One Hundred Names

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘I’m so sorry to drag you over so late,’ Kitty apologised to Steve as he got out of his car. She’d wiped her eyes roughly while she waited and now hoped it wasn’t obvious that she’d been crying. ‘I didn’t mean for you to come over at all, I just didn’t know who else to call. The dry-cleaners said they’d evict me next month if I didn’t sort it out and I didn’t want to call the guards and I didn’t know who else to call. Sorry,’ she repeated.

‘Kitty, shut up saying sorry, okay?’ he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulder and giving her as much of an embrace as his PDA-hating body would allow him, and though it was more the kind of hug a footballer would give another she appreciated that he even touched her. ‘What did they do this time?’

She didn’t need to answer, the smell hit as soon as they stepped in the stairwell.

‘Oh God…’ He pulled the neck of his sweater up over his mouth and nose.

It took them twenty minutes of much gagging and retching to clean the door and it seemed it would take eternity to get rid of the stink. As a further apology and thanks, Kitty treated Steve to dinner in a nearby bistro.

‘I have to wash my hands again,’ Steve said, rolling up his nose in disgust, ‘I can still smell it on me. I don’t think I can touch food.’

‘You’ve cleaned your hands six times,’ she laughed, watching him disappear to the bistro toilet.

‘So how is everything with you? Is Victoria Beckham’s new line Fit or Shit?’ she asked as soon as he’d returned.

‘Ha ha,’ he said, without cracking a smile. ‘I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’m no longer a slave to her fashion.’

Steve wasn’t a slave to any particular fashion but his own style, which wasn’t especially bad but it was consistent, had pretty much been the same since their college days, though the fabrics were now more expensive and he tended to wash his clothes more regularly. He was thirty-four years old, with a mop of unruly black curly hair on top of his head, a style he’d had since college and which, like him, never seemed able to be tamed. His curls often hung in front of his blue eyes so that he was constantly jerking his head to move his fringe away, having long ago given up on brushing it away with his fingers. He was always unshaven, his stubble a designer length, but Kitty had never seen him freshly shaven or reach beard stage. He lived in leather jackets and jeans and would have appeared more at home reviewing the alternative music scene than as a sports journalist, or at least a frustrated sports journalist. Even when going to matches he never wore a jersey, his love for the game not having to be proved by his T-shirt. He was the eternal student, never seeming to have any money and sharing houses and flats with unusual characters, chopping and changing accommodation according to their recent behaviour. He was currently living in the suburbs in a nice semi-detached three-bedroom house with a married couple who needed help from a third party to meet the mortgage payments of their negative equity. Living in non-violation of the married couple’s strict household code for the past six months, Steve found his lifestyle now mirrored theirs, and it was almost like he’d grown up a little.

‘Actually,’ he shifted in his chair, a movement that told Kitty he was preparing to say something he deemed interesting, ‘I no longer work for the paper.’

‘What?’

‘I no longer work for the paper,’ he said in exactly the same tone.

‘Yes, I heard you but… they fired you?’

‘No,’ he said, insulted. ‘I left.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? I thought that would be obvious. Because a million reasons, but mainly because you were right about what you said a few weeks ago-’

‘No, no, no,’ she interrupted, not wanting to hear whatever it was that she’d said. ‘I was wrong. Completely wrong. Don’t ever let anything I say be of any value to you in your life at all.’

He smiled. ‘Mostly it isn’t.’

‘Good.’

‘But you were right about one thing. I was hardly setting the world alight by writing the stories I was writing, and even then the editor would change them so much I could hardly call them my own. And the thing is, Kitty, I never wanted to set the world alight with my writing. I just like sports. I like to watch sports, talk about sports, I like to read about sports and I wanted to be one of those people who wrote about it. It was never about anything else.’

‘So who are you writing for now?’

‘No one.’

‘I thought you left so you could write about sport?’

‘I left because I couldn’t write about sports. So what’s the point in staying there? Writing ridiculous articles that aren’t even true about people I have never met and have no interest in is not a job I want. It suits Kyle, who leaves meetings to watch breaking headlines on E! News. It’s for Charlotte who wants to be in every VIP room in every club in the world so she can stand at the wall and write about people she has odd obsessions with. The morning after our… chat, I went into work and the first thing I was asked to do was write one hundred and fifty words on how a certain footballer was allegedly having an affair with a glamour model.’

‘Oooh, who?’ Kitty leaned in.

