The Happiness Show (6 page)

 

When Tom finished teaching in Japan, he decided to take the Trans-Siberian Express to Moscow. He had a bulletproof plan: get back to England with an amazing photo essay about the trip, get it published in
National Geographic
and be picked up as the youngest Magnum photographer in history. He wouldn't have to spend even a single day pretending to be a lawyer.

It was a brilliant plan – until his Leica's shutter stopped firing in Siberia after a couple of skinheads tried to nick it. The only reason he still had it at all was that Lizzie was with him when it happened. She had the inspired idea to lift her shirt and yell, ‘Oi, guys, check this out.' While the thugs were staring dumbstruck at her breasts, Tom snatched the camera back just before the cops arrived. It was like a scene out of
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
. That's what had most attracted him to Lizzie: she was part Tank Girl, part Lara Croft and part Annie Get Your Gun. She was the heroine of her own novel.

It wasn't the law that bothered him. It was the soul-destroying hours, the culture and, more than anything, the thought of
telling
people he was a lawyer. ‘Oh, you're a lawyer? What do you call one hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.' He'd seen lots of happy law students but not one happy lawyer. As soon as they started working, they aged so quickly. And it seemed the further they climbed up the food chain – from associate to partner to senior partner – the more broken veins in their faces and the bigger the bags under their eyes. He'd only done law because he had the marks and the girls were supposed to be better looking than in the humanities.

And then he'd met Lizzie.

She was one of those earthy Australian girls, disarmingly and hilariously abrupt and with no idea how sexy she was. She had an amazing bullshit detector; just when everyone was thinking it, she'd say something like ‘Get your hand off it, you wanker.' The more he saw of her, the more he liked her.

She was travelling alone and Tom was travelling with Mad Will, only he was more Crap Will than Mad Will now – lovesick for a Japanese girl called Momoko, he lay on his bunk all day, being maudlin.

‘C'mon, mate, you're just cock-struck. Don't be so boring,' Tom would say.

‘But I love her, mate.' And then Will would look out the window and sigh.

When they arrived in Mongolia, Will did something only an insane person would do. He flew back to Osaka with Mongolian Airlines, which was as close as you could get to a death wish. Tom didn't understand it. The wordless Asian beauty thing had never done much for him. He preferred rude brunettes with big tits and big bottoms.

Anyway, he was really starting to fancy Lizzie. But as anyone who has ever travelled by train would know, it wasn't easy.

The carriage was full of foreigners, which created immediate intimacy – just add vodka. You found yourself chatting with people you wouldn't piss on under ordinary circumstances. It was like musical chairs: each morning you'd get up and cruise the cabins, seeing who was up and what was on offer. In one room there'd be a game of chess and in the next would be four people reading books and in the next a best travel story competition.

‘They say you're pretty safe if you don't eat the meat and you just drink bottled water.'

‘Well, I ate vegetarian for the whole trip and in Bombay I got so sick I almost had to be airlifted home.'

‘Airlifted home? I spent four weeks in a coma in Caracas. They even got a priest in to give me the last rites.'

‘Well, we're staying in a Mongolian yurt for two days.'

‘Two days? We're staying for a week.'

‘Really? Well, in Cambodia I was kidnapped by the Khmer Rouge for a fortnight.'

‘Okay, you win. Who's for a game of travel Scrabble?'

There were eight cabins in the carriage and four narrow bunks in each. After Will left, Tom and Lizzie found themselves sharing with a smelly Dutch guy and an American frat boy who spent the whole trip telling mind-numbingly boring drug stories. ‘And like it was, like, so, like, amazing, and we were all like totally ripped. It was awesome, dude.'

But the lack of privacy just exacerbated the frisson between Tom and Lizzie. Everything was more exciting. He remembered running up and down the train one night with her, playing chasey, and ending up in an upstairs compartment full of bench seats and entire Russian families surrounded by large blue, white and red storage bags. It hadn't dawned on Lizzie that there was any class other than the one they were in. Of course, Tom assumed there were classes. He was English.

