The Last Thing She Said

THE LAST THING SHE SAID

Everything in life is coincidence, and much more likely not to have happened. But the coincidences are often tied up in consequence, the results of actions we have taken or not taken.

Brian as a lawyer was reasonably good at his job, affable when necessary, so clients were never in short supply. Indeed one or two of the more desperate ones may have called him their hero. But Brian was losing focus on his day job as he turned to scriptwriting movies and should have known that all heroes have fatal flaws.

Money was his. A series of bank managers had spoken ominously of cashflow, and suggested rather self-servingly that business at bottom was about a firm’s current account at the bank. And that was in something of a pickle. Brian tried to deal with each mini-crisis separately and logically, but the pressure was growing. And it found an outlet in drink.

He stayed late at work desperately keeping his files afloat. Too tired or demotivated to cook after a long journey home, he took himself to the restaurant on the next corner for a steak and a bottle of red wine. House plonk maybe but not the cheapest way to live one’s life. And then he drove home. He had been ending the day like that for quite some while. And the wine flowed mightier and the car went faster.

All his life he’d been wary of men called Julian. A funny bunch they were, apt to get in your way at the wrong times. This one certainly did. PC247 Julian spotted Brian in his lawyer’s Rover whizzing across a roundabout perfectly safely. But it was late in the day and little traffic on the roads and PC Julian was doubtless bored and fancied a bit of entertainment. To cut this sad episode short (for it is but backstory) Brian lost his driving licence for twelve months.

A lot changed in Brian’s life. BBC Radio 4 or Herbie Hancock in the car gave way to reading magic realism from Garcia Marquez and Carlos Fuentes on the trains Brian now had to use. But most of all he was now free to drink without falling foul of driving regulations. The steak house perforce gave way to a cantina in the centre of town which he had to cross to get home. The burritos cooked up by the long-haired fellow in charge were less than perfect but the waitress was adorable- friendly, pretty, witty.

So he went back, he kept going back to it. Back to those dark, cosy, if slightly threatening, side streets around King’s Cross in the days between the prostitutes and the developers. It was clear that Rachel was more than a waitress. She was clever and pert- the list of adjectives Brian attached to her grew ever longer. She actually ran the place alongside her partner the hippy dude. He started staying longer, sometimes after the place closed (the Underground ran late enough for that) and Rachel’s sister would join them so they became an informal foursome sitting there over wine. It was enjoyable and took his mind off things. But Brian really only had eyes for Rachel.

Then one day a man with a face like an anaemic rat visited Brian’s business. He had kidded Brian’s secretary that he was an old friend come to surprise him with an invitation to a special occasion. Only the last bit was true. He handed Brian papers and beat a fast retreat. The invitation was to the Bankruptcy Court.

Brian went straight home that night. He played Emmylou, the voice of an angel. “Addiction stayed on tight as a glove”. A functioning addict. With multiple addictions but spread thinly he hoped. Drink, dimmed lights and seedy pathways, a bit of speculative and optimistic gambling. And Rachel. He couldn’t keep away now. But what was the point? She had her man though she seemed to like Brian. Was that enough? Yes he said to himself quite resoundingly it was (and after all he could hardly afford a full-on relationship).

He got to know her better, her bouncy self-confidence, actually her bossiness. She was a bit older he reckoned than her man, and her sister, and was quite prepared to push both of them around.

One night Brian sat alone in the place with his wine. The guy was busy with a raucous party and it was Rachel’s night off. There was no sign of the sister. What a sight Rachel was when she returned. In classy purple, an open coat and underneath everything looked tight and on the short side. She had become the glamour girl heroine of his latest script. She was Cleopatra. She was Helen whom they said had six husbands. She was the Rose of San Antone and the Queen of Sheba.

She sat down with him, clearly in a good mood except when she shouted at the guy to clear some table.

“You can be quite bossy”, Brian said with a smile.

“He puts up with it”, she replied.

“I wouldn’t”, said Brian.

She looked interested. She leaned forward towards him. Beautiful perfume wafted over him.

“And what would you do about it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know”, he replied.

He felt he had blown it but she was only a friend after all. Excuses he knew. But it was difficult being macho with the court case coming ever nearer. He stayed awhile talking to her of other things, less dangerous, less interesting.

He was putting his coat on when she perked up again.

“We’re having a little do here on Saturday,” she said, “Do you want to come?”

“Yes, OK, thanks”

Her guy was coming to join them.

That week he had a meeting with a fellow solicitor, a nice guy he had known for years. He would take over the business. There was not much in it for Brian but what could he expect. A consultancy was suggested. No, he wasn’t ready for that. He felt flat inside. The train journey home felt endless. Carlos Fuentes’ Terra Nostra lay unopened on the seat beside him. Our Land. It wasn’t his any more. He felt stateless in his own country.

Back in the office the next day he stayed late in the almost darkness with just the table lamp and the gas fire for light. What once had been cosy adjuncts for a legal eagle. He looked at the station lights opposite but could not bring himself to leave. That day he had told his staff it was all over. Monday was the Bankruptcy Court. And before that….

He went back to the restaurant on the Saturday.

“I tried ringing you. Your phone wasn’t working”

She meant the office phone which would never work again.

“Oh yes…” he said “What did you want?”

“Just a chat” she replied. It was a bad question he knew. She sounded almost hurt.

They went on chatting. They went on drinking. A waltz was playing; somebody was singing “Goodnight Irene”. They had good taste in music the two of them. Brian and Rachel began to smooch. She was pressing herself to him. Then she spoke, just a whisper.

“I don’t sleep with him you know.”

Had she really said that? Brian knew she had. He pulled her slightly away from him and looked at her. There was a sadness in her face he had never seen before. The look of a woman who knew she had done all she could, or at least all she was prepared to. A woman not in love with him, not infatuated, but who had grown fond of him over the months he had been going there.

******************

The guy in the coffee house complimented Brian on his tie.

“Going somewhere special”, he asked

“Sort of” said Brian.

He didn’t even feel tense. There was no defence to being unable to pay your debts. But bankruptcy was its own relief. A Chinese wall, or maybe an Iron Curtain, was coming down between Brian and his creditors. And quite a few other people as well.

He only once ever saw Rachel again. He was near a bar they used to drink in, the four of them. She was approaching with two other girls, and she was in the middle. Their eyes met. Both knew instinctively that they needed to keep walking.