Cathexis Read online

  “Down your hatch” she cried and knocked it back in two gulps, making a face like a hissing cat, eyes filling with water.

  “Now you” she gestured. I dropped the camcorder on the bed. “OK”. She poured another generous measure. “Each time we take a drink, we must remove a clothing”. After three, we were down to our underwear. She snatched the camera. “Before I get too pissed” she said, grappling it into the tripod and angling it down towards the bed. She patted the duvet.

  “Lay down”.

  Belligerently, I pulled off my socks. She ordered me on my back and parted my knees. I took a swig from the bottle, the autofocus wind adjusting itself to film the gusset of my pants with optimum clarity.

  “Perfect”. She nestled on the floor at the end of the bed and ran her hands over my thighs. Grabbing a pillow, I pressed it over my hot, flustered face and clamped my legs together. I might see if I could pretend I wasn't here. Remember a happy time, a sunny place, but I was unable to conjure any such memory. She prized my knees apart, her hair tickled and I let out a muffled scream, my sense of touch anticipation heightened by my blindness. She stroked the fabric of my pants and blew on me. I screamed again, but reluctantly yielded.

  “That's good” she soothed. “See, it's not so bad”. She pulled the crotch of my pants to one side and continued to breathe on me.

  “So pretty and if I'm not mistaken, yes ...wet”. I squirmed in shameful arousal as she addressed me adroitly, sometimes in her mother tongue – describing, encouraging, praising.

  I wondered what she thought of herself now. The calculated risk she'd taken, so many variables and unknowns, a lot at stake. She'd set her sights and bagged me. What now? The gathering merry-go-round between my legs reminded me I was having sex, or rather being sexed. Not being able to see her was odd – I'd normally watch intently, reliant on her sheer beauty, but now all I had to go on was her touch, her voice and her concept. My orgasm disappeared around the corner ahead of me in a game of cat and mouse. Coming, a complex task: you had to bliss out on the physical, but all the while track that elusive creature until it looked back, roared and fell upon you. I couldn't nail it, not anchored in the moment unless I could see her. The pillow fell to the floor. Looking down on her kinky hair, she was rapt, a stunner from any angle. Her search lights swept up my body, locating me completely and I came under her gaze.

  Close on a bench in Clissold Park, hyphenated by a dolly, while the children, stoked up on cola and Hula Hoops, scaled cargo nets and glided imperially down slides. Today I was particularly struck by Nancy's beauty, dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and my green, checked shirt. Although she had adjusted her style, which now fell more in line with mine, she remained unequivocally feminine. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on parted knees, cowboy fashion. Her eyelashes so lengthy they cast a sickle across her cheek in the late summer light, which charged her eyes brass and chartreuse, the breeze jealously attempting to make off with her curls, which the sun also blessed bronze and char shadow. I could smell it, implacably fresh like cut grass but with an undercurrent of Magdalene's oil.

  Her large hands hung unguessed between her legs. My God, where they had been, what they had wrought. Much more than her lips had uttered, even though they'd spoken of the 'love' thing. The vocabulary was somehow insufficient. Anyone can say anything; the veritas lies 'in manum'.

  I looked at the children, not just a mother's prerogative.

  Sasha batted her hand at me as she obsessively mounted the ladder to re-slide. I set mine over my eyes against the glare and waved back. Nancy levelled her mouth to my shoulder. “Minette”,she whispered, “you're beautiful”.

  I looked to the ground and wrung my hands between my knees, not knowing how to field a compliment.

  “No I'm not” I replied, not bashfully; I knew it wasn't true – she was making fun of me. Crappy tears threatened my eyes. A turbine groan and an aeroplane winked the sun. With it her expression altered and she looked at me with new sympathy.

  “You really can't see it can you?”

  I couldn't corral the flow. Her eyes widened, hard wired to the life coach’s foe …disabling influences.

  “Wow. She really fucked you up didn't she?”

  I pursed my lips, pressing my fingertips to my eyeballs, legs juddering as if to run from this microscope.

  “Do you ever see your mother now?” she ventured. I shook my head and wiped my eyes, smiling, harnessing control. She mustn't see I'm a nutter. Nancy was beautiful and I was not and that was just one of the reasons she would eventually go. Regarding me in a sort of disbelief, ransacking my psyche no doubt.

  “I'm sorry” she said. “I had no idea you were so fragile”.

  No one ever does I wanted to say, but instead I maintained I was premenstrual and I smiled to make it alright.

  “Anyway” I said, “you're gorgeous”. She leant into me conspiratorially and looked around.

  “I know” she said, “I could have anyone so why would I want to be with an ugly bird, huh?” She chucked me under the chin like a gangster.

  “Perhaps you love me for my brain?” I said, feeding her a line.

  “No, I love you for your tits” she said, taking it.

