I settled for silence — for the noise of the traffic — and levered open a can of emulsion. Magnolia: not a colour to get excited about, hardly a colour at all, not even not a colour. It hugged the pot neatly, the very image of soon to be disrupted serenity.
Slapping the paint on the wide expanse of walls was very pleasant — you got extremely good mileage out of those rollers. Unfortunately you also got a thin film of magnolia sprayed over carpet, chairs and stereo, none of which I’d properly covered with rags and newspapers. I only noticed this when someone rapped on the door and I made my way through the wreckage to see who it was.
‘Foomie!’ She was eating a pale yellow banana.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. I kissed her carefully to avoid getting paint over her clothes.
‘This is not your lucky day. I’m decorating,’ I said, reboiling the kettle. ‘Actually maybe it is your lucky day. .’
She was shaking her head.
‘It’s creative, stimulating and great fun. Good practice for when you want to do your flat. I’ll give you a few tips.’
‘I bet. You’re covered in paint — look you must have stepped in some: you’re treading white footprints everywhere.’
‘Oh fuck. It’s not white, it’s magnolia actually. See, you’re picking up useful knowledge already and you learn even quicker on the job.’
‘Not me Michelangelo.’
‘Go on.’
‘Out of the question.’
In the end she agreed to help on condition that she was able to drink as much lager and smoke as much grass as was ‘reasonably possible’.
‘What does that mean?’
‘As much as I want.’
‘It’s a deal,’ I said, handing over money for her to pick up beer from the off-licence. While she was out I sorted out a sweatshirt and some old trousers for her to wear. From then on we were really flying. We drank beer almost continually and stopped for a joint every hour. I slapped on dripping coats of emulsion and she touched up neatly around the edges. In what seemed hardly any time at all the flat was transformed into a bright haze of not-quite white. The thick, fresh smell of paint felt heavy in our nostrils. By the time we finished I was so thickly covered in paint that I cracked as I walked; standing against one of the walls I was invisible except for two dark eyes. Foomie had only a couple of smears of paint on her hands and a small white dot the size of a mole on her face.
When I’d had a bath and peeled off my emulsion skin I cooked some sort of vegetable mush which Foomie ate without complaint. I tipped the dishes into the sink and we sat in the bright-smelling living-room, playing music quietly and drinking tequila. I turned on the main light, dyeing the night outside a deeper blue. The patter of rain.
‘Is this the trumpet you bought from Steranko?’ Foomie said, opening the case.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you learned to play it yet?’
‘No. I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. I was really determined to learn. For a while I practised for about twenty minutes a day. Then it dropped to ten. Then I just practised whenever I felt like it which was about once a week. After that I just left it lying around because it looked nice. Now I keep it in the case to stop it getting dusty. It’s principal function now is to serve as a symbol of non-achievement.’
‘I’m like that with my self-defence classes. I go for a couple of weeks. Then for some reason I can’t go and after that I stop going for about six months. Then I go again and wish I’d kept at it.’
We listened to the music which was only slightly louder than the rain.
‘What shall we do this evening?’ I said after a while. ‘What’s Steranko doing?’
‘He’s having dinner at his brother’s. He won’t be back till late.’
‘So shall we do something?’
‘Yes.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Let’s go out dancing.’
‘I knew you were going to say that.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I hate discos.’
‘We wouldn’t go to a disco,’ Foomie said. ‘We’d go to a club.’
‘All clubs are really discos.’
‘Have you ever been to one?’
‘Several. Hundreds. Years ago I went to loads and I never had a moment’s pleasure in any of them. All I did was watch people having what I thought was a good time but which I now realise was simply a highly ritualised form of boredom. Besides I’m allergic to clubs.’
‘I love dancing,’ Foomie said. ‘Don’t you like dancing?’
‘Hate it. Can’t stand it. It’s one of those things I’m really glad I don’t do. Every time I don’t do it I get a small thrill of pleasure. It’s like playing chess or doing crossword puzzles. Chess, I don’t like to even think about; I can rest easy knowing that it’s something I’m never going to be interested in and will never regret not having taken up. As for crosswords. .’
‘We’re supposed to be talking about dancing.’
‘Right, actually I sometimes have an urge to dance but I’m always too embarrassed to actually do it.’
‘It doesn’t matter how you dance. It’s just whether you do it.’ As she finished speaking Foomie started dancing a little, moving slightly to an imagined beat. She held her hands up like fists and moved them slowly and rhythmically, her eyes half-shut.
‘See?’ she said, rocking her head to the beat. ‘Come on: groove that body.’
‘Can’t I just watch you and imagine you’ve got no clothes on?’ I said.
There was a sharp intake of breath as Foomie prepared to shout.
‘I’m joking, I’m joking!’ I said. ‘Look, I’m dancing, see? My heads nodding, my foot’s tapping.’
I went out to the kitchen to fetch the bottle of tequila. When I came back Foomie was standing at the window, looking out.
‘Hmmn, chilly,’ she said, putting on her cardigan.
The block opposite was invisible except for the angular pattern of windows which appeared as squares of coloured light — warm yellow, mauve blue — hanging in emptiness, capillaried by the scribbled silhouettes of twigs. The room was filled with the cool breath of the rain. The sound of dripping trees, the faint moan of traffic. I poured Foomie another drink.
‘We could go to the cinema. What’s on at the Ritzy?’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s that stupid Japanese film about a man getting his willy cut off. What’s it called? “I’m not a Corridor” or something like that.’
‘I’ll tell you what we could do,’ I said, laughing and reaching for the bag of grass. ‘There’s a dog fight tonight in Stockwell. We could go to that.’
Foomie shook her head.
‘What about badger-baiting over in Essex?’
‘Badger-baiting is the pits,’ said Foomie. ‘What time is it? How much longer before I can go home?’
‘It’s early yet and we’re having a great time. .’
‘Like a house smouldering.’
We ended up going to the Atlantic. Foomie walked straight in; I got delayed at the door.
‘You want sinsee?’
‘No I’m fine.’
‘Black ash?’
‘No man I’m skint.’
‘How much money you got?’
‘I’ve just got enough for a couple of drinks. .’
‘You want a five pound draw?’
‘I told you, I’m skint. .’