless you have Mr Clark’s home number?”

  “Darling, I’ve got all the numbers here. You probably do too. This is BT remember? Every Mr Clark in London. There’s about three thousand of them in the phone book. I suggest you start looking.”

  He laughed and hung up.

  Saz poured more coffee and turned on the TV. Helen Daniels was looking puzzled too.

  CHAPTER 3

  Supper

  I handed her the champagne, warm from my nervous hands and she motioned me inside. No kiss. No hug. Had I misread her totally? Was this just a 10.15pm visit for coffee? And if so how soon could I reasonably leave to get the last tube home?

  The sitting room assaulted me with a garish mix of colours and sensations – Persian carpet, geranium oil burning, Liza Minnelli singing, plants and books. Books everywhere. Two deep on bookshelves, on and under the tables, covering the mantelpiece, piled on the floor in completely random arrangement. She obviously hadn’t heard of the Dewey Decimal System. The place looked less ordered than Dolores’ diary, which was saying something.

  I waited for her to speak.

  I’m sitting opposite the Woman with the Kelly McGillis body now. But I don’t wait for her to speak anymore.

  “My nephew doesn’t understand why my mummy doesn’t make me tidy my room.”

  She moved some cushions from under a pile of papers (The Guardian, The Independent and New Moon) and told me to sit down. She put the champagne in the fridge and handed me white wine. Chilled. She offered nuts and crisps. Japanese rice crackers. We mentioned work. She told me her boss was leaving, that she was nervous, scared she’d lose her job. I imagined her flat cost a lot in mortgage repayments. It was big and would have been spacious if not for all the books. Three doors led off the room we were in – one to a large kitchen, red and black, tiled floor and walls. Huge state-of-the-art fridge (ice maker) and cooker (eye-level grill). Four shelves of cookery books. Titles in Japanese and Italian. Gleaming sets of crockery. Shiny glasses. Six of everything. Whole sets, nothing broken. Microwave and blender and juice extractor shone, spotlit from lights hidden in recesses in the ceiling. I tried not to look too impressed, too poor. As if I too could afford a kitchen from the pages of one of those magazines. As if I could afford one of those magazines.

  “I love big kitchens,” I told her. “I expect you love cooking in here, all these gadgets, all this space.”

  She inherited the flat lock, stock, barrel and fully furnished from her aunt. No payment involved. And she never cooks. The only thing she added to the place were the books.

  Books which now line the shelves of our home. Neatly. In alphabetical order.

  We exchanged pleasantries for a painfully long ten minutes. Work, weather and the United Nations. Just as I began to plan my route home and how I would manage to fend off Dolores’ questions, she grabbed my hair, pulled me to her.

  She said “Kiss me.”

  So I did.

  We began gently. Soft kisses on her full lips. Soft kisses on my soft lips. She pulled at me, sucking my lower lip, sucking as if it was my nipple. Sucking my lips like I used them to give nourishment, not to take it. Her tongue tasted the cool white wine on my teeth.

  She opened the door to the bedroom, as I took in the cupboards – at least ten of them, the mirrors – one on each wall and the bedspread – Indian, red and purple, woven with threads of gold and silver, she removed her clothes.

  I found her again between the black sheets. I started to undress.

  She said “No, slowly. Do it for me. Do it slowly.”

  Typical. Bloody audiences. They think actors want to perform all the time.

  They’re right.

  I undid my boots, slowly pulling the laces from their holes, trying not to seem any more Jungian than necessary. I slipped off my jacket – hung it on the back of the door. Between two dressing-gowns, both silk, one red, one emerald green. I wondered which I’d use in the morning. I was wearing an ankle length black dress. Fitted bodice, then full from a drop waist. I undid the buttons and let the dress fall to the ground. I didn’t pick it up. There was a mirror just above her head where she lay in bed. I watched her watching me. And watched myself being watched. Saw my body. Sheer black tights under a black lace camisole. Pink nipples just blushing through the black. My reflection, like Alice in the looking glass, half believing the cliché I presented. I saw the body she longed to touch. I touched the body she longed to touch. I saw my hand tempting her against the black lace. I saw the full white cleavage. My body. With one movement I removed both camisole and tights and stood before her naked. Pubes vibrant testimony to the authenticity of my red hair.

  She nodded and smiled, “Very good.”

  I laughed, “Very practised.”

  I sat beside her on the bed, began to trace the line of her collarbone. The line down to her breasts.

  We were taking this slowly. Each editing the passages we’d written for this night. Editing two separate accounts of the same situation to make one homogenous version. Homogenous sounds like milk. Pasteurised. Cleaned. Our scripts were neither milky white nor germ free. But for one moment they were the same.

  And for this moment they are the same too. Because she isn’t arguing with me now.

