When We Were Rich

  For Tamara Gray

  Millennium

  Veronica Tree turns the key in the latch of the faux Victorian slate-grey front door and hurls herself inward, out of the murk of a chill December evening. She is met with a sultry barrier of convected air. Her husband has turned the thermostat higher than she can stand, both in terms of her comfort and her anxiety about the impact on global warming.

  She sheds her denim jacket onto the reclaimed 1950s school cloakroom hook in the hall then removes her chunky orange sweater and drapes it over the jacket. Underneath, she is wearing her blue hospital scrubs. She turns the thermostat down five degrees, knowing that Frankie will turn it up again the moment he becomes aware of the drop in temperature. He is cold-blooded, he says. He also says – to her irritation – that the planet can take care of itself, or we’re all doomed anyway, depending on whether he is feeling optimistic or pessimistic.

  Divested of outer layers but still overheated and flushed, Veronica strides into the living room of the two-bedroom terraced house in Brackenbury Village, Hammersmith. Or perhaps slides is a better word. She is slim, flat-chested, long-legged, limber. Her slightly snaggled front teeth do nothing to diminish her husband’s persistent desire for her, which, after only four months of marriage, is becoming as much an irritation as it is flattery.

  There are cardboard boxes scattered on the floor at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the two small bedrooms on the first floor. The couple are moving to a new house soon, to a larger place on the St Quintin Estate in North Kensington. Completion comes at the end of January. Veronica idly inspects the open boxes which contain practically everything Frankie owns. Visible at the moment are board games (Risk, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly), a set of golf clubs, a pair of football shorts and a bottle of Acqua di Parma aftershave. She is astonished at how little he possesses. Her stuff, taken out of her flat (now sold), nearly fills the substantial shed at the back of the house. That’s without the furniture, which languishes expensively in storage.

  Veronica sees Frankie is sitting on the sofa, still in his office suit, immersed in cathode rays from the TV, holding the remote in one hand and a bottle of chilled Peroni in the other. Veronica leans over and pecks him on the cheek. He makes a moue without putting it anywhere. The television barks the headlines.

  Yeltsin resigns while Vladimir Putin takes over in Russia . . . The prime minister Tony Blair will get ready to welcome in the new century at the Millennium Dome . . .

  Veronica kicks off her flat hospital shoes and pads her way towards the open-plan kitchen. On the way she stops at the telephone answering machine, which is showing one message. She hits the button and pauses to listen.

  Hi, Frankie. It’s Ralph. Sorry I didn’t see you at the office Christmas party. I’ve been a bit off colour. Nothing serious. I hope. (Chuckles). So. Anyway. Thanks for your all your hard work over the past year. Have a happy new millennium. Love to Veronica. And I’ll see you in the office, you know, whenever. Much to talk about. Oh, and Polly sends her love. Pip pip.

  A click and a burr as the machine shuts itself off.

  Did you hear that?

  Uh, says Frankie.

  She goes to the kitchen, fills and switches on the Braun kettle.

  Hot beverage?

  Nah, says Frankie, eyes still magnetized by the television.

  Veronica picks a carrot out of the monumental American-style fridge and nibbles on it with her small incisors. She draws a large glass of filtered water from the front panel of the fridge and downs it in one. She can’t remember when it became common sense to drink large quantities of water, but she has become convinced by the weight of peer opinion that the practice makes you live longer and keeps you pure. She feels the maintenance of purity to be a pressing concern, although this sits uneasily with her medical awareness that the body is an irremediable and necessary jungle of prowling bacteria and rampaging microorganisms.

  The narrow end of the carrot is rotten – organic veg goes off almost as soon as you get them from the shop – so she flips the food waste bin lid to throw it in, and on impulse checks the other two bins, one for landfill, the other for recycling paper and plastics. She grimaces.

  There’s food in the paper bin. Again. What is it, yoghurt?

  She is weary and resigned rather than angry.

  It all goes in landfill, anyway, says Frankie.

  She extracts yesterday’s Guardian from under the goo.

