Linda

There in front of me on the path is an icy slice of green glass,
glittering. Coming towards me is a family: mum, dad, a little girl on a
pink bicycle and a large hairy dog. The girl cycles ahead, white socks
pedalling faster, faster.
I bend down to pick it up, cutting my fingertip as I throw it into the
nearest bin. The family passes, oblivious. I hurry on. Linda will be
waiting.
Soon I'm at the entrance to a huge hollow shell, two old aircraft
hangars at the end of a windy runway. The double doors heave and bang.
Inside there's a smell of sweat, dust and pine air freshener. The walls
of the corridor are lined with photos of fit young men holding
trophies, and A4 photocopies advertising 'Jumping Jimmies for the
under-fives' and 'Step with Sarah, the ultimate workout'.
Oh look, here's Linda. She's wearing her new orange Nike shorts over
her freshly-tanned thighs.
She waves and smiles. I wave back. It's time for our weekly game of
badminton. Linda has already been in the gym and hour - since dropping
the kids at school - but her mascara is unsmudged and lips raspberry
pink. She smells of roses and lilies of the valley, with deeper notes
of neroli and ylang ylang - aromatherapy has overtaken Tupperware as
the wives' preferred party choice.
As we play she tells me about her weekend: shopping with the family on
Saturday and out drinking with the girls on Saturday night - Stevie
babysat, bless him. There was a whole group of girls who went out to
the Rose Bowl, the bar on camp. It was a right laugh. I should come
along next time.
Linda beats me as usual. Her auburn-lowlighted ponytail bounces in
front of me as we head to the drinks machine for Diet Cokes. A tall,
muscular man in white vest and shorts walks towards us, his thick black
hair curling in sweaty tendrils on his forehead. A Diet Coke break,
indeed, I think to myself.
"Hi Sue. Alright Lindy-Lou, how are your abs after yesterday?"
"Sore thanks, Tony," Linda laughs "That was a killer session. You're
such a taskmaster!"
"Well, you know what they say 'No pain, no gain'" The PTI turns towards
his office, ruffling his hair with a towel. "Catch you later,
ladies."
"He's so arrogant," says Linda when he's out of earshot, her eyes still
locked on his departing view. I laugh, agreeing with her.
We finish our drinks whilst we talk of familiar things: possible new
hairstyles, cellulite and dieting, holiday plans. I'm going shopping
the following day; does Linda want to come?
"Sue, I'd love to, but I can't. My right ankle has been playing up and
Tony thinks it might be my Achilles. He's going to check it out for me
in the morning; I might need physio."
Oh. Okay. It's odd for her to miss out on a shopping trip. But I
suppose if she's injured it's important to get it sorted. We agree that
I'll come along to the Rose Bowl this Saturday with her and the girls,
though. And I promise to pick up a copy of New Woman for her when I'm
in town.
It's a rainy Saturday night. A low dirty-white building squats on the
grass, a slab of vanilla ice cream melting slowly into a sickly mess.
The windows vibrate in time to the bass lines of the latest dance
anthems. As people push through the swing doors a squirt of light and
music escapes into the darkness. I'm late. Linda and the girls will
already be on their second drinks.
I enter the smoky sauna, my senses assaulted by waves of aftershave and
sweat as I'm jostled and rolled towards the bar.
I've spotted her through the murky crowd, a tight pink gypsy top and
golden hoops. The man next to her bends forward towards her right ear
and she throws her head back, cherry lips wide, breasts shaking. Her
drink almost spills. Despite the jerking hilarity, her sleek bob stays
curled under. Linda uses L'Oreal hairspray, and lots of it. It will
take more than a cheeky comment to untame that careful creation.
She doesn't notice me until I'm quite close.
"Hi"
"Oh, hi Sue, how are you? Tony was just telling me the one about the
blonde and the mechanic. Has he told you that one? Oh, it's brilliant!
Lisa and Tracey were here a minute ago; I don't know where they've got
to. And where have you been all night, anyway? We've all been here
since eight, we thought you might be dobbing out on us! Mmm, love one,
brandy and diet coke please, Tony. So, how are you?"
"Fine. Great. Sophie's got tonsillitis, so..."
