Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

I put on my cycling helmet and my jacket and got my bike out of the shed at the end of the drive. I knew I’d be having a couple of drinks and I didn’t want to drink and drive. Drinking and cycling I felt OK with; I didn’t regard my bike in the same league as a car when it came to capacity to inflict damage. I knew it was technically possible to be drunk in charge of bicycle but I never got to that stage. My front light seemed a bit dim, I couldn’t believe how fast they devoured batteries and broke bulbs. Super built-in obscelescence like torches, irons and toasters, but tons quicker.

It’s only a mile or so to Didsbury, more upmarket than Withington with some very expensive properties. The last couple of years had seen lots of development, new supermarkets, a plethora of restaurants and cafe bars and of course lots of new houses crammed into the old Waterfords Dairy site to bring in some customers for all the leisure outlets.

It took me longer to get all my clobber on and then off and lock up the bike and remove the lights than it did to make the journey.

The bar Diane had chosen was already heaving. One look at it and I wanted to leave but she’d already bought me a drink and managed to find a table in a corner by the toilets. Most of the clientele preferred to stand, presumably to show off their designer gear and to spot the talent. Most of them were fresh-faced and full of life, I don’t know how many of them were old enough to drink legally.

“I thought it’d only be like this at weekends,” Diane apologised. We had to lean close to each other to talk, the noise was tremendous.

“So, how was it?”

She smiled but it was hard for me to read it. At least she wasn’t crying. Which is what I remember her doing a lot of the last time Ben had been in the picture.

“Good,” she nodded. “I’d forgotten how much he made me laugh. We had a wonderful Thai meal the first night and the next day I did some galleries. Oh, and I met this buyer, very interested in my work. I promised I’d send her some slides. Ben had a meeting in the morning but we met for lunch and then he took me shopping.”

I studied her. Had some alien invaded Diane’s body (apart from Ben)? Since when did anybody ‘take’ Diane shopping? She sounded like a Stepford wife. “He wanted to treat me,” she went on, “it was like one of those 40’s films, you know, with Gary Grant waiting for the dame in the posh ladies dress emporium.”

I envisaged the scene. All peach drapes and soft carpets and huge mirrors. Diane, surrounded by starlet sylphs in silk camisoles. Diane with her inky fingers, her wild hair-styles, her Doc Martens and her size 20 frame.

“What did you get?”

“These.” She turned her ankle to show me an electric blue Doc Marten. Phew.

“And a gorgeous chenille top and a full length dress, indigo crushed velvet.”

“Go well with the Docs.”

She grinned and leant closer, “And some very sexy underwear.” She rolled her eyes.

“So you slept with him,” I said bluntly.

“Yes. And it was great.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s getting married. We haven’t made any plans.” She seemed blase about it but I felt uncomfortable.

“So it was just a final fling?”

“It wasn’t just anything,” her eyes flashed. “Stop being so bloody uptight. We met, we talked, there was a lot of unfinished business. It was good to have a chance to talk it over. And, yes, we went to bed together. He’s not married yet, you know.”

“Diane, how would you feel if you were getting married to someone and they went off in search of an ex-lover for a last screw?”

She looked at me steadily. “She’ll never know. We’re all grown up, Sal.”

Doesn’t mean you always act like it, though. “Will you see him again?”

She shrugged.

“And that’s OK?”

Even with the racket all around us, I could hear her silence; loud like an alarm. She wanted him, she’d lost him but now she would settle for this, the odd visit every year or so. I couldn’t bear it. She’d be like the mistresses featured in documentaries; never having the important times, never the whole night, the holiday, always a secret, always waiting. I wanted her to be strong and independent, like she usually was, not to compromise one iota. I thought of Mrs Shuttle and her miserable affair with Frank Pickering. Secrecy. Didn’t seem to bring much happiness.

I swerved the conversation away, told her about my bust-up with Ray. We agreed that all I could do was ask him directly for a time to talk, about the house, about the future.

We had finished our drinks. I struggled to the bar, waited impatiently to be served and did a double-take at the cost.

I put the drinks down. “And I had my car nicked.”

“Oh, no. From home?”

“No, this place in Hulme, where I’m working. I was there on Monday night. There was lots of trouble and we had to call the police but the guy that came was a right waste of space, worse really. You could tell he sympathised with the racists and he didn’t give a shit for the family being hounded.” I told her about the events that night. “Then, I’m finally ready to go home and my car’s gone. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“So do you reckon they’ll be able to kick them out now?”

“I hope so. I’ve sent the tape in so I’ll find out what they think tomorrow. I mean, even if there’s a wait while they prepare the court case, they need to get the victims out of there or give them protection or something. It’s so savage. I was watching these lads and thinking where does all that hate come from? How do you change people like that?”

“I don’t think you can,” she took a drink. “What about that other thing, the girl who disappeared in the 70’s?”

“Oh, don’t ask,” I groaned.

“That bad?”

I nodded. “It’s like this Pandora’s box of secrets. I went to the Records Office yesterday and it turns out the girl was illegitimate and yet she’s being brought up in this really strict household where they are all leading highly moral lives, setting an example for the flock, ‘cos Daddy’s a preacher. Only it turns out he’s having a fling with the next door neighbour.”

“And she was pregnant herself wasn’t she, the girl?” asked Diane.

“Yes.”

“Did she know her mother had been in the same position?”

“I don’t think so. She’d have said something to her mates, don’t you reckon? None of them mentioned it.” I took a drink. “And everyone thought she’d gone to university and then dropped out but it turns out she never made it.”

“Sound like a real mess.”

“It is and what worries me most…”

“Diane?” There was a man bending over our table. No-one I knew but Diane seemed pleased to see him.

“Hiya, Stuart. How ya doing?” Maybe one of her lonely-hearts dates. She’d been on plenty. That’s how she’d met Desmond. What would she tell him about her reunion with Ben? Anything?

Stuart glanced my way a few times. He was attractive but I observed him dispassionately. I’d got out of the habit of clocking the talent, or of acting on it. Pretty men were like beautiful gardens; something I noted as I walked on by.

Well, they were usually.

“This is Sal,” Diane said, “Stuart Bowker.”

He gave me a smile and asked me a question, looking intently at me as though I was the most interesting thing in the universe. I can’t remember what it was or how I replied, I was too mortified trying to control the blush that was colour-washing my whole body. So humiliating.

He had good teeth, even, with a slight gap in the middle, a large mouth. I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were blue or brown, a mix perhaps. His hair was grey, cut extremely short. He laughed at something I said. Or maybe he was laughing at me. At last he turned back to Diane. I tried to compose myself.