Emma Unsworth - Animals

‘So when did you leave the Red Room, then?’ I said when I could.

‘Not long after you. Four months, maybe five. Those 3 A.M. finishes! They’re a killer. What have you been up to since?’

‘I work in a call centre.’

A pause, then: ‘See, much better hours, you know what I mean. Neil’s an accountant so we get something like a normal life at the evenings and weekends.’

‘Well, my shifts are pretty unpredictable. It’s a twenty-four-hour service. Credit cards.’ I didn’t know why but it was almost as though part of me was enjoying making out I did the worst thing in the world. I think I was trying to embarrass her or convince myself or both.

Jacqueline’s maggoty toes hunched in her sandals.

‘Don’t get me wrong — I still overdo the vino on a Saturday night sometimes!’

‘Yeah.’ I looked towards the shelf over the fireplace.

‘Are you married?’ she said.

‘No.’ The corner of the invite was spearing my thigh.

‘Kids?’

I shook my head.

‘But you want them?’

‘Not sure. Less and less, to be honest.’

Jacqueline looked crestfallen, as though a childless woman was The Most Tragic Thing she could think of. The spinster aunt of fairy tales. The witch of modern society. I sipped my tea. It was still too hot. I let my body shudder with the pain.

‘I want loads of kids . Loads of boys,’ she said.

Don’t say it. Do not say it.

‘A whole football team.’

I thought about pouring the tea over my head. Silence as we both worked our way through a few more stifling gulps.

‘Neil thinks we should wait a bit before the next, but as a woman you’ve got a biological window, haven’t you?’ ( A euphemism. ) ‘I’ve tried talking to him about it but he just looks at me like some kind of stupid dog. And the thing is I want to have another baby before I’m thirty-five… ’

I tried to picture them having sex: Jacqueline homicidal with productivity, him rigid with generosity. Neither of them speaking, before, during, or after. The Inarticulate Conception.

‘How did you know you wanted a baby?’ I said.

She looked at me.

‘I mean, did you feel it as a desire that was totally yours? Or was it a case of feeling like some sort of failure if you didn’t? I’m sorry, I just — I’m so curious about this. You know all the language around pregnancy is so against us from the start — you lose a baby. You fail at life somehow if you don’t manage it. But it’s just a physical state, isn’t it, so why is there a value attached? Or did you love her, Daisy I mean, when she was in there , did you feel that? Because that changes things, I’m sure. I suppose I’m just scared of not knowing why I’m doing what I’m doing.’

Jacqueline said: ‘I think I felt like I might be missing out on something.’

I paused. I knew what she meant, sort of. Still. ‘Isn’t that just the brat in you, though, wanting everything? Because that’s no good, either. I’m not judging you, by the way. I’m a total brat.’

She looked at me. Looked down.

‘Hey,’ I said, regretting everything I’d said— what was I doing here? — ‘I still use your White Piss Good; Amber Piss Bad rule. Like almost every day.’

Jacqueline brought her hand to her mouth, looked to one side, racking. ‘Did I say that?’

‘Yeah, I mean, I think it was you.’

I could still see her face as she said it, the bar’s reflected optics lighting the shafts of peroxide in her hair.

‘Do you remember the gimp?’ I said, desperately.

She thought for a moment. ‘Oh yeah! The gimp. We got all sorts, didn’t we?’

Lying. These things you treasure, how often they’re somebody else’s trash. I looked around. I felt sad as fuck in that little showroom. I looked at my phone. ‘Oh!’ I said, ‘I’ve got to get to work… ’

‘It was nice to see you, Laura,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Wasn’t it, Daisy? Say, Bye Laura.’

Daisy looked at me. ‘Bye, Daisy,’ I said.

‘What you up to this weekend?’ Jacqueline said.

‘Oh, I’m probably going to go out and take lots of drugs.’

She did a coughy laugh. ‘You serious?’ I smiled. ‘God, I haven’t taken drugs for years.’

She looked down at the baby on the floor and kicked it, gently, with her foot.

On my way to the office I posted the wedding invite into the grinning maw of a black metal bin. When I got to my desk I accessed my personal email ( Verboten but fuckit), and dropped Maud the Painter a line.

My phone rang that evening about half past eight. Tyler picked it up and handed it to me. ‘Unknown number,’ she said. She reached for the remote to turn down the TV.

‘I’ll take it in my room.’

She narrowed her eyes as I backed out and closed the door. I waited until my bedroom door was closed before I answered.

‘Maud!’ I said, swigging wine. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know, drunk.’

‘Me too.’

I wished I’d brought a cigarette in, to smoke.

‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘I thought there might be something wrong when I got your mail.’

‘Oh no, I’m fine, just, you know, been a while.’

‘Ten or twelve years.’

‘What are you up to? Are you still painting?’

‘Yes. Are you still in Manchester?’

‘Yes. Are you still in Bristol?’

‘No, St. Ives. I moved to Somerset, then Penzance, and then here in 2006 to be with Ann. I’m still here, somehow. Ann’s a gallery owner. I know what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m thinking it’s really great you’re still painting.’

‘And it must be handy to be fucking a gallery owner, right? Especially when all I do is peddle cowardice fluffed up as truth … ’

‘No, Maud, I—’

‘None of it stands up, though, does it? Are you still writing your stories?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I’ve Googled you a few times but I couldn’t find much.’

‘That’s not surprising.’

‘And you’re not on Facebook, are you? I mean I’m not on Facebook but I go on sometimes at night in stealth mode. Ann says I should set up an artist’s page but I’m not the sort of person to do that, know what I mean?’

‘Mm.’

‘Otherwise she won’t help me. She hates my art. Everyone hates my art.’

‘Fuck them!’ I said, trying to be supportive. ‘You always did okay in Manchester.’

‘No, I didn’t. I ran out of things to paint in literally five minutes.’

I thought, That’s because you painted your own floor, walking backwards. And now you’re on tiptoes in the corner. But I was never honest with Maud, that was part of the problem — the problem ultimately being we merely used each other as a spittoon for catharsis.

‘Say, I really thought there must be something wrong with you when I got your mail. I was going to offer you somewhere to stay.’

‘No, I’m fine. I’m—’

‘I thought you must be heartbroken or losing your mind.’

‘No more than usual. I was born that way, remember? Brokenhearted.’

She laughed at this. I wanted to kill myself.

‘You should come visit me,’ she said, ‘that’d make you feel better about your own life. Come and see this fucking awful situation I’ve got myself into.’

‘I might have some time later in the year.’

I would not.

‘Well, you’ve got my number now.’

‘I have. Thanks for calling, Maud.’

Well, what else is there to do sometimes except fall back on politeness and get the fuck out? I sat for a while, my legs dangling off the end of my bed, feeling dried out with smashed exhilaration, the internal post-funeral dunes. Both of the day’s encounters had left the taste of ash in my mouth. There was just something so sickening about that sparkless reanimation — and you didn’t know how sickening it would be until you tried. Like sucking on a gone-out cigarette.