  I pulled the sheets back and gently lowered myself on to her body. I lay on top of her. We breathed in rhythm. She in, me out. Me in, she out. My still soft nipples found hers erect and hard. Her hip bones, narrower than mine, fitted between mine, my flesh meeting her bone. Hip bones to pierce me on, St Sebastian, hip bones to pierce me. My toes reached down to her ankles, her longer legs passing mine. With my hands I stroked the side of her body, she began to touch my back. Touching my back, scratching my back. Kneading my pliant, compliant flesh. Needing my flesh. Her hands found my hair and pulled it, sharp so my neck and body arched back, pushing my pubic bone into hers. She pulled harder, pushing me harder into her own body. With her hands in my hair, I became the lever with which she made herself come, as I rocked faster and faster on top of her I saw myself in the mirror abo
ve her bed. Saw the crown of her head, saw her hands in my hair, locked into my locks, saw my white throat, so vulnerable, so exposed, saw my breasts, thrusting forward as they crashed down on to hers. Saw myself the wave crashing on her shore. She came with a violent shudder and threw me off her. I rested as the aftershocks ran through her and she came round. Came to. Came back to herself. Came after coming. A while later she opened her eyes and smiled at me. A languorous smile, a sated smile, the smile of a plan well executed.

  It’s a smile I know well. It’s the smile I smile to myself these days. Sometimes.

  I asked her if she came.

  “Darling, you’re the performer, not me. Of course I came, and came and came, what did you think that was? Going?”

  I didn’t know what answer to give so I kissed her instead. I kissed her mouth and her breasts and her navel. I was about to kiss further but she pulled me up to her and said,

  “Not tonight sweetheart. I promise in future I’ll give you plenty of chances to play with me, but tonight is the first night so tonight we take turns. We do it evenly. Share and share alike.”

  She ran her hand over my breast and swiftly down to my stomach, then without pausing she held me round the neck, with one hand she pulled my hair fierce and tight, with the other she fucked me. Fast. Hard. And deep. So deep I couldn’t quite catch my breath. Between gasps I tried to speak.

  “Don’t you … believe … aaah … believe in … ooh … oh God … don’t you believe in pre … in preliminaries? … oh fuck!”

  “Shut up.”

  She kissed me, her tongue far into my mouth. I lay on my back. Legs splayed, one arm pinned behind me, the other behind her, my body slightly arched where she still pulled my hair taut, her tongue thrusting against mine, her whole hand plumbing my depths. I felt myself start to come. She felt it too and leaving her fingers in me, found my clitoris with her thumb. Her fingers inside me and her thumb outside of me pinched me between them in frantic, circling jabs, I saw the long dark tunnel, felt myself being rushed to the white wall at the end of it. Felt myself about to smash headlong into it, and just as I hit the wall, melted inwards, down from my toes and fingers into the centre of my sex, felt the blood rush to the centre, the way the sea drags back from the beach, miles and miles back, so it can build itself huge, minutes before the tsunami crashes on the shore.

  The wave crashed. I drowned. She licked her fingers and smiled.

  “Mmm, salty but not quite kosher. Good shabbas anyway.”

  She fell asleep and I lay, marvelling at the ability some people have of giving their all and then just giving up to sleep. It takes me hours to wind down after sex. That’s why I like to have sex in the morning, it sets me up for the day.

  I’m watching her now. It’s dawn and she lies there quiet as I touch myself.

  I watch her silent body as I slowly take myself down that tunnel.

  CHAPTER 4

  Brain Workout

  Two weeks after her birthday Saz Martin sat across a table from John Clark. Apparently he’d called again three times but her mother had managed to be cold enough to give Saz money for her birthday and Saz had managed to be cold enough to use it to get her answerphone fixed. Overuse had rendered it useless, so she’d missed quite a few calls for a couple of weeks.

  John Clark had rung sounding harried and tired and Saz had agreed to meet him at a café near Leicester Square. She leant back on the hard bench seat they were sharing with the other late afternoon customers. Refugees from office hour mentality.

  Middle-aged, grey-faced and obviously ill at ease. John Clark picked up his glass of iced water and put it down again for the third time without drinking.

  “So you see, it’s unheard of for me not to see her for this long – four weeks. She’s never not contacted me before. And I feel so strange about it. And well, now I don’t know what to do and I think … I mean I know she’s in trouble. She needs help but I don’t know how to help her. So when this bloke at work mentioned he knew someone who … well, women like you. I mean people doing what you do. I thought, maybe you could help me …?”

  Saz finished her espresso and motioned to the counter for another. She stared out the window at the drizzle, then shook her head as she looked down at the notepad on the table in front of her.

  “Now let me see if I’ve got this straight. You, Mr Clark, are telling me that you have a very best friend, a woman you would give your life for, a woman who is the only person who understands you. And vice versa. Right so far?”

