Chapter 17
Simone had been consigned to the laundry for the afternoon. It was creepy as hell, tucked as it was in the bowels of the building, with the only functional strip light barely illuminating its bare brick walls. A huge metal washing machine loomed before her. She’d seen one like it once before. Her and the girls had been to a secret bar in Soho that had been done up like a launderette on the outside, but if you stepped through the washing machine, you were transported to an exclusive cocktail bar beyond. No Narnia on offer here, though – just a pile of towels that looked like they’d been used as tissues by a fluey Demogorgon in the Upside Down. She gingerly picked up a hand towel with two fingers and swung it into the drum.
She wondered what the girls were up to. Not that she needed to wonder too much; they’d documented every inch of the trip so far, or at least Ziggy had documented every inch of her arse on the trip so far. It had been photographed in the Phoenix Desert Botanical Gardens, the Phoenix Art Museum, the Phoenix Zoo, and two Phoenix nightclubs, where it had been barely covered by a pair of ‘shorts’ made entirely from rhinestone chains. Jasper, by contrast, was proving far harder to keep track of. She’d caught a brief glimpse of him in the main common room on her way back from lunch, but they hadn’t spoken. Pity. A bit of bants would have helped the day pass a little more enjoyably.
The pile beckoned. The bath towels were trickier, but by hanging them across the open door, she could kick them inside in increments. Where the soap went was anyone’s guess though. After a couple of minutes of trying to remove a welded-on panel at the front, she conceded defeat. She pulled her phone from her pocket and was searching how a Mag Primer RS works when Gayle came in. She was followed by a tall man on whose stringy frame hung a nylon shell suit that he appeared to be wearing in a non-ironic way. His thinning blond mullet had clearly wanted in on the eighties action, the hairline of which was beating a retreat towards the midline of his head in a pronounced M shape. His sparse facial hair was only moderately more committed to the skin-coverage cause.
‘Slacking so soon?’ said Gayle.
‘Do you know how to get powder into this machine?’
‘Is it to add an extra day onto your community service for every second I find you on your phone? Maybe that’d do it?’
‘I was searching for an instructional video.’
Gayle turned to the man. ‘Reckon she’s telling porkies, Steve?’
Steve’s eyebrows met beneath a line in his forehead so deep, it was like he’d spent a long time trying to work out where his fashion sense had gone wrong, but he was still no closer to a solution.
‘It’s not for me to say.’ He had a thick Mancunian accent.
‘Get down off the fence, man; it can’t be comfortable having one bollock hanging either side of it.’
‘Who am I to judge? I tell you…’
Gayle held up a finger. ‘Not an invitation to chat.’
The man opened his mouth.
‘Shhh!’
‘Bu—’
Gayle pressed a finger to his mouth.
‘Hnnn.’
‘Nope.’ She turned to Simone. ‘Simone, this is Steve. He rabbits on more than a whistleblower on sodium pentothal.’
‘Truth serum,’ said Steve with a shrug. ‘I looked it up after the third time she said it.’
His voice had a soporific quality to it; a melodic lilt that sounded like he was either stoned or in a constant state of conflict resolution.
‘I thought he’d make excellent company for you,’ said Gayle. ‘And it gets him out of my hair.’
‘She loves me really,’ said Steve.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You do.’
‘I don’t. But I’m sure Simone here would love to hear your life story.’
‘I’m fine for life stories,’ said Simone. ‘I once read the first three pages of Becoming by Michelle Obama.’
‘And if I find you on your phone again, when you should be working,’ said Gayle, ‘I’ll be testing its torch function where the sun don’t shine.’
Interestingly, Dickwad and Ghastly had once hidden a story about a politician who had been caught doing precisely that. Right now, she missed the place.
Gayle left. She would have to throw some powder in the drum and hope for the best.
‘Don’t mind her,’ said Steve. ‘She’s a bit stressed.’
‘Don’t worry. My real boss makes her look like a pussycat.’
Steve whistled. ‘So, did I hear right that your name’s Simone?’
‘Hmm.’
‘After Nina Simone?’
‘No.’
‘Because I really like her music. My dad didn’t. He was a bit of a racist. I’m not. Live and let live, that’s my motto.’
She’d met guys like Steve before, the kind her dad had worked with. They always had a motto.
‘It takes all sorts to make the world go round, doesn’t it? That’s what I say, anyway.’
It seemed that Steve had a few mottos.
‘Some of my best mates are?—’
‘Probably best to stop you there, Steve.’ She held up her finger like Gayle had done. ‘I’m not really one for small talk.’
‘Right, okay then, yeah, no problem. I’ll make myself useful, shall I?’
‘Could you?’
There was a tumble drier equal in size to the washing machine on the opposite wall, and Steve opened the door and pulled out the tangle of bedding within. For several minutes, the crackle of static electricity was all that could be heard as pillowcases were separated from duvets. It reminded her of the ASMR meditation videos she’d been into for a brief period. Perhaps she should listen to one now. Enjoy a few tingles to help see her through the last hour of the day. In fact, she was annoyed she hadn’t thought of listening to something before now. She’d just retrieved her earbuds when Steve spoke.
