Cathexis Read online

  “Hi, it's Nancy Ilarian”. A provocation in the voice.

  I knew it was my turn to speak, but kept missing it, like trying to catch a chicken. This imagery made me snort. I could hear her puzzlement. Managing to grasp the chicken, I planted it firmly under my arm.

  “Hi Nancy” I said. “Sorry, I'm a bit zonked”.

  “Oh, I'm very sorry to have disturbed you” she said.

  “No, s'fine” (the chicken was struggling).

  She paused. Was it my turn? I noticed the mouthpiece of the phone was filthy.

  “I wondered” she continued, “if you had progressed with a design for me?”. My mind spun around a word; what was it now?

  “No” I said decisively.

  Silence, followed by a fluttering discourse which reminded me of Woodstock berating Snoopy. I looked at the irritable, scrapey lines in the speech bubble, trying to read them as if they were words. I had no clue what she was on about and opted for a pacifying approach.

  “You're quite right” I interjected. “I'm sorry, I'll have something for you very soon”. I hoped I was on the right lines. Another hiatus.

  “OK, thank you” she said inscrutably. “Take care, Minette”.

  I liked the way she said my name, emphasizing the ‘t’ by breathing an e at the end.

  “Bubbye Nancy” I said, slipping down a hole. But she was still there and so was I. Why weren't we hanging up in the customary fashion after the sign off? Was she expecting something more?

  The receiver clicked.

  In bed that night, reviewing the photos of the empty garden on the new company digital camera. I often did this because I dreamed solutions. The next morning I had it. Throughout the night I'd been in Nancy's virtual space, it was uncanny. With my favourite blue biro poised over the pad, I stared into the portal. When I'd finished, I set it down, unable to look at it straight away with any perspective. Remy, still comatose, the amorphous lump's only identifying feature a comb of straight, black hair on the pink pillow.

  In the living room, I sat cross legged on the crusty, itchy carpet and played patience to find out if I would get the job. My companion was obsessive compulsive disorder, but it made me good at my job, combining all the components needed to feed the Tamagotchi: repetition, checking and creativity and constructing new and tortuous elaborations. There was a degree of counting, estimation and volume, and a firm belief that outcomes could be affected and gods placated by sheer perseverance and force of the mind, plus a smattering of masochism and a great deal of anxiety thrown in.

  After playing five games, the cards had indicated a largely positive result, so returning to the mouldy futon, I retrieved the work. Rolling my eyes up, down, left and right several times to purge them, I beheld the drawing. It was good, in fact it was inspired. I'd rendered the garden in exaggerated perspective. The new features complied to the existing perameters, but burst up and out in unexpected and cunning ways, making best use of the space. This had to be built and I phoned Nancy on a wave of confidence.

  “That sounds great” she said. “Can you come tomorrow?”

  I bounded up the steps, suddenly seized by a bout of nerves; this never happened when I was showing a design. I touched the door knocker four times before using it and decided to study her to see if she was gorgeous. The door opened and she smiled warmly, but with a coy undertone, on high alert. I wondered if this was contrived, but decided to find it charming. She ushered me into the living room where I dropped into an enormous, leather sofa and looked around for clues.

  While she was downstairs making coffee I twisted the rolled up drawing in my hands and deducted. The room, vast and oddly bare. It appeared that in an attempt to fill it, they had chosen the largest versions of everything: a giant three piece suite, an expansive glass coffee table with chrome legs, a plasma telly the size of a school blackboard. An absence of books, ornaments and artwork, aside from, above the sepulchral fire place, a truly horrible painting of a unicorn leaping forth from an orange, splattery sea. Three sizeable mirrors (clearly people who liked looking at themselves), two of which were hung on opposing walls, creating that sickening exchange of infinitesimal reflection.

  Most notable however, on the garden side of the room, a concert size grand piano crouched. Its curves and silence intimated femininity in an otherwise masculine room.

  I remembered my mother trying Chopin, tinkling tentative, concentrating through some fog I didn’t understand, then crashing the keys in frustration. I managed to figure out Doe a Deer by myself when I was five. My mother told me to stop that racket before slamming the lid down on my wrists.

  Not many clues to her character. I concluded she was either a woman of no substance who managed to present a plausible façade, or she didn't care enough to invest time in expressing herself in décor.

  I urgently picked at the pad of my hand hoping to remove a detaching callus before she returned.

  The rattle of proper cups and saucers announced her approach and I pocketed the carapace of hard skin, observing her as she placed a tray on the low table in front of the sofa. She was perhaps, some five inches shorter than me. I could see why Clive thought I might like her. He knew I had several penchants; one being long, curly ringlets of a particular type, pre-Raphaelite, not exactly curls, more like coils. She had it just right. Her eyes, intelligent, expressive and kiwi fruit green. Her lips, a lavish, painted pout and her nose cute; nostrils which were round from the front, almost like a child's, but long and sensual from the side. The whole effect pleasing, perhaps even beautiful.

