The Ascendant

Chapter Fifty-Nine

In the end, perhaps unsurprisingly, there were no coffee shops still open at that time of the morning, not locally in any case, so we caught a taxi back to the house and ended up sitting around smoking, chatting and recuperating until about six or seven.

I woke at around eleven with Dawn’s head resting between my left nipple and armpit. Despite my intake of the previous twenty four hours I felt in reasonable shape, although my legs were stiff and heavy, probably as much a result of the miles I had put in on the treadmill as my time spent on the dance floor. My muscles groaned as I adjusted myself to find a more comfortable lying position, causing Dawn to stir momentarily before shifting her head to my shoulder and returning to her deep, soothing breathing. I decided to lie still and stick it out. Stare at the ceiling a while longer, allow the musty aroma of the room to resonate in my nostrils; not quite as rank as that derelict house back in Cardiff but pretty unsavoury all the same. It was also a timely reminder of what I had gone through to get here. My mind ran over the events at work of the past three months; bluff, double bluff, bullshit and betrayal. It certainly beat the hell out of wearing a headset and reciting from a script in a call centre anyway, although the nerves, excitement and fear it sometimes instilled could not have been healthy; I guess that's why the money is so good.

Wide eyed but knackered, I glanced around my bedroom. It was bright and vast but somehow not really my style. The paint colour on the walls – dark yellow - was a bit too garish for my taste. I fancied a deep red or blue, or maybe just plain white to offset the varnished floorboards. If I was still employed this time next week then I would get the roller and brush out and stamp some personal identity on the place; transform it from a room to my den. A few posters wouldn’t go amiss: Blur, AC/DC, Jo Guest or the bird from Sleeper, plus something gothic. Batman perhaps, or maybe a painting or metallic figurine from one of the local shops, and a few gadgets would also be essential: a lava lamp, a couple of novelty gonks, or some such tat. Just something to generally liven the place up.

I turned to give Dawn a gentle peck on her forehead as she dozed contentedly. Her hair was slightly matted from all the activity in the club last night but she still retained her dignity and (upper-middle) class, even whilst sleeping off the effects of last night’s excess, her soft skin and firm flesh wrapped snugly around me. For the first time in my life I had much to lose but this would not be a day for negative thoughts, I vowed, and instead contemplated contrasting colours between the cornice and ceiling. No, I decided. White. Brilliant white from skirting to ceiling rose. This time next week I would be covered in paint splashes in a frenzy of creativity.

We spent the afternoon taking a breezy walk across Hampstead Heath. The sun was out, and though it was not yet tee shirt weather, the picnickers were there in force, pinning their blankets down with Thermoses, bottles of wine and bags of sausage rolls while dogs harried round the paths and bumpier terrain, yapping and snapping at balls and sticks. Our limbs were tired and our progress slow but the fresh air and countrified serenity, so different from what was going on just a couple of miles away on Camden High Street, was having a therapeutic and revitalising effect on us both.

Starting out at the gate on North End Road, we strolled up the main footpath, holding hands but saying very little. The wildlife flapping and quacking around the ponds was making ample noise for both of us and a running commentary would not have added much to the experience. Small children ran round, squealing and laughing as they chased each other up a mound before tumbling back down again, and repeating the process over. When we finally reached the apex of Parliament Hill, our legs leaden with fatigue, our hair and faces swept by the billowing wind, we stopped to sight-spot Canary Wharf and St Paul’s Cathedral. The hill was smattered with grown men doing battle with silly shaped kites. Dawn held both arms round my waist as we watched a middle aged bloke doddering about while his projectile arced and swooped noisily around him. It looked like an acquired skill, perhaps one that his son, stood loyally by his side, was not quite mature enough to undertake yet. Still, his old man seemed to be enjoying himself.

We wandered on, down the other side of the hill towards some woodland, drifting round in circles, getting lost, grasping our bearings and getting lost again. By late afternoon, however, our energy levels were in freefall and we were both grateful to get back onto familiar territory, exiting where we came out and with one final Herculean effort, we traversed the hill leading up to Hampstead High Street before slumping into the first restaurant we came across.

The food was Italian, served quickly and grumpily, the ambience snobbish but bearable. I had come to appreciate eating out as a social pastime, and was learning how to act whilst doing so, especially remembering to comment on the food, ideally accentuating the positive (sauces and rogue or obscure ingredients should be given particular attention). I found affectation easier when I was comfortable with the company I shared, and that was certainly the case right now, though we were both too jaded to indulge in such nonsense, and neither of us had been extravagant or imaginative with our choice of dishes (lasagne and spag bol).

‘My probationary period is up this week,’ I said, struggling with my spaghetti, spoon and a fork twisting technique which had been demonstrated so expertly by the kids sat at the table to our right.

‘Oh. That shouldn’t be an issue though should it? I thought you had been getting on fine.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be an issue, no. I’m just saying: it’s up this week.’

‘Well, I’m sure it will just be a formality Ben. You’d know by now if they had any misgivings about you, and you’ve said everything has been fine this last two months, haven’t you?’

‘Sure. I’m sure it will be fine. As you say, they would’ve let me know by now if something was up. It’s just that, y’know. I’ll just be relieved when I’m confirmed as a permanent member of staff, that’s all. Security I suppose. ’

‘Yeah, I understand completely. Ben, why don’t you just chop the spaghetti?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well you’re getting nowhere fast there. I’ll have finished mine by the time you manage your first mouthful at the rate you’re going. You’ve got plenty on your chin though.’ She might have been joshing with her last comment but her observations were spot on. She even had the civility to avoid pointing out the distressing mess I had initiated on my shirt. I lifted my napkin and mopped the offending areas until Dawn gave me an approving nod to confirm respectability then sent my knife into the fray, hacking and slashing at the spaghetti until it was all a manageable length (ranging from about an inch to a couple of millimetres). Thereafter I set about shovelling the contents of the dish into my mouth, albeit at a fairly genteel rate (only slightly quicker than the louche bloke sat to my left), replenishing dwindling energy reserves and silencing my grumbling belly. Satisfied, I called for the bill and settled with cash, leaving a handsome tip so as not to appear tight or anxious about future cash flow in front of Dawn.

Once back at the house we sat around for a bit. The others must have had greater stamina than Dawn or I, for they were all out while we settled for staring at some banal rubbish on the telly, munching on a bag of Pretzels and waiting for the clock to tick round to a respectable time so we could call it a night. Dawn cradled her mug of hot chocolate while I stroked her well-tended hair, careful not to twist or damage a strand.

I had done my sums over and over, and then over again, and the results were unpromising regardless of whatever slant or twist I tried to apply. Even if I were to quickly land a job with a reasonable starting salary of, say eighteen or twenty grand, I would still struggle to keep pace with Dawn, professionally and socially. If I couldn’t hang on to my current job I would need more money than I could earn. When trying to work out how much would be enough I was left with the cold facts presented by my bank balance: If anything I needed more money, not less. I would be paid on Wednesday but had only a hundred quid to last me until then.

I looked down at the top of Dawn’s head as she rested herself against me, aware that our time as equal partners would certainly expire too soon. I lowered my head to kiss her, lingering in place as I inhaled the soft fruity scent of her hair, uncertain which direction my life would turn next, wishing for remembrance if longevity was too much to ask. 'Remember me, Dawn', I implored as tears welled and spilled from my eyes. 'Remember me'.