Heading Inland. Nicola Barker
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Jack had put down the phone, he picked up his duffel coat and brushed it off. He was keenly looking forward to a cold snap.
It was a nightmare. Just as she’d imagined. Heinz wore his toupee and his turd-coloured tie. He kept regaling them with terrible stories about his late wife’s beloved red setter which had died – following several years of chronic incontinence – after swallowing a cricket ball. Carrie supposed that he must be nervous. Poor lamb.
Sydney was horribly polite. She kept staring at Heinz’s stomach as she spoke to him, like she expected, at any minute, that something might explode out of it.
When Carrie drove her home, she didn’t talk for the first ten minutes of the journey. She merely said, ‘Carrie. Leave me. I have to digest.’
Carrie left her. Eventually, after she’d digested sufficiently, Sydney said, ‘He belched throughout the ballet. It was like sitting next to an old pair of bellows. Christ, the orchestra should recruit him for the wind section.’
Carrie’s heart sank. ‘He wasn’t belching. He swallowed a toffee too quickly. It went down the wrong way. He kept apologizing.’
‘And that fucking dog! His dead wife’s dead fucking dog! Does he really think I’m interested in how they fed it a diet of fresh chicken to try and quell its chronic flatulence? Are you interested, Carrie? Huh?’
‘No.’
‘Pardon?’
‘No! No, I’m not interested. I’m not.’
‘And I just can’t believe . . .’
‘What?’ Carrie tried to keep her eyes on the road, but Sydney’s expression . . . ‘What?!’
‘The two of you . . .’
‘What?’
Sydney’s eyes were glued to the road ahead. It was starting to rain. Carrie turned on the windscreen wipers just in time with Sydney’s next pronouncement.
‘Fucking.’
Carrie said nothing. They both stared at the road. Eventually Sydney turned her eyes towards Carrie. ‘Well?’
Carrie said nothing. She focused on the road and the wipers and the rain and the way that the light from the streetlamps reflected in the drops of water on the windscreen before each harsh stroke brushed it away. Where do they go? She wondered. Where do those moments go? The rain falling in just such a way, the light, the wiper. Something there and then something gone.
Sydney found she was boiling. Not hot, but something inside. What else could she do? What else could she say? Carrie had closed down, shut up, like a clam. Sydney cursed herself. She was too impetuous. Too quick to judge. If only she’d tried to be nice, to be supportive. Maybe then Carrie might have provided her with some details. Something to ponder, to mull over, fat to chew on. Damn! Sydney crossed her arms, stared at the road, boiled.
‘I got your number from the book,’ Heinz said.
‘Didn’t I give it you?’
‘No.’
‘I should’ve.’
‘She didn’t like me.’
‘No. Actually, I think she really hated you.’
‘Sometimes I can be overwhelming. It’s a fault of mine. I know that. But I am simply myself. When you get old . . .’
‘You tried your best.’
‘But did I? One tends to forget how it is to . . . uh . . . to play the game.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Can I see you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Tonight?’
Carrie rubbed her eyes with her spare hand. ‘I only just got in. It’s raining outside . . .’
‘Tomorrow?’
Sydney lay on her stomach and rested the weight of her head on her hands. What was wrong? It was just . . . she couldn’t imagine. Carrie and that fat old man. My God! She just couldn’t picture it. Not properly. Not graphically. She rolled on to her back. Couldn’t imagine. But my Lord, my Lord, how she longed to!
Sydney stared at Jack’s buttons. Jack pretended not to notice. Sydney sighed.
‘Jack,’ she said, ‘you haven’t a hope in hell of winning me over with that old three button trick.’
Jack’s eyes blinked and then widened. ‘What do you mean, ma’am?’
‘Nor that Courtly American Gentleman shite.’
Jack scowled. ‘What’s the axe you’ve got to grind, Sydney?’ he asked, not charming any longer.
‘No axe,’ Sydney said. ‘I just thought you should know
. . .’She paused. What did she want to say, exactly? Would she tell Jack about Heinz? She looked into Jack’s face and knew that the notion of an eighty-odd-year-old man sleeping with his wife was hardly going to incite him to jealousy.
‘Is it Carrie?’ Jack asked.
‘Yep.’ Sydney rubbed the corner of her eyes.
‘You look washed out,’ he said.
‘Tired. Haven’t been sleeping.’
‘Really?’
Sydney uncrossed her legs. ‘Carrie’s got someone new.’
Jack looked surprised. ‘Already?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
Sydney cleared her throat. ‘Someone she’s known for a while.’
‘She met them at the gym? Who is it? Do I know them?’
Sydney shrugged. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘So I do know them?’
‘I didn’t say you knew them.’
‘Are they younger than me?’
Sydney squirmed. ‘I just thought . . .’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
Sydney picked up her briefcase. ‘Not for any reason, really.’ She frowned and then asked out loud. ‘Why am I telling you? I don’t know.’ She stood up. ‘That three button thing you do,’ she said finally, ‘I just wanted to tell you that it’s a real cheap trick.’
Half a bottle of Jim Beam later, it finally clicked. The only thing that made sense. Carrie was having an affair with Sydney. And Sydney was terrified of what exactly his response might be. She was intimidated by him. She was threatened. Naturally. And she’d really wanted to tell him too, to throw it in his face, debilitate him. Only then . . . only then she just didn’t have the nerve. That was it! Had to be. Carrie and Sydney. Sydney and Carrie. Wow.
‘You won’t believe this, Sydney. Something so odd happened . . .’ They were pulling on their leotards and tying up their laces.
‘Try me.’
‘Jack rang. He left a message on the machine. He wants to drop by. On Wednesday.’
Sydney pulled the bow stiff on her lace. She straightened up.
‘But Wednesday!’ she exclaimed. ‘Isn’t that ballet night?’
Carrie looked uneasy, momentarily, like she didn’t know quite what Sydney was getting at. ‘Uh, yes . . .’
‘So you won’t be needing your tickets?’
‘I suppose not, unless . . .’
‘So I could have them