The Hook (12 page)

She turned back to Mick. He was sitting up, his arms loose and long at his side. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down next to him.

‘Christy the emancipator. You're too kind-hearted, sweetheart, you'll never get through unless you toughen up, now, will you?'

She giggled and lay back against his shoulder.

‘I'm not. I just don't like seeing a disadvantaged crab. If you were caught in someone's mouth I'd get you out as well.'

He rolled over on top of her, pinning her flat on the cobbled surface, holding her tighter, tighter.

‘I love you, Christy.'

He'd said it now.

This time when Mick was away, Christy wanted to go out. Bolstered by mutually declared love she shed her skin of transparent shyness and swam out supple and strong, gleaming beauty and confidence in every gesture. At the trout farm the fishing was slowing down now the days were not so warm, but there were still restaurant orders to fill, and the smoke house was sulking. Everything came out scorched. Christy's clothes were pungent with the salt-dry smell of over-smoked fish, her hair frizzed from too much time spent leaning into the oven, and she was convinced that her face was beginning to take on the leathered sheen of dried fish skin.

Frank gave her the weekend off and she caught the little train into Lynton. The two short carriages filled up as the train paused at village stations and clusters of women in tight shoes crowded on, their wrists creased around the handles of too many deflated shopping bags. Fields marooning church towers gave way to car-parks and net-curtained windows as the train drifted into Lynton. Leaning too far out of the window, Christy watched the spaghetti chaos of rail tracks unravel until three strands remained and she was too close to see them run up to the platforms and stop.

Maisie's hairdressing salon was in the centre of town, near the fountain where she and Christy had
spent aimless hours as teenagers, swapping insults with boys they half knew as a prelude to being snogged by them in the station waiting room. As Christy walked by she noticed a row of girls giggling, sitting on the wall around the fountain, their feet obscured by piles of plastic bags full of cheap dresses bought this morning at Dorothy Perkins for the party tonight. Relentless, unchanging Saturday behaviour: Christy was depressed by the sameness of it. Two youths, crew-cut and dressed in shapeless dirty jackets and trainers, sat down near the girls, lit cigarettes and began to swap loud remarks about the slappers they had been with last night. She turned away, not wanting to see the girls toss their hair and beckon with shining eyes and gestures until the youths sidled close to them and the insults began. She suddenly wished Frank had taken her further away when Jessica died, to a new town where experience could start again. But then she would never have met Mick. Mick could take her away. They could live in London maybe, or in a little cottage with gingham curtains. He could do that kind of thing, he was free. He could give her his life to share. There was nothing to tie him to anyone but her.

Wrapped in fantasy, Christy entered Maisie's salon. Music pumped over the whir of hairdriers. Maisie winked at her but went on parting and combing wet white hair on the head of a friend of Jessica's. All Jessica's friends came to the salon where Maisie worked, and they all requested Maisie. With them came a trail of quiet tweed and pleats, button-down
shirts and shiny handbags to match the shoes. Jessica had never looked like them, never been one of them, but they were fond of her and determined to help still, three years on. They weren't comfortable in this setting of chrome, bright lights and big music. They had to submit to having their hair washed in sinks shaped like dog bowls and the mirrors had atrophied snakes and spears twisted in the frames, but they came for Jessica's sake. They must support her daughter, it was all that could be done.

Maisie was furious.

‘God, I've got bloody Marjory Perkins and then Elizabeth Moore today,' she whispered to Christy when the white-haired chairwoman of the WI had gone, leaving a small tip and a faint aroma of talcum-powdered goodness behind her. Maisie washed brushes vigorously and carried on. ‘They all ask for me and I spend my whole time doing sets and rinses. I can't stand it, I never have time to do anyone young, and those old bags just go on and on about poor dear Jessica and poor dear Frank, was it wise for him to start that trout farm, until I want to chop their stupid tongues off, or at least give them peroxide instead of brunette rinse.'

‘Well, you can do me if you like,' Christy offered, ‘but don't cut too much off. I don't want it to look any shorter, or any different.'

Maisie threw her scissors and combs into a tall jar of blue liquid and wiped her hands on her skirt.

‘No bloody thanks, but I'll meet you for a drink after work. Why are you here anyway?'

