Authors: Josie Clay
“Film it” said Simon, “and send it to us”.
“Actually, don't do that” I said, the others nodding vehemently.
“No matter” she said. “That was my piece right there, I just did it. Letting you know I was going to do it and all that implies, was my piece”.
“Bravo” said Simon with a slow hand clap.
“So you're not going to set your hair on fire?” I reiterated.
“Not in that sense” she said enigmatically, bowing like a geisha and reversing out the door.
“Fucking nut ball” Stephen muttered.
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘Hi Sasha
‘It was lovely to see you too. I'm afraid I have little influence in the machinations at Potarto. You can visit the website for vacancies, which I'm sure you've already done or better still email [email protected], which I'm guessing you've done too, but contact her again and mention me. I'll vouch for you and have a word.
‘I'm sorry about your piece not being selected but we did have an inordinate number of entries, don't let it put you off’.
I paused, should I mention Nancy? I had no idea how much the girl knew or remembered. Nancy's proximity once again coloured an inner segment of my Venn diagram. I checked myself carefully and typed:
‘Say hi to your mum, I hope she is well. Let me know how you get on’.
All the best,
Minette
‘PS I'm sure your hemispheres are perfectly balanced’.
Chapter 21
“Outside” I ordered, as Dale lurched in like a refugee from Pompeii. Her regular whipping on the deck particularly emphatic this evening, the dust billowing up to the wisteria. Into her thighs tonight, the unyielding meat barely wobbled at my smacks.
“Now you're taking the piss” she said, grabbing my wrists, which I dipped and pulled apart, employing my 'Dealing with Aggression' Council training and shrugging her off easily. The gesture provoked an intense but giggly play fight which she won. On my back, arms pinned, she jammed her thigh in my crotch.
“I wish I had a cock right now” she said, “I'd fuck you senseless”.
“I don't like cock”.
“Not even mine?”
“Not even yours” I said. “But let's discuss this in the bath, after which I'll bum fuck you”.
“Yuck, gross” she said. “Point taken”.
Bath running, me turning the stew, Dale at the computer.
“You've got mail, Mink”.
Verified over her shoulder, the bouncing icon. Dale upstairs on the wander-phone, trilling to Björn and monitoring the water level.
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘Thanks Minette :-)
‘Mum is fine but busy. I don't know if you heard that she and Dad split up 8 years ago,. He's with Linda now, she's cool. I was wondering if we could meet up to discuss my options, I would value your input. Also I have something that belongs to you. How about Friday pm?’
Best,
Sasha’
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘OK. Pandora's on Church Street 2pm? Perhaps you can bring your folio?’
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘
Cool, see you there. S x’
Dale's foot on my breastbone in the swampy bath, hair long with water. Never cut, at least not in my time, taking months to grow an iota in length. Not 'as the crow flies' like mine, hers choosing the scenic route.
“Sometimes I feel like having it all cut off” she said.
I envisaged her shorn, beautiful enough to pull it off.
“Oh no, don't, my Paul can prune you. I'm meeting a girl on Friday” I said, through a yawn.
“Good, what kind of girl?”
“A Nancy daughter kind of girl”.
The wisteria dashed the bathroom window. I should trim it, I though
t. I explained the situation.
“And does she know about you and Nancy?”
“I'm not sure”.
“How the world turns” she said, her heel finding my coco.
Fumbling with the bike lock, I caused one of those cumbersome retro jobs to jackknife on its side. How I hated bikes like these, their annoying basket, threaded with plastic flowers and faux kooky persona. I hated the women who rode them too, sailing through red lights, Laura Ashley billowing around their thighs, yodelling to some opera plugged into their ears, elevated and impervious, as if they were riding-a-fucking-cock-horse to Banbury Cross. Wrestling the contraption upright, I'd already spotted
Sasha, and her me, judging by the way she was staring at her coffee. The word 'ingénue' came to mind, a sweet word.
The pointless door tinkle, pretending she'd been stirred from deep thoughts.
“Hi”, winding the strap of my bag around the table leg in a complex fashion. I'd had it pinched here once before. “Well”, scooping my chair, “any luck at Potarto?”
“Not yet” she said. “I e-mailed Rosamund again”.
The planes of her cheeks, her eyebrows, Nancy. But her eyes a deep dark brown, almost black like oil.
“Did you bring your folio?”
“No, something happened to it”.
“Did the dog eat it?”
