The Unhappy Medium, page 10
Belinda was pleasant, but she started every sentence with a self-dismissing put-down. Newton’s academic credentials made it even worse, so that towards the end of the evening, she seemed compelled to declare that she ‘didn’t know anything about salt’ and despite Newton’s heroic efforts to dumb himself down, she’d then burst into tears of self-loathing .
Jane had been all front, ready for a fight from the moment they met outside Les Miserables , aggressively deconstructing Newton’s suggested venues and culinary choices. Most of the evening felt like an argument so Newton nearly complied when she suggested he went back to her flat, if only to keep the peace. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ he’d started saying, but he was cut short by a barrage of expletives as she stormed off into the late evening crowds.
Tabby called herself Tabby because deep down, she wanted to be petted and cosseted, preferably around the clock, by a team of Hugh-Grant-a-likes armed with ‘yummy’ chocolates. She had endless stories about assorted dirty rotters who had failed to sufficiently pamper the scarf-and-jumper-coated sofa monkey. He introduced physics into the conversation mainly as a last-ditch attempt to stay awake after a mindless thirty-minute sermon on the merits of scented candles. Her destiny seemed to be to make more room for herself, a twenty-year plan of ‘me time’ that was set to last until presumably a future husband drowned her in her own essential oils.
Jo was a vamp, no question about it. She shimmered in her Superdrug splendour beneath the flickering lamps of the Steakhouse, her harsh trilling voice competing with the back-catalogue of boy-band masterpieces dribbling out of the cheap speakers. It seemed that Jo was wishing to better herself by dating upwards. She’d had enough of kickboxers, nightclub owners and time-share salesmen, and she wanted something else. By the end of the evening it was obvious to both of them that it wasn’t Newton. She kissed him goodbye, giving him a complimentary sheen of cheap glitter, and he went home on the train convinced he must look like Brian Eno back in his Roxy Music days.
Julie was certainly vulnerable. Ten minutes of date, a short abridged tale of perpetual abuse and mental illness, and then a sudden tearful exit that left Newton feeling userous and clumsy, a guilt that seemed to hang around for days although he’d not in any way acted in anything but good faith. He awkwardly tried to contact her by email afterwards but after no replies he thought better of the whole issue and left it.
So that left Sarah. Sarah got Newton spectacularly drunk before they’d even got through the basics and he, dropping his guard in favour of Sarah’s finger-clicking drink orders, lost all track of himself. He woke up next day in distant Harrow with an award-winning headache and no underpants. She was quite nice about it, but as Newton was urged out onto the street outside, he almost felt remiss that he had not signed a visitors book.
It was not exactly a good first run. Newton was determined to end the whole process there and then, but on his return to his computer he found he had a message from an altogether different kind of respondent.
‘It’s a right load of cobblers all this online dating don’t you reckon,’ it said. ‘I think I’m going to throw it in ... it’s driving me banjo.’ It was signed by one Viv1234.
The cynicism was refreshing. After weeks of raking his way past old wedding pictures, GSOHs and a vast army of women who liked to swim with turtles, Newton was taken aback by the change in tone. He replied there and then. ‘You’re not kidding, I got nagged into it by a friend.’
Viv1234 came back instantly, clearly idling away on her PC somewhere in the suburbs. ‘Oh that old chestnut,’ came the reply, ‘we all say that!’ Newton smarted strangely, the simple digital message cutting through his desire to portray a measured aloofness. ‘No really,’ he pinged back.
‘Well me, I was getting a bit bored of my own company, to be honest,’ Viv1234 went on regardless. ‘But I’m not sure that I prefer the inmates of the medieval jail I’ve been out with. You need to be accommodating, sure ... but bloody hell! One guy smelt like a flood-damaged charity shop, another ate cockles with his mouth open and one got thrown out of the pub for vandalising a condom machine. And those were the good ones.’
‘I thought it was just me,’ replied Newton
‘What? Who vandalises condom machines?’ pinged Viv1234 with commendable speed.
‘No, I mean the lousy dates. Mine have been a bit of a washout too.’
‘The important thing, the really vital thing,’ Viv1234 announced grandly.
‘Yes?’
