The Fabulists | Page 9

almost timid. Anyway he looked pleasant enough. She was very
lonely, but she didn't want another arsehole messing her around. She'd
be in control with this one, that was certain, and for a few days she felt
a surge of exhilarating hope. It was nice to fantasize about him - what
he might be like, what he did, if he was married. Yes, he was married,
but then so was she. Thoughts of an affair made her smile and even
laugh, but the tread of her life reasserted itself and she forgot about him.
Finding a decent present for Arthur on her few bob took up most of her
time. She spent weeks, hesitating, counting her pennies, hoping to
come across a better bargain. As a truce offering, she bought Brian a
video tape.
Christmas passed more peacefully than she could have hoped. Arthur
was happy with his football and boots, and his video games from Brian.
Annie had spilled the beans about Santy, but despite Tess's annoyance

it had turned out to her advantage in the present arrangement, and his
manic spirits kept their minds off reality. Alcohol and television and
the visits to Arthur's grandparents did the rest.
They drank so much on Christmas night that they ended up fucking on
the living-room floor, she not caring who he was, and she even came. It
wasn't great, but it was better than fighting. The next day, appalling
hangovers allowed them to pretend nothing had happened. She left that
evening, relieved that Christmas and its obligations were over. She put
the idea of pregnancy out of her mind. On New Year's Eve she went to
Christchurch, and rang in the New Year and New Decade, dancing with
strangers with as much abandon as if she believed they held a promise
of happiness. She went to a party off the South Circular Road, where
there were so few men that several women danced with each other.
They were several drinks ahead of her and she felt awkward, so she
walked home around three, ignoring the boisterous calling from passing
cars. At least she hadn't been alone for the first few hours of the year.
That was symbolically important. She took down the redundant
calendar and burned it, hoping all her bad luck would go up in smoke.
Arthur settled back into school, and the routine was established again.
On her way back from Fairview, she felt the first drops of rain as she
hurried across O'Connell Street. Already the windscreen wipers were
zipping on passing cars. She crossed into Abbey Street while the lights
were still red, but within moments she was caught in a downpour. Her
head was bare so she cursed fluently while running to a bus shelter,
where she huddled with a dozen others, but then realized the rain had
soaked through her coat and she walked slowly and miserably home.
Once inside the flat, she made no attempt to change her clothes but
looked around the cold room, so bleak and lifeless in the naked light:
the old armchair with its torn covering and collapsed springs; the red
Formica table with the accumulated dirt in its steel rim impossible to
dislodge; the tattered nylon carpet which made her skin creep; the
discoloured chipwood wallpaper; the thin grey curtains ... A tear
trickled down her face. Even her posters seemed dispirited.
Water dripped rapidly into the bath. She pushed open the bathroom

door and watched a separate leak stream down the wall, nourishing the
fungus. It didn't matter that it would saturate the floor below, no one
lived there any more. There was a lesser breach in the kitchen over the
cooker. She moved a pot until it was directly underneath, the thick
drops striking hard.
Her body tensed and her teeth began to chatter. She went back into the
living-room with a towel, lit the gas fire and undressed, drying her
body vigorously, oblivious to the spluttering flames. She tilted her head
to one side to dry her hair and stared at the fire as it died. Cursing, she
rummaged through her bag, but there was no fifty pence piece.
Tess felt the breadth of her squalor, but she steadied herself and
weighed up her options. To go into the rain again, begging for a coin
would be ridiculous, so all she could do was go to bed once her hair
was dry. Taking a few blankets, she sat on her heels in the armchair and
wrapped them around her. Clutching them to her with one hand, she
furiously towelled her hair with the other. Both friction and action
combined made her tolerably warm and also breathless, so she rested a
while.
The blankets fell open, exposing part of her left breast. She examined it,
not for lumps,