The Bad End

The sky was a heavy gray, but not uniform. There were darker patches than others, it looked like an expanse of cigarette ash. It was cold too, at least to Harry it was. With temperatures, he guessed, in the low sixties it was a far cry from the early June heat wave they were having at home.

Harry had been characteristically early to the airport. To kill a few minutes, Harry had sat in his car listening to a college alternative rock station and reading McCullough’s 1776. He wasn’t sure what kind of remarks reading that book in London would draw so he wasn’t concerned about finishing and picking up another title en route. Newark terminal was enough of a sound circus to Harry that he couldn’t concentrate on reading anything more than a Starbucks’ sign so he dealt with the heat and caught a few last quiet minutes in the car. Sitting still with the windows open he was marginally comfortable. That margin faded when sweat dripped off his face onto the pages. No, it’s hot. Hunker down, go inside, put up with the ‘special’ security announcements every three minutes.

The intensity of the heat wave had also ensured that Harry had nothing even remotely warm to wear in London. He figured that if it was the tropics at home, Europe would at least be comfortable. Wrong. He was a tall, tan, shivering man in a shirt and no jacket. So much for not standing out.

Chris though, looked quite comfortable in her blue wool top and wool skirt. Her blonde hair was in a new barette. Her face was lightly tanned and a little ruddy. Almost as if she were blushing. She had broad shoulders. There was something hard and firm about her body. Toned. The woman was an athlete. She could have been heavy if she didn’t pay attention, fat if she stopped trying altogether, but she didn’t. She was fit. Harry held the door for her. She smiled and her eyes flashed. Blue, then green, then blue again.

“Thanks for waking me up.”

“You either slept in those or you’re the fastest woman dresser I know.”

She smiled again. Flash. Blue, green, blue.

“This way?” he asked.

“Good as any.”

“What do you feel like eating?” ”Don’t really care. Just hungry. Ate on the plane but that was hours ago.” ”Plus it was plane food.”

”It wasn’t bad. Continental puts on a good spread in business class.” ”Ah. U.S. Airways. Spent the night making love to my knees.” They walked down George Street, she a little ahead. At Baker, they crossed and kept going straight. There were some commercial storefronts that looked promising, at least more promising than the neighborhood rows of flats that were tucked in the side roads. Harry was getting hungry too and if Chris was anything like his wife, she would soon be ravenous and irrational. Harry looked ahead for any sign of food. Chris kept walking. They passed an exotic car dealer. There was a Lamborghini in the showroom, parked on a slab of black polished rock.

“That’s bitching.” She said.

“Waste of power in this town.”

“Most towns.” ”Like Lambos?”

“What?” ”Lamboghinis. That’s the car you’re looking at.” ”It just looks bitching. I like the lines. They’re bold, tough, almost sexy.” Harry looked at the car. The lines were that. “You’ve got an eye for finer things.” ”This doesn’t look promising.” Chris said, looking at some of the shops around the car dealer. “We should probably turn around.”

They re-crossed Baker and walked back towards the hotel. Chris turned down a side street and Harry almost didn’t notice she had, he was still scanning ahead for a restaurant. He followed her. They walked in relative silence. Harry thought that unusual for two people who had just met but he was not a big talker so he was comfortable for the moment. He didn’t like to converse unless there was a point. Here, the point was to find food and they had pretty much hashed that out. They kept walking for a few blocks, straight on the sidewalk until some construction forced them off and on a detour immediately against the side of a building. They passed by the usual English signs apologizing for construction and listing the completion date for the project as two months ago. The building was made with reddish stone with brushed chrome window frames. The dirt from the construction had covered the glass and the windows were almost completely opaque. There were lights on inside and people, very few, were sitting around. Harry looked in.

“Hey, this is a pub.” Chris stopped and looked. There was a door about twenty feet ahead under a London Pride ESB sign also announcing the name of the pub: The Bad End. She pointed.

“Wanna try?” Harry asked.

“Sure, nothing else looks open and this isn’t the most interesting neighborhood.” Harry held the door and they went in. The place was almost empty. They picked a small table just to the right of the bar, under the chalkboard menus. Service was nowhere to be seen so Harry craned his neck and began to read the menus above them.