‘Is never, ever to sleep with them.’
Newton’s lack of a quick answer soon drew her attention. ‘Oh no, you didn’t!’
‘I’m afraid I did,’ he typed, not really feeling the need to hide anything from so tenuous a contact.
‘Yup me too. Bloody awful,’ she quickly replied. ‘Woke up with his mother bringing us breakfast in bed.’ Newton nearly spat out his wine.
‘You’re kidding me? Really?’
‘Yup ... Quite nice as it happens, sausage was undercooked, but then that was hardly her fault.’
‘Bloody hell Viv1234, that’s mad – has he stayed in touch?’
‘Nope, his mum sent a nice text though. I think she hoped we’d get married.’
‘You are funny Viv1234,’ Newton pinged.
‘Please, call me 1234,’ she replied quickly. ‘So what do I call you then, Darwin456?’
‘Call me Kenton,’ Newton replied.
‘Pity, I’d rather call you by your real name.’
‘That is my real name,’ he persisted.
‘No it isn’t, Newton,’ she replied after a short delay. Alarmed, Newton opened an almost empty bottle of Budgen’s own-brand vodka.
‘???????’ he typed, trying to buy some time to think.
‘It’s not rocket science,’ she typed back. ‘I recognised your photo because I used to watch your shows, I was a bit of a fan.’
‘I’m surprised you want to talk to me now then. I’m persona-non-grata these days.’ He decided to air the issue quickly, to see if she’d back off.
‘Oh that, that was nonsense wasn’t it? I didn’t take that seriously at all.’
‘You didn’t ...’ replied Newton, somewhat relieved by the tone.
‘Nah, that’s big business for you. Happens all the time.’
‘It does?’ Newton asked doubtfully.
‘Well no, probably not, but who cares?’
‘That makes a change, most people would prefer to avoid me I think, soiled goods and all that.’
‘Really? That’s a bit harsh. Pity, you were good on TV. Do you still look like that?’
‘Like what,’ Newton asked.
‘You know, that kind of Jeff Goldblum Jurassic Park thing, Buddy Holly meets Harold Pinter.’
‘Is that what I looked like? Wow, that’s a bit worrying,’ Newton typed.
‘Why?’ asked Viv1234.
‘Because I’ve just started dressing like that again,’ Newton replied.
‘Cool,’ said Viv1234 both in type and out loud. ‘Wanna meet up?’
******
Newton Barlow and Viv1234 met up on London’s Southbank on a crisp and bright Saturday, bitterly cold, the sun unable to warm much beyond their faces. She turned out to be a pleasantly down-to-earth woman in her late thirties, independent of spirit, but in no way territorial about her private thoughts or feelings. Her instinctive honesty and casual good looks charmed Newton enormously. She was certainly no clothes horse like his ex-wife. She was clearly more at home in jeans and jumpers, and her hair was more casual than couture. She had a buoyant air that Newton felt instantly drawn to and her relaxed informality came over like a breath of fresh air.
‘I’ve had the usual round of chaps coming and going,’ she explained over a large glass of red. ‘But I think I’ve got a really low threshold for all the game playing and complexities that people insist on bringing with them. I wouldn’t say I’m difficult myself at all, just can’t deal with those who are.’
‘You live alone then?’ asked Newton.
‘Yeah, afraid so. Not a thing I thought would happen really, but it’s not something I’d exchange for a life of endless stress ending in a pointless messy divorce.’
‘Amen to that.’ Newton raised his glass and Viv smiled kindly.
‘I get the impression you had the whole world fall on you after that bubble thing,’ she said. A sensitivity in her voice let Newton relax and he found himself comfortable enough to be truthful.
‘Yes, it’s been pretty ghastly. To be honest, the broken marriage bothers me less than the fact I let myself get caught out so badly. I should have seen it coming and put a stop to it. Too late now, but I was a fool.’
‘Oh don’t beat yourself up, I can see why it happened. Some things just have a way of unravelling all by themselves. ’
‘It really doesn’t bother you that I’m such an instantly recognisable walking talking cock-up then?’ asked Newton, keen to test her tolerance to destruction.