  Languishing on the sofa, fixating on Remy's hand, which intermittently morphed into a claw. Plucking the spliff from its talons, I brought the bitter roach to my lips. It crackled, shedding a glowing seed that tumbled down my top and settled on the highly flammable sofa. I batted it feebly, Remy looked on, inert and unconcerned.

  “You alright Minsk?” I was on the brink of being rumbled – she never asked questions. The air between us had changed.

  “Yeah” I managed.

  “I miss you”. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I'm worried about you” she added.

  “I know, I'm sorry. I'm so busy, what with Clive being away and everything”. Jesus, I was a shit. She laid her head back and nodded as if she'd made up her mind about something. Nica glowered, reproachful. My phone beeped and Remy eyed it with lassitude. Pressing 'Read now', I smiled.

  “Good news?” she asked sardonically.

  “Yes” I said, saving the message. “Clive's coming back next week”.

  It was Nancy.

  'You are beautiful! x’.

  Chapter 14

  My mouth opened to accept the dripping slice of tomato Nancy was offering. I hated tomatoes to the point of vomiting, but allowed her to push it between my lips and thumb away the juice trickle.

  Sasha's sandals drumming the side of the breakfast bar as she drew.

  “Don't do that please”. Nancy frowned.

  “Mummy I was drawing this for you, but now I've decided to give it to Nette”. She twisted herself around and climbed backwards off the stool. Her blonde mop bobbed along the side of the work surface.

  “Look Nette”.

  I examined the picture; at first glance, a typical six year old girl's rendering of the world – an arcadia of flowers with faces and stripey, cigar shaped bees. Still of the age when she hadn't figured the sky meets the land. A blue strip at the top and the grass at the bottom. In between, a white no man's land where three figures hovered, celebrated by a flotilla of jubilant butterflies.

  “It's you guys” she said, jabbing the paper emphatically.

  There was Nancy's hair, radiating in black springs. Some heavy felt tip make-up applied to her giant apple green eyes. And there was me, custard yellow hair, wearing a checked shirt that I actually wished I had and stout brown boots. We were floating above the ground, holding hands in what looked to be some sort of wedding arrangement.

  “That's beautiful Sasha” I cooed. “But what's this little creature here with the horns?”

  “That's Daddy” she said blithely.

  “Oh” I said, “but why has he got horns?”

  “Dunno” she shrugged. “I just felt like it”.

  The following afternoon Nancy was hyper in a weird way. Flapping a fan of leaflets in front of my face, she slamme
d them down on the coffee table, so agitated that her fingers shook as she chewed on a nail. She fixed me fretfully and turned to the window. Screams and fierce recriminations erupted from the garden. I could tell she was peeved by the position of her feet. I stirred the leaflets.

  'Thinking of getting divorced?'

  'Divorce, what you need to know'

  'Helping you through divorce'

  This wasn't about me. I was a catalyst, but the responsibility scared me nonetheless. Stepping up behind her, I spread my hands on her shoulders.

  “Tell me what you're thinking” I said. She spun round, exasperated hands splayed before me.

  “I'm thinking of getting a divorce” she said, rolling her eyes. “Durr” she added, using my own vernacular against me.

  “What about the children?” I said, surprised this was my first thought.

  “Jesus, Minette, I don't know” she said tetchily. “How about Todor gets Sasha and we keep Nikolai? Fuck knows!”

  I hoped she was illustrating her aggravation, rather than making 'a Sophie's choice'. In truth, I could have done without either of them; I just wanted her.

  “We'll keep them both” I said.

  “So you see” I said, picking at a callus. “I reckon with my savings I'll only need eight grand more to have enough for a deposit and I could probably get a loan for that. Plus there's the mortgage repayments. It's scary, but I think I can do it”.

  Nancy scooped crumbs into her hand thoughtfully. “And then we'll have somewhere to go” I added.

  She stood and sprinkled them in the bin.

  “I can give you eight thousand” she said, kicking a plastic basket towards the washing machine.

  “Oh, but I wasn't angling, I mean I didn't, I wasn't trying to...”. Silenced by her finger on my lips.

  “Don't protest” she said. “When you find a place, I'll write you a cheque”.

  “I'll pay you back of course”.

  She tutted and ruffled my hair.

  “No I will” I continued.

  “Whatever you like”. She shrugged and kissed my forehead.

  “Thank you”.

  Hunched over my phone in a boho jazz cafe in the afternoon, reviewing my messages from Nancy. I'd kept them all, even the logistical ones. They charted the progress of our odyssey from lust to love via snatched moments at dawn and kid's tea times. The latest addition 'Meet me 4.30 Take 5'. She'd forgotten to put a kiss.

  The stairs creaked and the breath taking woman with the biblical hair was here, wearing her glasses, which set off a curve ball of desire in that hollow. After peering around in the gloom, she located me (I was the only one there) and sat down, reviewing her hands in her lap.

  “Why are you wearing your glasses?”

  She looked up. Conversely, they made her look younger, a flash of her in her twenties, teens even.