She laughed and looked at me, Nancy but altered.
“No, it's not ready, I need to reorganise it”.
“OK” I said, “no hurry”.
We talked of ways forward, going for a degree. Better something vocational she'd thought.
“You don't have to think that way” I said. “Think of what best would enrich you. OK, you may end up in a call centre for a while, or waitressing, but that exploratory time is invaluable. Have you heard of Marina Abramovich?”
Eyes avid, she shook a response.
“Check out her manifesto”, writing on a napkin, which she folded into her pocket.
Lord, I wish I had one of these, a child, a daughter who I could help with all my good stuff. Through happenstance or design, straight people had this wonder by default, often just some kicked up semen. I imagined mine and Dale's progeny; I couldn't go there, at times a sorrow that we were Nephilim.
“I have something of yours” she said, delving into a breast pocket and extending her fist. A thin gold chain pooled in my palm, like a drum roll for the locket.
“Where did you get this?”, evenly.
“I was eight” she said, “digging for treasure in the garden and there it was, in the mud”.
“So you know about your mother and me?”
She flushed a little. “Of course I know” she snorted. “I knew all along, at least as much as a kid could. I liked it, Mum was happy and you were so nice to me. When you'd gone, I began to think I'd dreamed it up but then I found this”.
It had to be done, so putting on my glasses, I pressed the tiny nub and the locket opened gradually, like a mussel shell. There we were, my beaming youth intact, but Nancy's image attacked by a tea coloured corona, blotting the photo booth backdrop and eating into her hair, her beguiling expression left untainted.
“I don't want this” I said gently and slid it back to her.
Cheeks raging, she covered the locket with her hand.
“I'm sorry” she said, “I didn't mean to upset you”, jaw muscles ticking in consternation.
“You haven't upset me, sweetheart”, placing my hand on hers. “It was a nice thought, really. It's just that I don't need it and you should only have what you need. Perhaps you could sell it, it must be worth a bit”.
“I wouldn't do that” she said.
“Yes, you're right, save it for when you find someone yourself”.
Her face twisted wryly and wanting to make her smile again, I said, “or re-bury it, for some other mop-headed treasure hunter to find”.
Her mouth raised the motion of Nancy again, which her dimples seconded.
“That's not such a bad idea”.
“Talking of mop-headed, how come your hair isn't curly anymore? Did it grow out?”
“No, I straighten it”.
“Oh, that's a shame, I love curly hair”.
“But when you have it, that's all you are, the girl with the curls. I don't want to be defined that way”.
“Fair enough”, regarding her drawn back horsetail which had also changed from blonde to black.
Purple clouds of school kids drifted past the window, reminding me I should get going and I caught the waitress's eye. Sasha unclipped a tiny beaded purse.
“It's OK” I said, “I've got it”.
“Thank you” she said. “And thank you for meeting me”.
“Are you going home now?”
“No, I think I'll go to the cemetery to take some photos”.
I didn't like the idea of her alone in that vast, vegetal place, a notorious cottaging and junkie hotspot.
“Be careful” I said. “There are characters at large who wouldn't take kindly to having their picture taken if you get my drift”.
“I hear what you're saying”.
The pointless door tinkle and we were in the street.
“Listen, let me know how you get on with Potarto”.
“I will” she said and hovered as I unlocked my bike.
“Aw, come here”, spreading my arms and drawing her close, detecting the knock of her heart.
“Who'd have thought” I said, “little Sasha, after all these years”. Eyes unexpectedly blurry.
“Yeah” she said, “who'd have thought, big Nette”. And we laughed at the little girl who was gone.
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘Hi Minette
‘It was really nice to see you today. Good news! Rosamund says she'd be happy for me to volunteer. I thought I could be your factotum, your Girl Friday if you'd have me. I read the Marina Abramovich manifesto you mentioned. I have issues with a couple of points, i.e. I don't really need a mosquito net and also I completely disagree that artists shouldn't fall in love with each other. No seriously I get it – it's beautiful. Do you subscribe to her rules?
‘Best wishes,
‘Sasha
x’
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘Great news! I'd love to have you. In answer to your question, yes I do except I have fallen in love with another artist and haven't suffered any detrimental consequences. Quite the contrary, all is good.
‘Take care,
‘Minette
‘PS Did you bury it?’
‘Subject: Re: Left Brain’
‘What's her name? And no I didn't.’
The bouncing icon on my mental monitor …I didn't reply.