Typical Maisie, thought Christy. I don't know why I go on trying to please her.

‘I'm coming to stay with you tonight. I thought we could go out and have fun. We haven't been on our own for ages.'

Maisie was delighted.

‘Is Mick away? Oh good. We can go to a party or something and get really dolled up. It's Anna's hen night; she won't mind if you come. I'm sick of bloody boyfriends after Ben being back here for all that time. You should see the state of the flat. He's bought another motor bike, or some bits of one anyway. He's a right pain and he wouldn't take me to London when I asked him to.'

A discreet cough interrupted her and the broad figure of Marjory Perkins loomed in the mirror, or as much of her as would fit. The sensible shoes and broad calves were cut off by the table, and the beige mackintosh sleeves, one dangling a handbag, the other caught tight by the hook of her umbrella, were set too far apart on either side of her solid frame to be seen in the mirror.

‘Hello, my dear, I'm so glad you had an appointment for me. Alan has a directors' dinner this evening, and I haven't had a moment to see poor Frank since I don't know when . . .'

Maisie pushed her down into the chair and engulfed the kindly tinkle of her conversation in a white towel.

‘God save me,' she whispered, rolling her eyes.

Christy laughed and left the salon. She wanted to buy a present for Mick. It was his birthday on
Hallowe'en; six weeks away but she was determined to have everything organised well in advance. She thought she might give him a surprise party at the cottage, his present would be bestowed beforehand in the morning, if only she could find the right thing.

The new shopping mall with its piped music and warm air was a good place to start. Christy joined the trail of slow-moving shoppers at the entrance and with them began to wander through the arcades. It was like being under water; all sound was softened and dulled and the faces turned towards shop windows were expressionless and pale green, reflecting the glass roof and the mossy carpeting. She realised she had been standing in front of a men's clothes shop for five minutes without taking anything in. The clump of shoppers she had come in with had moved on through the hall. She could see the red anoraks of one couple bobbing back and forth in a shoe shop. She watched the two bending and rising then stopping as they tied laces and looked at one another's feet, incongruous in pristine shoes beneath old jeans. In a minute they would sail out again and on, extra plastic bags banging against their calves.

Christy suddenly didn't want to buy Mick something big. It had to be small, not heavy but visibly expensive, something she could slip into her pocket, or into his when she gave it to him at breakfast on his birthday. She wandered into an electrical shop, past a bank of televisions like windows in a tower block, busy and unheeding of their neighbours but
displaying uniform scenes in lurid colours. Green turf on a smaller television at the side attracted her and she watched a race start, the horses breaking in kaleidoscope pattern as the flag went up, then reforming in a long tight chain as they found their positions as near to the front and as close to the railings as they could manage. The jockeys perched above their backs like harlequins in a parade, still and faceless as the horses hurtled towards the final straight. The front runner was drawing ahead now, its body lengthening, the muscles standing out on its quarters so it seemed to be pulling the others behind it on an invisible string. A few people then a mass came into view at the railings and the horse slowed as it passed the post. Christy wasn't watching the race though; she crouched by the screen, willing the camera to move back from the winner whose jockey was punching the air in victory. She had seen Mick. It must have been him, tall and dark with his long black coat on, standing beside the finish. Her heart bumped in her chest as though she had caught him in bed with someone. Maybe it wasn't him. It couldn't be. The camera was slow, so slow to move back to the course. There was no sound, she didn't know where the race was, she didn't know if they would show it again.

The picture changed; it was the track and the horses again. Second and third place were decided by a photo finish. The finishing post jerked into view, the mass of green and brown and blue jackets behind the white railings appeared as they had before. She knelt
in front of the television trying not to blink, searching the shunting picture for Mick, but the black coat wasn't there. She thought she saw it moving back in the crowd, but her eyes were hot with staring and she wasn't sure. The picture changed again, a different race in progress, a different track. She could tell because the railings were curved at the top. Pink and stiff with embarrassment and fury, she stood up and walked out of the shop without looking at the staff, afraid that they were watching her and knew she had seen her boyfriend where he hadn't said he would be.

Christy only told Maisie because she knew Maisie would dismiss it. They were getting ready to go out, clothes washed up around the bed where Maisie lay painting her fingernails.