‘I bet you’re wondering how I came to be here, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s ’cos I’m a gambling addict.’ He wrestled a resistant ironing board until it yielded with a metallic squeak. It rocked unevenly on its open legs. ‘That’s the first step. Admitting you have a problem.’
‘Admitting I have a problem with you talking doesn’t seem to be helping me, Steve.’
‘I was a chippie, doing alright for myself. By the end I’d sold everything, all my tools, the lot. It was the horses that did it.’
‘Right.’
‘It wasn’t all bad. I once put a hundred on a nag that came in twenty-five to one.’ He gazed at her expectantly.
‘And?’
‘Pity the rest of them came in at twelve-thirty!’
The guy was a doofus.
‘So, like I said, I’m just going to…’ She made a show of putting her earphones in. If only she’d brought her noise-cancelling ones.
‘Do you believe in God?’ he asked, apropos of nothing.
‘I did before you started talking to me.’
She opened the YouTube app.
‘The Twelve Steps is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ said Steve, seemingly not registering her excellent comebacks.
She calculated the distance to the door. She really wanted him to take twelve steps in that direction.
‘You have to give yourself over to a power greater than yourself,’ he said.
She suspected he could give himself over to a scarecrow, and it would have greater power than him. And it would dress better. She found a video she liked the sound of, but the damned thing wouldn’t load.
‘I said most people are a bit more surprised. About the gambling thing.’
So he was listening enough to realise she hadn’t responded to whatever it was he’d said.
‘I don’t mean to be funny, Steve, but that hairstyle was a bit of a gamble, and let’s face it, that hasn’t paid off for you, has it?’
She went back to her phone and was relieved to hear the breathy hiss of the iron. He didn’t stay quiet long, however.
‘It’s odd isn’t it, people saying I don’t mean to be funny. If they knew they were being funny, which they clearly do because they’re using the phrase I don’t mean to be funny, and if they genuinely didn’t mean to be funny, they could just stop after the phrase I don’t mean to be funny and not be funny, couldn’t they?’
She refused to feel bad. This was probably the kind of voodoo he used to guilt people into lending him money, which he’d spunk up the wall on bad bets.
‘But you carry on, love. Don’t let me stop you. I deserve it. I really do. You know what they say: true humility and an open mind can lead you to a better way of life.’
Who said that? Probably nobody. Ever.
‘What are you trying to listen to anyway?’ he asked.
‘A meditation.’
He nodded his approval. ‘Nice one. Prayer and meditation are in Step Eleven.’
Was he trying to suggest some kinship with her?
‘I’m not interested in your approval, Steve. I just want to try and get through the day without losing my shit.’
Steve smiled. It was an odd enigmatic little turn of the mouth, like he knew something she didn’t. ‘Sounds a lot like what I’m doing with The Twelve Steps, mate.’ He whistled. ‘Ironic really. My sponsor says meditation is all about learning to live in the present moment. Yet here you are trying to meditate to avoid it.’ He shrugged, placed the iron back in its cradle, and slowly folded the duvet cover.
He was right, of course, but she’d rather wear that shell suit than admit it. Still, he was proving far more sage than a man who’d hit rock bottom had any right to be.
‘Jesus. I’m trapped in a room with the poor man’s Oprah Winfrey. Or should that be Oprah Losefrey?’
Steve smiled again, a proper heartfelt grin. ‘You remind me of my mom.’
‘Great!’
‘Everyone called her Barb because of her sharp tongue.’ He dropped the folded duvet into a tatty plastic basket. ‘That, and her name was Barbara.’
She laughed despite herself. He was impossible to work out. Was he a manipulative genius, or some hapless halfwit with impulse control issues?
‘What’s your plan, Steve? What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve made a list of everyone I’ve harmed. I’m going to make amends where I can. Just not yet.’
She tutted. Of course not yet.
‘No, you’re right to tut. It sounds like I’m making excuses. I’m gonna do it, but I need to get out of here first. The people I’ve hurt, they need more than words. They need proof. When I’m in my own place, then I can start to piece it all back together. But the problem is…’
Steve’s mouth continued to move, but the washing machine decided it had heard enough, and went into a loud spin. It was hard not to be judgmental. If he wasn’t gambling any more, just how difficult could it be to get back into work, earn some money and let everything flow from there?
When the noise subsided, he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. He passed it to her. It was empty except for a picture of a teenager with a messy mop of brown hair falling over large soulful eyes.
‘That’s Declan. Not seen him for over twelve months. He’ll be doing A-levels next year.’
She wondered if she was being hustled. Was it even his son? This could well be a routine he pulled with unsuspecting members of the public; he could ask her for money at any moment.
‘If I could only get my Universal Credit sorted.’ He gave a resigned shrug.
She wasn’t buying the woe-is-me routine. ‘So why don’t you?’