  She sat down beside me, queerly trespassing on my personal space, her thigh aligned to mine. I perceived it as a benign gesture. Unrolling the design, I started my explanation. She stared at me, her eyes only moving to the plan intermittently. I noticed her hands, unusually large for her frame, bigger than mine even. Her head canted towards my lap to examine the drawing and I smelt the fresh, woollen quality of her hair. She could find no fault and add nothing. When I asked her what her budget was, she smiled into my eyes.

  “Whatever it costs” she said. “I trust you”. Now she was gorgeous.

  There were many elements to the garden: excavation, decking, patios, a lawn, raised beds, fencing, play structures. I warned her it could take six weeks and that was if the weather was on our side.

  “Fine” she said. So I scheduled her for the end of June and stood to leave, my eyes drawn once more to the unicorn.

  “Hideous, isn’t it” she said, “but Todor loves it. I let him keep it and he allows me the piano”.

  “Do you play?” I said, looking at her hands.

  “I used to, but now I don’t have the time”. She said this so regretfully I sensed it was only partly true. “My mother is the famous pianist, Alexandra Ivankova” she added and I heard the steel wire of an unfelted issue.

  “Please, drink your coffee” she gestured, closing the lid on that particular discord. I'd forgotten all about it. “I'll heat it up for you” she said.

  “No it's fine”, gulping it down in great draughts. I sensed she might be lonely. “Just out of interest, did you approach anyone else?”

  “Yes, three” she said, her tongue working hard on the r. “One didn't come back, the other did but I knew I wanted you as soon as I saw you”. Her eyes danced.

  “Why?” She was amusing me.

  “I don't know” she half sang. “I just had a good feeling. I'm glad it's you”. Placing her hand on my wrist. I took her to mean Clive and me.

  I straddled the Ducati and scorched off, watching her in the wing mirror as she stood impenitent in the yellow ochre morning following the fumes of my exhaustion.

  Chapter 4

  My 33rd birthday was spent in Crouch End, digging holes to accommodate fence posts. M8's card, Martina Navratilova, a beefy arm outstretched in volley. 'Now you are 10' in curly, pink letters. ‘ Happy Birthday Melton Mowbray, love Mork and Mindy’ (M8's girlfriend, Eve).

  Clive presented a homemade effort with a cut-out of A
lan Titchmarsh, his eyes Tip-exed out, making him look insane. ‘ Happy Birthday Min, love Blow-off Trousers and Blow-off Skirt’ (Clive's girlfriend, Becky). Farting never ceased to make me laugh.

  A peculiar aspect of our job was how intimate we became with the client, pretty much from the start. The level of trust heartening, I'd frequently arrive as families were getting ready or having breakfast, knocking first even though I had keys, just to alert them. A flurry of kids, pets and dressing gowns, tantrums, domestics, confidential confessions; I'd seen it all.

  It was with no undue trepidation on a dewy June morning, that I slid the key into the basement door at Palladian Road.

  “Hello?” I shouted up the stairs, the house silent. Eventually the muffled thumps and judders of pugnacious children. The back door was locked. So, trapped in the kitchen, I searched around for popular key hiding places, peering in receptacles and corner shelves, but not opening any drawers. Something made me run my hand around the rim of the cooker hood and at the back it alighted on the metal tricks.

  Always a knack to unlocking back doors, I wiggled the bolts and tried the permutations. There were three locks and after much twisting and nudging, I discovered only the central one had been locked; foreigners, in my experience, were relaxed in matters of security.

  Today we would be excavating eleven cubic metres by my reckoning; carried through the house with buckets and barrow to the skip in the street. On cue, the hiss and clank of a skip lorry, the driver gunning the engine and stroking his bald head in consternation.

  I had to get Todor to move the purple Saab. The growl of Quincy's Triumph Triple contributed to the cacophony. A curtain in the top bedroom flicked and shortly after Nancy nipped out, all jangling keys and flapping sandals. The driver, oblivious to the early hour, clanged two scaffold poles onto the road. As the skip swung in the air, I spotted Todor and the children, rapt at the living room window. Nancy, next to me, her cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands. The skip landed on the poles and after Quincy and I had unhooked the chains, we braced our backs against it and pushed it to the kerb, like a super hero duo.

  “So that's how it's done” she said. The children clapped.

  We quickly settled into a routine. Me, always first to arrive, the stampede of children, who now called me Nette. Fascinated by the cement mixer, I set up a makeshift bench where they could sit to watch the hypnotic slosh turn to thuds. As Clive predicted, Matt's eyes followed Nancy as if she were a walking ice cream. Even Quincy had a good look at her arse. Attentive, she made regular cups of tea at appropriate intervals in mugs with blue and white hoops. Mine was decorated with a single red heart, identifying it as sugar free.

  One morning though, something different happened. Birds scattered in the trees, shocked by a furious door slam somewhere in the house, the overture to a powerful contralto litany, an aria of vitriol and frustration in a language which leant itself to argument. Another bang rattled the panes and Todor's conciliatory tenor soared from the open window. The children loitered, uncertain at the kitchen door, as if waiting for a storm to pass. The boys worked on, heads down in studied concentration.