  The yoghurt is all over it.

  Sour milk. Seems appropriate.

  I asked you to save that issue. There’s a recipe I want. I never throw away your comics before you’ve finished with them.

  She picks up the copy of Estate Agent Today that is on the kitchen table and flicks through the pages.

  Oh look! The results of the ‘Estate Agent of the Year’ awards. I’m surprised that one didn’t make the evening news.

  You may laugh.

  No sign of Farley, Ratchett and Gwynne.

  We didn’t enter.

  Veronica studies the transparent window in the kettle behind which the water will shortly start to effervesce. Frankie stretches out on the white leather sofa, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

  How long have we got, Frankie?

  You were right about this settee. It looks good in here alright. But you can’t find a spot on it.

  Did you hear me? And it’s a sofa.

  Frankie puts down the Peroni bottle, picks up his Psion Organiser from the Swedish-style pine coffee table in front of him and checks it.

  You’ll have time to get changed.

  He wriggles on the sofa again.

  I don’t know why we couldn’t get the brown leather one.

  Because it was like something out of Acorn Antiques.

  Comfortable, though.

  Frankie picks at his teeth with a matchstick he has produced from somewhere, and makes a face as he digs at his gums.

  You still want to go out tonight? says Veronica. Okay if you don’t. We can stay home and watch Jools on the TV.

  This is your way of saying you don’t want to go. Right?

  He digs deeper, right at the back of the mouth, wrenching his face into a distended grimace.

  I was thinking of you.

  He takes the toothpick out, smacks his lips, and throws the soggy stick into the waste paper bin.

  Millennium night isn’t every day. So to speak. Celebration is not optional. Anyway, Nodge and Fraser and Colin are relying on me to sign them into the club.

  Colin who?

  Colin who do you think?

  Colin Burden?

  No, Colin Firth. Of course Colin Burden.

  You didn’t tell me he was coming.

  I didn’t tell you he wasn’t coming.

  Veronica pulls a mug out of the cupboard, making enough superfluous noise to ensure that Frankie registers her dissatisfaction.

  Is Nodge definitely bringing Fraser?

  She sprinkles her voice with vinegar, but Frankie’s mood is antacid, oblivious.

  Last I heard.

  Veronica propels the mug down onto the worktop with what now registers with Frankie as unnecessary force. He finally summons the wherewithal to look up from the TV.

  They’ll probably peel off soon enough, he says. To do something, you know, gay.

  Veronica shovels coffee into the Bodum tetchily.

  Fraser doesn’t like me. Or you. Or anyone in particular. You know what I think of Colin. I’d be just as happy watching the Hootennany here.

  Too late to change plans now. Who’s on Jools anyway?

  Jamiroquai. Travis. Skin from Skunk Anansie.

  Not a lineup really worth staying in for, is it? Also, a river of fire on the Thames just isn’t going to have the same eff
ect on the box. We’ve made the arrangements. They’re relying on us.

  Veronica pours boiling water over the coffee, enjoying the agitation and steam and swirl. She fetches soya milk from the fridge. She decided she had a gluten intolerance some months earlier, around the time her water intake swelled to several litres a day.

  Is Tony coming too? Did that slip your mind as well?

  Tony who?

  Tony Diamonte. Sex addict, coke snorter, bully, racist. That Tony.

  Persona non grata. As you well know.

  Yeh. But then I thought Colin was persona non grata.

  Tony’s different. Tony’s in rehab somewhere. Again. As for Colin – well. Nodge said it would be good. A nice gesture. He sort of shamed me into it. He’s good at that.

  Colin’s baggage.

  He got us a nice wedding present.

  He bought you a nice wedding present. I had nothing to do with it.

  He’s not such a bad guy.

  He’s weak.

  So?

  Weak people are dangerous.

  How’s he weak?

  People who turn to Jesus halfway through life are always weak.

  He’s not religious anymore, says Frankie, now channel surfing pointlessly between UK Gold and Sky One.

