Beneath The Skin

Louise peered out. They were some way down the road and hadn’t noticed us.

“They look like nice boys,” she said primly.

“That’s Fred in the middle carrying the large bag, the one with very light brown hair, almost blond.”

“So you grabbed the nicest-looking one.”

“The one in the very long coat, that’s Duncan.”

“How can he wear it in this heat?”

“Apparently it makes him look like a gunman in some spaghetti western. He never takes it off. The other two are brothers. The Burnside brothers. The one in the glasses and the cap is Graham. The one with the long hair is Morris. Hi!” This last was yelled down at them.

They looked up, startled for a moment.

“We’d love to come up,” Duncan shouted. “Unfortunately we’ve got to go to a party.”

“Shut up,” I said. “Here, catch.”

I dropped my bunch of keys and, with what I have to say was remarkable style, Graham took off his cap and caught the keys in it. They disappeared from view as they let themselves in.

“Quick,” said Louise. “We’ve got thirty seconds. Which one of them should I marry? Who’s got the best prospects? You can leave out Fred for the moment.”

I thought for two seconds.

“Graham’s working as a photographer’s assistant.”

“Got it.”

“Duncan and Morris work together. They do all sorts of different stuff to do with computers. I don’t understand it at all, but then I don’t think I’m meant to. Duncan’s the life and soul of any party; Morris is rather shy when you actually get him on his own.”

“They’re the ones who’re brothers, right?”

“No, that’s Morris and Graham. Duncan has red hair. He looks completely different.”

“All right. So for the moment the computer people seem the better bet. Morris the shy brother and Duncan the talkative redhead.”

And then they were in the room, filling it. When I’d talked to them about this event they had been asking brashly what sort of women would be there and they had been noisy down on the street, but in my flat they went a bit quiet and polite as they were introduced to Louise. That was something I liked about them, in a way.

Fred came over and gave me a lingering kiss, which I couldn’t help thinking was a public demonstration to everyone in the room. Was he showing affection or marking out territory? Then he produced something that looked like a brightly colored drape.

“I thought this would be helpful. It’s to hang over the damp patch,” he said.

“Thanks, Fred.” I looked at it dubiously. It was a bit bright; its colors clashed. “But I think that surveyors are allowed to move bits of cloth out of the way to see what’s behind them.”

“Let’s get you to the surveyor stage first. Hang it up then.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Zoe says you’re geniuses with computers,” Louise was saying to Duncan.

Morris, who was standing with us, blushed slightly, which was sweet.

“She’d think so,” Duncan said, pulling the ring top off a can of beer. “But she’s got low standards. That’s just because we showed her how to use her own computer.” He took a sip. “Admittedly that was an impressive achievement. It was like teaching a squirrel how to find nuts.”

“But squirrels are brilliant at finding nuts,” Morris objected.

“That’s right,” Duncan said.

“But they’re good already,” Morris persisted.

“That’s right. Zoe is now as good with her computer as a squirrel is at finding nuts.”

“But you should have said it was like teaching a squirrel how to juggle.”

Duncan looked puzzled.

“But you can’t teach squirrels how to juggle.”

I topped up Louise’s drink.

“They can go on like this for hours,” I said. “It’s a bonding thing. Something to do with having been on the playground together.”

I went off to get some crisps from the kitchen and Louise came with me. We could see the boys in the room.

“He’s lovely-looking,” she said, nodding over at Fred. “What’s he smoking? He looks very relaxed. Exotic.”

“He’s got a hippie side to him. Relaxed is good, though.”

“Is it serious?”

I took a sip from her glass.

“I’ll have to get back to you about that,” I said.

A few other people arrived. There was John, a nice teacher from our school, who had asked me out just a few days too late. And a couple of women I had met through Louise. It had turned into a real miniature celebration. After a couple of drinks I was starting to feel benevolent toward them, this new circle of people. All they had in common was me. A year ago I was lonely and lost and I hadn’t met a single one of them, and now they were all coming to my so-called home on a Friday evening. Suddenly there was a chinking sound. Fred was rapping on a glass bottle with a fork.

“Silence, silence,” he said when there already was silence. “Unaccustomed as I am, et cetera. I’d just like to stand up and be counted and say that I like this flat and I’d like us all to raise our glasses and hope that we’ll all be able to meet here again in six months’ time and have another good evening.” There was a general raising of glasses and bottles. A flash went off in my face as Graham took a photograph. He was always doing that-you’d be chatting away to him and he’d suddenly lift up his camera and aim it at you, like a third eye. It could be quite disconcerting, as if all the time he was talking or listening to you, he was really in search of a good shot. “Also,” continued Fred, “it’s also our anniversary.” There were starts of surprise all round, not least from me. “Yes,” he said, “it’s nine days since Zoe and me first… erm…” There was a pause. “Er… met.” There were some suppressed laughs behind me from Duncan and Graham, but not from anybody else. I felt for a moment as if I were trapped at a rugby club dinner.

“Fred,” I said, but he held up a hand to stop me.

“Hang on,” he said. “It would be sad if such an evening were not marked in a solemn way but… what’s this?” He said this last in a pathetically false tone of amazement as he bent down and rummaged behind my armchair. He pulled out a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Either this is another offering from one of Zoe’s anonymous fans or else it must be a present.”

“Idiots,” I said, but in a nice way. It looked like a picture. I ripped off the paper and then saw what it was. “You bastards,” I said, laughing. It was an entire framed page of the Sun featuring the headline ME AND MY MELON and in smaller writing: HAVE-A-GO BLONDE ZAPS MUGGER.

“Speech,” said Louise through cupped hands. “Speech.”

“Well,” I began, before I was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. “Wait,” I said. “One minute.”

I opened the door to find a man dressed in a brown corduroy suit and rubber boots.

“I’ve come to see the flat,” he said. “Is that all right?”

“Yes, yes,” I said eagerly. “Come on up.”

As I led him up the stairs, the talking of the guests became audible.

“You seem to be having a party,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s my birthday.”

FOUR

The letters gradually fizzled out. The first flood turned into a trickle, then stopped altogether. For a little bit it had seemed funny. One time I took a bunch of them with me when I was meeting Fred and the guys. We sat at a table outside a bar in Soho, drank very cold beer and passed them among us, occasionally reading choice phrases