Spin Cycle (24 page)

CHAPTER 23

“Anus-ol,” Tractor said, picking Shelley’s hemorrhoid cream up off her hospital locker and studying the name. “That’s disgusting. I mean, what they’ve done is put the words
anus
and
hole
together. So, if you think about it, they’ve named the stuff ‘arsehole.’ ”

“No, they haven’t,” Rachel said witheringly. “You don’t pronounce it
anus
-ol. It’s
anyu
-sol. The
sol
bit means solve.”

Shelley had gone to the loo, leaving Tractor and Rachel sitting by her bed. Satchmo was asleep in his crib.

“Oh, right,” Tractor said slowly as the penny dropped. “I get it. But you’d think they’d’ve come up with something a bit sexier . . . like, say, PileDriver. Arsehole’s not exactly an easy concept to market, is it?”

“Unlike Imperial Cereal, of course.”

“You may mock,” he said, waving his finger at Rachel, “but you and Matt will be laughing the other side of your smug faces when I get the call from Kellogg’s.”

“Maybe,” Rachel giggled. She was getting to like Tractor. There was something about his wackiness and almost childlike optimism that she found appealing.

She hesitated a moment. “Tractor, have you spoken to Matt this morning?”

He said he’d seen him briefly, just as he was leaving for Nottingham. One of his mother’s sisters lived there and his family always spent Christmas with her. “I thought he wasn’t going this year—because he wanted to spend time with you—but he changed his mind at the last minute. Rachel, has something happened between the two of you?”

“Sort of.”

She explained.

“Course you know why he reacted like that, don’t you?”

She frowned and shook her head.

“It’s happened to him before—women not being up-front with him. A few years ago he got involved with this nurse. Gorgeous she was—bum on her like two perfectly formed . . . Anyway, she was married. A year they’d been going out before she told him. And then it was only to kiss him good-bye and say she was staying with her husband. I know none of us likes not being given the complete picture, but Matt’s got a real thing about it.”

“God,” Rachel said, looking particularly troubled now, “I had no idea.”

Just then Shelley reappeared. “Who’s got a real thing about what?” she asked, climbing back into bed.

Rachel told her story for a second time.

“Look,” Tractor said when she’d finished, “you two sit and have a natter. I’m having me dinner at our Bridget’s in Feltham. I’d better get moving.”

He stood up, kissed Shelley on the cheek and said “Bye” to Rachel.

As he walked past Satchmo’s crib, he paused to look in. “You know, Shelley,” he said, winking, “he’s got your chins.”

“What d’you mean ‘chins’?” she said, feigning offense. “Bloody cheek. Now bugger off.”

But he didn’t move. He looked back down at the baby. “Tell you what, my old Tyco racing set’s just sitting in our mam’s loft doing nothing. Maybe I should drive up to Liverpool after Christmas and get it. Kids love it.”

“Tractor, that’s really kind, but Satchmo’s really busy between feeds at the moment, what with him playing Fussball with my dad.”

She and Rachel looked at each other and started giggling. Eventually Tractor saw the joke.

“Oh, right,” he said. “Maybe I should wait until he’s a bit bigger.”

“I think that might be best,” Shelley said, still laughing.

He turned to go.

“Oh, Tractor,” she called after him. “By the way . . . thanks again for the choccies.”

“My pleasure,” he smiled.

“You know, Rache,” Shelley said once he’d gone, “Tractor’s got such a brilliant sense of humor. He arrived at the crack of dawn this morning and for two hours I don’t think I’ve stopped laughing. I mean, just look at these.”

She reached down, opened the locker and brought out a box of cellophane-wrapped novelty chocolates. “Course,” she said, “I probably won’t eat them. They’re full of preservatives. But it’s the thought that counts.” She put the box down by her side. “Rache, don’t worry about Matt. He adores you. Once you’ve finished with Adam, he’ll come round. I know he will.”

“God, I hope so,” Rachel said gloomily.

Shelley’s face broke into a smile. “Come on, it’s Christmas. Sod the preservatives. How d’you fancy a chocolate penis?”

* * * * *

“So did Shelley like the giant booger you got her?”

“Sam, for your information that ‘booger’ set me back thirty-five quid—and yes, she loved it.”

