Splashing and gurgles in the throat. Listen. Almost a racket, a radio slipping out of true. But it’s not that, not at all. It’s Lola. Listen. Singing.
Love is just like the wildest bird
That none can ever hope to tame
Some terrible translation she’s read somewhere chimes round the bright blue tiles, yearning rising with the steam. Lola can’t see the steam, because her eyes are shut. In the dark, she doesn’t have to see how tired her breasts look, how many stomachs may emerge out of the bath clouds without warning. Blind, aqueous, she can be a wild slip of a thing, Carmen with scarlet fingernails rolling a cigar on her inner thigh, crazed with passion. And if I love you, then beware of me! Mouth opening on the flat of the water surface just below the island of her nose, a disembodied yawn, a singing puddle. At the end of the verse, she sings the accompaniment, too, her chest cavity imagining a panther pulse of cellos, the announcement she is not done yet. She’s turning like a bull to the matador, pawing toward the reprise. Her hands surface, clutch the edges of the bath like spiders, and there she is, risen from the suds like Venus, wrists high above her head, playing absent castanets. Rivulets of water run like swollen veins down the length of her torso, her sodden, bruisy arms. La Carmencita to the life.
L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
Que nul ne peut apprivoiser
This time in French. It’s the kind of French that could pass for Swedish, maybe, but close enough for Lola. Lola understands no foreign languages and can’t sing, doesn’t know how to sink into the middles of the notes, to let her voice melt in any way at all. And she doesn’t care. It’s not for anyone else, after all: this is solely for Lola, for the physical joy of yodelling at the sky. It’s not as though anyone’s there to see, for chrissake. The bathroom is full of condensation and the door is locked. Lola’s had a whole packet of Jaffa Cakes all to herself, no sharing, the empty box there, evidence on the bath-side mat. Her soap smells of coconuts, her shampoo recalls bananas, the bath foam is kiwi and lime. Fruit juice bubbles slick her hips, insinuating a frothy track between the crack of her buttocks. The bedroom is littered with cast-off clothes, the dishes aren’t washed, and there’s nothing but tins of tomatoes in the fridge. But here is another world, and in here Lola doesn’t care about a bloody thing, not about the brown stain still seeping though at the joins of the bathroom ceiling, about the stink of cats at the front door, the tidy wee pile of bills toasted curly on the top of the microwave — nothing. In here she is who she chooses to be, and who she chooses is Someone Fabulous.
L’amour! L’amour! she roars, pitching in the tub like a seal. Her breasts brush the enamel sides of the bath as she rolls on her front, snubbing up with its touch: the mild abrasion of powder bleach left over from the last time anyone cleaned the bath burrs at her thighs, but it doesn’t put her off. L’amour! she sings, big handles on her voice, meaning it every time. At the climax, she surges, splashing on the cork tile floor. Si je t’aime — fixing one burning eye on an absent man, a rebel, a sex goddess, icing on a fat spiced cake — si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! And there she is, holding the moment all to herself in the ringing echo. Woman incarnate, a gypsy with blood on her lips. Look. She’s running with fluid, her head flipped back like a lighter cap, like her neck just broke. There’s a bare light bulb, a white-cold ceiling. Lola’s eyes, glassy as marbles.
