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Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings
‘She caught her but she didn’t bite her. She was wearing her muzzle.’
‘You should’ve had her on a lead.’
Ruby dropped her fork and showed him her hand. ‘Leather burns.’
She continued eating. This is nice.’
‘I trained as a chef. In Dublin. They had a big dog track there. Shelbourne Park. I went once but I never won a penny.’
‘There are always plenty of jobs for chefs up west. Imagine what you could earn. You could pay me back in no time.’
‘I don’t think so.’
He stood up and went to turn over the record he’d been listening to earlier, then ran some water into a pan and put it down on the floor for the dog.
‘Can she drink through that muzzle?’
‘Yeah.’
He returned to the sofa, noting Ruby’s miserable expression. ‘I get the feeling you didn’t really think this through.’
‘Story of my life.’
She continued eating, then added, ‘But there was a great moment back then when it really did seem like a good idea.’
‘She’ll chew this flat to pieces.’
‘I’ll keep her muzzled.’
‘What will you do with her when you’re at work?’
The dog, suddenly, inexplicably, started to bark. Vincent jumped and dropped a forkful of rice on to his lap. He scooped it up with his fingers and crammed it into his mouth. Ruby craned her neck and stared over the back of the sofa towards Buttercup, who was still standing next to her bowl of water.
‘What’s up?’
She called out her name but the dog didn’t respond, so she put down her plate and walked over to her, squatted down next to her and tried to attract her attention. The dog continued to bark, loudly, bouncing forward on her front paws. Ruby tried to force her to sit by pushing down her rump but the dog wouldn’t oblige. She tried talking sternly and then, finally, shouting.
Vincent put down his plate and walked over. ‘What’s she barking at?’
‘I don’t know. She was fine when she came in.’
The dog fell silent. They both stared at her, surprised. Then, after a five-second hiatus, she started up again.
Ruby swore.
‘If the bloody neighbours find out I’ve got a dog, I’ll be evicted.’
‘Follow her eyes.’
‘Why?’
She peered into Buttercup’s face. The dog’s eyes were glazed and purposeful. Her breath was bad.
Vincent bounded over to the stereo and lifted the stylus. The dog stopped barking. He dropped it again. She barked.
‘She doesn’t like Kraftwerk, so she’s barking at the speakers.’
He squatted down, took the record off and threw it on the floor, then put another one on.
Ruby’s eyes widened. ‘Be careful. You’ll scratch them.’
He turned the volume up and waited for a song to start. As soon as it did, so did the dog. He laughed and switched it off. ‘She doesn’t like Inner City either.’
He took out a Ray Charles album and slung it on. It began to play. The dog cocked her head, listened intently and then sat down.
‘Look at her! She’s an old crooner.’
He was preparing to change the record yet again when Ruby crawled over to the socket in the wall and pulled out the plug. She glared at him, still on her hands and knees. ‘If you’ve scratched any of my records you can pay me for them.’
‘I won’t scratch them.’
‘I bet you already have.’
He picked up one and inspected the vinyl. Ruby squatted down next to the dog and stroked her. She said, ‘She’s all upset. Her heart’s beating like crazy.’ After a few seconds she added, ‘You can tell everything you need to know about a dog’s condition when you stroke it. She’s got strong, wide shoulders, a good, firm back …’
I’ll get him to stay, she thought, at least for tomorrow. He can look after her while I’m out, until she gets used to this place. He can take her to Hyde Park.
She continued to stroke the dog, who rested her chin on the carpet and closed her eyes.
Vincent watched this. He realized something. They wouldn’t get around to sex now. That’s what the dog meant. He hadn’t really considered sex, planned it, wanted it. Even so.
He snapped the record he was holding in half. It was a sharp, clean break. They both stared at him: Ruby, the dog.
‘You’re going to replace that record.’
He smiled. Of course he would. He studied the two halves to see what it was.
Ruby picked up the dog’s lead and attached it to her collar.
‘Where are you going? You haven’t finished eating yet.’
She ignored him, pulled on her jacket, checked for her keys and then opened the door. He was a bastard. She wanted to punch him. She stepped out into the hallway, the dog at her heels.
He stood up. ‘If anywhere’s open,’ he shouted after her, ‘You’re completely out of milk.’
Eleven
There was a painting in the living-room, a portrait, that Connor especially hated. ‘That’s her,’ he said, when he first showed Sam around his flat, ‘Sarah. I share this place with her.’
Sam liked the painting. It was creepy. A female nude. Lips, russet nipples, ribs.
‘Does she really look like that?’
He laughed. ‘She thinks she does. She’s so vain. You’ll meet her.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Los Angeles for a month. Helping to research a book on the paranormal.’
Sam was fascinated. ‘Para-normal. Not normal.’
‘She’s a researcher.’
‘And you don’t like her?’