  Not very much anyway. That lasted about three months. Colin never really could commit himself to anything.

  You can stand a few hours with an old friend, says Frankie. Can’t you?

  Not much I can do about it now.

  It’s only once every thousand years. Anyway, he’s bringing a date. That should keep him occupied.

  Veronica stops the plunger of the cafetière half-depressed.

  Colin’s got a date?

  Couldn’t suppress his excitement. Someone from his office who got blown out by someone else at the last moment. So he got lucky.

  More than you can say for her.

  She finishes depressing the plunger and stands back to wait. It will be exactly three minutes, Frankie knows. Veronica is precise about such matters.

  After Veronica pours the coffee, she emerges from the kitchen, gazing around the room critically. Since their marriage she has made an effort to gussy up the space – atomizer, a few colourful cushions, scented candles and fresh flowers. It’s a pleasant space here, but very obviously, until quite recently, the home of a single man, a man who works as an estate agent and therefore values and advises anonymity in design.

  Veronica makes her way to the bedroom, with its super king-size bed, ornate retro iron bedstead – the sole import from her recently sold flat – and single erotic Modigliani print on the wall. There is another large television under the sash window that bulks out behind with a pregnant swell of tubes and wires.

  We need to invest in a flat screen, says Frankie, who, following her into the room, glances critically at the TV.

  Too expensive.

  I’m an early adopter.

  Not anymore you’re not. Not now we’re moving. We won’t be able to afford it. So you’d better get used to being a late adopter. Or a non-adopter.

  She starts to remove her hospital scrubs, mandatory workwear for her job as a pathologist at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. She has a couple of outfits crammed in next to Frankie’s selection of suits. Most of her clothes are in the garden shed. Frankie picks up the remote, but she holds up her hand.

  I need to do my twenty minutes, says Veronica.

  Do we have the time? Frankie checks his watch.

  There’s always time. Time is all we have.

  Cool, man, he says softly, but loud enough for her to hear.

  Why don’t you join me? she says, preparing her little brass gong and lighting an incense stick.

  Same reason I didn’t join you last time. And the time before that.

  Remind me.

  Because. I. Fucking. Hate. Meditation.

  Mindfulness.

  New way of flogging gongs and candles.

  Frankie has tried, under Veronica’s encouragement, to watch his own thoughts, but he cannot catch them long enough to let them go, however hard he tries or tries not to try. He is unable to remove himself sufficiently in order to isolate and observe the ghostly rumour of ego and the river of thought. The contents of his mind are all of a piece for him, a barely manageable chaos of chattering, random, desire-driven agitation. A snowstorm of cascading impressions in a globe of self that sits on his shoulders invisibly, a spectral Janus looking, puzzlingly, both outward and inward.

  It’s very calming, says Veronica, closing her eyes, putting her thumbs and forefingers together and crossing her legs.

  I’ll be calm enough when I’m dead, Frankie says, scratching himself under the arm with fingernails manicured, clean and sharp.

  * * *

  By eight o clock, Frankie and Veronica have showered and dressed. Frankie is wearing boot-cut jeans, Rockport boots with Argyle socks and an off-white Von Dutch T-shirt with a Vintage Lacoste fine-knit cardigan in umber. He covers up with a designer puffa jacket by Armani. Veronica is wearing a halter top and sequined trousers. The addition of a lurid red sweater reminds Frankie momentarily of an elongated pillar-box, but he dismisses the unkind thought promptly. They are sinking a final glass of Chardonnay in the kitchen before they leave.

  So what’s your New Millennium’s resolution? Frankie asks, tidying his hair with his fingers rather than a comb, to achieve a carelessly rumpled look.

  Resolutions are pointless.

  You have to have one. At least this year.

  Not if you believe in fate.

  Whatever that might be.

  All you really want is for me to ask you what yours is.

  Am I so predictable?

  So what is it, then?

  Frankie stands up, checks himself in the mirror, and teases up the front of his waxed fringe.