‘Nah, I’m not judgemental about stuff like that. I like you, and I think I can trust you, you sound like a friend to me.’
‘Just a friend then?’ Newton asked, worried that he’d already lost his chance to take things further.
‘First date Newton, first date. Got to be a good girl or I can never look my mother in the eye again.’ She smiled sweetly but firmly.
‘Ah OK, gotcha,’ said Newton, laughing and blushing in equal measure. ‘What do you do for a living then Viv?’
‘Not much is the answer at the moment. I’ve been in and out of publishing, did a lot of picture research for a while, used to quite enjoy that. But right now, I’m temping half-heartedly till I get my act together and decide what I want to do next. I’m up for anything most of the time, though I get bored easily.’ Viv smiled, shrugged and quaffed the wine.
Newton and Viv spent a gentle happy day by the river, jolly but not drunk by the time the sun started to dip down below the skyline. Unsure what to do, Newton hesitated as they finally neared the station.
‘It’s been a lot of fun Viv,’ he found himself saying.
‘Yeah, me too,’ she replied, giving Newton one of the most honest smiles he’d ever seen. ‘Tell you what, give me a kiss and go away?’
‘Go away?’ Newton asked, puzzled. ‘What? Er why?’
‘Just do as I say.’ She winked conspiratorially. ‘Go on.’
‘OK, er ... here goes then.’ He lent forward and kissed her gently and deliberately on the cheek. As he reluctantly drew back she smiled again. ‘Bye then,’ Newton said as he turned, somewhat confused, and walked away.
‘Newton ... Hey Newton,’ Viv called after him, then beckoned to him to come back to her at the second-hand bookstands.
‘Sorry, Viv, I’m confused ... what’s happening?’ Viv brushed back her hair, put her arms around him and gave him a long passionate kiss. As the moment washed over him, Newton felt a sense of calm smother him like warm foam. Months of tension and ennui floated away. She pulled back just enough to look him directly in his widened soppy eyes. She had looked attractive to Newton before, but now, frankly, she looked irresistible.
‘This, Newton, is our second date.’
CHAPTER 10 – Sensitive developmen t
The morning mists had cleared from the surrounding scrubland as Ascot McCauley’s black Land Rover Discovery entered Langton Hadlow. Ominously, it circled the square twice before finally pulling up next to the war memorial. In the last occupied homes there was a fearful twitching in the net curtains.
After a small delay, the car door swung open. Ascot McCauley stepped purposefully out onto the flagstones, a light breeze flicking his foppish locks as he scented the air like a hungry hyena. Casting his beady black eyes around the village square, he smiled with satisfaction; it was very near the ghost town he had intended it to be, the chipboard panels rendering the once-lively village centre blind and dead. His dark gaze followed the many empty properties around the square until finally, it settled upon the mess of protest signs and graffiti outside a solitary cottage. Ascot narrowed his eyes. Fresh signs insulted his lineage, his business acumen and his sense of fair play in badly spelt black letters, and his trimmed eyebrow twitched by way of reply. From an upstairs window, a shadowy ball of hatred stared back defiantly and Ascot, relishing the conflict, sneered with a Billy Idol lip curl to reveal several small snow-white teeth. Waving his hand dismissively towards the protest, he turned and sniffed the air again, then shifted his attention back to the war memorial. Gazing up at the slab of trapezoid metal, he flared his nostrils, sensing. On his right hand, the long thin fingers danced with each other as if rolling particles of sand, his gold signet ring catching the winter sunlight in dull flashes. He walked up to the plinth and climbed. McCauley’s eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he cautiously extended his thin bony hand and touched the cold metal, gently, with a single exploratory finger tip. As if shocked, stunned or on the verge of a climax, Ascot’s eyes closed like electric garage doors. He took a sharp, deep intake of breath, which he held for a long second before letting it go in a jet of condensation. Something akin to ecstasy flitted across his sharp features. As if he were using his hands to seduce a sexually frustrated duchess, he then placed all five fingers onto the tank and confident he was unobserved, he rubbed it furtively in a lingering caress. Then another breath, this one sharper and more sensual. His eyes rolled upwards in their sockets as the eyelids flickered orgasmically.