There was a man sitting in one corner with a salami and a bottle of vodka. He cut them both a piece of sausage and Lizzie ran back to the cabin for her can of Kraft cheese, determined to give him something in return.

Tom thought Lizzie had the sexiest voice he'd ever heard. He'd never given the Australian accent much thought before, but her laconic lilt with its drawn-out vowels really did it for him. ‘So, whaddya reckon, mate? Is it vodka o'clock or what?' Sometimes she'd take the piss out of herself and pretend she was Kylie Minogue's character from
Neighbours
. ‘Rack off, Shane, you've pranged me car, chucked a spaz and I've had a gutful. Why don't you bugger off an' try an' crack on to Cheryl?' When Tom attempted an Australian accent, Lizzie would laugh hysterically and tell him he sounded like a New Zealander. Or, if it was really bad, a South African.

One day the train went through five different time zones. It felt as if they were in a dream. They would stop at a station for fifteen minutes and the locals would bring out fresh food for them to buy. Everyone in the carriage would buy as much as possible: cheese pirozhki, warm potato salad with gherkins and sour cream, freshly baked bread and late-season Roma tomatoes just picked. That night they enjoyed a communal feast.

It was unseasonably warm for autumn and Lizzie and Tom stood in the open doorway, somewhere between Jining and Ulaanbaatar. They passed the vodka bottle back and forth between them as they stared out into the inky darkness. Every now and then they would pass a little house and through a window they would see a kitchen lit up and someone inside: a man in a singlet reading the paper, a woman doing the ironing, a mother holding a baby up to the window to see the train. They didn't know what time it was or where they were. And they couldn't care less.

They had invented a drinking game when they discovered that they were both massive fans of Billy Bragg. One would start a song and they would take it in turns to sing the next lyric. If you choked, you had to skol.

‘
My friend said she could see no way ahead—
'

‘
And I was probably better off without you.'

‘
She said to face up to the fact—
'

‘
That you weren't coming back—
'

‘
And she could make me happy like you used to.
'

‘
But I'm sorry to say
… Ahhhh, fuck it.'

Lizzie handed him the bottle and Tom drank.

‘Okay
. It's bad timing and me—
'

‘
We find a lot of things out this way.
'

‘
And there's you. A little black cloud in a dress.'

‘
The temptation to take the precious things we have apart—
'

‘
To see how they work—'

‘
Must be resisted for they never fit together again.
'

‘Ah, oh, hang on. I've got it, something about
virtue never tested is no virtue at all
?'

‘Nup.
If this is rain, let it fall on me and drown me
.'

‘That's right …
If these are tears, let them fall
.'

‘Too little too late, mate.' And Tom passed the bottle to Lizzie. She skolled and looked at him. Was it actually possible that she was getting better looking?

‘Where were we?'

‘Here, I think.'

And Tom finally leant over, put his hand on her neck and kissed her on the lips. He kissed her and she kissed him back for a long, long time as they hurtled through Russia in the middle of the night. Lizzie dropped the bottle to the floor. They were both vibrating, shaking with the relief of it all, but each thought the other was shivering in the cold. It was as if there was something wet and warm running through their veins and now it was flowing between them and for a second Tom thought to himself, I could do this forever. When they paused for breath, Lizzie looked at him and glowed.

‘
One of them's off her food—
'

‘
And the other one's off his head—'

‘
And both of them are off down the boozer—
'

‘
To … think … of
… Oh, shit, where's the bottle?'

The next morning, when they woke on Lizzie's bunk, the Dutch guy and the frat boy were elsewhere. They climbed down and Tom stood behind Lizzie and put his arms around her. He smelt her neck and she leant back into him as they watched the Gobi Desert go by.

‘Where are we?'

‘In the middle of nowhere. Actually, it looks like the Nullarbor.' Lizzie looked up at Tom and he kissed her forehead. ‘The middle of nowhere always looks the same, no matter where you are.'

At that very moment, a dozen Mongolian horsemen dressed in traditional clothes rode past in the opposite direction.

Tom couldn't remember ever being this happy before.

