Virtue (26 page)

‘So what are you up to these days?’ Harriet asks after a pause that’s infinitesimally longer than is polite.

‘Property.’ Simon Clamp sits back, starts fiddling with a cigar that he’s produced from his breast pocket, rolling it up and down between his fingers and sniffing at the middle. He’s probably said ‘Rolled on a maiden’s thigh’ every time he’s smoked one in the past five years. ‘Qualified as a surveyor five years ago.’

‘Ah,’ says Harriet, ‘an estate agent. How nice. There’s money in that.’

‘So where are you living?’ he pushes, seemingly oblivious to the mild distaste with which she is eyeing him.

‘London,’ she says breezily. ‘Can I get you something for pudding, Simon? Only I’ve got eight other tables to attend to. Crème brûlée? Tapioca? Jam roly-poly? A good slapping?’

‘I’ll have a light for this, if you don’t mind.’

I hand her a matchbook from the front pocket of my gymslip. Harriet flicks out a match and bends over Simon to light his cigar. He sucks, he chews, he dribbles, and finally he exhales.

‘I bet,’ she smiles benignly, ‘you could do with a cup of coffee to go with that. Maybe a sticky or two?’

‘Well,’ he beams, ‘don’t mind if I do. Armagnac, if you don’t mind.’

Interesting. He’s already getting comfortable with the toff-as-servant role. He’ll be calling her ‘dear’ in another fifteen minutes.

‘Coming right up.’ She spins on her heel and sashays towards the kitchen. I tuck my matchbook back in my pocket and follow in her wake.

Ten years ago. He probably still wonders what hit him. I stared around me like a mole that suddenly found that it had surfaced in an alley full of tom cats, gazing in terror through my pebble glasses as all the people who had won the charm lottery reaped the benefits of their wealth. I found myself clutching at the hem of my dress and twisting it round and round my fingers as the scream welled and ebbed.
Why? Why did you think these people would accept you? Why did you think you could come out among them and be anything other than a figure for their witty contempt. Look at them. Dancing and draping themselves decorously round each other’s shoulders, and laughing. What on earth made you think they wouldn’t be laughing at you?

I talked to myself a lot in those days.

Simon Clamp took to the floor with Madeleine Bethany, one of those unspeakably beautiful girls-reading-English who lived on our floor in college and was a hopelessly dreary junkie by the time we left, sniffing and acting superior in an attempt to cover up the fact that her brain had been replaced by mashed potato. They executed some ridiculously showy-offy Easter holidays dancing-class move among the bobbers and weavers, slid forward a few steps, and then I saw him whisper into her ear. And as the howl in my head drowned out even the sound of KC and the Sunshine Band, I saw her glance over in my direction, and say something, smiling, back into his ear. And then they laughed.

Harriet seemed to have her head stuck in her handbag, rummaging about with the same look of blank concentration with which she greeted the earlier comment. Even at eighteen, Harriet always carried a bag so huge and so full of tat she looked like she was packed and ready to flee an advancing army at a minute’s notice. She sat up, leaned in to me and said, quietly but distinctly, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ unfurled her legs and danced away, leaving me alone. Cut a swathe through the dance floor, hands in hair, hips giving a bizarre suggestion of not actually being attached to the tops of her legs, while men and boys fell back gasping like airborne trout. For someone who’s so contemptuous of her looks, Harriet sure knows how to use them.

Through the fog, I watched as she danced towards the Clamp party, smiled at Madeleine and patted Simon firmly but fondly on the back, moved on. She circled the floor and returned to my side. ‘So,’ she shouted over the din, ‘you want to leave now, or you want to stay and watch?’

‘Go,’ I muttered. ‘I want to go, please.’

Harriet shrugged. ‘As you want.’

I was already on my feet, scrabbling for my coat. So I missed the first strike. And the second. But by the time I turned round, even I couldn’t miss the commotion. Harriet was standing there, arms lightly folded, smiling like an indulgent mother watching her little ones enjoy a spot of cat-kicking, watching the dance floor, where Simon Clamp whirled choppily round in a mysteriously clear space that had opened up about him. And one by one, each time he whirled and turned his back to them, people threw their drinks over him. He had already taken a couple of pints, a glass of white wine and a pina colada full in the nape; his ears dripped with cocktail goo, and his hair, plastered to his skull, lent him the eerily demented air of an Australian politician.

