Coming Up Roses by Sarah Laing

Author:Sarah Laing [Sarah Laing]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781869798789
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Josh isn’t sure how he got home. He hopes Mathilde didn’t drive them. She spent a few years in Paris, and now Josh prays each time she takes a corner.

He hears a clatter of coins. That’s right. They came in a taxi. And the taxi wouldn’t take a credit card. Or was it that they couldn’t find theirs? Had he left his wallet at the wedding? Mathilde is counting in French. ‘Soixante-dix-sept, soixante-dix-huit,’ she is saying. It is a good thing that he empties his pockets at the door each evening. The man in the polyester shirt and name badge must be the taxi driver.

The coins are transferred, the door is shut. Mathilde walks towards him. ‘So who was that woman, cheri? The one with the boring dress?’

‘What woman?’ He can’t remember a woman. Or can he? He sees a lotus blossom, clasped between two white breasts. Mathilde doesn’t have a cleavage. ‘Oh,’ he says.

‘Oh? Oh what?’

‘An accountant. Un-deux-trois-quatre —’ Josh explodes into giggles.

‘Merde, an accountant! And the fish, what were you doing with the fish?’

‘We were …’ Now what was he doing? That’s right, he was rescuing them. He was bringing her glasses of mineral water, and she was plopping a fish in each glass. Chantelle/Charlie drank a glass. And didn’t he do the Heimlich manoeuvre? His forearms ache; it must be true.

‘I saved him. I saved Charlie Node,’ Josh says. He feels inordinately pleased with himself, a smile skidding across his face.

‘You may have saved Charlie Node, but you broke Chantelle’s rib, you salaud.’ She kicks his wall. Pop-crunch!

‘Mathilde, no!’ he screams. He grabs her arm but she twists away, kicking along a line of tiles. ‘Stupid fucking wall. I hate you, I hate you! Always scratching and bruising me. So white and so boring.’

Josh is brimming with anger, it’s erupting: there will be none left over for his prototypes. ‘How could you, you bitch? Is this what you think of me?’

She shrugs. ‘Bof.’ She punches the tiles at waist level. Pop-crunch! Pop-crunch!

The wall is ruined. It taunts him; it reminds him he is on the downward slide. He realises he hates it, like he hates so many things he makes. Pop-crunch! Pop-crunch! It’s so satisfying, like bursting bubble-wrap.

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