  The next day the drama was re-enacted, this time with an ear-splitting encore that ran deep into the morning. The children would be late for school. Distracting them from the discord, I ushered them to a remote part of the garden, where we played the lion game; this involved me stalking around on all fours as the mummy lion, while they, my cubs, rode on my back or allowed themselves to be tickled and mauled into hysteria.

  Nancy emerged from the kitchen seemingly composed, but for the slight tremor of the cigarette between her fingers. She stood cuddling herself, hip jutting, cigarette poised at her lips, regarding the cubs and I with amusement. She summoned the children in her own language; amid the babbling brook of words, my name, glinting like gold in a prospector's pan. The clipped ‘t’ followed by the suggestion of a further syllable, like a sigh. My name only existing in this form from her mouth, as if it were a secret.

  We took turns hacking at a stubborn tree stump impeding our progress, each swinging the axe for ten minutes or until our shoulders and burning forearms couldn't take any more. What I lacked in power was augmented by technique and accuracy. Satisfying wedges of wood somersaulted to a standstill around me, occasionally barking my shins in a parting shot. Todor bounded out in a pristine white vest, hair unslicked today but kept in place by a scarlet head band. I sensed he wanted to redirect some adrenalin.

  Tanned and broad shouldered, he set about the stump in a way that made me fear for his precious arms and legs. Face set in bitter battle, swinging ferociously; he must have been a formidable opponent. I wondered if she'd ever loved him, or if she'd picked him because he looked the part, then berated myself for being unkind. I didn't know these people, but suspected something was being shown. I wasn’t sure for whose benefit. Quincy, watching Todor's shoulders with a little too much zeal. I rolled my eyes as he shrugged helplessly in a 'what's a boy to do' way.

  Chapter 5

  Fait accomplis rain jabbing the window. Clive and I at the breakfast bar in Nancy's kitchen. The blue tarpaulin, spread over the incomplete patio, filling with pockets of sandy water, giving the garden a seaside air. Nancy moved around us, folding clothes and loading the mouth of the washing machine with a fresh feed. I peered at the gun metal sky.

  “I think it's set in” said Clive, with appropriate gravity, but I knew he was elated at the prospect of bonus time with Becky. I, however, had no appetite for spending a lost day in the company of the somnolent caterpillar that was Remy. My eyebrows knitted in a log jam.

  “Why don't you stay for a while?” Nancy reasoned. “It may clear up”.

  “If you're sure you don't mind”, eyebrows now open arches.

  She tutted, which I assumed meant it was no trouble.

  Clive and I discussed schedules and quotes, while Nancy furnished us with a bottomless coffee cup. Wearing a black mohair jumper, which every time she breezed past, left a clean, woolly signature, like her hair. Blue Birkenstocks clapped at her heels, her ear cocked as she absently paired socks. We moved onto the subject of Quincy, in particular his impropriety around clients. Yesterday he'd asked Todor how much he earned. Although sporting, Todor hedged the question and I was forced to rebuke Quincy in private. He shrank into diffidence for the rest of the afternoon.

  “One day, he's going to make a pass at someone” . Clive had also noticed Quincy's ebullience around Todor.

  “We should make a rule” I said. “Don't shag the client”.

  “Don’t' shag the client” repeated Clive in a posh, old man voice that always tickled me. Nancy stiffened as if she'd heard a squeal and a thud.

  “Why not?” she said. The rain blasted the window with applause.

  “It's just not on” Clive said, wavering uncertainly between the old man voice and his own. She paused, folding a miniature green polo shirt.

  “Well, I don't think you can make a rule like that. People fall in love, they can't help it, they shouldn't be punished”.

  “We're not talking love” I said. “Just a horny labourer”. She smiled in acquiescence.

  “I know Minette, but love can't be managed”. She said this as if informing a witless child. I wondered where this had come from and where it was going and decided to mix it up a bit.

  “Love's just a form of OCD” I said blithely. “A temporary insanity, to trick you into mating”.

  “I agree”. She settled her jade eyes on mine. “But it doesn't make it any less real”.

  Clive was uneasy around conversations like this. What I perceived as interesting and candid, he saw as confrontational. He would look at me as if I were a suspicious package in need of diffusing, giving me a wide berth.

  “Well, I don't know about you” he said, “but I'm starving”, running his spidery hands over his ribs as if testing for signs of emaciation.

  “You must stay for lunch”. Nancy had the home advantage. “Do you like pizza?”
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  “That's very kind”, we nodded.

  “I won't be a minute, oh, is there anything you don't like?”

  “No” Clive grinned. “We like all food, don't we Min?”

  We expected her to go to the freezer, but she picked up her car keys and jogged up the stairs. When the door had slammed, Clive and I agreed she was the nicest client we'd ever encountered.

  Returning with arms full of steaming boxes, too much, which she set out on the breakfast bar. Then a bottle of schnapps and three shot glasses materialised from nowhere. How decadent , we colluded, hard liquor at 11.30 in the morning. The neck of the bottle jittering against the rim of the glasses as she filled them to the brim. The phrase 'highly strung' came to mind. She raised her glass. “Down your hatch”. Clive and I snickered, but didn't correct her as we necked the frightening measure, which descended on my guts like Agent Orange and took immediate effect.