Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings

He said, ‘Actually, I’d like to see you. This afternoon if it’s possible.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘There’s a café near Seven Sisters tube.’ He described its precise location. ‘We could meet twelve-ish.’

Twelve was too early.

‘Yeah, that’s fine. Seven Sisters. Twelve-ish.’

‘See you then.’

She put down the receiver and walked into the bathroom to look for a towel. She found one slung over the edge of the bath and wrapped up her dripping hair in it before putting the plug in the bath and turning on the taps.

Back in her bedroom, she rooted out a pair of jeans, a black vest and some clean underwear. Vincent lay across the bed, his legs spread, his feet dangling off the end. His arms, she noticed, now held a pillow over his face. She said, ‘I wouldn’t do that. Someone might be tempted to press down on it.’

He said nothing.

She returned to the bathroom. While she undressed, she debated how soon it would be acceptable to ask him to leave. She tested the water with her hand, climbed in, then lay back and relaxed, staring abstractly beyond her breasts, her knees, her toes, at the taps and the steam from the water.

Vincent felt like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly. That inbetween stage. A pupa. His skin, hard, semi-impervious; himself, inside, withered and formless.

He was not himself. His head bumped and pumped. The light, the morning, scorched him.

During the night he had awoken, he didn’t know what time, and had found a girl, a stranger, next to him. Her hip near his chin. Wool, scratching; cold skin. He had pressed his forehead against her thigh. It had cooled him.

And now it was morning. He needed something. Had to stretch his body – that crumpled thing – his mind, his tongue.

Ruby picked up a bar of soap and started to build up a lather. What does Sheldon want? she wondered. What does he want from me? Her toes curled at the prospect. She stared at them and thought, Why am I doing that with my feet?

Vincent stood on the other side of the bathroom door with his hand on the handle. He shouted, ‘You could’ve told me you were having a bath.’

Ruby dropped the soap and covered her breasts. ‘Don’t you dare come in.’

‘I have no intention of coming in,’ he said scathingly. After a pause he added, ‘Why the hell did you bring me here? I’ve had the worst time.’

She gasped at this, her expression a picture, and shouted, ‘I didn’t bring you here.’

‘Well, I didn’t get here on my own.’

His voice sounded muffled, further away now. ‘Do you always live like this?’

She stood up, indignant, and stepped out of the bath. ‘Like what?’

Silence, then, ‘Forget it.’

‘Like what?’

She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her and pulled open the door. ‘Live like what?’

He was standing in the kitchen, looking inside one of her cupboards. He glanced at her, in the towel. ‘For a minute there,’ he said, grinning, ‘I thought you were a natural blonde. But it’s only foam.’

She yanked the towel straight. With his cut, his pale, white face, the bruises, the suggestion of a black eye, he looked like Frankenstein’s monster. But he didn’t frighten her. She said calmly, ‘Get out of my flat.’

He grimaced. ‘Some hospitality. I have a migraine and all you can do is shout.’

‘Yeah?’ She smiled. ‘Well, I think you should go.’

She returned to the bathroom, closed the door, dropped her towel.

He said, ‘I have a blotch. I’m going blind. You expect me to go when I can’t even see straight?’

She stared at the bath. ‘Well, whose fault is that?’

She picked up her towel and started to dry herself. She heard the cupboard close.

‘Yours. You shouldn’t have paid my bail.’

She rubbed herself vigorously.

‘And lunch. I only get migraines from gherkins.’

‘What?’

‘An allergy.’

She laughed. She was glad that he had an allergy.

He listened to her laughing. Smiled at it. He liked her flat. It was central. He sat down on the sofa, picked up one of the empty vodka bottles, sniffed the neck of it and winced.

Eventually she emerged, fully dressed, made up, her teeth brushed and her hair gelled.

‘I made you some tea.’ He held out a mug to her.

She took it from him. ‘Aren’t you having any?’

He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t keep it down.’

‘Did you try?’

‘I had some water.’

She sipped the tea. It was luke-warm. ‘How are you feeling?’

He shrugged.

‘What are you going to do?’

He shrugged again.