When Olivia met K
Chapter XV
Olivia’s first visit to K
written by: Michael McCarthy
@FlateyeFiction
Ernst asked me once, ‘‘Do you know how much you’re worth?’’
‘‘No, Ernst, I’ve no idea.’’
‘‘Don’t you think you should know?’’
‘‘You obviously do and that’s good enough for me. But I see your point.’’
‘‘I’ll prepare something.’’
‘‘Can’t you just tell me, Ernst?’’
‘‘If I do, it would go in one ear and out the other.’’
‘‘Ernst, you can read me like a balance sheet.’’
He chuckled.
My man Ernst was, among other things, the ultimate go to guy for everything. If he asked me to sign something, I signed it, no questions asked. So when a large envelope from Ernst arrived in the post, I opened it and flicked absently through the contents until I came to the pages with large pencilled crosses indicating where I should sign, and did so.
Within minutes I thought it was about time that I adopted a more responsible attitude to business matters, so I looked through the papers again and came across a photograph of the new property Ernst had decided I was buying and I realized I’d just signed something to do with the purchase of, wait for it,…….the house where K lived! I wondered if this was an example of Ernst’s sense of humor, he kept it well hidden. It wasn’t that he was dour but maybe telephone conversations didn’t lend themselves to his humor. I was K’s landlady! I couldn’t wait to tell him. But I had to wait for the right moment. I knew I’d need to plan it out to perfection. I know men and I know how fragile their egos can be.
That didn’t apply to K, then again I’d never owned the house he lived in before, to my knowledge, but it would need to be handled with a degree of finesse. That of course gave me an opportunity to check out his flat. To be honest I’d been nearly demented with curiosity to have a look around. Yes, it could be seen as an invasion of privacy but he’d invaded my privacy when he went through my bag, not that it would be tit for tat or that it mattered. Yes, he had, of course, invited me to his flat in the past, but I preferred him to visit me; for one thing my place was very spacious and, dare I say it, certainly cleaner!
I knew K was proud of his flat, there was something about it that he was really taken by; there was a garden and yard in the back and he liked to sit on the back step especially during storms and heavy rain; there was a corrugated plastic awning over the steps so he was protected from the elements.
He went on about sitting there and how he liked to observe a storm gathering in strength, how what started as a breeze slowly increased in power as the leaves and dirt got whipped up into a mini tornado, the air cooled and the sky darkened and the distant growls grew louder and then the rain came down in stair rods rattling against that awning; he sat there with a beer marveling at the jagged forks of lightning cutting through the dense, bloated clouds and waiting for the shuddering claps of thunder.
A corrugated plastic awning? Not in my property. No way. However, once I had access to the keys, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer.
I arrived in the early afternoon and left my car in the graveyard parking area next door and walked over to a fast food restaurant across the busy through road, not that I was a fan of fast food but I just wanted to study the house in daylight and observe any comings and goings. After collecting my coffee I took a stool at the window and, although distracted by some youngsters mucking around outside, I had a clear view of the house.
The three storied, brown brick building had a large, brown, solid front door and was surrounded by an approximately one meter high, shiny black, steel fence and gate; from what I could see, the house was fronted by a very tidy yard with a wooden roofed open shelter for the dustbins and bikes.
Looking at it from the near choking miasma of the slowly filling fast food joint, I could begin to see its appeal for K; it gave him a form of seclusion, one that he could instantly dismiss with a relatively short walk into town. After half an hour and with no arrivals and departures to my new property, I left my untouched coffee.
Just as I was about to slip between the near stationary early evening, commuter traffic a yellow bicycle pulled up outside the house and a yellow lycra clad rider dismounted. It was clearly a young woman, she was taller than me with a slim but muscular build.
Competition? Where did that come from? I don’t have any competition and I certainly didn’t see it in her.
I watched her remove her helmet and release a bouncy, red pony tail. She unlocked the gate, left her bike in the shelter, letting the gate clang shut, and entered the house. I let some more cars crawl past before crossing the road and going up to the house. On opening the front door, beside which there was a bank of door bells, I found myself in a long, dark cool hall. I flicked a light switch by the front door, the resultant dull illumination at least made it possible to make out the interior. In front of me were stairs covered in partly threadbare carpeting; to the left a passage, containing two doors, presumably flats, ultimately led to the garden and I could just make out a corner of the lawn, through a half open door. That floor was quiet with only the barely perceptible odors of cooking and cleaning materials and, unless I was very much mistaken, the fading smell of a rather old fashioned, floral perfume; it didn’t seem like the type of scent bike girl would use, more like my late grandmother’s taste, but to each her own.