 

By the time Lizzie came back, Marks or Sparks was dressed and Lizzie had straightened herself up, splashed water on her face and nicked back into the spare room to reapply her lipstick.

‘Fuck, I thought you were in Boston.'

‘I only stayed there six months. It didn't work out. I thought you were in Australia.'

‘I am. I'm here for a BBC thing, with Keith.'

They looked at each other.

‘And who's this?' Lizzie said, talking the baby's hand.

‘Not sure. Marcus or Spensley.'

‘Oh, one of the twins. I thought he was yours. Seen one, seen 'em all. Jetlag.'

‘Oh, no. He could be my godson, though. I'm godfather of one of them and I'm afraid I can't tell them apart.'

‘So, no kids?'

‘Oh, yes. One. Celia. She's six.'

‘So you're married?'

‘Yeah. You?'

‘Me? Two kids, a girl and a boy.'

‘Are they with you?'

‘No, they're at home with Jim, their father.'

‘So you're not …'

‘Oh, sorry, yes, we are. I mean, we're together, but we're not married. We're what old-fashioned people call de factos. How do you know Keith, anyway?'

‘He's my brother-in-law. Married my wife's sister.'

‘So your wife is here?'

‘She was. She left about twenty minutes ago. She had to take Celia to a birthday party.'

There was silence. And they both sparkled.

‘God, it's great to see you, Lizzie. Let's go downstairs and get a drink.'

 

Tom and Lizzie grabbed a Heineken each and holed themselves up in a corner.

‘
Being John Malkovich
was great but I loved
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
. Fucking brilliant.'

‘You reckon? I thought it was a great script fucked up in the edit.'

‘Seriously, Lizzie?'

‘Nah, I heard a mate of mine who works in film say it and I thought it sounded like I knew what I was talking about. I haven't seen it. But you know that movie
Troy
? There was a review in one of the Australian papers that said, “Wooden horse, wooden actors, wouldn't see it.” Isn't that brilliant?'

 

‘I seem to remember you were a bit of an Ian McEwan fan. I still don't think he should have won the Booker for
Amsterdam
.'

‘I agree, but have you read
Enduring Love
yet?'

‘I couldn't put it down. I cancelled a client so I could finish it. I'm never going on a hot-air balloon as long as I live.'

 

‘So I'm singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” – you know, doing the pig, the cow, the sheep. Oh, you probably don't know. You're probably far too posh to look after your own children …'

‘Matter of fact, I am too posh. But I do happen to know that song.'

‘Anyhow, I turn to this quiet kid and say, “So what's your favourite animal, mate?” And he looks at me and says, “My mum.”'

 

‘Seriously, I think either the Americans should have to pass an IQ test to vote or the rest of the world should get to vote with them. The outcome affects us far more than them and they know bugger all about what's going on in the rest of the world.'

‘Well, if you Australians are so clever, how did you end up with John Howard?'

‘Okay, Tom, you got me there. Another drink?'

 

‘So you're a celebrity, Lizzie?'

‘Not really, just a professional loudmouth. You're the one who's a success. You've got a job.'

‘A firm.'

‘Not your first firm, from what I remember.' Lizzie was happily pissed. Tom's face broke into a broad smile.

‘You must be confusing me with someone else. No, actually, come to think of it I do remember several firms.'

Pause.

‘A firm of one's own. Isn't that what Virginia Woolf said every man should have?'

‘No, I think that was a lawn mower.'

 

‘So Jules and I are in a tent in the middle of nowhere and I think I'm going to die – the pain was excruciating – and so I wake her up and say, “Jules, I think I'm dying,” and you know what she says? “Do you want a smoke, Lizzie?”'

They both laughed.

‘What did it end up being?'

‘Kidney stones.'

‘My brother Ned had those. They say it's worse than childbirth.'

‘It is. But nothing is more excruciating than your Nazi-sympathising brother. How is the Führer?'

‘Married with two kids and living in Essex. But guess what his wife's name is?'

‘I give up.'

‘Eva. No joke. How is Jules?'

‘Great. Corporate maggot. Married a financial adviser.'

‘Back in the breeding pool, spawning with one of her own?'

