Neurotica (27 page)

“Christ, I don't believe this. Campbell said this place
was in Poole. It looks to me like it's twenty miles farther on.”

Ed asked if he could take a look at the directions. Anna
handed him the sheet of paper. Ed then proceeded to study the
directions while at the same time negotiating a very large
roundabout.

“Well, funnily enough, I know exactly where it is. A mate
of mine in New York owns a cottage not far from there. In fact, I
often spend weekends there when he's away. I keep the key in the
car. Funny spot for a club, though. It's right in the depths of
the countryside. I'd say it's about half an hour from
here   .   .   . tops.”

Anna looked at her watch. She'd asked the butter churner and
her mates to get to the club by seven-thirty so that she could do
a brief interview with them before the Lover Boys came on. If Ed
stepped on it, they should just about make it.

Relieved that she could leave it to Ed to navigate them
through the center of Poole, she let the conversation drift back
to his divorce and the child custody hearing.

After fifteen minutes or so the divided highway turned into a
narrow, winding road with hedges on either side. As they discussed
Ed's plans to appeal against the judge's decision, Anna couldn't
help thinking how glorious the Dorset countryside looked in the
early-evening sunlight.

They realized almost simultaneously that the car was
beginning to lose power.

“Ed, speak to me. What the fuck is going on?” Anna's tone
was on the cusp of anger. “I always said this car was a junk heap,
but I made the mistake of believing that, bearing in mind how
much traveling your job involves, it was a reasonably
well maintained junk heap.”

“It is, it is,” he said, almost squealing his disbelief. “I
haven't got the vaguest notion what is going on.”

With that the Mini slowed to a crawl. Ed just managed to
direct it into a farm gate entrance before the engine died
completely.

They spent the next five minutes with their heads under the
Mini's hood. Knowing nothing about car mechanics, Anna had nothing
useful to offer. She did, however, occupy herself by saying “I
knew this would happen” over and over again. It was only when
she realized that she sounded exactly like her mother when her
father got lost trying to find a bar-mitzvah venue that she
stopped.

Ed, fraught, and still none the wiser, took his head out
from under the bonnet and said there was nothing for it but to
phone the AA. He got back into the car and rummaged through his
camera bag for his mobile.

“Shitting bollocking buggery .   .   . it's
fully charged, but there's no fucking service.”

Anna reached into the car and found her phone. It wasn't
working either. Leaning against the car, she looked at her watch.
It was nearly seven. In all her years as a newspaper reporter she
had never been sent on a job and come back empty-handed. She
wasn't about to start now; as Ed had so perceptively explained to
her that time on the way back from Isleworth, she could make up
her story if necessary. He would have to make his own photographic
arrangements.

“Look, why don't we cross this stile and see where the path
leads. Perhaps there's a farmhouse at the end of it and we can call
the AA from there.”

Ed agreed that it seemed the most sensible thing to do. He
took his camera bag from the car, locked both doors and turned
towards Anna, who was standing in front of the stile.

“After you.” He took her hand as she climbed up onto the
narrow wooden platform and maneuvered herself onto the other
side.

Neither of them was able to explain the reason for what
happened next. It could have been that an earlier shower had left
the stile greasy and slippery. It could have been that Anna wasn't
concentrating and lost her step. Whatever the cause, two seconds
later, she found herself lying facedown in a wet, muddy ditch.

Ed was over the stile and crouching by her side in an instant.
He put down his camera bag and helped her to her feet. Anna was
coughing and spluttering. She tried to wipe the mud off her jacket,
but succeeded only in rearranging it. Her beige Sweet FA suit and
matching silk blouse were ruined. She could feel pieces of straw
in her hair.

Ed took out a clean white handkerchief. As he wiped her face
and pulled a long piece of straw out of her hair, he looked into
her eyes and smiled.

“Anna, has anyone ever told you, the yokel look is very
you.”

Managing to hold back a smile, she raised her arm to thump him,
but he grabbed her wrist before she could do him any harm. He kept
his grip on her arm, forcing it to remain in midair. They
looked at each other, neither of them saying a word. The silence
seemed to go on forever. Finally, he let go of her arm and drew
her towards him. “I remember wanting to do this two years ago,”
he said, cupping her face in his hands, “when you got furious and
accused me of being an anti-Semitic Pole.”

“Ed, I never said anything remotely like that,” Anna
protested. “All I said was—”

She didn't have a chance to finish because Ed was kissing her,
very slowly, on the mouth.

