Emma Unsworth - Animals

‘Variable-rate mortgages. David Cameron. The phrase “up the trumper”.’

‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m putting Radio 4 on… ’

I sat waiting with a coffee and my laptop in the café beneath the block. I’d inched my way downstairs and outside, expecting to find the dog waiting, or a group of heavies sent round by Marie or whatever her name was. But no. Dear god, I thought. Has Tyler got away with this, again?

She appeared ten minutes later wearing a yellow hoodie and Aztec-print leggings.

‘Inconspicuous,’ I said. ‘Excellent work, Tyler.’

‘Dogs work by scent.’

She had her hand in her hoodie pocket, clutching something in there. If she’s brought some out with her I’ll end her, I thought. That had better just be her usual honey and ham heresy. She went up to the counter, where the café owner regarded her with the usual disdain. After she’d ordered she walked back to the table. ‘I think twottyballs has had extensions on his dreadlocks, don’t you? They’re longer than they were last week.’

It was then I noticed her nose.

‘Jesus, Tyler… ’

There was no denying it: her nose looked like a long-unemployed clown’s. Rough, split and a sort of dirty crimson. She touched it with her fingers and winced.

‘You snorted it, didn’t you?’

She glared at me. ‘Only once or twice. I couldn’t feel it at the time. I got to the point where I needed variety .’

The café owner came over and threw a plate down onto the table in front of Tyler.

‘Oh thank you that’s so good of you this looks absolutely delicious,’ Tyler said. The café owner moved away. As soon as his back was turned Tyler whipped the plate under the table and for the next few minutes looked as though she could have been having an angry toilet experience — I concluded that the runny honey must have solidified in the coldness of the flat, making it hard to squeeze into action. She persevered. When the plate remerged the slice of toast was dripping with honey and capped clumsily with a slice of wafer-thin ham. She cut it in half and picked up one of the triangles with both hands, balancing the ham carefully on top. Her red nail varnish was chipped on each nail. She nodded at the café owner and took a bite. As she chewed she murmured the word Motherfucker .

‘Who were you out with last night, anyway?’ I said. ‘You know you’re not allowed Other Friends.’

This was one of hers but she didn’t acknowledge it. ‘Oh, just some arty types, you know what it’s like: I’m a magnet for creatives. I made the mistake of reciting some Chaucer to them while they were waiting for their panini and now they think I’m the Dalai Lama. Don’t worry, it won’t last, not when I run out of quotes.’ She pulled my laptop round to face her and began tapping the keyboard. Honey-encrusted crumbs fell from her fingertips onto the keys. ‘Can’t we do this online? Surely there are wedding stores on here… ’ Then her face changed and she pushed her chair back and made a cross with her fingers. ‘GET BACK! GET BACK!’

I swung the screen round to see a pop-up heart-shaped ad for HitMeCupid.com pulsing over the search engine homepage— How great would it be if you knew everyone in the room with you right now was single? I looked at the man behind the counter. Not so great. I clicked on the cross in the corner and the heart shrank to a pinprick and disappeared.

‘Come on, you’re taking me to the wedding village.’

‘I’m just not sure I’m capable.’

‘Tough. You’re my matron of honour.’

‘I’d rather be your matron of dis honour.’

‘You’re that, too. Now, as I love you and you love me you will bind my breasts and buy me a boy’s wig… ’

‘ Shakespeare in Love. ’

‘Help me, Tyler.’

The car shuddered as we pulled away from the kerb. Tyler banged the steering wheel. ‘If this shitmobile starts stalling I’m going to kill myself on the hard shoulder.’

‘Righto,’ I said. ‘What with?’

‘A Spar carrier bag. For Maximum Tragedy.’ There was a Spar carrier bag down by my feet, amongst empty crisp bags and dinted cans. She saw me see it. ‘Don’t doubt it, Lo-Lo-Pops, I’ve thought this fucking thing through.’

I lit two cigarettes, passed her one, and wound down the sticky window. Apart from her nose she was deathly pale.

‘When did you last eat before that toast?’ I said.

She cocked her head, thought about it. ‘I had a peach on Thursday.’

‘You shouldn’t be driving,’ I said. ‘You should be in bed. With a mask on.’

‘Oh, make me feel better, why don’t you? I tried to cover it up with concealer but I looked like Pete Postlethwaite.’

‘I liked Pete Postlethwaite.’

‘Yes, but YOU DON’T WANT TO FUCKING LOOK LIKE HIM, DO YOU?’

She stayed in a foul mood for most of the journey, her snuffling punctuated with doomy bongs from the TomTom. The top of the dashboard was a model version of the flat’s living room floor, strewn with fag packets, lighters, empty cans and severed hair accessories.

On the far hills was a wind farm, the rows of grey sails turning slowly. Next to that, an advance of pylons marched towards the motorway. On either side of us, trees were silhouetted against the drab sky of the early morning, the kelpish fronds of their branches swaying, suspended in the air. A flock of crows flew across a field, black and featureless, like patches torn out of reality. Nothing was to scale.

Tyler fiddled with the tape deck. She had four tapes, home recordings from CDs long ago. The Saddle Creek stable: Bright Eyes, Azure Ray, Rilo Kiley. Music from the homeland. She rammed a tape into the deck with the heel of her hand, wound down her window and lit a fag. When it was lit she indicated, swerved into the fast lane and took a long drag.

I watched the hard shoulder. ‘Pheasant,’ I said. ‘Fox. Ooh, magpie, that’s a shame. You don’t see many magpies.’

‘Do you have to do that?’ Tyler said.

‘What?’

‘ Announce the roadkill ?’

‘Sorry.’

She sniffed and winced.

‘Do you want some Sinex?’ I said. ‘I think I might have some in my bag.’

‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT VOODOO!’ She veered across three lanes onto the sliproad. The collection of objects on the dashboard slid rapidly from one side to the other. ‘I tried some earlier and it felt like my entire head was on fire. I’d sue Vicks if I had the strength.’

‘Well, it is designed for colds… ’

‘It’s designed for blocked sinuses . And ninety per cent of people with blocked sinuses do not have colds. Ask anyone who works in Boots.’

Boots. Strip-lit treasure trove of my formative years. In my teens I’d skipped round most Saturdays with a basket, gathering make-up and tanning cream and divinely inspired shaving products. Fiddle-de-dee! Now it fulfilled something closer to its traditional pharmaceutical role: a place of healing, or prevention. Tyler had once been buying her ‘weekend kit’ (Sinex, Night Nurse, ibuprofen, balm-soft tissues, chewable multivitamins) and pulled her Boots Advantage card out of her purse to release a magician’s cloud of the previous week’s remains. I stood behind her, clutching a Fruit Corner, watching the damning puff of powder sprinkle onto the lino. The girl on the checkout smirked at Tyler with a look of darkest collusion and processed the transaction without a word. One of us , Tyler said on the escalator out, jerking her head back in the girl’s direction. After all, everyone uses their Boots Advantage card. Either that or their gym card. It’s our last stab at irony on the edge of the abyss.

She swerved into the car park. It was almost midday and the wedding village was busy. We drove round the one-way system for five minutes without success.