As I climbed the stairs I could hear the muffled voices of adults and children and the faint strains of pop music and or television game shows carried from behind closed doors. I could see that what this place really needed was a complete re-decoration; the wallpaper was old and in places peeling; here and there the paintwork was chipped and worn; it was definitely due a new coat from top to bottom, that would of course adversely affect its ambience in K’s eyes; he was more into that used, lived in vibe. Then I was on the top floor, K’s floor. And the light was on and it was bright! Unlike the other floors there was an absence of smells apart from that perfume again but I could hear some familiar sounding music, not loud; two singers, one male and one female were, through a repeated four word call and a three word response, fervently declaring and affirming their undying love for each other backed by a series of soaring and swooping oohs and aahs over a muted, throbbing bass line and wailing horns.
The name on the first door I came to had a Scandinavian ring to it, bike girl?; the next, of course, was K’s. I ignored the door bell, I prefer to rap on doors, I believe it indicates presence and I always use the same tattoo, seven knocks in a very familiar pattern. It opened within seconds as though he’d been waiting behind it. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ I could see the momentary surprise in his face. He was barefoot and wearing a white singlet and red shorts. Maybe I’d interrupted him with a woman. I hoped so. I’d always wanted to see his other female friends, it was as if he compartmentalized the women in his life. I’d challenge him on it one day.
I was wearing a tight, white t-shirt and my Glastonbury jeans, so named because I’d been wearing them to the music festival for absolutely years; they were faded to a perfect shade of pale blue and still fit me like a second skin. Now those jeans had weathered many a change in fashion and came through them all much admired and sought after. I had a ‘little woman’ who made adjustments and alterations to my wardrobe as required and with particular regard to my Glastos she always rose to the occasion and performed her magic to make them breathtakingly contemporary.
Before we leant forward to kiss each others’ cheeks he looked me up and down slowly and whispered, ‘‘Nice.’’
He doesn’t usually comment on what I’m wearing except when it’s my Glastos. ‘‘You’re not going to believe this.’’ I said.
He smiled. ‘‘Let’s hear it.’’ He stood back and bowed, swishing me in with the wave of a curled arm. No company, then.
‘‘You do realize that this is the first time you’ve ever visited me in my own property, even if it’s only rented?’’
‘‘Shame on me.’’ I cast my eyes down.
‘‘Indeed.’’
The music revealed itself to be an evergreen soul classic, an old, old favorite of mine, pulsating out from what seemed to be the open room at the end of the corridor. I made a mental note to listen to those glorious blasts from my past again. All the doors were open allowing the sun to pour through and light up the hall in patches. We were standing facing each other, my eyes were directly opposite his throat. I could see where he’d missed some of his grey stubble when shaving, it lent him a strangely vulnerable look.
The hall floor was bare with a few tatty mats here and there, covering the old, faded, brown floorboards.
Some pictures adorned the light yellow painted but smudged walls; cheap looking still life. Knowing him they’d probably belonged to the previous tenant.
‘‘I’ll come right out with it: this is my property now.’’ So much for the kid gloves approach.
He shook his head. ‘‘You’ve bought this place?’’ There was a lightness to his voice, as though he thought I was setting him up for a prank.
‘‘I didn’t, directly. My man Ernst, bought it and well I thought I’d have a look around.’’
‘‘There’s never a dull moment with you.’’
I liked that. We walked to the end of the hallway into what turned out to be his front room. Uncarpeted floor, smudged, bare white walls, rugs and an old, dark green, well worn leather sofa, with brown tape applied to splits here and there to prevent the stuffing from bursting out, and a couple of, color wise but faded nearly matching, fabric covered arm chairs.
He flopped down on the sofa, grabbed a remote control device off the arm and lowered the volume of the song during a breakneck saxophone solo, and patted the seat beside him. I joined him. There was an open door off this room and I could see his unmade bed and on top of it a bunched up, dark blue quilt that looked briefly like a hooded figure huddled up in prayer.
His front room reminded me of the home studio of a legendary, seemingly immortal, photographer I’d been seeing a few years ago, a household name in fact; no, there were no cameras or tripods or rolls of film or other photographic paraphernalia lying around in K’s room, but with the bare brown floorboards, smudged skirting boards, grimy walls and the shabby furniture it had that same eccentric artist aura.
This photographer, he was still among us and going strong, was renowned for his notorious, among the A++ list, ‘Mattress Shots.’ These were depictions taken in his front room cum studio.
The premise was that the star or stars would lounge, on an old, lumpy, stained mattress, adding to the room’s shambolic mood, on the discolored and dusty floorboards, in a pose and costume, or lack of, of their choosing; the only props would be bottles or cups or glasses or other containers containing their favorite beverage, alcoholic or otherwise.
Of course, as it turned out, that wasn’t the snapper’s real front room; he was a slave to opulence and the merest glance into his real front room would have robbed the collection of its street cred, boho echo.
The subjects were, among others, royalty and film and rock stars of a certain vintage and notoriety in provocative couplings and poses; all die hard pursuers of a hedonistic life style and all relieved to have made it on to this vaunted lensman’s ultra exclusive roster.