A flash of images poured through the developer’s mind. A tumble of savage disjointed snapshots: barbed wire, clouds of rolling choking green mist, wicked machine-guns whipping into never-ending lines of figures struggling hopelessly through seas of cloying, hideous mud. Then, above the cacophony, the jarring crash of the artillery, bursting amongst the rounded shoulders of screaming terrified men, the blasts creeping nearer, nearer, ever nearer until ...
‘And just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ said a voice from inside the tank. Ascot wheeled around guiltily, like a pervert caught at a widow’s clothesline. After spinning on the spot to find the source of the interruption, Ascot’s eyes fell upon a small opening in the metalwork through which an eyeball and a wild eyebrow were staring straight back at him.
‘Who’s there?’ he hissed back defiantly. ‘What are you doing in there? Isn’t this meant to be a monument?’
‘It’s a living monument,’ came the clipped ex-military tones, which were followed by a series of clangs and bangs as the man inside put down his monkey wrench and fumbled for the exit. Still mildly away with his visions, Ascot quickly composed himself, pulling his cuffs out from beneath his blazer and straightening his tie as the mechanic stepped out onto the plinth, his oily blue overalls instantly at odds with Ascot McCauley’s market-town chic. He wiped his hands on a rag.
‘I’m Mr McCauley,’ began Ascot haughtily, more of a boast than an introduction.
‘I know who you are,’ said the mechanic coldly. ‘Come in search of more carrion have you?’
‘Carrion? I’m not a vulture Mr ...’
‘Brigadier,’ corrected the mechanic, ‘Brigadier Gerald Baldwin, 5th RTR.’
‘RTR?’
‘Royal Tank Regiment, British Army. Though probably you’ll know me better as one third of Langton Motors.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Ascot, looking towards the distant ramshackle garage. ‘The petrol station. A charming throwback, quite old school. How on earth do you make any money?’
‘Yes, a good question,’ said the Brigadier, his eyes narrowed, ‘considering you’ve driven out 99 per cent of our customers.’
‘Driven out?’ said Ascot, feigning hurt. ‘Oh but it’s nothing personal Brigadier, I assure you. Just market forces. I’m quite certain they’ve all gone to better places. Anyway, you can hardly blame us for providing them with such keen incentives.’
‘Incentives? We both know your idea of incentives McCauley. You drove these people mad with noise, irritation and veiled threats. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You insensitive cock.’
‘Insensitive?’ asked Ascot, as he ran his hand back along the camouflaged metal and closed his eyes, smiling knowingly to himself. ‘You have no idea just how sensitive I can really be.’
The mechanic eyed Ascot with distaste as the developer took another sharp, near-orgasmic breath and rolled his eyes upward. ‘You’re a creepy bastard McCauley, you do know that, don’t you.’
Ascot reluctantly drew his hand away and brushed past the mechanic along the plinth before dropping like an upper-class ninja to the pavement below. ‘You have my most recent letter Mr Baldwin?’
‘Not selling.’
‘Ah. You require more inducements?’
‘Not selling.’
‘A pity. Just you, the museum and the village idiot in the fortress opposite,’ said Ascot, sneering. ‘Such a pity. Of course, you’ll have to sell in time, trust me. Such a lovely village, a shame you feel compelled to hold back its future.’
‘It had a future once, you took it. And anyway, a village like this is not just the buildings, you soulless parasite. It is defined by who lives in it. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘Well that’s convenient Brigadier, because I don’t, and I won’t. We shall just have to agree to differ,’ said Ascot, looking back up at the tank. ‘A wonderful machine – brutal, simplistic and utterly savage. It has seen so much pain and suffering. How much would you like for it?’
‘Go away.’
‘As you wish, Brigadier, as you wish.’ Ascot turned and strolled nonchalantly away as if he owned the whole place, which of course with the exception of The Tugger’s Arms, the museum, Langton Motors and the strongpoint opposite, he did. Behind him a stream of military oaths caught the breeze and floated towards the ruins of the castle, rearing up above the morning mist like broken false teeth. Ignoring the insults, Ascot smiled a sleazy smile to himself and crossed the square. He turned the corner into the street towards the museum.
