The Great Escape (23 page)

What should he do now? A long night stretches before him. With a sigh, and suddenly feeling heavy and old, he heads back downstairs to try and chip that toffee off Josh’s carpet.

THIRTY-THREE

‘Hey, hairy boy, you okay?’ Spike pauses, finding it hard to form the right shapes with his mouth. He grips his mobile, wondering how best to put it that he doesn’t appreciate this new ‘amusing’ nickname Astrid’s come up with.

‘Er … I’ve been trying to call you,’ he says. ‘I was thinking, now your meeting’s over, at least I’m
assuming
it is, maybe I could come over …’

‘Oh … I’m not sure,’ she replies.

‘Really? Well, we could go out then. There’s still plenty of time. Charlie says there’s this band on, don’t know how good they’ll be, but he’s put my name on the door and I’m sure I can get you in—’

‘No, sorry, I’m really tired tonight. I think I’ll just stay in.’

‘But it’s Friday night!’ he exclaims. The realisation that Astrid is considering throwing away this prime opportunity sparks a flash of instant sobriety.

‘I know, hon, but I’ve been working a lot this week, you know? I just feel like lounging about, to be honest. I’m sorry. I know it sounds boring.’

She doesn’t sound sorry at all, Spike decides, momentarily distracted by a vision of Astrid lounging about in her neat, tasteful living room wearing not a bulky marshmallow dressing gown but that … French thing. What’s it called again? A
chemise
. ‘Well …’ he drawls, closing the polystyrene carton on the kitchen table which contains his sausage remains, ‘I think I’ll go anyway, just to check them out. Okay if I pop by to see you later on? About half-ten?’

Say yes. Please, please, say yes.

‘Um, no, Spike. Not tonight. I’ve told you, I’m really shattered.’

Because sitting in a meeting or doing a voiceover – ie talking into a microphone – must be completely fucking exhausting
… ‘So you don’t want to see me at all tonight?’ Spike asks coolly.

‘I’m just not in the mood, okay?’

Brilliant. Spike senses his entire body slumping with disappointment. His greasy supper shifts in his stomach; maybe he should have had a stir-fry after all. ‘Is it … something to do with me?’ he murmurs.

‘No, no, no … it’s just stuff. I’ve got a lot on at the moment, Spike, and after we talked about Lou, I hoped, well … you might give it some thought.’

Spike opens his mouth, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. ‘So you’re giving me an ultimatum to leave Lou? Is that it?’

‘God, Spike …’ Astrid laughs bitterly. ‘Of course not. Look, maybe it’s not really about Lou. It’s just … our setup, you know? I mean, it’s not really a relationship, is it?’

‘Isn’t it? What would you call it then?’

‘I dunno. Just … a
thing
.’

Grabbing the bottle, Spike fills his grease-smeared wine glass with Croatian red and takes a big sip. ‘I thought you liked it that way. I thought you were enjoying our …
thing
.’

‘Well …’ Astrid pauses, ‘I was for a bit. But I just think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.’

‘I don’t understand!’ Spike rages into the phone. ‘It’s like you’ve gone off me, all of a sudden, with this hairy boy business …’

‘What?’ Astrid exclaims. ‘You’re offended by me calling you hairy boy? It’s just a joke …’

‘Yes, I know that, but it’s not very flattering, is it?’

‘But you
are
hairy,’ she says in a gentler tone. ‘You’re one of the hairiest guys I’ve ever met, and it’s … it’s nice, I like it …’

‘Well, obviously you don’t,’ he splutters.

‘I do! I did. Hairy is, um …
great
, Spike. It’s just, I’ve been thinking about us, mulling it over and –’

Spike doesn’t know what Astrid’s been thinking because he hangs up on her and snatches the cigarette that’s been trickling smoke from the conch ashtray.
Hairy boy.
How his life has plummeted since that brief flurry of attention, following that one hit record so long ago. Letters galore, flooding into his record company; scrawlings of love – some pretty lewd – and even the odd pair of knickers or bra stuffed into a jiffy bag. Then … nothing.

Gripping his wine glass, he makes his way unsteadily through to the bathroom and observes his tense reflection in the mirrored cabinet. His lips are stained black from the wine. He grabs Lou’s spotty white flannel, wets it under the tap and rubs it vigorously over his mouth. Sod Astrid, he thinks angrily. She’s been playing him along, knowing full well how much he’s looked forward to this weekend – even selling his guitar, for God’s sake. Well, two can play games. Balancing his glass on the toilet cistern, he whips off his T-shirt and peers down at his chest.

