S.O.S. (34 page)

‘It
is
, it
is
,' Nobby went on avowing. ‘Those were, dear Stacy, my very words. Am I right? Do I tell no lie?'

Both Aggie and Stewart heartily vied with each other in a chorus of corroboration, this concluding raggedly with little less than a standing ovation.

‘Jennifer not with you, dear?' asked Aggie, quite solicitously.

And Stacy suddenly was stung by bitterness. She very briefly contemplated an insolent charade – glancing with intent to the left and right of her, instantly detecting the clear and total absence of Jennifer and coming back dead-eyed and leadenly with Apparently
Not
. But the gall subsided within her quite as quickly as it had rushed right in and filled her up, and in its wake now she felt no more than the weight of the barely shifting sludge of misery.

‘No,' she said. Just that: no.

‘It's Stewart we have to thank, you know,' gabbled on Nobby.

Stacy gazed at him. ‘What for?'

And Stewart did his best to maintain the expression (What
for
? Typical, that, isn't it? What bloody
for
? That sort of reaction, I just can't tell you, is so absolutely
typical
of the sort of shit I get).

‘Well all
this
…!' elaborated Nobby expansively – spreading wide his arms to encompass the whole of the glory: he hit a waiter's tray to the left of him (no harm done, but it was late and the waiter seemed in no mood to smile at him) and some half-cut Londoner over to the right, who blushed and stammered out an instant apology. ‘Tell you one thing, though, Stewart – old Elvis is looking a bit the worse for wear. Been in the wars, has he?'

Stewart glanced over at the cut-out; the twinkling mirror ball seemed to unerringly seek out and highlight the corrugations under the King's accusing eye and across that once-perfect nose. Stewart then shrugged and he went Ha ha. (When I get Elvis back to the office, this time I'll rip his bloody head off.)

‘Ringo Starr,' said Aggie, quite amiably, ‘has sailed on Sylvie.'

Stewart was nodding, fondly as an uncle, and Stacy thought if I could just be
sick
 – right here and now – it would maybe be enough for me to just, oh God – leave (and why? Why
can't
I, actually, just
leave
?).

‘As has,' enjoined Nobby, ‘Mister George Harrison, of that ilk.'

‘But not Paul,' said Aggie, quite sadly. ‘But,' she tacked on, brightening up considerably, ‘he might yet.'

‘Nor John,' rounded off Nobby. ‘Who now, of course, won't.'

‘But never
Elvis
 – that's what I was meaning,' elucidated Aggie. ‘Elvis never did.'

‘Well,' put in Stewart, quite as jovially as you might expect, ‘Elvis, of course, never even made it to England. Except, I think, to change planes, one time.'

‘Ah,'
went Nobby, ‘but this
isn't
England, is it, Stewart? Mid-Atlantic, that's what we are: mid-Atlantic.'

And Stewart thought Well Jesus, bloody
Nobby
 – don't you think I
know
that, you stupid little irritating
cunt
.

‘True,' he smiled. ‘Quite true.'

But Stacy had been caught by that last and throwaway remark of Nobby's. She had, almost impossibly, completely
forgotten
, you see – that they were (wholly amazingly, and God knows quite why) in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean … and that makes me feel suddenly cold. Yes. So where is she? Where's my
Mum
, then?

*

‘I should think,' barely whispered Jennifer (I'm actually, yes,
more thinking this than saying it), ‘we've probably more or less missed it, now.'

Earl was lying beside her, his lazy half-open eyes semi-focused on the curved and creamy ceiling of his cabin – or maybe just nearly closed like that as a gauzy barricade against the meandering smoke as he let it drift up out of his mouth, following each deep inhalation of his Marlboro.