‘It’s not the point,’ he said brusquely. ‘I didn’t want to write about it. It’s not what I’m about. Never mind not writing ground-breaking stories, stories that do nothing but numb the human mind is not my gameplan either.’

‘Yeah, but who was the footballer?’

‘Kitty.’

‘Okay, fine. Who was the glamour model?’

‘Not. The. Point.’

She sat back, disappointed.

‘How could I lecture you about your stories when that’s the work that I was doing? I have more self-respect than writing that crap. That kind of journalism… it was killing my soul.’

Kitty tried not to wince at the constant digging in her ribs. ‘I get it, it was an honest, self-sacrificing move, aimed to take a stance at the smut that the public are being forced to ingest, which is very honourable of you and I respect that, now cut the crap and tell me who the footballer and the slag were?’

‘I’m going to throw this prawn cocktail at you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

He picked up a prawn, which was more of a mini shrimp, placed it on his fork, held it back like a catapult and let it go. The prawn flew through the air and landed on Kitty’s boob, the Marie Rose sauce splodging on the satin.

She gasped. ‘You little prick.’

‘Don’t talk about the size of my prick.’

‘My top is stained.’

‘So take it to the dry-cleaners. I know one that’s open all night.’

‘I’m going to stink of fish.’

‘Will go nicely with the shit.’

And they were right back at college lunch hour, having meaningless back-and-forth slagging matches.

She dipped her serviette in her water and ignored him for five minutes while she dabbed at her top, making it worse. ‘So what are you going to do now? It’s great timing to be an unemployed wannabe sports journalist.’

‘A-ha. That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not unemployed. I’m working on the allotments.’

‘No way.’

‘Yes way.’

‘Your dad’s allotments?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you hate the allotments.’

‘Hated.’

‘And you hate your dad.’

‘Hated. Again, there’s a distinct difference. Besides, now that he’s paying me a wage he’s not so bad. He’s needed help around the place since he put his back out, so I’m the go-to man. Looking for a rotavator? I’m your man. Looking for fertiliser? A tool shed? A polytunnel? Just give me a call. Instead of being cooped up all day in a sweat box, I get to be outdoors.’

‘You hate daylight. It does something to your vampire

skin.’

‘Kitty,’ he warned, lifting another prawn.

‘Okay, okay, I’m just shocked. You’ve made some very big changes for a guy who I remember changed his underwear on a weekly basis, and this is a lot to take in.’

Another shrimp missile was fired but this time Kitty dodged it. ‘What made you want to suddenly work with your dad? Last time you mentioned him, you said that was it, you had cut all ties with him.’

‘It’s been going on for a while. We’ve been slowly getting in contact with each other.’ Steve distracted himself with more bread, avoiding her eyes; he was never comfortable talking about anything personal. He mumbled the next part quite well. ‘Then Katja and Dad met and they surprisingly get along, and…’

He rattled on about the change in his life, none of which Kitty heard as she was still stuck on the word ‘Katja’.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

She realised he’d stopped talking.

‘Oh. Well. I thought I heard you say the name “Katja” and I got confused.’

‘I did.’

‘Katja,’ she repeated loudly as though he were deaf.

‘Yes,’ he smiled, amused at her.

‘The girl you went out for dinner with a few months ago?’

‘Yes, and who I’m still going out with,’ he confirmed, his cheeks turning pink and giving it all away.

Their main course arrived – two beef fillets – but suddenly Kitty didn’t feel hungry. ‘Katja,’ she repeated. ‘You never men-tioned you two were going out.’

‘Well, we are.’

‘Like boyfriend and girlfriend?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘You never mentioned you’d broken up with Glen.’

‘Because you found out before I did.’

‘I did?’

‘The coffee machine.’

Realisation passed over his face. ‘He just left?’

‘Something like that.’

‘He was a prick anyway.’

‘I thought you liked him.’

Steve shook his head, mouth full.

She sighed. ‘Did anyone like him?’

He swallowed. ‘You did.’

‘I was hoping for more people than that.’

‘Crusty liked him.’

They laughed. Crusty was Steve’s fourteen-year-old dog who he’d taken in from a shelter four years ago. No one had known his name but he had looked crusty then and even after a wash, his appearance never altered very much. It was the perfect name. Despite getting on in years, Crusty always managed to find the energy to hump Glen’s leg, which had always disgusted Glen and probably caused him silently to question his sexuality along with everything else in life he over-analysed, such as what kind of a woman he had found himself living with after the Colin Maguire case.