What is it about it that Astrid finds so offensive? Sure, it’s hairy, but the hair is concentrated around the right area – ie, the chest zone, and not creeping upwards towards his shoulders or round to his back. Nothing he can do about that. Yet … there
is
, isn’t there? Women aren’t hairy because they go to great lengths to get rid of it. Well, Spike will too. He’ll show Astrid Stone what he’s capable of, and then she’ll be bloody sorry.

A wave of nausea hits him as he flings open the cabinet door. So Astrid wants smooth? He’ll give her smooth. How hard can it be to wax your own chest? Teenage girls do it. Well, not their chests, admittedly, but their legs and underarms and other areas he can’t allow himself to think about. And chest skin isn’t delicate. Spike’s is probably as tough as rhino hide. He’ll whip it all off, then he’ll go round to see Astrid and surprise her – forget that band, they’ll probably be crap anyway. And Astrid will either be astounded and ravage him there and then, or find it hysterically funny or possibly even
touching
that he’s done this for her. Either way, it’s win-win.

Packets and cartons tumble out onto the peeling lino floor as Spike rifles through the cupboard. There it is:
Silken Glide ready-to-use cold wax strips for sensational smoothness
. Perching on the loo, Spike studies the blurb on the back of the lilac box.
Precautions
:
not suitable for use on face or head
. What kind of idiot would try to wax their own head?

He squints at the instructions.
Briskly rub the strip between your hands to warm and soften it
… Spike briskly rubs.
Now peel the two plastic layers apart and place one, wax side down, firmly onto your skin.
Spike presses it onto his chest, just above his left nipple.
Rub firmly and repeatedly, following the direction of the hair growth.
What direction is that? Spike’s chest hair doesn’t seem to have a direction; it sprouts in unruly whorls, not unattractively he notices now, gazing bleakly down at the strip. He decides to rub in all directions, so at least some of his strokes will be right.

Now pull the wax strip back on itself as quickly as you can, in the opposite direction of your hair growth.
There it is again. If he doesn’t know its direction, how can he be sure which way to pull it off? Yet the longer he dithers, the more firmly the strip will glue itself to his skin – perhaps requiring a humiliating trip to the doctor’s to have it removed. Gritting his teeth, Spike plucks a corner of the strip between his thumb and forefinger, pausing for a moment while sweat prickles his brow. He takes a deep breath and pulls hard, letting out a cry of anguish as pain sears through his body and the hairs are ripped out. ‘Jesus,’ he gasps, eyes watering, chest stinging like fury. He glances down at the newly-waxed area. It’s bright pink, eerily shiny and almost hair-free. There’s no way Spike can face waxing another section. He isn’t a small man, and his chest hair extends upwards from his pubic region to just beneath his neck. It would take hours to wax it all, and involve acute pain. Spike has a newfound admiration for women who have Brazilians.

No, he’ll have to abandon the project, he decides, glancing down to see that the waxed section has now sprouted angry red pimples. Great. So that’s supposed to be more attractive than natural man-hair, is it? Spike tosses the box of remaining wax strips into the bath in disgust.

He’ll just have to live with it, he decides. Maybe, when he’s sober and steadier of hand, he’ll be able to muster the courage to rip off the rest, or perhaps he’ll just let the bald bit grow back and hope it merges in with the rest of the forest so Lou doesn’t notice anything untoward.

And what about Astrid? What will she make of it? Replaying their phonecall, Spike doesn’t believe she no longer wants to see him – not really. She was probably just in a mood, that’s all. Hormonal, or playing a game to test his keenness. Next time she glimpses him naked, she’ll probably laugh her head off and it’ll help to break the ice.

Spike needs another drink, but even more than that, he needs people around him. He’s spent too long by himself, eating vile, greasy food, getting drunk on brandy and Croatian plonk and waxing himself, and Lou’s only been gone for about five hours. If he carries on in this manner, by the time she comes home on Sunday, he’ll be hospitalised.

He pulls on his T-shirt and jacket and walks purposefully out of the flat, focusing his thoughts on the gig Charlie mentioned. Spike’s chest is stinging, and he’s left the used wax strip draped, like evidence at a crime scene, over the side of the bath. But, looking on the bright side, he tells himself as he quickens his pace, the night can only get better.