Joe looked curiously at Rachel. She explained she’d bought Shelley a silver ring for Christmas.

“And stuck to the band there’s this huge nugget of translucent fluorescent green plastic. It’s all sort of jagged and pitted.”

“You’re right, Sam,” Joe said, winking at him. “Does sound exactly like a giant booger.”

“Will you two just stop making fun,” Rachel said, hitting Joe playfully on the shoulder with a cushion.

“No, please. Don’t hit me,” Joe pleaded. “I feel sick. I shouldn’t have had that third helping of Armagnac soufflé.”

Rachel jeered and promptly bashed him again.

It was nearly four and Greg’s magnificent, much-fretted-over “fusion” Christmas lunch of crab and prawn wonton laksa, perfectly cooked turkey served on individual vegetable mountains, and a Sri Lankan syrup-and-cashew nut cake thing as well as the Armagnac soufflé and Christmas pudding, was finally over.

Greg, whose hostess flush had developed into a severe postculinary stress headache and who had been forced to down three Nurofen as a result, was loading the dishwasher, having steadfastly refused all offers of help. Rachel and Joe, weary and bloated from all the eating and boozing, were lolling on the white Conran sofa with Sam between them.

Rachel couldn’t believe what a thoroughly enjoyable and relaxed day she’d had. Not only had Joe and Greg refused to let her lift a finger, but they hadn’t stopped going on about what they would do to Pitsy if they got hold of her. For the first time Rachel was aware that the residual anger she felt toward Joe had all but disappeared. She had decided not to say anything about what was going on with Matt because she didn’t want to spoil the jolly atmosphere.

“You know, Greg,” Rachel said as he reappeared, carrying a tray of coffee and truffles, “that lunch wasn’t so much a meal as an edible art form. That prune and Armagnac soufflé.”

Greg blushed with pleasure as he put the tray down on the coffee table. “Yes, and although I say it myself, the turkey rather tickled the palate too.”

“That’s because you left the bloody feathers on,” Joe said, winking at Rachel.

Greg started pouring coffee in a mock huff, but everybody else, including Sam, collapsed with laughter.

While the adults sat drinking their coffee, Sam started to become boisterous and irritating. When he wasn’t clambering over Rachel or Joe, he was telling unfunny jokes or trying to get their attention with daft riddles and tedious “OK-which-hand’s-it-in?” magic tricks.

“Come on, Sam,” Joe said eventually, “why don’t you go back on the Internet? There must be some Barbra sites you haven’t found yet.”

The three of them had joined to buy Sam a computer for Christmas. Overjoyed, he’d spent the whole morning in his bedroom at Joe’s surfing the Internet. Now, because he was tired and wanted attention after all the adult conversation, he was reluctant to go back.

“You just want to get rid of me, don’t you?” he sulked.

It took them nearly ten minutes to convince him they didn’t. Finally, muttering something about not having asked to be born, he disappeared into his bedroom.

“You know, Rache,” Joe said, “it’s amazing. He’ll be a stroppy teenager before we know it.”

When they’d finished coffee, Greg suggested a walk. “Might clear my head,” he said.

“I’m in,” Joe said. “Rache?”

“Do you mind if I don’t? I’d rather lie here and have a nap, if that’s OK.”

Joe called to Sam to ask him if he wanted to come, but by now he was so engrossed in the Internet that all Joe got by way of reply was, “Shh. Go away. I’m busy.”

Rachel dozed off almost immediately.

“Mum.”

She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, when she became vaguely aware of Sam’s voice somewhere in the distance.

“What?” she said drowsily. She half opened her eyes. He was standing at the foot of the sofa.

“Mum. Do you think we’re going to get snow?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rachel groaned, putting a cushion over her head.

“But Mum, they’ve got six feet up in London.”

“Sam, no jokes now, darling, I’m asleep.”

“No, Mum, Mum. My friend Emily’s dad had to dig them out of their house yesterday.”

“You haven’t got a friend called Emily.”

“I have. She’s really nice. We’ve been telling each other jokes. She said maybe we could go to the movies sometime.”

“Oh God, why do you kids insist on using that word? We’re English; we go to the cinema.”

“Whatever, but can I go?”