‘You should meet this guy. It's more like she'll be hosting his latest batch of larvae.'

 

They couldn't get it all out quickly enough. It was like putting on a jacket you haven't worn for a while and finding a fifty in the pocket. Smelling your scent from ten years before. They were back together on that tiny planet only they inhabited.

No one noticed Tom and Lizzie's journey back in time. By this stage everyone was deep in conversation, pissed or both.

Keith lurched over and put his arm around Tom. ‘I see you've met Lizzie.'

‘Actually, we met travelling, years ago.'

‘You never did.' Keith had had a few.

‘Yes,' said Lizzie. ‘When Tom had hair.'

‘And Lizzie was just a loud-mouthed Aussie wanting to be a comedian.'

Becky came over, offering coffee and chocolates.

‘Tom, I'd better drop you home before I get too pissed.'

‘Oh, it's fine, Keith. I'll get a cab.'

‘No, no, no. I insist.' Keith leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, the missus is trying to clean the place out because she's knackered.'

‘Oh, sorry, mate.'

‘May as well drop you back to your hotel, Lizzie, seeing as you're just around the corner.'

Lizzie sat in the front seat and poor Tom was sandwiched in the back between the two baby capsules. They spun through streets festooned with Christmas lights while Keith regaled them with television gossip. Lizzie and Tom glowed and buzzed, like children with a secret. In what seemed like no time they were in front of Lizzie's hotel.

As she gathered her things, she turned around and looked at Tom, searching. ‘Ah, great to see you, Tom. Catching up and all that.'

‘It was.' Tom gave her a silent ‘I'll phone you' gesture and she gave him a nod. ‘Next time you're in town let Keith know and we'll all hook up.'

As Keith's car disappeared, she realised her pulse was racing.

 

‘Nice bird, that Lizzie,' said Keith as he pulled up outside Tom's house.

‘Yeah, she's alright,' Tom said unconvincingly. ‘Thanks for the ride.'

Tom slammed the door and Keith sped away. It was 6.30 p.m. and the house was dark and empty. Without even turning on a light he walked into the kitchen, opened the telephone directory, looked up Thistle Charing Cross and dialled the number. ‘Lizzie Quealy, thank you.'

‘Staff or guest?'

‘Guest.'

‘Do you know the room number?'

‘No, I'm sorry, I don't.'

‘We have no L. Quealy listed.' Minor panic. ‘We have an E. Quealy.'

‘Yes, that'd be her. Elizabeth.'

‘Hold please, sir.'

Elizabeth, thought Tom. I've never thought of her as actually being an Elizabeth.

 

Lizzie was sitting on her bed, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally there was the strange buzzing noise and she leapt for the receiver.

Not so fast, Lizzie, she told herself. You don't want to seem desperate.

‘Hello?'

‘Lizzie, it's Tom.'

Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. How old was she? Sixteen? ‘I know.' She cringed. Fuck, what a stupid thing to say.

‘So you leave on Wednesday?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Would you like to … catch up again?'

‘That would be great.'

‘What's tomorrow like?'

‘Fine, yes, perfect.' Down, Lizzie, down.

‘How about I meet you in the lobby at three? We can have a spot of tea.'

‘Great.'

‘See you then, Liz.'

Clunk. She put the phone down and took a big breath. What the fuck was she doing? She was picking up the phone to find out what time Marks and Spencers closed, that's what. She needed new undies. And a new bra.

 

Felicity and Celia rolled in around 8.30.

‘How was the rest of the party?' Felicity asked as she brushed Celia's hair.

‘Fine. You know, same old same. How was Imogen's, Celia?'

‘It was so cool. I won the pass-the-parcel and the dancing competition. Dad, can you read to me before I go to sleep?'

‘Sure, sweetheart. I'll be up in a minute.'

 

Felicity spent the evening on the internet, researching the minutia of Britain's immigration law to help one of Nagem's cousins.

Tom lay on Celia's bed and they read some Harry Potter. Then he went into the darkroom for the first time in almost a year. He'd forgotten how much he loved it, how it fed his soul. He developed a few rolls of film and put Radiohead on full blast.