Splat. A half-pint of Coca-Cola flew through the air and caught him on the left temple. As he turned to see who had inflicted this humiliation on him, another measure of lager flew from behind and washed the back of the dinner jacket he’d worn on from some fools’ dinner or other. Madeleine Bethany, caught in the crossfire, had retreated from harm’s way and was dabbing at her dress.

Then Harriet started to laugh. Grabbed me by the arm and pointed, blatantly, at Simon as he trickled onto the flashing neon lights.

And then I, too, began to laugh. Bubbling up from somewhere inside, the bully’s hilarity overtook the scream, brought it roaring to the surface. I staggered, I choked, I coughed, and finally, a sort of cross between a howl and a guffaw crashed through the defences and the tears began to spill. Jaw pulled open, I stood and allowed them to roll as I held my belly and shook. You might not call this laughter, but it was the first time that I could remember that I’d done
anything
in public.

Simon Clamp, eyes popping as even Madeleine joined the cackles, ducked once more to avoid a flying screwdriver. He was as sticky as a stick preserved in honey. Clutching Harriet’s arm, I sobbed with laughter, wept with laughter, wailed, bawled, keened and whimpered with it. And as she led me towards the door, Simon Clamp, as the DJ realised that something was going down below him and killed the music, stamped a foot and, in a voice full of rage, fear and tears, cried, ‘Why? Why are you doing this to me?’

We slipped out into the night as the bouncers moved in to break things up. I don’t think they minded so much about what was happening to Simon – he was an arrogant shit who was well known for never looking barmaids in the eye – as much as the cost of cleaning up 150 flying beverages. In the night, clacking down the alleyway arm in arm, I continued to laugh until I had another entirely new experience and was sick in public, in a waste bin, in a shopping centre, in the middle of the night after a big night out. Harriet mopped me up with a roll of bog paper she produced from her handbag, helped me totter along in my borrowed heels while I said, ‘I don’t understand. What happened?’

‘Aah, come on,’ replied Harriet. ‘There’s nothing someone like Simon Clamp can dole out than can’t be sorted with a bit of Sellotape and a sign saying “Soak Me.”’

Our lovely Shahin. Always comes up with a solution when something sneaky is needed. Harriet stays out in the kitchen while I help Roy fetch brandies and malts and Benedictines from the bar, and when I finally come through, the two of them are hunched over the coffee tray, on which Shahin has put three cups of filter coffee, two espressos and a cappuccino. Harriet is, as ever, digging in her bag.

‘Keep an eye out,’ he says. ‘If you see Roy coming, let me know.’

I go over to the door and stand by the round window, half looking out, half looking in.

‘Ah!’ Harriet’s face lights up and she brandishes the bottle of eyedrops. ‘Found them!’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I want him out of here,’ she states baldly. ‘I don’t want him here.’

‘You’re not going to get violent again, are you?’

Harriet shakes her head. ‘Trust me. I promised last time. We’re just going to get rid of him. He won’t even know it was us.’

She unscrews the lid of the eyedrops, hovers over the far right-hand coffee cup.

‘How many?’

‘Four or five should be enough.’ Shahin rests his ladle on his shoulder and glances over at me.

‘This is your idea?’

‘But of course.’ The ladle flies through the air as he gesticulates, and droplets of mulligatawny end up on top of the extractor fan. ‘We used to use to get rid of polisman when he come to our house. Everybody know that, don’t they? Eyedrops are giving people instant sheets.’

‘Instant sheets?’ It takes me a moment to translate. Then, ‘Oh. How instant?’

‘Five minutes, ten minutes. Much faster than salmonella, much faster than botulism, much faster than senna tablet. Only one person, no one else affected. They think it something they eat earlier. Have a test, nothing show up. Easy.’

‘Christ,’ I say. ‘Roy will kill us.’

‘Well, don’t tell him,’ says Harriet.

‘I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?’

The two of them grin evilly and shake their heads.

And then I think: I’ve never really had my own revenge. Maybe it’s time I did. So I step forward, give the coffee a stir. ‘Mind if I have the honour?’

Harriet grins, pats me on the shoulder. ‘Be my guest, old bean. Be my guest.’