“I suppose. Find out exactly where she lives. And why she’s telling you weird stories about snow.”

He trotted off. A minute later he was back. “Cobble Hills,” he announced. “Is that anywhere near Muswell Hill?”

She took the cushion off her head. “Er, not as such,” she said. “I think you’ll probably find she lives in the other London. It’s in Canada. That would explain the snow.”

Sam’s face fell. “Oh right,” he said dejectedly. “She sent me a photograph. She looks really pretty. I thought maybe she could be my girlfriend. She’s thirteen, so I said I was twelve.”

Rachel giggled. “Oh, Sam. What a shame she’s so far away.”

He disappeared back to the computer, no doubt to give Emily the bad news that the trip to the movies was off.

Rachel sat up. It was a moment before the full impact of her son’s brief encounter on the Internet hit her. Emily was a girl. Sam thought she was pretty. He wanted to go to the pictures with her, this older woman. He’d even lied about his age.

“Way to go, kiddo,” Rachel murmured. “Way to go.”

She carried on sitting there, a gormless smile on her face. She didn’t hear the front door open, or Greg and Joe walk back into the room.

“Rachel. Come in, Rachel,” Joe said, waving his hand in front of her face.

“Oh what? Sorry,” she said vacantly. “I was miles away.”

“You OK?” Joe asked. “You look a bit flushed.”

“No, I’m fine, absolutely fine. Couldn’t be better.” She paused. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“This may sound like an odd question, but how old were you when you hit puberty?”

“Me?” He looked puzzled. “God knows. Although I do remember having my first wet dream about Bradley Lebetkin when we were still at primary school. So, I suppose I’d have been about ten, going on eleven.”

“So deep down you were always certain about your sexuality—even though you married me?”

“Pretty much, though I didn’t admit it to myself. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said.

* * * * *

Rachel got home about ten, having left Sam behind. He was staying on with Joe and Greg for another few days. It was only as she stood in the hall taking off her coat that she saw the red light flashing on her answer machine.

She flicked the switch and rewound the tape.

There was a message from her mother wanting to know how she was and another from Lenny asking the same. He also said he’d had a go at trying to find Pitsy, but hadn’t had any luck.

“Her flatmate said she hadn’t seen her since yesterday. Meanwhile, I managed to find an e-mail address for Noeleen Piccolo. I’ve left her a message telling her all about Pitsy and to keep a lookout for her on the Sydney circuit. It occurred to me that our hairy friend may be so scared of you finding her that she’s hotfooted it back to Oz for a few weeks until her Channel 6 show starts. I don’t know if anything’ll come of it, but Pitsy is such a vicious cow, I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.”

She wished he were there so that she could hug him.

“You are a star, Lenny,” she said aloud. “Do you know that? A bloomin’ star.”

The third message was from Adam. Apparently he’d been trying to reach her ever since the competition to find out how it went, but since all he’d been getting was her answer machine he’d ended up phoning Faye. She’d told him about Pitsy.

“What a bitch. How could somebody do such a thing? It’s evil. Pure evil. You must be devastated. Look, I have some news too. I’m coming home. Miracle of miracles, Uncle Stan has found a friend of a friend to fill in at the office from next week. So I’ll be home tomorrow, Boxing Day. My plane gets in at one, but don’t bother coming to meet me, I’m getting the shuttle straight up to Manchester. One of the partners in the practice is having a cocktail party in the evening and since I’ve been away so long, I really ought to show my face. I’ll drive down to you first thing the following morning. There’s something really important I need to discuss with you.”

* * * * *

It immediately occurred to her that he wanted to tell her he’d met somebody else and that their relationship was over. That would make what she had to say so much easier. On the other hand, she wished she didn’t have to wait an extra day to see him. She was already pretty anxious about this meeting. More hanging around, rehearsing and re-rehearsing what she was going to say to him, would only make her worse. It took a few moments before the solution hit her. Because it was Boxing Day, he would probably have to wait ages for the Manchester flight. She would meet him at the airport and speak to him before he caught the shuttle.

CHAPTER 24

“Blimey,” Rachel muttered, staring at the bloke in the Panama hat and cream three-piece suit with a purple silk handkerchief spilling out of the breast pocket. “Where’s that berk off to, tea with Oscar Wilde?”