Tom didn't sleep much that night. He tossed and turned and tossed and turned. And when at last he rolled over and the clock said 2.17, he bit the bullet, got out of bed, went to the bathroom and had a good toss so that he could get some rest. How long since he'd felt like this? Alive, excited, charming.

He loved Felicity. He didn't want to leave her. He didn't want to mess things up. But he had to see Lizzie. He might never see her again and she had a part of him. She was a part of him. Being with her woke something up inside of him.

 

Lizzie couldn't sleep. She had a bath, she watched some television, she even tried to do some yoga, but nothing. The sleep train was not stopping at her station. Just when she was nodding off to a repeat of
Love Thy Neighbour
, the phone buzzed. It was Jim.

‘Staff Christmas do was last night.'

‘How was it?'

‘Great. I think I drank a bit too much. I gave Helen a box of chocolates for looking after the kids.'

‘How are they?'

‘Fine. Scarlet fell asleep in the cubby this afternoon. I think she was so buggered with the heat and all. I saw her dragging her blankie in there, but I thought she was just playing dolls or something. They're fine, but there's no break, and sometimes it's just relentless, you know? No, nothing I can't handle. Are you having a good time?'

‘Yeah, I went to this party, the BBC guy Keith was having this Christmas drinks thing so I went over and had two glasses of wine and had to crash in his spare room.'

‘Were you pissed?'

‘No, just jetlagged. I bumped into this guy I met on the Trans-Siberian Express.'

‘Wow, that's pretty amazing. Hang on, Lizzie, I've got to go, a kid's just fallen off the trampoline. Call me tomorrow.'

 

Lizzie slept fitfully and woke feeling seedy but excited. She went to Marks and Spencer and spent sixty-five quid on bras and undies, then filled the morning by walking around London and riding the tube. She got off at a station called Angel, wandered into a Sainsbury's and spent a good two hours checking out the food. Why does England have such a bad reputation for food when the produce looks the same as in Melbourne? she thought. Then she picked up a chunk of parmesan cheese and looked at the price on it. 8.36. Fair enough. And then she remembered it was in pounds.

As she walked around the city she thought about her body. It was not the same one she'd had ten years ago. The stretch marks from the pregnancies, the ravages of breastfeeding two children, her grey hairs, her wrinkles. Okay, there were only a couple – but the French saying came irresistibly to mind:
Après moi, le déluge
.

When she caught herself thinking like this, she had to snap out of it. ‘You are in a relationship. With Jim. Whom you love. There is nothing wrong with your relationship and you don't want to sleep with Tom. Well, maybe you do, but you won't. You're just having a drink with an old friend. Get a grip.' But then she'd soften up. ‘It's okay to fantasise. Everyone fantasises.'

She stopped at a little café with orange walls and a white ceiling and ordered pork medallions with a mustard and cream sauce. They were so delicious, she was tempted to lick the plate. By half past one she decided it was time to head back to the hotel. She'd been looking for something to wear but everything was too Eurotrash, too mutton dressed as lamb. But as she made her way back to the station she saw a beautiful duck-egg blue top with a low neck and knew instantly that it was perfect. When you've been living in a body for a while, you get to know what suits it. When she pulled it over her head with her swishy deep-purple velvet skirt and her tall black boots, she just knew. It was made for her. Eighty quid later she was on her way back to the hotel.

 

At 3 p.m. on the knocker she grabbed her bag and headed for the lobby. She didn't have butterflies, she had elephants. As she waited for the lift, an elderly couple slowly shuffled up and joined her. When they got in, she said, ‘Which floor?'

‘Anywhere, love,' said the woman. ‘I'm just taking Dad for a walk.'

As she emerged from the lift she started thinking, Should I sit on a stool? Too slutty. At a table? Yeah, a table. But facing the door or facing away? Maybe reading? Yes, good. The paper? No, a book. Reading a book at a table facing the door. But not by the window, someone might see. Not that we're doing anything wrong.

When she walked into the bar, she didn't have to think about where to sit. Tom was already there.