“Come on,” he said when they'd finished. “Let's carry on
walking for a bit and see what's round the next bend.”

C H A P T E R     E I G H T E E N

W
HEN THEY DISCOVERED THERE was nothing round the bend except another bend, Anna and Ed decided to return to the car. They
tramped back, dodging the muddy puddles, in embarrassed silence.
Anna couldn't help thinking that, although she had enjoyed it
immensely, the likelihood was that the kiss meant nothing to Ed.
The man was exhausted. His emotions were all over the place. He'd
probably wanted nothing more than to be close to another human
being for a few seconds. He was bound to regret it now. The reason
he wasn't speaking was that he didn't know how to tell her. Anna
decided that the easiest and most diplomatic way of dealing with the
incident would be to say nothing, pretend it hadn't
happened—and hope it did again.

Ed unlocked the car, opened the glove compartment and took
out a packet of prawn-cocktail-flavored crisps. He offered some
to Anna. She shook her head. She thought the flavor of synthetic
prawn combined with the shock she was still feeling from falling
in the mud, not to mention Ed's kiss and her anxiety about them
missing the Lover Boys' show, might make her throw up.

“I think the best thing we can do,” Ed said, putting a
handful of crisps in his mouth, “is flag down the next car that
comes along and see if we can cadge a lift. I'll sort the car
out tomorrow.”

A
few minutes later they were accepting a lift from a jolly
middle-aged couple in cricket hats, who were towing a tiny
two-berth trailer with their Morris Marina. They were heading for
a trailer site near Dorchester, and reckoned the village where the
club was would only be a couple of miles out of their way.

The chap got out of the Marina and insisted on helping them
move their luggage. He also suggested Anna might like to use the
trailer to change her clothes.

“By the way,” he said, extending a hand, “we're the
Meatyards. We hail from Orpington.” His voice had the kind of
irritating nasal quality which Anna always associated with bought
ledger clerks. “I'm Terry and this,” he said, waving a hand
towards the woman in the passenger seat, who was working her way
through a pile of dainty sandwiches which she was taking from a
Tupperware container, “is my wife, Elaine. I call her the
hand brake.” He slapped Ed matily on the back. “You know, doesn't
let you go anywhere.” With that he burst into a laugh which
sounded like a donkey having very fast and exceedingly energetic
sex.

As Terry slapped Ed on the back for a second time, Elaine
stuck her head out of the window, and, by way of greeting,
waved a half-eaten crustless sandwich.

Anna and Ed exchanged a surreptitious glance which, although
fleeting, successfully communicated their mutual distaste for Terry
Meatyard. Ed explained that they were Anna and Ed and hailed
from the
Globe on Sunday,
but Terry wasn't a listening
type, and was off again.

“So,” he said, “what brings you and your lady wife to this
glorious neck of the woods? I know, don't tell
me .   .   . you've got rid of the ankle biters and
you've come away for some long-overdue
you-know-what—”

“No, no .   .   . we're not married.” Anna
almost shrieked her interruption. “Well, what I mean
is .   .   . I am, but not to Ed.”

“Say no more, little lady. Say no more. My lips are sealed.”
Terry turned away from Anna and dug Ed conspiratorially in the
ribs. “You're a long time pushing up the daisies, mate. Get
it while you can, that's my motto. If I had my time
again   .   .   .” He looked back at Elaine, who had
put the Tupperware on the dashboard and was now cleaning the
wax from her ears with a cotton swab.

“I'm afraid it's not what you think,” Ed said. “Anna and
I are colleagues. Anna is a reporter and I am a photographer. We
work for the
Globe on Sunday.
” He then went on to
explain about the hen-night story.

“D'you hear that, Elaine?” Terry shouted. “These people
are from the
Globe on Sunday.
” But she didn't hear
him because she was too busy inspecting the lumpy orange tip of
her cotton swab.

“Elaine was in the papers once. She won a bravery award
about ten years ago. Our next-door neighbor's house was on fire
and Elaine went in and rescued the goldfish. When she came out
with the bowl, the poor blighter looked like it was a goner.
Totally unfazed by its seemingly terminal state, Elaine, who, I
should add, had just finished her St. John's ambulance training,
insisted on giving it the kiss of life. Needless to say she
brought it back from the dead. I kid you not, there were reporters
on our doorstep within the hour. The story made a huge splash in
our local free sheet. Maybe you saw it?”