It was several seconds before she realized the “berk” was Adam. She shook her head in disbelief. Adam had superb taste in clothes. He was one of the chicest, most understated dressers she knew. He was certainly no poseur. As she watched him push his cart past the first few dozen people standing by the customs exit waiting for friends and relatives, she wondered what could possibly have caused such a bizarre sartorial metamorphosis.

Must be what
le tout
Durban is wearing this season, she thought to herself, knowing how easy it is when you’re abroad to go native fashionwise. What about that poncho she’d bought in Guatemala? It never did quite work when she got back to Crouch End.

By now her heart was pounding. Last night in bed she’d gone over her good-bye speech a dozen times and she still wasn’t sure what she was going to say.

She began waving at him tentatively—as if he were a black cab and she couldn’t quite make out if he had his light on—but he didn’t see her. He’d stopped and turned to speak to the young woman following him, also pushing a cart. Judging by all the shared laughter and eye contact, they knew each other pretty well.

“It’s her,” Rachel whispered to herself. The woman was bony, verging on angular, immaculately pressed and coiffed, wearing thin-rimmed gold spectacles and a gray business suit.

Maybe because she’d never been 100 percent certain Adam was seeing somebody else, it hadn’t occurred to Rachel that he might bring her home with him.

“No wonder he didn’t want me meeting him at the airport,” she said to herself.

Adam and the woman carried on walking and chatting, clearly not realizing they were heading straight toward Rachel.

When they were only yards from her, a holdall suddenly fell off the woman’s cart. Adam bent down, picked it up and stacked it back on top of her pile of cases. Then with a flourish of his Panama hat he performed a deep, theatrical bow. While Rachel screwed up her face—half laughing, half squirming—the woman burst into fits of giggles. He then puckered up in that Mick Jagger impersonating a goldfish way of his and planted little kisses over her face.

Rachel walked forward a few paces and tapped Adam on the back. “Hiya,” she said brightly. “Hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

Adam shot round. “God . . . Rachel,” he gasped. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“So I see,” she said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

She knew she shouldn’t tease him, but she just couldn’t resist it.

She beamed at the woman who was hovering awkwardly and visibly shocked next to Adam.

“Er, er, yes,” he spluttered. “This is Yootha. She’s my uncle Stan’s dental hygienist.”

“I am so pleased to meet you,” Rachel gushed, noticing how well her thin wiry lips accessorized her glasses. “Adam must have been so grateful to have had you around during that terrible locust invasion.”

Ivana Trump caught buying Birkenstocks couldn’t have looked more humiliated than poor Yootha did at that moment.

Before Yootha had a chance to say anything, they had both turned to look at Adam, who had started fumbling in his trouser pocket and swearing to himself. Blood was trickling gently out of his nose and down his chin.

In a second Yootha had produced a wad of tissues from her bag. “OK, Addy, just put your head back and pinch the bridge of your nose.”

After a few moments he brought the tissues down from his nose and sniffed. “I think it’s stopped. Look, Aardvark, Rachel and I need to have a talk. Why don’t you go and have a wander round Boots? You could check out the different types of dental floss. I’ll come and find you later.”

“All right, Addy, if you’re sure you’re OK.”

He assured her he was and she walked off, pushing her cart.

“Addy and his little aardvark,” Rachel said, grinning at Adam. “How sweet.”

* * * * *

They found an empty row of seats. Adam took off the hat and sat swinging it between his knees.

“Look, Rache,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean you to find out like this. I wanted to sit down with you and explain.”

She nodded slowly. “So you and Yootha—it’s pretty serious then?”

“It’s early days yet but, yes, I think it is. We clicked from the instant we met. You know, we have so much in common. She irons her underwear, just like me.”

“Yeah, once she’s starched it,” Rachel said, smiling and batting her eyes innocently.

“And she’s made me change my entire wardrobe. She reckons a man hitting early middle age should look more distinguished.”

Rachel didn’t say anything. Early middle age, she thought. He was only thirty-six, for crying out loud.

“You know,” Adam went on, putting his hat down on the empty seat next to him, “I’d been dreading telling you. I’ve spent days psyching myself up to tears and a huge scene. But you seem to be taking it incredibly well.”

