Wild Cherry
PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC
‘David, this is utterly bloody ridiculous!’
There came a determined bang on the bathroom door in answer.
I bloody knew I shouldn’t have trusted his judgement on this.
But blinkered by heartache – a solid excuse if ever there was one – I foolishly thought David might make an age-appropriate suggestion that didn’t render me quite so wildly uncomfortable.
While I pushed and shoved and yanked at the dress, as though I might magically rearrange the length to something that didn’t expose an arse cheek, and the plunging neckline to something that didn’t expose the beginnings of cleavage wrinkles, I saw how bloody stupid I’d been.
‘Patricia, stop being a big girl’s blouse and show me.’
‘Abso-bloody-lutely not! Go in my wardrobe and find something else!’
It wasn’t that the dress wasn’t beautiful. It was a deep maroon colour with a floral print: big and bulging, wholesome flowers in creams and pale pinks that swam over the fabric. In terms of target audience, however, I thought David had missed the mark by at least twenty years.
‘Where did you get it?’ I pulled at the cleavage line again but to no avail. ‘New Look teen, or Gap for children?’
‘Patti’ – another two knocks – ‘just let me see you in the sodding dress. If it looks ridiculous, you know I’ll tell you.’
That much I didn’t doubt. What I did doubt, however, was what mine and David’s respective benchmarks were for ridiculous. I’d seen the man go out in sandals and socks before now, all the while thinking he looked perfectly fine.
‘How old was the woman who sold this to you? Did she compliment you, is that what happened?’
There was a long pause during which time I hoped that he was rifling through my cupboards for a different outfit. And yet…
‘It’s besides the point whether she complimented me or not.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I bloody knew it.’
‘Patti, will you just show me the–’
I yanked the bathroom door open and threw my arms wide. ‘Happy?’
‘I’ll say!’ David looked every bit like his eyes might pop out of his head. I re-imagined him as a Bugs Bunny figure: eyes on stilts, looking at a tail to chase. ‘Christ, Patti, you look… I mean… It just…’
‘Do you have anything to finish these sentences with?’
He reached forward to grab me by the shoulder and encouraged me into a twirl. ‘You look bloody marvellous. If I weren’t taking you out on the pull, then I’d be only too glad to call you my wife.’
‘We’re not going on the pull, David.’ I pushed past him and wandered back into my room, where I landed heavy on my bed and braced myself for the arduous task of strapping myself into shoes that would cripple me. ‘We’re just going out for a couple of drinks.’
‘On a Saturday night.’
‘On a Saturday night,’ I parroted, shoving a heel in.
‘To a gay bar.’
‘To a– What?’ My head snapped up and from my awkward angle of sitting, half-leaning, struggling to get a look at my husband, I’m sure I felt something in my right shoulder snap. That’ll be an ibuprofen in the morning. ‘I didn’t agree to a gay bar.’
‘But doesn’t it make life easier?’
I sat fully upright, narrowed my eyes. ‘Make life easier for what?’
He gestured, stuttered two false starts and then said, ‘You know, spotting the lesbians.’
‘That’s it.’ I kicked off the single shoe that I’d managed to get on. ‘I’m not going…’
* * *
In mine and David’s many years of marriage, I had discovered time and again that compromise was key.
David wanted to take me for a night out and I wanted to wallow more about Sheila – who still wasn’t answering my calls – so we were going out.
David wanted to buy me a new dress and I wanted to wear a comfortable old one: so I was wearing a dress designed for a teenager with an eating disorder.
David wanted to take me to The Village gay bar on the outskirts of the city: so–
‘I don’t even want to touch anything in here,’ I said as I wrapped a napkin around my glass. ‘Thank God the woman gave us straws.’
‘Do you think the barwoman is gay?’
I followed his gaze to where she was stacking clean glasses behind the bar.
‘No, but I do think she’s out of your league.’
David huffed a laugh. ‘Now you’re just being spiteful.’
He had grabbed us a tall table with bar height chairs that I couldn’t get onto, due to two distinct reasons: firstly, the shoes, sweet heavens, the shoes; secondly, the dress.
I was wearing nude tights and underwear because I wasn’t a complete animal, despite David’s encouragement, but I was all the same plagued by a worry that my near-bare backside would be against the seat.
Despite bringing up the average age of the room by years between the two of us, I couldn’t escape the ring and chime of my mother’s voice asking what the hell a girl like me was doing in a dress like this – and for once, I would have had to agree with her.
‘Is there anyone taking your fancy? I consider myself benched for the evening so I’m at your disposal for…’ He paused and started to snap his fingers. ‘Being a wingman, that’s the expression I was looking for.’
‘Do you have word of the day toilet paper for young person speak hidden in the flat?’