Ed and Anna apologized profusely for having missed it.

“Do you have a trailer?” Terry asked.

“Not really, no,” Ed said. “I don't know about Anna, but
I do camp quite a lot.”

“Don't worry about us, old boy. You won't find any prejudice
chez Meatyard against our tented friends. Live and let live, that's
what I say. You can always work your way up to a trailer.”

“Yes,” said Ed, warming to his theme. “I spent six months
under canvas when I was in Chechnya covering the siege of Grozny
for
Time
magazine.”

“Oh, right,” Terry replied. “Nice site, was it?”

“Yes, quite pleasant other than when we were under intensive
artillery bombardment by the Red Army.”

“Oh, noisy then.”

“A little.”

F
ifteen minutes later Anna emerged from the Meatyards' trailer wearing jeans, a black jacket and fresh makeup. She put
her dirty things in the trunk of the Marina, with the rest of their
bags. Terry shut the lid.

“Elaine's moved into the back. Why don't you sit next to her
and then you girls can have a good old chinwag about your ovaries
and whatnot, and I'll sit with Ed in the front and point out
some of the points of interest. Although I says it myself and
shouldn't, we've been motoring in these parts for more than thirty
years and I am somewhat conversant with the locale.”

It was only when Anna got into the car that she realized
that Elaine was wearing the identical royal blue polo shirt and
baggy red shorts as her husband. With the white cricket hats,
they looked like a pair of French flags.

As Terry started the engine, Elaine began offering round violet
creams. Realizing she was hungry and beginning to feel a bit
light-headed, Anna took two.

Elaine turned out to be just as voluble as her husband. In
the twenty minutes it took to get to the Starlight Club, Anna heard
about Terry's run-in with Homebase over some dodgy window putty,
her recurring eczema which she was prone to develop “in all those
moist places” and the tarnish—“Well, it's more of
a speckled effect, really”—on their new bath taps. Every
so often she would break off to demolish another violet cream.
During one of these pit stops, Anna caught a snatch of Terry's
tour commentary.

“Now, Ed, that church up ahead is really ancient. I believe
they started it around 1245 .   .   . and finished it
at half past four.” He gave another burst of horny donkey.

While Ed rubbed his shoulder, which, after several of Terry's
slaps, was beginning to feel quite sore, Elaine started telling Anna
about the wavy hem on the navy two-piece she'd just bought for
her son's wedding. By now, Anna was barely listening. This was
due partly to boredom and partly because she had noticed that the
narrow country lane had turned into a divided highway and that
coming up on the left was a low modern building, set back from the
road. Huge pink neon letters announcing the Starlight Club rose up
from the flat roof. There were at least half a dozen coaches in
the parking lot. “Brilliant, we're here.” She leaned forward and
spoke to the back of Terry's head. “I think that's the entrance
coming up on the left.”

Terry slowed down and pulled off the road. Elaine, totally
unaware that she had lost Anna's attention, had moved on to the
tale of her anorexic sister-in-law who had come round from her
sterilization operation and demanded that her sugar drip be replaced
with Sweetex.

N
ow then,” Terry said to Ed and Anna as he heaved Anna's
holdall out of the boot and placed it on the ground, “you know
where we are. Don't be strangers. Elaine loves visitors. Gives her
an excuse to bring out her commemorative thimble collection.”

The three of them shook hands. Terry got back into the car,
started the engine and began towing the trailer slowly towards the
parking-lot exit. Elaine stuck her head out of the car window.
“Anna, maybe we could have lunch one day at the Oxford Street
Littlewoods. I still haven't told you about the flaky skin I get
between my toes.”

“Great,” Anna said, waving. “I'll look forward to
it.”

I
nside the Starlight Club, the MC, who was wearing a maroon
double-breasted jacket, finished tapping his mike.

“OK, girls,” he shouted, accompanied by a piercing howl of
electronic feedback, “I want to hear a big “oooh' from all the
virgins in tonight.”

The two hundred women who packed the dimly lit dance floor
had been in a frenzied state of Lover Boy anticipation since
stepping onto their respective coaches at six o'clock. They
oohed as one.

Anna and Ed sat at one of the tables on a raised carpeted area
which formed a border round the dance floor. Despite Elaine's violet
creams, they were both starving and were stuffing themselves with
peanuts. Going down less easily was the on-the-house liebfraumilch,
presented to them on their arrival by Tony, the Starlight Club
manager.