Show. What else can you call it? A little harmless fantasy. The fact that Lola loves this stuff is not her fault. It’s not Michaela’s either. Nothing is Michaela’s fault. Not yet. Michaela’s just the lodger, through in the front room, straightening cushions. She was listening a minute ago, but the stopped singing in the bathroom at the end of the hall kicked her into a tidy fit. It’s no longer possible for her to picture every move, what it is Lola is doing through there, and the hiatus means only one thing. Lola is about to surface. Ten minutes more, and she’ll be running around in here, half-towelled and pink and wondering where her perfume is. What have you done with it, dammit dammit Michaela, stop tidying my things away. Then she’ll get out that black Lycra cocktail dress for somebody smaller, the one that clings to every nook and Venus-mound cranny, filing her hips with the fabric as she pulls it up, up, as she snaps the shoestring straps in place. Gorgeous, knowing it, she’ll run her hands over the Rubens bump of her belly, flick up her hair. No tummy-control knickers for Lola. No knickers at all. Natural, she says. Real men like curves. And they do; the kind of men Lola likes, they certainly do. They like beauty spots, extra eyelashes, and different lips, and they get those as well. Makeup’s a tightrope, Michaela, but Lola walks it. She walks it very well. She wears sandals with peep toes irrespective of the weather, handcuffs her forearms with silver bangles, slices her ears with silver hoops. Then the hair, flounced out, pinned up, unpinned, straightened, curled, running her fingers through wax to tip the ends so little strands straggle over her forehead, down the back of her neck. Like I just got out of bed, she says. You don’t want to look too combed and you should never use hairspray. Jesus have you tasted the bloody stuff? And Michaela won’t say But who’s going to taste your hair, Lola? For a whole variety of reasons, she’ll keep mum. Just a wee girl yet, Lola says, and chucks her under the chin. Stick with me, kid, you’ll learn something. The final touch is lipstick, pushed up from its gold barrel, ready to roll. Real red, she says. Don’t have any truck with other colours. Real red, Michaela, real lips. And she’s done: an edifice, the unquestionable McCoy. Michaela has watched the whole thing umpteen times, wondered at the splendour unfolding before her eyes. Because that’s what Lola is. Splendid. Solid gold.
Whose place is this? Who pays the rent? Who shares her jokes and her cigarettes and that wine that tastes like lighter fuel? Who puts out steak for strays? Who do you think? All Michaela has to do is clean up, take the odd phone call, bring in something to eat now and then. Lola does everything else; she deals with the sprawl and the noise, the wisecracks and the men that hang around in the close, thinking fights and swearing are entertainment. The bills. However the money turns up, and Michaela doesn’t know how, Lola pays the bills. Michaela only knows what she sees. What she sees is that Lola took her in, a stranger with the feel of the Irish ferry still under her feet, only a spit-through suitcase and a photograph of a runaway boyfriend for company. She sees she gets to stay. And what Michaela knows is that she can’t get by without Lola. Lola knows everything and everyone. She has contacts, connections, ears close to the ground. She knows the future. At weekends, that’s what she does: she sits people down on her velvet cushions, reads their teacups, palms, and tarot cards for money, a head scarf roping in her hair. It’s not a joke. If you take it serious, she says, they come back. Folk are desperate for any advice they can get with life. Telling fortunes is real work, Michaela, believe you me. Other days, people bring stuff in vans and Lola stashes it through the back. The grey economy, she says. C’est moi. And at night, almost every night, Lola goes out. You’re only young once, she says. I’m not bloody wasting it. And off she goes, God knows where.
Lola’s private stuff is private and Michaela doesn’t ask. She tries not to wait up, not to worry when Lola doesn’t come back, sometimes for days. She doesn’t phone or go out looking. I can look after myself, Michaela. I don’t need a ball and bloody chain. And Michaela knows her place. She stays home in it, waits. The city is no place for someone soft, after all, and Michaela knows that’s what she is. Soft as pus. Every so often, she thinks it might be better to go back where she came from, but what for? She still hadn’t found him. Head for the city, Michaela thought, head for people and start asking. It hadn’t occurred to her how different things would feel, how terrifying. She hadn’t the stamina, she figured, had made a mistake. In short, Michaela was scared and she hadn’t the guts to admit it, not yet, not by going back. And distantly, without ever saying or thinking it in a straight line, Michaela was hoping Lola would find him for her. Lola with her contacts, her nose for things. She got the whole story out of her in five minutes, pretending to read her cards. A man, she said, tapping at the pack with her nail. Dark hair. He’s trouble, him. Am I right? And Michaela spilled beans like a lorry on a Z?bend. When she wanted, Lola could draw any secret out of you she liked. Then again, Michaela had wanted to talk. She hadn’t realized how much. He’s not good for you, she’d said. Look. Jack of spades, that’s dark. Bad news, hen. Seven of hearts — that’s you. In wee pieces. She turned over a queen of diamonds, then looked into Michaela’s eyes. She reached across the table, stroked the other woman’s cheek. Why him, Michaela? What’s so special about the one man?