The flat, she could tell, was the site, the centre, of subtle guerilla warfare. A picture; a wall-hanging; garish, orange hessian curtains. All Sarah’s contributions. Sam grew accustomed to spotting her in objects. Teapots, candles, cosmetics in the bathroom.
Connor claimed to be an aesthete. He said he hated clutter. But his bedroom, his territory, was full of musical flotsam: a drum-kit, African bongos, symbols, a tambourine. His records, his stereo.
Sam couldn’t learn much here, though. In the living-room, she inspected the bookshelves.
‘Henry James?’
‘Hers.’
‘Kurt Vonnegut?’
‘Mine.’
‘Psychoanalysis: the Impossible Profession?’
‘Hers.’
‘Dead Babies?’
‘Mine.’
‘Skinhead Escapes?’
‘Mine.’
She picked this book up. It was a cheap, trashy novella. She didn’t like it. She found it distasteful. ‘I wouldn’t want to own something like this.’
‘It’ll probably be worth a fair bit in a few years’ time.’
‘It’s exploitative.’
He nodded. ‘But sometimes that kind of stuff can be interesting.’
‘Oh.’
She put the book back on the shelf.
Connor. He was interested in everything. She’d learned this very quickly. He was pragmatic. And what was she? Idealistic. Full of ideals.
Connor’s problem, the way she saw it, was that he was interested in too much. He was funny and gentle, but he was fascinated by stupid, sometimes even bad, things.
‘My parents,’ Connor explained, ‘rented this place to Sarah while I was at college. She’s always been here.’
Sam liked her. I’ve been living with this woman, she thought, learning all about her.
It was early morning. Connor was still asleep. She’d risen to get herself a drink of water. On her way back to bed she paused in front of the painting. Bones, white flesh, red hair, red eyes. It was hung on the wall adjacent to Sarah’s room. Connor, she thought, is still sleeping. She touched the door handle, shuddered, pressed it down. Pushed.
Inside, the curtains were drawn. The bedspread was patchwork. She could smell patchouli oil. On the dressing-table, however, she noticed bottles of what appeared to be more sophisticated scent. She walked over and picked up a bottle of Rive Gauche, tentatively sprayed it into the air and sniffed. Next to the bed – she sat down and inspected it – was a book of women’s erotica. She opened it. Marilyn French. Anaïs Nin. She started to read, struggling in the half-light to focus on its ant-black print.
‘Hello.’
Samantha gave a start, almost dropping the book and the perfume. A tall, very thin woman stood in the doorway, grinning sardonically. She had bright, hennaed hair and a gaunt, striking face. In her hand she held a suitcase.
‘What are you reading?’
‘You must be Sarah.’
Sam stood up and quickly put the perfume back down on the dresser. ‘I shouldn’t be in here.’
Sarah walked into the room, threw her suitcase down on the bed, strolled over to the window and drew the curtains.
‘What were you reading?’
‘Angela Carter.’
‘Were you enjoying it?’
Sam nodded.
‘You must be Connor’s new friend.’
Sam didn’t much like this description of herself, but nodded again.
Sarah stared at her. Sam wore only a dressing-gown with nothing underneath. She tightened the belt self-consciously.
‘That picture,’ she said, confused and embarrassed, ‘in the living-room. It does look just like you.’
Sarah laughed at this. ‘Connor’s been telling you about my monumental ego.’
‘No. I didn’t mean that.’
‘The print is by Schiele. He’s very famous. He painted male nudes too.’
She opened her suitcase and peered at its jumbled contents.
‘How was Los Angeles?’
‘OK. I was working. Do you work?’
‘I’m a singer.’
‘Not with Connor’s group?’
‘No. I’m in a band with my mother.’
That’s a novelty.’
She started to unpack. ‘I’d rather strangle my mother than sing with her.’
Sam closed the book she was holding and put it down on the dressing-table.
‘You can borrow that if you like.’
‘Thanks.’ She picked it up again.
‘Angela Carter,’ Sarah said, frowning. ‘You like her?’
Sam nodded.
‘The way I see it,’ Sarah said, pulling out some clothes and shoving them into a wicker washing-basket at the foot of her bed, ‘there are two types of women. Those who think we’re the same as men, and those who think we’re different. Equal, obviously, but different.’
Sam was delighted. A proper conversation! Connor’s idea of animated chat was a discussion of the intricacies of Gram Parson’s fretwork.
‘Which type are you?’ she asked.
The first. But I don’t know about Angela Carter, and that makes me suspicious.’
‘I like her,’ Sam said, ‘I like that difference. Whatever it is.’
Sarah considered this for a moment and then said, ‘Maybe because you’re culturally different, you have a looser approach to questions of gender.’
‘Culture doesn’t come into it,’ Sam said, vaguely defensive. ‘I might be a different colour, but I still know that sex is more complicated than race.’
Sarah continued to unpack. She took some magazines from her case, some papers and a notepad.
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