‘So how long have you been together? Two months?’

‘Five.’

‘Five? Jesus, Steve, you might as well get married. I should buy a hat.’

‘Don’t. They give away your Spock ears.’

She laughed. ‘This is the Romanian girl?’

‘Croatian.’

‘Right. She’s a painter?’

‘Photographer.’

‘Right.’ She studied him.

‘What?’ he laughed self-consciously as though he was a twelve-year-old boy who’d just been caught with his first girlfriend.

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on.’

‘I don’t know, Steve,’ she cut into her meat, ‘you’ve changed. You no longer write about Victoria Beckham and you have a girlfriend. I think…’

‘You think what?’

‘I don’t know, I might be jumping the gun here, but I think there’s a possibility you might not be gay after all.’

A chip was hurled at her head.

Kitty spent the remainder of the meal eating as though she had a chip stuck in the back of her throat. Food wasn’t going down easily and she didn’t know why. She used to find comfort in the fact that Steve had an appalling job that he hated and refused to settle down. His realising that changes needed to be made in his life, and then making them, was upsetting. She simply didn’t want to be the only one with problems.

‘How is your new story going?’ he asked, finally filling the uncomfortable silence.

‘Oh,’ Kitty sighed, feeling drained by it already. ‘I don’t know. I met a very nice old lady tonight who told me about her very nice life and it’s all sounding very nice, but nothing…’ she scrunched her hands together, ‘nothing meaty, nothing juicy. I need to dig around in her cupboard for a few skeletons or something. Something that’s not so “very nice”. This is my chance to prove myself to so many people – probably my last chance – and whatever it was that Constance saw, I’m sure as hell not seeing it. It’s a little frustrating.’

Steve was quiet. She looked at him and his whole body had tensed up. His jaw had squared and he was looking at her as if he wanted to inflict physical pain on her.

‘Have you spoken to Colin Maguire yet?’

‘I will phone him right now if it stops you from saying whatever horrible thing is on the tip of your tongue.’

‘So it’s about you again,’ he snapped. ‘You apologising to him is all about you.’ His sudden change of mood took her by surprise.

‘I was joking, Steve, but go on, I see you’re in the mood to rip me to shreds again.’ Before he had the chance to do so, she dived in, ‘Just so you know, I am truly sorry about what happened to him.’

‘What happened to him? Something didn’t just happen to him, Kitty, you caused it, you actively caused it, not some random unexplained unlucky event that just happened.’

‘I know that! Okay, I phrased it wrong. I can’t win with you. Of course I know it’s my fault. I have a bloody conscience, you know. I will be sorry every single day for the rest of my life.’

‘After the fact,’ he said, confusing her. ‘You’re always sorry after you do something. You never think about how they feel or how you’d feel before. That’s what annoys me. You’ve learned nothing from the Colin Maguire situation. Here you are interviewing a nice little old lady and her nice little story is not enough for you. You always want more.’

Kitty was so shocked by his mood swing that her eyes stung with hot frustrated tears. She looked around and tried to focus on everything else around her to stop the tears from falling. Kitty didn’t cry easily but she was having an emotional time lately and she had never been so out of favour with Steve. His opinion was of high importance to her. She had heard her mother accuse her of everything under the sun since January but nothing – nothing – could affect her as much as one simple look of disappointment from Steve.

They finished their meat in silence, she paid the bill and they walked in silence to her flat.

‘I’ll make sure it’s safe,’ Steve said quietly, running up the stairs to check the area.

The door that led to the stairs up to her flat was always left open. As much as Kitty had pleaded with the landlords they couldn’t lock it as it was the shared door to the second internal door, which led to the dry-cleaners. This meant that at any time of the day anybody could walk up the stairs to her door.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, coming back down. ‘Stinks of shit, though.’

‘Thanks for coming over. I really appreciate it. Especially now that you have a girlfriend,’ she teased childishly, elbowing him.

‘She wants to meet you,’ he said, softening.

‘Yeah, cool, that would be great,’ she said over-enthusiastically, and it was obvious. ‘Well, I’d better get inside before somebody chucks a water balloon filled with vomit at my head. I’m glad you’re happy, Steve.’ She tried to make it sound jolly and genuine but all that she heard was her own voice saying, Your happiness makes me jealous and unhappy, Steve. I am a bitter and twisted human being.

She blocked her nose and mouth with her jacket as she ran up the steps to her flat and tried to convince herself that the unbearable stench was the reason for her crying.