"Oh, I know, my two had it before half term, what a pain. They were
both off school so I couldn't go to the gym for three days; I was
climbing the walls by the time...What's that Tony? I don't know, hang
on. Sue, what are you drinking?"
We move off to find Lisa and Tracey. Dead fish eyes swivel and glide as
Linda passes, wading through a sea of short hair, taut biceps and Ben
Sherman shirts. "She'd get it," mutters one. The walls glow orange,
smoke and testosterone pulsing and flowing.
We finally find Lisa and Tracey in the Ladies, and together we all dive
back into the evening, drinking swiftly and laughing loudly. The bass
is like an extra heartbeat, thumping, throbbing. The rhythm surrounds
us, building us up, moving us forward. Dance. Drink. Laugh. Dance.
Drink. Laugh. Bodies gyrate, hands move automatically to smooth hair,
unsmudge mascara, light cigarettes. We're synchronised swimmers, all
watery eyes, dewy lips and perfect smiles, fluidly following our
choreography. We're mid routine; there's no stopping us now.
Linda swigs the last mouthful from her glass and smacks her lips
"Another one bites the dust! Drink up girls, its time for another
round."
She heads back in the direction of the bar. Tony turns round; his green
eyes chasing Linda as she pushes towards him. They glitter as he raises
an eyebrow, his James Bond impression: "Pussy Galore?" She giggles so
much she almost loses balance. He puts a hand out to steady her.
Look at Linda: lovely Linda, luscious Linda, light-headed, laughing
Linda. She's in her element.
Near the end of the evening the DJ starts to play slower records,
teenage tunes we all remember: "Drowning, in a sea of love..."
Tony asks Linda to dance. He's obviously done a good job on her
Achilles. She has no problem sliding onto the dance floor with him,
floating and swirling to the music. Her face is flushed. His hand is on
her arse. "...where everyone would love to drown..."
The song pulsates, clasping me in its slippery harmonies. I'm starting
to feel dizzy-sick and breathless. The room liquefies and I'm
submerged. I struggle upwards, gulping. Then a surprising crash. I step
over the puddle and shards of glass and head outside for fresh
air.
The following morning I walk round to Linda's to drop off the copy of
New Woman. Her husband Steve says she's still asleep, but he'll pass it
on. "You girls had a good time last night, then?"
"Yes, great."
"It's nice to know she's got some good friends like you, Sue, what with
me away so much at the moment."
His pebble-grey eyes regard me gratefully, his head cocked to one side
like a loyal spaniel. He needs reassurance, the equivalent of a ruffle
of silky ears or a tummy rub. I look down at the wet tarmac.
"Thanks. Well, I mustn't keep you. Cheers, Steve." I turn to walk
home.
"Was Tony out with you last night?"
"Yes. I managed to get a babysitter for once."
"Aren't you the lucky ones - its ages since I had a night out with
Linda. I think she's okay about it though. She knows I've got all this
coursework to do at the weekends. Once I get my promotion we can get
back to normal again."
"I'm sure she understands, Steve. And like you say, it's not
forever."
"No, I know. But I sometimes wish I had your husband's job, though. I
mean, once the gym shuts, that's him for the day. Lucky bastard. I'd
give up the extra stripe for a bit less hassle, know what I mean.
Anyway, tell him we'll have to have a lad's night out sometime, me and
him. Its months since I've had a chance to go for a beer with your old
man."
I nod and carry on walking. The sky feels suddenly closer, the horizon
a drawstring. I should hurry. Tony will wonder what's taking me so
long. He's no good with the kids when he's hungover. I keep my head
down, skirting the puddles, taking a short cut home across the
grass.
Between the back of the NAAFI and the Rose Bowl the muddy ground is
dotted with litter and broken glass, evidence of a successful Saturday
night. It looks as if someone's strewn jewels, the foil and glass
glinting in the daylight. It reminds me of the name of a pub I once
visited in London - Ruby in the Dust it was called. Perhaps they should
rename the Rose Bowl. They could call it Diamonds in the Dirt. But
close up there are no real diamonds. Just flashing trash, the forgotten
debris of a night out.