  John Clark nodded and played with the ice floating in his glass, Saz continued.

  “This woman asked you to accept voluntary redundancy from your job so that you would get quite a few thousand pounds worth of golden handshake. Sixteen thousand pounds in fact, most of which you then ‘loaned’ to her to get her out of a financial jam she wouldn’t even tell you about. A financial jam you didn’t even know about until the night she came up with the idea. And you left the money for her – cash – in a left luggage locker at Charing Cross Station. And that was six weeks ago now. Yes?”

  “Not quite, they’d been hassling us to make up our minds about the redundancy offer for ages. I’d talked it over with my wife and she thought it might be the best thing – pay off most of the mortgage and we’d still have some left over to keep us for a bit. And something to give the kids – university, all that to consider …”

  “Yes. But to get back to your friend?”

  “I told you. She said she was in trouble and it would be best for both of us if I knew nothing about it.”

  “Hold on, you’re skipping the most important bit. This ‘best friend’ is someone whose home you have never been to, whose occupation you have no idea of, whose name you don’t even know, who you’ve only ever met for dinner on the first and third Friday of every month for the past three years. You have never had a phone number for her, she was never more than three minutes late and she’s only ever cancelled three dinners in all that time.”

  “Yes. I don’t see why you think it’s so strange …”

  “No, no – please wait. And best of all you’ve never slept with her. I mean really Mr Clark, forgive me if it all sounds just a little bit far-fetched!”

  “I know. You’re right. And that’s why I couldn’t go to the police. But I tell you Miss Martin …”

  “Ms,” Saz corrected him automatically.

  “Sorry, Ms Martin. It’s the truth and I know something is wrong. I can feel it. I know her very well. She wouldn’t lie to me. There were certain things – her work, our lovers, my marriage, childhood – which we never spoke of. At least not the specifics of those subjects. She said that way, we’d never be tempted to lie to each other. We talked about art and music, writing and philosophy. We have had a relationship for three years. We understood each other. We talked about feelings. And I can feel that something is wrong.”

  Saz looked at John Clark. An ordinary man in middle age in his grey office suit – the sort of man she’d seen and immediately forgotten so many times before. The sort of man who might have a fling with the temp or flirt with the babysitter. The sort of man with a hefty mortgage and a couple of teenage kids. With a willing but secretly frustrated wife. The sort of man who had two weeks holiday a year, and that holiday was planned and paid for in February. This was not the sort of man with the imagination to make up a story like this. Not at £25 an hour of Saz’s time. And this was not the sort of man to lie about something big. Probably not anyway.

  “OK Mr Clark. I believe you. At least I figure I might as well believe you. But if I’m to even begin trying to find your friend I need to know a lot more than this. Don’t you have any idea what her name is? I mean, what did you call her? ‘Hey you’?”

  “No, after our third dinner she came up with an idea, I was to call her whatever the month was called. You know like April, May, June …”

  “Bit much in December wasn’t it?”

  “Well, it only happened twice a year.”

&
nbsp; “I suppose so. OK, no name. Where did you meet?

  “In a bookshop. We were both browsing. I asked her to have a coffee with me. She had lots of bags with her. I assumed she was just back from holiday.”

  “Did you ask where she’d been?”

  “No.”

  “But she agreed to have a coffee with you?”

  “Yes, we got on, I suggested we have dinner. It’s that simple.”

  “Yeah, right. What about the restaurants, whose name were they booked under?”

  “Mine, I paid too so I couldn’t tell you what credit cards she had – has – or even if she has them, she always carries cash.”

  Saz started on her second espresso and turned her notepad over purposefully.

  “Right then, Mr Clark. Here’s something you will be able to answer. Give me a complete physical description. I want to know everything. From her height to her weight to any little – it doesn’t matter how little – scars or marks she may have had. Fire away. I want the works.”

  John Clark frowned, closed his eyes and began.

  “She’s medium height, 5’6” or 5’7”, not taller. Medium build, 126 to 1301bs. She doesn’t wear high heels. Doesn’t need to, she’s got great legs. The rest of her body is good, I think she goes to a gym, she works out somewhere anyway. But her legs are the best. She has very long, shapely legs. Nice lips, she wears hardly any makeup, just a touch of lipstick, no mascara. Orange is her favourite colour. She has long pale blonde hair. Short fringe. Well, shortish. It depends. When she’s happy she goes to get it cut, but if she’s having a difficult time, not feeling particularly at ease with herself, she lets it grow. She says it gives her something to hide behind. To cover her eyes. Her amazing eyes. It’s hard to tell what colour they are at times, they’re so dark, as if the whole eye is taken up by her pupil, but in the light you can see them clearly, they’re brown. Very dark brown. They’re beautiful. She’s beautiful Ms Martin, and she’s my friend. Please … help me?”