  I’ve got two. A New Year’s one and a Millennium one. The New Year’s one is to become a partner at the firm. Ralph as good as promised it to me when the New Year comes. He wants to retire. Since his heart attack, he’s been getting very tired. I’ve seen it. Can hardly get himself up from the desk sometimes.

  He looked fine last time I saw him.

  He’ll be fine if he looks after himself. Keeping on a healthy diet and so on. Polly’s looking out for him. The doctors say he’s good for at least another decade. But anyway. He’s looking to the future. And I’m part of it.

  Ratchett won’t like that.

  Ratchett won’t have anything to do with it.

  That’s great, Frankie. Really great. I’m so happy for you.

  Thank you.

  But it’s not exactly a resolution. More something you already know about that you’re waiting to happen.

  You’re just nitpicking.

  What’s the Millennium resolution then?

  It’s not for this year. It’s for Eventually. One day.

  Frankie picks up the magazine that Veronica cast on the worktop. It is still open at the photos from the awards ceremony.

  I’m going to win Estate Agent of the Year.

  Veronica stares at him.

  You’re being serious, aren’t you?

  Frankie’s attention is on the page, the shiny photographs of the winners illuminated by spotlights.

  What’s wrong with wanting to be the best? You’re such a snob. Just because they don’t hold a Pathologist of the Year. Or do they? Category: Trocar-ing. Category: Skull stripping. Category—

  Anything else?

  Veronica takes both of his hands in hers. Frankie stares back blankly.

  Not that I can think of.

  Veronica holds his gaze. He feels a tiny dent of understanding, as if a penny has fallen onto a pillow.

  Start a family maybe? Eventually? says Frankie.

  Veronica doesn’t respond. One eyebrow rises very slightly.

  As soon as we’ve got enough behind us. Because I’m going to be working myself into the ground for the next couple of years at least. So much to do.
It’s not going to be easy.

  The other eyebrow rises.

  Frankie checks his watch.

  I guess we’d better be going. They won’t be able to get in without me.

  Veronica lets go of his hands and turns sharply away.

  So you said. Are you even allowed four guests?

  Her voice is flatter than before, uninterested, her words mere prop and foundation for the profounder message of the tone, the look, the defensive cast of her shoulders.

  I know Maurice, the owner. We’re old muckers. And it’s five guests. Colin’s bringing someone, I told you, Frankie continues, cheerfully, oblivious.

  Veronica gives up, switches off the central heating, checks her three-year-old Mulberry bag, now beginning to look tired. She resolves to buy a fresh one in the January sales.

  * * *

  When they get to the Embankment Club, Fraser and Nodge are standing in the reception area. Fraser Pike is picking at his fingernails, and barely glances up when Frankie and Veronica arrive. Dark, vaguely Semitic, he is four inches taller than Nodge, a muscle Mary in a ripped white T-shirt and a faded pair of extremely well cut APC jeans. He has six-inch tattoos of coiling snakes insinuating their way along each of his forearms. But he falls short of good-looking, face off kilter with squinty eyes, and is maybe twenty years older than Nodge. He has furrowed skin, a close-cropped head and deep canals on the back of his hands and neck. Frankie has met him twice before, and has liked him less on each occasion.

  Here they are, says Nodge, dourly. He is slightly overweight, and dressed in fresh jeans with turn-ups, a check work shirt and Timberlands.

  Sitting on a cushioned bench to his left is Colin, who looks up eagerly as if grateful for the distraction. Next to him sits a woman who appears to be in her late thirties. She has ironed and dyed yellow hair, ski pants and a tight halter top. Crimson lipstick makes a gash on white pancake make-up. Without getting up, she smiles, broadly, in the direction of Frankie and Veronica. Frankie worries that the make-up might crack and slide. He sees her shift a couple of inches away from Colin, so that she is not accidentally touching legs with him.

  Sorry we’re late. Roads were murder, says Frankie.

  The over-made-up woman stands up and holds out her hand. Frankie notices a tattoo on the inside of her wrist, a tiny four-petalled flower.