swallowed a depth charge. Howard’s explaining voice drifts through to us.
Ma gets up and kick-slams the door.
‘Because I love him even if he doesn’t love me!’
Her tumbler smashes on the floor and glass skids around our feet.
‘Because I need sex and why shouldn’t I! Because I’m lonely, I’m lonely, okay, and I need someone bright to talk to! D’you think I can talk to you? D’you think you’d ever be interested in me for one minute?’
‘Ma –’
‘You’ve never cared for me! And then you brought Nadia here against my wishes to be all sweet and hypercritical and remind me of all the terrible past and the struggle of being alone for so long!’
*
Ma sobbing in her room. Howard in with her. Nadia and me sit together at the two ends of the sofa. My ears are scarlet with the hearing of Ma’s plain sorrow through the walls. ‘Yes, I care for you,’ Howard’s voice rises. ‘I love you, baby. And I love Nina, too. Both of you.’
‘I don’t know, Howard. You don’t ever show it.’
‘But I’m blocked as a human being!’
I say to Nadia: ‘Men are pretty selfish bastards who don’t understand us. That’s all I know.’
‘Howard’s an interesting type,’ she says coolly. ‘Very open-minded in an artistic way.’
I’m getting protective in my old age and very pissed off.
‘He’s my mother’s boyfriend and long-standing lover.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘So lay off him. Please, Nadia. Please understand.’
‘What are you, of all people, accusing me of?’
I’m not too keen on this ‘of all people’ business. But get this.
‘I thought you advanced Western people believed in the free intermingling of the sexes?’
‘Yes, we do. We intermingle all the time.’
‘What then, Nina, is your point?’
‘It’s him,’ I explain, moving in. ‘He has all the weaknesses. One kind word from a woman and he thinks they want to sleep with him. Two kind words and he thinks he’s the only man in the world. It’s a form of mental illness, of delusion. Iwouldn’t tangle with that deluded man if I were you!’
All right!
*
A few days later.
Here I am slouching at Howard’s place. Howard’s hole, or ‘sock’ as he calls it, is a red-brick mansion block with public-school, stately dark oak corridors, off Kensington High Street. Things have been getting grimmer and grimmer. Nadia stays in her room or else goes out and pops her little camera at ‘history’. Ma goes to every meeting she hears of. I’m just about ready for artery road.
I’ve just done you a favour. I could have described every moment of us sitting through Howard’s television œuvre (which I always thought meant egg ). But no – on to the juicy bits!
There they are in front of me, Howard and Nadia cheek to cheek, within breath-inhaling distance of each other, going through the script.
Earlier this morning we went shopping in Covent Garden. Nadia wanted my advice on what clothes to buy. So we went for a couple of sharp dogtooth jackets, distinctly city, fine brown and white wool, the jacket caught in at the waist with a black leather belt; short panelled skirt; white silk polo-neck shirt; plus black pillbox, suede gloves, high heels. If she likes something, if she wants it, she buys it. The rich. Nadia bought me a linen jacket.
Maybe I’m sighing too much. They glance at me with undelight.
‘I can take Nadia home if you like,’ Howard says.
‘I’ll take care of my sister,’ I say. ‘But I’m out for a stroll now. I’ll be back at any time.’
I stroll towards a café in Rotting Hill. I head up through Holland Park, past the blue sloping roof of the Commonwealth Institute (or Nigger’s Corner as we used to call it) in which on a school trip I pissed into a wastepaper basket. Past modern nannies – young women like me with dyedblack hair – walking dogs and kids.
The park’s full of hip kids from Holland Park School, smoking on the grass; black guys with flat-tops and muscles; yuppies
Ma gets up and kick-slams the door.
‘Because I love him even if he doesn’t love me!’
Her tumbler smashes on the floor and glass skids around our feet.
‘Because I need sex and why shouldn’t I! Because I’m lonely, I’m lonely, okay, and I need someone bright to talk to! D’you think I can talk to you? D’you think you’d ever be interested in me for one minute?’
‘Ma –’
‘You’ve never cared for me! And then you brought Nadia here against my wishes to be all sweet and hypercritical and remind me of all the terrible past and the struggle of being alone for so long!’
*
Ma sobbing in her room. Howard in with her. Nadia and me sit together at the two ends of the sofa. My ears are scarlet with the hearing of Ma’s plain sorrow through the walls. ‘Yes, I care for you,’ Howard’s voice rises. ‘I love you, baby. And I love Nina, too. Both of you.’
‘I don’t know, Howard. You don’t ever show it.’
‘But I’m blocked as a human being!’
I say to Nadia: ‘Men are pretty selfish bastards who don’t understand us. That’s all I know.’
‘Howard’s an interesting type,’ she says coolly. ‘Very open-minded in an artistic way.’
I’m getting protective in my old age and very pissed off.
‘He’s my mother’s boyfriend and long-standing lover.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘So lay off him. Please, Nadia. Please understand.’
‘What are you, of all people, accusing me of?’
I’m not too keen on this ‘of all people’ business. But get this.
‘I thought you advanced Western people believed in the free intermingling of the sexes?’
‘Yes, we do. We intermingle all the time.’
‘What then, Nina, is your point?’
‘It’s him,’ I explain, moving in. ‘He has all the weaknesses. One kind word from a woman and he thinks they want to sleep with him. Two kind words and he thinks he’s the only man in the world. It’s a form of mental illness, of delusion. Iwouldn’t tangle with that deluded man if I were you!’
All right!
*
A few days later.
Here I am slouching at Howard’s place. Howard’s hole, or ‘sock’ as he calls it, is a red-brick mansion block with public-school, stately dark oak corridors, off Kensington High Street. Things have been getting grimmer and grimmer. Nadia stays in her room or else goes out and pops her little camera at ‘history’. Ma goes to every meeting she hears of. I’m just about ready for artery road.
I’ve just done you a favour. I could have described every moment of us sitting through Howard’s television œuvre (which I always thought meant egg ). But no – on to the juicy bits!
There they are in front of me, Howard and Nadia cheek to cheek, within breath-inhaling distance of each other, going through the script.
Earlier this morning we went shopping in Covent Garden. Nadia wanted my advice on what clothes to buy. So we went for a couple of sharp dogtooth jackets, distinctly city, fine brown and white wool, the jacket caught in at the waist with a black leather belt; short panelled skirt; white silk polo-neck shirt; plus black pillbox, suede gloves, high heels. If she likes something, if she wants it, she buys it. The rich. Nadia bought me a linen jacket.
Maybe I’m sighing too much. They glance at me with undelight.
‘I can take Nadia home if you like,’ Howard says.
‘I’ll take care of my sister,’ I say. ‘But I’m out for a stroll now. I’ll be back at any time.’
I stroll towards a café in Rotting Hill. I head up through Holland Park, past the blue sloping roof of the Commonwealth Institute (or Nigger’s Corner as we used to call it) in which on a school trip I pissed into a wastepaper basket. Past modern nannies – young women like me with dyedblack hair – walking dogs and kids.
The park’s full of hip kids from Holland Park School, smoking on the grass; black guys with flat-tops and muscles; yuppies
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