‘What a bastard,' said Maisie. ‘He's probably got another girlfriend and a few children you don't know about. You shouldn't let him get away with it, Chris.'

Cold like a river streamed through Christy. ‘You mean you think I did see him? You don't think it was a mistake? Maybe it was someone else who looks like him. It's not likely to be him, is it?'

If she hadn't told Maisie she could have forgotten it, pretended she'd imagined it. She would never have mentioned it to Mick because he would think she was so crazy about him she'd started seeing things. Maisie was meant to back her up and say she was daft. But Maisie knew it was Mick. She hadn't even questioned it. She accepted it and moved on to her toenails.

It must have been him. She must ask him. She would die if she didn't ask him now, this minute.

Maisie stood up, splaying her toes, and waddled across to Christy.

‘You can't have him taking you for a ride like this. You've got to talk to him, get some explanations. Treat him mean, Christy, or you'll be trampled.' She patted Christy's back and kissed the top of her head.

Christy pressed her palms against her eyes, heaving breaths, not crying, please God, not crying.

The party was upstairs in a pub. Anna was an old friend of Maisie's from school; Christy had met her often before and liked her. Her round face was framed by candyfloss hair and her voice fluted like a child's. Christy thought it was a shame she was getting married, it would encourage Maisie. Christy had never been to a hen night before. She didn't know anyone who was married, apart from proper adults. Maisie was engaged, of course, but that was different. Christy didn't believe that Maisie and Ben would ever get married. Maisie liked being engaged for the same reasons that she liked the motor bike in her flat: it gave her a reputation, it made her different.

Anna, though, was serious about her forthcoming nuptials, and kissing Maisie when she arrived, announced that she was determined to enjoy the hen night to the death. Not a detail had been forgotten. The girls giggled and squealed with faked pleasure when the phallic-shaped menus were brought. The
green drinks they sipped were called Screaming Orgasms, and the food was served by three muscle-bound boys wearing shorts and vests. Christy's nerves jangled. She could not look at the other girls; she was trapped in her own thoughts, scrabbling round and round after Mick. She resented their noise, their laughter, their intrusions on her separateness. The longer she sat there, the more separate she became. She felt an icy disgust when Maisie, drunk, started stroking the waiters' arms when they leant over to serve her. The girl next to Christy was small and dark. She didn't drink and she pushed her food around her plate, eating only the salad when it arrived limp and wan after its voyage from the kitchens.

Christy caught her eye and smiled; the girl stared back at her.

‘How do you know Anna?' Time would pass more quickly if she talked.

‘I massage her, I'm learning aromatherapy. You're Mick Fleet's girlfriend, aren't you? I've done him as well.'

Christy looked at the girl's hands. They were small; long nails yellow and repulsive flicked crumbs across the tablecloth. Christy shivered imagining those hands on Mick's back. She pretended she knew.

‘Oh yes, I remember Mick saying he liked aromatherapy, I've never had it . . .' Her voice trailed off, she was stuck, she couldn't think of anything else to say. She wished she had never started talking to this girl. ‘What's your name?'

‘Linda. You're Christy, aren't you? Mick talks about you sometimes.'

Talks not talked. Christy lit a cigarette, letting her hair fall over her face to give herself time. Another waiter came in and whispered to Anna at the top of the table; she nodded and music poured into the room. Everyone looked up, their mouths open. Anna giggled, straightening in her seat and pushing her hair back. The waiter began swaying and as he swayed he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. His face was in shadow, a tear of sweat wobbled on his cheek. He brushed it off, keeping his eyes on Anna as he dragged off his shirt. A stripper. Christy felt sorry for him. She wondered if he was drunk, or if he did this night after night for hot-skinned half-cut girls, protected from them by his own glass bowl of stony sobriety. He wasn't even good-looking. His clothes drooped and fell to the floor; he couldn't muster the panache to fling them across the room in the traditional manner. Inch by inch his body emerged, stodgy and much too hairy. Linda suddenly pushed her plate into the centre of the table, knocking her glass over and Christy's next to it. Red wine swelled then sank into the pink cloth. Christy thought about mopping it up but couldn't be bothered.