Seeing what a state Anna had got herself into about missing
the Lover Boys, Tony had shown them to a table, ordered the bottle
of wine and kept reassuring her that all she and Ed had missed
was the drag act. The Lover Boys weren't due onstage for over
an hour. This gave Anna plenty of time to do her interview with
Kelly the butter churner. The problem was, how was she going to
find her among all these people? She had popped her head into the
bar just to see if Kelly was still there, but it was empty.

“Now I want you to put your hands together,” the MC
continued, “for Kelly who's marrying her Dave tomorrow, Dawn who's
just got divorced and Shirley who's having her tubes tied on
Monday.”

The crowd, divided by age into crop tops worn over flares and
hooped gold earrings worn with black-cherry lip liner, whooped,
cheered and clapped as the MC presented each of the women with
a bottle of Asti Spumante. At the foot of the stage Kelly, Dawn and
Shirley posed for the Sureshots.

The next minute “Like a Virgin” was blaring out of four
massive speakers and women from seventeen to seventy were bopping
around in their white stilettos, cameras looped over their
wrists.

While Ed fiddled with his lenses, Anna watched the dancing.
After a few minutes she realized that the music was relaxing her,
and that she was beginning to enjoy herself. She poured herself
another glass of wine and then picked up the white menu card which
was propped up between the salt and pepper pots. She had had no
idea the club was serving dinner. They had a choice of grapefruit
segments or melon cocktail, followed by chicken croquettes with
seasonal vegetables and Black Forest gateau. Anna read the menu
to Ed.

“I don't know about you, but I could murder a couple of
chicken croquettes, even ones from a cheapo mass catering pack.”

Ed looked up from his lenses and grimaced.

“Forget it. .   .   . I'll cook us something
later. Graham, my mate who owns the cottage, always leaves the deep
freeze loaded up with M and S packets. He won't mind me nicking a
couple.”

The words “cook,” “us” and “later” ricocheted around
Anna's brain like three baffled bullets. Did that mean he had
meant to kiss her; that it hadn't been a faux pas? Was he
assuming she was going to spend the night with him at this mate's
cottage? Anna wasn't sure whether her sudden light-headedness was
a result of lust or Liebfraumilch.

Before she had a chance to ask Ed what, precisely, he had
in mind for the rest of the evening, he was on his feet, urgently
snapping away at everything as if he were back in Grozny.

“Look, Kelly with the bottle of bubbly is probably our Kelly
the butter churner. Why don't we go over and grab her now. You can
get a quick interview and I'll take some pictures. I'll take
some more while they're throwing their knickers at the Lover
Boys. I won't need more than half an hour. Then we can be on our
way.”

From what Anna could tell, Ed was making the arrogant
assumption that she was coming back to the cottage with him. Despite
having the hots for him she was put out that he hadn't had the
courtesy to actually invite her. She realized she was severely pissed
off with him and told him so.

“Does that mean you won't be coming?” he said, suddenly
looking even more miserable than he had on the drive down.

“I didn't say that,” she said, still trying to sound
cross, but failing. There was something Anna found intensely
appealing about the good-natured way he refused to rise to her anger.
As she picked up her notebook and shoulder bag from the table, Ed
kissed her very briefly on the back of her neck. He then took her
arm and began steering her towards Kelly's table, which was by the
fire exit. The drag artist in crimson lamé and big
ginger hair had just come onstage to start the second
half of his act. Within seconds he was cracking jokes about
foreskins, second comings and Chinese restaurants called the
Wan Kin.

Anna suspected they could probably hear the laughter as far
away as Weymouth.

I
t's loike we're only doing the same as blokes 'ave done for
years. Oi mean, if it's OK for them to watch women strip, why
can't we come and see fellas get their clothes arf? And when you
go to a Lover Boy show, it's all girls, so you're not getting felt
up by fellas every five minutes .   .   . and
there's no husband or boyfriend looking over your shoulder telling
you how to behave. I mean, my Dave, he's great an' all that, an'
I really loves 'im, but he's a bit old-fashioned, and he don't
roight approve of me getting drunk or swearing. He likes me to be
a lady. Comin' to a show like this, you can .   .   . you
know .   .   . let yer hair down and be a bit filthy. S'all
about goin' a bit wild with yer
mates .   .   . 'specially with this bein' my last
night of freedom an' all.   .   .   .”