‘I need help with the forms, but my case worker’s off on long-term sick, so she can’t go to the benefits office with me.’
Perhaps it was better he wasn’t given any money; he’d probably only bet it away. Steve reached for the picture. She looked at it once more. There was a resemblance: the same long thin nose, the downturn at the sides of the mouth. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Seventeen was a tough age not to have a dad around; she knew that better than anyone. Hang on, though, this was how people like Steve got you, with their plausible sob stories, back stories and tall stories. If he was so keen to sort himself out, he’d try harder.
‘It can’t be that difficult,’ she said.
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But honestly, you’d need a degree to work it all out.’
She didn’t have a degree, and she’d always hated the assumption that you needed one to make anything of your life.
‘Oh come on. I bet I could do it.’
‘I’m not in a position to be taking bets, mate.’
She tossed the wallet back to him. At the end of the day this was his problem, and it was her home time.
* * *
That night, after she’d answered all of Tony’s emails (who knows what he’d have done if she’d genuinely been incommunicado), she was in the bath, trying to slough off the day’s grime. The cut on her hand stung every time she put it into the soapy water. She traced her finger over it, thinking about Jasper’s reaction at the sight of blood and the way he’d readily admitted to his phobia. How did he get to be so at ease with his vulnerability? Many men would be embarrassed by such a weakness. She also couldn’t help mulling over his question to her yesterday. Was she a self-respecting person? From someone who presumably should be impartial, the question had felt somewhat judgmental, like he’d made his appraisal and she’d been found wanting. At Dickwad Ghastly, she was hyperfunctional; she was the person who got shit done, and she took pride in that. Just the volume of emails she’d had to field from Tony proved how capable she was. Usually, insecurities were like harem trousers to her; she’d tried a few on for size, but found them better suited to other people. She preferred to deal with difficult feelings by not having any. But the moment she went through the doors of that shelter, it was like she was stripped of her abilities. She was Thor without his hammer. Khloe K without her filters. Donald Trump without his gibbering white privilege.
She wondered where Marcus was right now. She was too tense, too thinky; she needed a diversion. He was probably still in his office. She leant over the side of the bath, retrieved her mobile, and took a selfie. Most of her body was submerged in the bubbles, but her glossy boobs were exposed. She fired it off to him with a couple of hashtags. #nofilter #needfucking.
A response came through within a minute.
You naughty girl. I’m at a dinner. Sat next to boring politician. Now can’t move for stiffy.
She smiled, pleased with her capacity to turn him on.
Wish I was under the table right now. Would make amends.
Oh yeah. How?
She let her legs fall open.
I’d unzip your trousers and place my warm mouth around your dick.
Wouldn’t people notice?
There’s a long tablecloth. You’d just look like you were rocking on your chair.
Nice detail.
Not as nice as me fingering myself whilst your cock is sliding in and out of my lips.
Are you fingering yourself now?
Maybe.
She most definitely was.
Hang on. Making excuses. Luckily have jacket with me…
She continued to stroke herself. A minute later, a video call came through. Marcus was in a large cloakroom toilet.
‘I only have a few minutes. Show me your pussy.’
She swept the bubbles to one side, lifted herself slightly and angled the phone there. She gently spread herself and continued to apply pressure to her clitoris.
‘Yeah, baby. You are so fucking hot.’
‘I just couldn’t wait until the weekend,’ she said.
‘See what you did.’
Marcus’s cock filled the screen. As much as she liked it, out of context of the rest of him, it was cartoonish. She’d never been a fan of dick pics; it was like trying to see the erotic potential in an uncooked sausage. But the thumbscrews of desire were already tightening, and in just a few more turns, she’d be begging for release.
‘So, tell me again what you’re going to do with this,’ he said.
She closed her eyes, gently teased her index finger inside herself, and told him exactly what she’d do with it. It didn’t take long before she heard the guttural moan he made when coming. She was close herself, she just needed a little extra encouragement.
‘And then you reach down under the table and you?—’
‘I’d better get back,’ he said.
‘You can’t go anywhere yet; your dick’s still hard. Tell me what you’ll do to my tits.’
‘I’ve already been too long.’
‘Just one more minute.’
‘Babe, I need to get off.’
‘Yeah, me too Marcus!’
She opened her eyes. The screen had gone dark. She heard a tap running, then a dryer start up. After a minute, he reappeared.
‘I’ll see you at the weekend. I’ll tell you anything you need me to then, okay?’
‘Marcus—’
‘They’re going to wonder where I am. This was great.’
He hung up. Fuck’s sake. She tried to carry on without him, furiously grinding herself against her palm, but the water was cooling as quickly as her desire. She’d been cheated out of her moment of release. It was like being on a rollercoaster and the carriage getting stuck at the top of the big dip; no plummeting in a moment of complete abandon, just the ignominy of being left hanging. She gave up and pulled the plug on the bath.
Self-respect indeed. It would be a long time before she got to sleep that night.