  “I haven't had time to buy any contacts”.

  A weird shunt as if I was standing beside myself. My heart kicked up a thumping rabbit. Something wasn't right. The glasses served to frame the fact the light had gone from her eyes.

  “What's wrong?” I stammered. “Tell me what's wrong”.

  She put her hand to the back of her neck and rolled her head left and right.

  “Can you show me where the toilet is please?” she said.

  “But are you alright?” I steered her towards the stairs behind the bar. Half way down I halted, nostrils flaring, passing my nose over her hair. She stopped and looked up.

  “What is it? Why are you sniffing me?”

  “Nancy” I said aghast, “you smell different”.

  “Different how?” she said.

  I couldn't pinpoint it ...a foreign body.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Don't be ridiculous” she said and continued her descent.

  Returning to my seat, I calmed myself by going into my mind gallery. I saw 'Christina's World' by Andrew Wyeth and the cover of 'What to look for in the Winter', a Ladybird book. But it didn't help. Not yet, please, not yet. Plates had shifted.

  She slid a conciliatory plate of chocolate cake towards me.

  “Here” she said. I balled my shaking hands into fists under the table.

  “So what is it Nancy?”

  She gave a deep sigh. “I just wanted to see you”. But she'd barely looked at me.

  “When can I see you properly?” I said.

  “I'll call you, don't worry”.

  “Nancy, please, you're scaring me”.

  She moved the cake to one side and found my trembling hands, covering them with hers.

  “Minette”. She frowned. “I love you, but this is becoming quite a strain you know”.

  “I'm seeing two properties tomorrow” I said. “It'll be alright”.

  “Oh yes”, conjuring up a tiny puff of enthusiasm. “Good luck” she added.

  That evening I texted 'Am I still your boy? x'. There was no reply.

  Chapter 15

  Mixed feelings about the gefilte fish pong that percolated through the alarmingly sloping floor in the flat in Belfry Road. It seemed everyone had lived or knew someone who had lived in Belfry Road. People tended to pass through, partly due to the prevalence of Hasidic Jews (The Charedi) who had no need for pubs and restaurants and so Stamford Hill remained ungentrified, blighted by desolate tower blocks, an inner city backwater. As a consequence, it was cheap by Zone 2 standards, despite being only a stone's throw from swinging Stoke Newington.

  A washing machine stood self-consciously in the tiny living room – nowhere else for it to go. Nancy wouldn't like this. Wrinkling my nose at the estate agent and Clive, I shook my head.

  The first thing that hit us as we entered Flat 6, The Limes, was the stench, an eye watering concoction of dog piss and something more elusive, like burnt rubber and cheese.

  “Oh Christ” . Clive squinted, the estate agent looked to his shiny shoes.

  It was, as they say, bijou, just a living room that doubled as a bedroom, a galley kitchen and a miniscule bathroom opposite the front door. The living room, almost entirely taken up by a double bed, which we had to sidle around like penguins. A fitted cupboard occupied the length of one wall and the other three protruded floor to ceiling metal brackets, for now absent shelves, giving the room an unnerving iron maiden feel. However, there was a high ceiling, tall skirting boards and half glazed Victorian doors, which opened onto a modest balcony overlooking what appeared to be an orchard.

  “How do I put an offer in?”

  Clive and the estate agent exchanged glances.

  “Perhaps you’d better think about it?” Clive said. “Sleep on it”.

  “No, I like it” I said.

  On a train, returning from Crawley, where I'd had an appointment with Evelyn, a mortgage broker. Max, an ex-girlfriend, had put me in touch with her by way of restitution I guessed. Max had thrown me out after falling for her therapist (we'd been Minimax for a year). She'd long since put the therapist relationship down to experience and now, I heard, wanted me back. Having been crazy in love with her, I found it fascinating that now, on reflection, I felt nothing other than a sense that some celestial scales were rebalancing. She'd cast me out and was helping me find a home, the rooms within me where she'd once resided occupied by another.

  Evelyn had fabricated more fitting earnings for someone of my age and as she fed the application into the fax machine fixed me over her half-moons. “Just promise me you can make the repayments”.

  “That won't be a problem” I lied.

  The cables strung between posts by the side of the track appeared to roll up and down in one continuous oscillation, correlating my heart. At the nadirs, Nancy inexorably retreating, at the zeniths, the posts stanchioned a gathering of hope. I made one of my deals; if I counted 21 posts before they were obscured by trees or a tunnel, I would get the mortgage, the flat and Nancy. I counted 18 before an oncoming train chopped my game into a flicker book.

  Remy was embroiled in a furious row with
the upstairs neighbour over her predilection for dropping nappies and food waste into our garden, rather than the bin. Placing a guilty kebab on the wooden industrial cable reel that served as a coffee table (Nica flared her nostrils, gathering food information), I left a note: 'I'll call you x' and slid past the gesticulating pair, swinging two black sacks that contained my belongings into Fritz's cab.