‘I wish to God,' he muttered. ‘Wish to God I had some grass.' This cigarette is damn near done, so what I'm gonna do is dump it out into this here ashtray, and light me up a fresh one. And it's now I'm looking at Jennifer for the first time since we got it on … and I'm smiling a smile, sure I am … but what I'm thinking is something I ain't never noticed before. She looks, close up, kinda older than I figured. When her face paint's all loused up like the way it is now, she looks real tired, you know? Also – I get turned on big time when she takes off her clothes; she kinda has this way, right, of just standing there and taking them off right
at
you? But I'm honest, here – I'd like she keep on the bra, yeah? Kinda keeps it into bundles, which is neat. Without the bra, things can get a little out of
control
? I ain't never had no English girl before – and if Jennifer, you know, is how they all are back in England, well then I'm telling you, boy:
hot
. But in the States, the girls are … what can I tell you? Kinda
cleaner
, is what I'm maybe saying here. And wait up – don't you go running off with no wrong idea, here. I ain't saying we're dealing with
dirty
(excepting maybe the way she yells out stuff when she's really, like, into it – and wow, that blows my mind) – but maybe a tad less
hair
would be good, you know? What I mean to say is – I'm the guy here, right? So I get to have all the body hair? And if it ain't hair with Jennifer, then we're talking stubble – and that too to me is a guy thing, OK? I mean – I wanna go down on some wild thing, I'll be sure and let you know, you see what I'm saying?

‘You getting up? Jennifer? You getting up?'

Jennifer had swung her legs out of the bed, and over the side.

‘I've just seen the time,' she said.

Yes, thought Jennifer – and also I've just seen the look on your face. And it hurt me, what I saw. And even as recently as this morning, such a hurt would have been impossible. All this meant to me was a young and cheeky American bloke: what better way to get through a few days at sea? But in the last few hours – when we both were thrashing together, and flailing in amazement – I have come too to gazing at him after, and when he was dozing: those eyelashes – those great soft curling eyelashes that are only ever given by God to young men. He looked so boyish, it was almost girl-like – and yet with all this manly apparatus and the hardness of his day-old beard breaking through a powder-soft complexion. And I felt within me something lurch – not a thoroughly new sensation, but one so barely remembered from decades ago (I never thought I would again come to discern its fluid and dimly-recalled features, receding as they have been ever deeper into shadows).

I appear to have dressed myself. One lazy and muscular arm is raised and vaguely beckoning for me, now. I needn't resist it – and maybe I shan't. It really depends upon how the rest of this goes.

‘I should think,' she said – squirting on to each wrist some Paco Rabanne – ‘it must be more or less finished, by now.'

‘What? What's finished?'

‘The ball. There was that ball thing – remember?'

Earl was grinning. ‘I had me a ball right here, baby. You coming back over here, or what?'

And he meant, thought Jennifer, back again to bed (rather than anything broader). Few men older would display such confidence. But that was the thing, wasn't it, about youth and age? That was
one
of the things about them, anyway: how with the alternations of brashness and hesitance, we constantly seem to dumbfound one another.

‘You're too much for me,' Jennifer lied – gazing down and wanting him badly. ‘At my age – I just can't keep up.'

And was there just the tiniest flutter at the back of his maybe
not
, could be, startled but now wide-awake eyes? He rallied, and came back gamely:

‘Your
age
 – yeah
right
, Jennifer. Like you're – what? A hunnerd years old?'

Jennifer was sitting on a stool in front of a mirror, applying her lipstick.

‘Not far off,' she said.

And then she thought: how exactly shall I do this? Because don't ask me why but I know it just has to be
done
 – so how shall I finally be going about it? Shall I soft-pedal? Gently lead him by the hand to a half-truth, and while he grows accustomed to the semi-shock of that, hint at something further – until at last and forever the whole wide and cold awfulness (which is how he will see it) is stripped off and laid bare – pegged out and splayed and at the mercy of just anyone? I'm still not sure. I could go – Look, Earl: listen to me. You're just a (God)
teenager
 – and me, well – I'm
much
older, so much older than that. (Late twenties? Enough to make him flinch? And why, actually, am I compelled to do this? I don't at all
want
him to flinch, because I just know that when he does, it will be away from me.) Or can I dare to hit him with the big word thirty? Or give him the lot? Do you know what? Don't, please, ask me quite why – but I'm going to, right now: I'm going to give him the lot.

‘I'm not,' she said – maybe exaggerating the contortion of her voice as her mouth opened wide into an O, and she went on needlessly applying yet another thick coat of her jammy lipstick. ‘I'm not, Earl, much off forty.'

And she timed the flicked and sidelong instant's glance into the mirror to utterly cruel perfection. He looked slapped – beaten up, even – before his eyes and wits reasserted themselves.

‘Yeah – like
sure
, Jennifer! Forty! get
outta
here!'

Jennifer turned. ‘It's true,' she said.