THIRTY-FOUR

Father and son have stopped to listen to a busker playing guitar outside the Metro station. It’s a bustling Friday evening in Glasgow, and most people are more interested in being out, and getting to where they want to be, than in a skinny teenager with choppy red hair strumming a Bob Dylan song. But Johnny and Cal have stopped and are playing the ‘how much to throw in the guitar case?’ game.

‘He’s really good, Dad,’ Cal says. ‘I reckon at least ten quid.’

‘I can’t give a tenner to a busker!’ Johnny exclaims with a grin, basking in the comfortable ordinariness of being out in the evening with his son. They’ve been to the cinema, the vast multiplex with all the escalators that Cal still enjoys riding up and down on, even at twelve years old. If this were a normal Friday night, they’d be heading back to Johnny’s flat where Cal spends most weekends. They’d get up early, pick up some shopping and maybe, if Johnny was feeling generous, Cal would be treated to a strawberry tart from the posh new patisserie where everything comes in a fresh white box. Not this one, though. It’s Cal’s mother’s birthday tomorrow – her 36th – and Rona wants to spend it with her son.

‘Yeah,’ Cal says, ‘but we said that instead of giving small amounts to different buskers, we’d save up for the best ones.’

‘Why did we say that again?’ Johnny asks.

‘Because otherwise we’re giving the same to the good
and
the crap ones and that’s not really fair, is it? He’s worth a lot more than that old lady with the squeaky accordion you gave a quid to.’

Johnny laughs. ‘Yes, but maybe she needed the money more than he does. Maybe she was a poor old granny with fifteen grandkids and he’s got a rich mum and dad and is just doing this for fun. Maybe he gets more pocket money than you get in a whole
year
.’

Cal turns to him and frowns. ‘So? He’s still good, Dad.’

‘So, I’m just saying.’ With a grin, Johnny fishes out a two-pound coin from his wallet and hands it to his son. ‘Here, give him this.’

‘Dad! You’re so tight.’

‘Yeah, right, I just paid for our cinema tickets and bought you a massive carton of popcorn …’ With a snort, Cal steps forward and drops the coin into the busker’s fur-lined case. ‘C’mon, we’d better go,’ Johnny adds as the busker nods his thanks.

‘Can’t we stay out a bit longer? Just walk about a bit?’ Like his father, and despite the fact that Cal has lived in Glasgow all his life, he still relishes the buzz of the city as it revs up for a weekend night.

‘No, I’d better get you back,’ Johnny says.

Cal makes a low grumbling noise, which Johnny feels like doing too. What he really wants to do is pick up a pizza and head back to his place – a small but perfectly decent two-bedroomed flat a couple of streets away from the art college. He wants to hang out with his son over a pizza with mushrooms, chatting about the movie and the fact that Cal’s been picked for his school football team. Not major, life-changing stuff. Just the minutiae of his son’s life. They’d stay up late, but that wouldn’t matter because there’s no school tomorrow. Tonight, though, Cal must be returned to Rona and Tristan’s vast Merchant City flat with its white rugs and white sofas and white bloody everything else as far as Johnny can work out. There’s even a little white C-shaped rug that fits snugly around the loo.

He plucks his phone from his pocket and calls Rona. ‘Hi, it’s me, sorry we’re running late …’

‘That’s okay. I was just about to phone you, though. I was getting a bit worried …’

‘Yeah, the film was longer than I expected so …’ Johnny tails off. He and Cal are passing a basement bar, a new cocktail place called Felix, its black and purple sign embellished with swirls. It looks posh, expensive and a tad pretentious. From up at street level, Johnny can see a woman sitting at the window, perched on a high stool, glass in hand, curly auburn hair springing around her face.

‘Are you coming over now?’ Rona asks.

‘Yes. Yes, I am …’ Johnny falters. He can’t see all of the girl’s face, just her cheek, her graceful neck and the dainty curve of her chin. But he feels as if his heart has stopped.

‘Johnny?’ Rona’s voice snaps him back to reality. ‘Is everything all right? You sound distracted …’

‘Yes, yes, it’s fine … sorry. Just thought I saw someone I knew.’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, just someone from years back …’ He finishes the call and looks down at the girl in the window. She is wearing what looks like a vintage dress, black or navy with large bright flowers splashed all over it.

‘C’mon, Dad.’ Cal nudges him as the woman turns and, just as he thought, it’s Lou Costello from Garnet Street. Lou, who Johnny hasn’t seen since the day he moved out from the flat above hers, and in with pregnant Rona, trying to convince himself that it
would
all work out, and that his girlfriend was right – it was time to cut ties with his ramshackle studenty life and grow up and be a dad.