“Ah. Well, you see there’s a reason for that. . . .”

As she told him about Matt, his shock and incredulity gradually gave way to relief.

* * * * *

“You know, Rache,” he said finally, “we were kidding ourselves thinking we could ever make each other happy. We are such different people. You with your comedy . . . me with my . . .”

“Trouser press?” she volunteered helpfully.

He gave a half-laugh. “I thought that once we were married, I could change you, make you more like me. But deep down I’ve known for ages we were wrong for each other.”

“That would certainly explain why you went off sex,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I should have said something.”

She patted his knee and said it didn’t matter now.

“So you really love this Matt, then?”

“Oh yes.”

He put his arm round her shoulders and told her how happy he was she’d found someone. She said she was happy for him too.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said.

“Yeah, me too.”

A tear rolled down her face. He wiped it away.

Then he hugged her, but only briefly. She sensed his emotions were starting to get the better of him too.

He let go of her and stood up. “I’d better get moving. Yootha will be wondering what happened to me.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Take care,” she said.

“Yeah, you too. Give my love to Sam.”

She nodded.

He turned to pick up his hat, but an exceedingly fat, moley woman in flesh-colored polyester slacks and a T-shirt that said “Pittsburgh: City of Dreams” now occupied the seat on which he’d left it.

* * * * *

Feeling a mixture of sadness and enormous relief, Rachel headed off across the concourse toward the car park. It was only when she wandered into Departures and found herself standing next to the Qantas check-in desk that she realized she’d been walking in completely the wrong direction. She had just turned round and begun retracing her steps when she noticed a tiny woman with pigtails heading away from the desk toward the departure lounge.

Rachel’s face turned Dulux white.

“Fuck,” she exclaimed, her hand forming an involuntary fist. “It’s Pitsy.” Rachel’s walk turned to a trot. “Janeece,” she yelled across the concourse. “Come back here. Come—back—here.”

The moment Pitsy turned round and saw Rachel, a look of sheer horror appeared on her face. In a second she was running toward the departure gate. Rachel started running too, shouting after Pitsy as she went. When Pitsy refused to stop, she began yelling at passersby.

“Stop that woman. Please. Somebody stop that woman.”

Pitsy was sprinting by now; Rachel was falling behind.

“Please, somebody. Stop her,” Rachel shrieked. “She stole my jokes! She stole my jokes!”

By now people were stopping to stare at the crazy woman. One member of a group of laughing Japanese businessmen hurriedly put a video camera up to his eye.

Rachel stopped and gasped for breath as, ahead of her, she watched Pitsy showing her ticket and passport to the chap at the Departures entrance.

“Stop her,” she bellowed. “She’s a thief! Don’t let her through! She stole my jokes! She stole my jokes!”

But it was too late, Pitsy had gone. As Rachel wheezed her way up to the desk, she could see Pitsy heading toward passport control.

“She stole my jokes,” Rachel sobbed quietly. “She stole my jokes.”

Rachel stood there for a few seconds, her head in her hands, digging her fingers into her scalp with frustration. When she finally looked up, she let out a tiny, terrified yelp. Looming over her were four policemen in bulletproof vests, machine guns across their chests.

Rachel’s hands shot into the air in surrender.

One of the policemen, a middle-aged chap, stepped forward.

“It’s all right, love,” he said with a gentle smile. “Put your hands down. You just come along with us and we’ll tell you some brilliant jokes.”

He reached out and took Rachel’s arm.

“No, you don’t understand,” she pleaded frantically, doing her best and failing to release her arm from his powerful grip. “That woman really did steal my jokes. Honestly. You have to believe me.”

“Oh, we do. We do,” he soothed. “Come along and you can tell us all about it.”

Escorted by his three colleagues, he led her away from the crowd that had started to gather.

“Move along now,” one of the cops said. “The show’s over. There’s nothing left to see.”

“Now then, can you remember what medication you’re on?” the middle-aged policeman asked Rachel.

“I’m not on any medication,” she howled, “I’m a comic. I’m a stand-up comic.”

“Course you are,” the policeman said genially. “Course you are. Now did you hear the one about Saddam Hussein, Hillary Clinton and a camel?”