Earl sat up – and through his joshing, Jennifer detected the first uneasy stirrings (and however sick he soon might be feeling, she already was in a far worse state).

‘Quit putting me
on
, Jennifer, huh? I ain't
stoopid
. Forty!
Shit
…'

Jennifer looked right at him.

‘It's true,' she said.

Earl just momentarily held her gaze, before his face settled back down into so much joky
fun
(and who, here, was he protecting?).

‘Like,
sure
. Yeh – right. And your roomie Stacy? She's what, now – eighty?'

‘Stacy is around your age.'
Now
, she thought – let's go for it: ‘And I'm her mother.'

And this time he didn't see the battering coming. He was dazed, and nearly breathless.

‘Jeez, Jennifer – will you quit jerking me around? Like –
enough
already, OK? You're really, like, freaking me out here, you know?'

And Jennifer's eyes felt tender, and soon they were going to be stinging her. Her mouth she held firm, though. And then as she spoke, she discovered she'd lost that too:

‘It's … true,' she faltered.

And Earl just stared at her, not knowing now what he should be feeling. I mean – guys back home, they'd think alla this is just such a
gas
, man! I mean, what – Mrs
Robinson
? Too much. Except they wouldn't
believe
it, would they? On account of I don't hardly believe it myself. But hey – this type of thing: it's
cool
, right? I mean – young guy's dream, right? Right. So that's how I'll play it – real cool.

‘Hey Jennifer …' said Earl, quite softly – and now he was behind her, and vaguely fooling with her hair in a way that he thought was maybe reassuring. ‘That's cool. I'm cool with that. Hey – it's cool …'

Jennifer smiled her appreciation of that, at least, and twisted her head about so that her lips could find and kiss his fingers.

‘Thank you,' she whispered. ‘I'm glad that you think it's
cool
…'

But, she thought, you don't, do you? Do you, Earl? No. You don't.

And as he turned away, Earl maybe sensed that, hanging in the air. And all he could think was No. No way. Cool, Jennifer, is not what I think. What I think is, like –
gross?

*

‘Mum's gone,' said Marianne, quite shortly (surprised, and then not surprised by how terribly weary her voice was sounding, and straining still). ‘Were you looking for her, Rollo? Cos she's gone off with the Americans.'

Rollo nodded briefly to that. Couldn't really think of anything to say. No, he hadn't been looking for Mum – or for Marianne, for that matter, and certainly not for Dad. He had simply been mooching about at the fringes of this now quite straggly and maybe finally tail-ending ball, stubborn and wilful in a hope against hope that despite the repeated and near-tearful regrets and cautions that Jilly had given him (starting off quite gentle and loving – escalating soon to really rather ratty, when he just wouldn't let it go) she might after all and despite everything just maybe look in. Because for once, you see, Jilly wasn't actually on duty in that bloody old pub (and if she were, well – where do you think Rollo would be headed for?) but nor – and here was the point, this was to Rollo the very disturbing part, here – nor was bloody Sammy. Very rare, you see, that their time off coincided. Now look – I
know
what Jilly said, I heard it all: she can't just, can she –
leave
him? Just like that? With no sort of explanation? I mean to say
look
, Rollo – I've been with Sammy for just ages and ages – he's convinced. God – we're going to get
married
. And don't – don't, Rollo, please
go on and on and on at me because I simply don't
know
any more. I'm all confused. All this has happened so, oh –
quickly
, and I just don't know what I'm
doing
any more, Rollo. All the time, lately, if I haven't been behind the bar I've been with you, haven't I? Hm? I feel like I haven't
slept
for a year and my head just goes round and round and I frankly just can't handle any more
questions
, OK? Rollo? I find you, well – you know what I think of you, Rollo: you're really …
exciting
, yeah? And I've heard what you've said about what we both can do when we're all back in England – but Christ, Rollo … it's not just that we're both so terribly
young
, but – well God, we live at completely different ends of the
country
! And yeh yeh – I
know
, I
know
: I can get a job in London, fine, OK – but where am I actually going to be
living
, Rollo? I just can't afford London prices, quite frankly – not with the sort of job
I'm
going to get – and you, you still live with your
parents
, don't you? Well you
do
, Rollo – you
do
: there's no getting away from it. So unless you've got a spare million quid just hanging about …!