I hold the door open and keep my disciplinarian’s pout fixed as the last of the party of twelve in the name of Prescott shuffles gingerly through the door and into the night. Simon Clamp is long gone, buttocks clenched, but his friends have sympathetically made a night of it. ‘Thank you,’ they say as they pass. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ ‘You’ve all been very naughty boys,’ I reply, ‘and I expect to see you back in my study very soon.’

‘Yes, miss,’ they say, and at least one rubs his arse and looks like he’s a returner. They’ve spent over a thousand pounds and tipped heavily. I want them back and so will Roy. But right now I want them to sod off. I count to ten as they wobble off down the street, then shoot the bolt on the front door, turn round and lean against it. There’s one blissful moment in restaurant life, a moment of meditative calm, of rushing relief and idyllic happiness, and it’s the moment when the last customer leaves and you’re all alone at last. Of course, it’s only a brief moment, and then you have to clear their table, balance the till, clean out the coffee machine.

Shahin is sitting at the bar. ‘Holy Cow,’ he says. ‘I was beginning to think they are never going to live.’

I’m not entirely sure which verb he’s actually aiming for. This particular party has taken so enthusiastically to the idea of corporal punishment that I’ve wondered myself. My caning arm aches.

Harriet has her hands on her hips again. Roy has gone down Columbia Road and replaced the late lamented window display.

‘If any of those plants die,’ I say, ‘I’m telling.’

‘You promised me,’ says Harriet.

‘I didn’t. I promised I’d try to persuade him not to, but I didn’t promise I’d succeed. And anyway, he’s got a point. We need something in the window. You can’t just have an uninterrupted view from the street.’

‘But I—’

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Harriet, if you do, I swear …’

‘Can’t he just – why can’t we have things that
flower
? It’s not natural. It’s horrible. Plants are meant to
do
things. They’re meant to produce flowers and fruit and berries and shit. They’re not meant to just sit there being …’

She pulls a face, whacks at a large, glossy spade-shaped leaf with the cane and utters the word.

‘…
variegated
.’

Shahin and I exchange looks. ‘How’s the kitchen?’ I ask. ‘Did you change the fan filter?’

He nods.

‘Right, well, you might as well go,’ I say. ‘Thanks for staying.’ It’s always more difficult getting rid of stragglers when Roy’s gone; that looming masculine presence at the bar is pretty essential.

‘Welcome,’ says Shahin, drains his glass of Coke. I’ve never known anyone get through so many sweet fizzy drinks as Shahin. Must be an Islamic thing, I guess. I empty the tips pot and hand him his share. He counts it, looks pleased.

‘I’m going for a drink,’ he says, happily fingering his fifty quid. ‘You coming?’

Harriet shakes her head. ‘Can’t. Sorry. I’ve got to sort out the cellar.’ The Health and Safety people are coming tomorrow and sorting out the cellar is her penance for taking time off without notice. Me, I’ve got to input the last month’s incomings and outgoings on the spreadsheet for Roy to take to the accountant the day after tomorrow. He may have his benign moments, Roy, but you always end up paying later.

‘Do it tomorrow,’ he orders. ‘I want to try out that new place that Laurence is managing. The Amish Bar.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Apparently all the staff have had to grow big beards,’ says Shahin, ‘even the ladies.’ And curls up laughing.

‘I’m not sure why you find that so funny,’ says Harriet, ‘considering the moustaches on the birds where you come from.’

This makes him laugh some more. Shahin is nice to have around; it doesn’t take much to raise a giggle from him. ‘So you come,’ he says.

Harriet demurs again. ‘Darling, I’d love to, but they’re due at eleven tomorrow, and I think I might be going down with something. I can’t risk not being able to get up at seven to do it.’

Shahin shrugs. ‘Up all night, then.’

‘Probably.’

‘Hokay.’ He jumps down from his stool. ‘I will go anyway. You change your mind, you know where to find me.’

He shambles out through the kitchen. The alleyway door bangs to behind him. Harriet sits down at the recently vacated table, puts her head in her hands.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ she says. ‘Well, I’ll be fine. I just feel a bit groggy, that’s all.’

I go over to look at her, and she turns a face to me that has a positive tinge of green about it. ‘Christ,’ I tell her, ‘you look awful. When did this come on?’

‘It’s sort of been building all night,’ she admits.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ I feel her forehead, and it’s warm and slightly clammy. ‘I think you’ve got a bit of a temperature. Why didn’t you tell me?’