Blown up copies of photos of some of those celebs were scattered haphazardly on an old wooden table for all to see; several of them I still can’t get out of my head, you just wouldn’t believe what some people would do when naked and faced with a photographic legend and his camera.
‘‘The camera can encourage people to lose their inhibitions in a big way; particularly those who yearn for such lack of restraint.’’
He said looking over my shoulder.
He never asked me to pose, but then again, he didn’t need to.
He was also still a very potent force and for a man his age his refractory period was surprisingly short.
Incidentally, these pictures will be published, at some stage, when their subjects have shaken off their mortal coils. That could be a while yet, they’re all in remarkable condition. They’re all from good stock. I should know.
K’s front room was scruffy but it had something. There was a normal size TV in the corner. I’d expected to see stacks of vinyl, but there wasn’t a trace, there was however a compact stereo in a corner and a couple of full CD towers.
‘‘Why did your man buy it?’’
‘‘I don’t know. He must have thought it would complement my portfolio.’’
‘‘And does it?’’
‘‘I suppose it does, it’s……..different.’’ I produced a bottle of champagne from my cavernous bag, the bag he’d rifled through. It was warm. ‘‘Ta da! Fancy a drink?’’
‘‘I wouldn’t say no. I’ll fetch the bottle, I’ve been keeping in the fridge, especially for your visit.’’
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Well, I knew you’d come one day. I just didn’t know when.’’
‘‘Ouch!’’ That was touching. He patted me gently on the leg and got up. I watched him walk into the hallway and turn into what was presumably the kitchen. I could read him like a book. Often a person’s gait gives them away, what they’re feeling. Maybe I knew K’s body better than I did his face. In fact, I knew his body and face better than anybody alive. His walk was his usual walk, nothing special, he wasn’t vain, he wouldn’t think I’d be glued to his every move.
He returned with a chilled bottle and a couple of wine glasses. We toasted, ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle.’ His idea. I loved his humor, and with our glasses and the bottle went into the bedroom. We walked into a bar of sunlight stretching over the bed and the entrance of the room like a golden pathway. None of his windows had curtains but, like a lot of the older houses in town, wooden shutters. As well as the unmade bed and the white walls he had a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and two bedside tables all in the same pine wood; comfortable but not expensive. We sat on the bed in the warm but slowly fading sun, it felt good to be there.
‘‘What do you think about being my tenant?’’
‘‘In a way that’s what I’ve always been.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘We’ve never stayed in what you might call neutral ground or I’ve never had the home advantage, not even now.’’
‘‘I’ve never seen it that way. Does it bother you?’’
‘‘Not in the slightest. It gives me even less responsibility.’’
I knew him, he was being honest, and it was true, he didn’t like responsibility. Sitting on an unmade bed with K and a glass of champagne, all that was missing was a roll up.
‘‘You can’t have a smoke yet, we’re not post coital.’’ He laughed. We’d been able to read each other’s minds for ages.
I felt so good, I didn’t even think to ask him to change the bed linen! Actually it smelt of sex! After coitus, we stood leaning out of the open window, drinking, and me smoking and him exaggeratedly batting the smoke away.
I stretched out a bit further, he coiled out his arm protectively, encircling my stomach, and I could just see the plastic corrugated awning in the back yard and a hint of barely controlled foliage.
‘‘We can’t have that thing. I’ll get a ‘little man’ I know to replace it.’’ I pointed to the awning.
‘‘Pity. I like the sound of the rain beating against it. It adds to the atmosphere.’’ I should have realized he’d be attached to it, an awning’s an awning, but I decided I’d leave it.
If that photographer I mentioned had been taking pictures of us he would have produced what would almost certainly have become an iconic image; a view over an unmade bed with the bedding bunched into a ball, and the back image of two naked lovers, standing at an open window in front of the sinking sun, sipping from wine glasses, and with a wisp of smoke in the air and the man’s hand raised against it. Something wasn’t quite right, I put my hand around K’s waist. Perfect. No, not yet. I turned slightly so my face was looking directly at the imaginary camera and winked. Perfect. I thought, I’d like to commission that and have it printed on a t-shirt, I’d have to have a word with K.
I’m not against posing naked, I’ve still got a good body, for my age, in fact a very good body, K would say for any age! but I didn’t think he’d be so keen, but I bet he’d do it if I asked him nicely. Imagine that, you’re walking down the street and you see a young guy or girl coming towards you wearing a t-shirt with you and your lover emblazoned on it in that pose, or on the sleeve of a rock LP; the groupie with the lead singer pose. I’d always wanted to be an icon.
‘‘Do you know your red haired, fellow tenant?’’
‘‘She lives next door. We nod and pass the time of day like with the other tenants. But that’s it.’’
‘‘And that’s the way you like it?’’
‘‘That’s the way I like it.’’
- Olivia’s first visit to K - November 26, 2024
- Clint & Ernst - October 7, 2024
- Else – My End - September 5, 2024