David dropped his drink heavily on the table. The table he was sitting at quite easily, on account of him not wearing ridiculous clothes. ‘I’m trying my best to be supportive of this situation but you’re not making it terribly easy.’
I felt a pang of something like guilt. It had been nearly three weeks and Sheila still wouldn’t answer the phone.
In fact, three days ago I’d made the executive decision that I needed to stop calling her – I hadn’t, as yet, but I’d decided that at some point I would definitely need to.
And credit where it was due, David had been supportive, in his way.
He had suggested umpteen things that I might try – aside from more cocktails, which was a suggestion he’d also floated on several occasions – and when I’d rebuffed his efforts as cliché, or obvious, or inappropriate, he’d always come back with something more.
I’d noticed, too, that he was going out less.
Whether that was deliberate or whether he was simply on a dry streak, I couldn’t say for certain.
But either way there had still been fewer scantily clad young women around the flat and I had definitely felt thankful for it.
The night out, I knew, was a last effort to get me back into the world.
And given that all of this started with David trying to encourage me towards finding someone, it made sense, I supposed, that this was where his attempts had left us.
I sighed heavily and ran a hand through my hair; not an easy gesture, given the amount of hairspray that was holding everything in place.
‘I just miss her, David.’
He reached across the table to squeeze my forearm. ‘I know you do, darling, but–’
‘I know, too. But do you think…’ I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence, only too aware of how utterly pathetic it would sound.
‘I honestly don’t know. But you have tried, and she isn’t letting you explain. You could turn up on her doorstep.’ I started to shake my head; I’d already vetoed that idea. ‘But I know you think that’s too much of a romantic comedy thing to do.’
I smiled. ‘I think it’s too much of a stalker thing to do. Imagine if a woman you’d broken up with turned up– Actually, remember when that woman you’d broken up with turned up outside the apartment, because you weren’t returning her calls?’
He shuddered. ‘Let’s not. I’ve written about that in the book and quite frankly that was enough of a visit down memory lane for one lifetime.’
‘I hope you’ve changed her name.’
‘I’m not an amateur. I’ve changed all of their names.’
My smile grew to a laugh. ‘You are a case, David. Those poor women.’
He placed his free hand on his chest and spoke in what I thought was meant to be a sincere tone. ‘They’ll be immortalised in my work.’
‘I’m not sure that’s what they were hoping for.’
‘Well, we don’t always get what we hope for in life.’ He nudged me softly with his foot beneath the table. ‘It can’t hurt to have a night on the town either way, though, can it?’
I murmured in agreement.
‘Drink that.’ He pushed my glass towards me. ‘I’ll get another one, and then we’ll dance.’
‘I’m not dancing in these shoes.’
‘You’re far too young to use that line,’ he answered as he clambered off his stool.
I managed to buy myself time with another gin and tonic, coupled with a long and winding ramble from David about where his book was, where he thought it was going, what his vision was for the final piece.
I slurped the remains of my gin through my straw and snorted a laugh.
‘You’re such an artiste.’ He opened his mouth to answer but I cut him off by slamming my empty down on the table.
‘I know where this is going, and I’m going to need another gin in me before I even think about getting on that dance floor. And I need a wee.’
‘Right you are. You, to the toilets. I’ll head to the bar!’
David weaved in one direction while I went in the other.
I didn’t actually need the loo, but I did need to buy myself a minute.
The noise of the bar had steadily risen in the time we’d been there, both thanks to the increase in warm bodies and the sudden upsurge in the music.
At least in the bathroom everything became tin-can hollow and I could hear myself think for a minute.
Though as I looked in the mirror – my spotlit reflection wearing the rebound dress, as I would forever know it – I wondered whether perhaps being able to hear my own thoughts for a second might have been the worst of ideas.
Christ, I leaned forward on the sink and stared harder at my reflection.
What was I thinking? What was David thinking?
Before I could tumble too far down the rabbit hole, though, my attention was caught by the woman who walked out of the cubicle behind me.
I’ve always been terrible with ages, but at a guess I would have placed her in her early twenties.
She was wearing skintight jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt, partly tucked into the waistband in a way that smacked of modern-day fashion.
She scrunched her curls once, twice in the mirror and then made eye contact.
My stomach clenched: the look up and down, the blatant acknowledgement from a younger woman that I, an older woman, was wearing something far outside of her age bracket.
‘Babe,’ she said, resting a hand on my shoulder, speaking to my mirror image, ‘that dress looks fucking fantastic.’
She left without washing her hands and I followed shortly behind her, feeling every bit more confident as I stepped into the crowded space.
And there, behold, was my husband, with both arms flung in the air, letting out an ungracious cheer at, I assumed, the opening chords of the song that the DJ had just switched over to: ‘Play That Funky Music’.
And despite myself, I felt every bit inclined to join him.