“You want me to read the specials?” ”No, that’s ok.” Harry read quietly and settled on a sandwich. Smithfield ham, swiss cheese. He looked around the place. It looked like it had been re-decorated in 1964 and not touched since. There was a lot of formica and plastic and bad carpet that had been worn threadbare. The bar at least was wood and looked like it had been saved from the original bar. Nothing else though. It all felt like a government movie for “Forward Looking, Modern Britain” that had stopped looking anywhere and was just surviving frozen in time. A heavy set older woman in a long apron came out from the kitchen and saw them. ”Hello. What can I get you?” ”Chris?” ”Can I get a beer?” ”What kind, Miss?” ”Don’t really care.” ”Bitter?” ”Sure.” ”You sir?” ”Porter, its cold out.” ”Yes sir. Pint or half?” ”Half.” It was not yet two o’clock and Harry felt funny about drinking this early. Plus he hadn’t eaten since early this morning and he didn’t want to get foggy on this woman he had yet to share two complete sentences with.

“Miss?” ”Pint.” ”I’ll have a pint as well.” Harry said. “Cold out.” And he smiled at Chris.

They ordered the same sandwich.

She opened her purse and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. “You mind?” Harry was an ex-smoker and now a runner. It was less that he minded and more that he hated to be close to the things. He still missed smoking after nine years and knew it wouldn’t take much for him to go back. Running was great, but you can’t run in a pub with a beer in your hand. “No, go ahead.” Chris had already lit the match and touched the cigarette when he was almost finished his response.

“My husband hates me smoking. I can get away with it here.” Harry had noticed the diamond engagement ring and wedding ring. It was a detail he usually didn’t miss. Not that it made a difference, he was married. But marriage was the first open page of someone’s story and the easiest to read. You had to turn pages for the rest.

“How long?” he pointed at her hand. ”Married? Eight years.” ”Twelve.” ”Yeah, well Rob’s a fucker and I’d just as soon it were over.” ”That’s an interesting conversation starter. I was sort of expecting ‘where are you from?’”

“New Jersey.” ”Pennsylvania. Where in Jersey?” ”Clinton, little town-“ ”Right off 78. About forty five minutes from me.” ”Where are you?” ”Just across the border.” ”Small world. No ring?”
“Just not wearing it.” ”Because?” ”Because, well. I don’t know. I haven’t worn it in a while.”

“Issues?” She asked.

Harry didn’t answer right away. There are times, this was one and he knew it, when you were tired enough to say anything. Finally, he measured his words out: “There are issues. Things aren’t so great right now, but we’re working on them.” ”Yeah. So are we.”

“Problems?” He asked. ”You could say. There are trust issues.” How tired was Chris? Harry thought. ”There usually are.” ”Yeah well things suck sometimes. Doesn’t change that fact that our counselor keeps suggesting we’d be better off separated.” ”What do you think?” ”I think he’s right.” ”So?” ”So Rob basically reacted by storming out and we haven’t been back since.” ”Are you leaving him?” ”It’s not that easy.” ”Kids?” ”No, thank Christ. But it’s still not that easy. Is it? Or is there another reason you’re not wearing a ring?”

“No. We’ll work through the problems.” ”What kind of problems?”

“Support, companionship, being there for each other.” Harry’s control slipped.

“Yeah?” “Yeah, well, we don’t have any of that. We’re not there for each other. At least that’s what we accuse each other of, under so many subterfuges.” ”Are you there for her?”

“I try to be. Do the best I can.” “Really?”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “No, not really.”

“So I guess things have just gotten old and boring after twelve years? No more excitement, no more thrills?” Harry noted and tried to ignore the lilt of sarcasm in her voice.

“Maybe. Maybe we’ve just grown apart.”
“Affairs?”

“No. She’s never home but she’s not having an affair. I know that sounds naïve but, well, its just going to have to keep sounding naïve. I am at home. She tells me I’m there drinking too much so she stays away so I stay at home. Great little cycle we’ve invented.”

“Do you?” Harry knew she didn’t mean stay at home.

“From time to time.”
“It helps take the sharp edge off of being alone doesn’t it?” Chris asked, the lilt gone from her voice.

“It does.” “Got it under control?”

“I think so.”

The barmaid brought the pints. Harry sprinkled a little salt on the coaster. Chris stubbed her cigarette out and laughed: “Yeah, isn’t that the lie we all tell each other then?”
”Uh huh. Cheers.” Harry mockingly raised his glass. Chris clinked hers to his. They each had a sip and then put the glasses down quietly. They sat. Both stared out the filmy window into the street, the dead end across the road. Probably the cul de sac the pub was named in honor of. Chris lit a new cigarette. Lunch was brought out. She kept smoking. Harry waited to start eating until she was done. Then they both began at their sandwiches.

“So what do you do?” Harry asked, washing a mouthful of the surprisingly salty ham down with his Porter.

“Photo researcher and editor.” ”Print.” ”Yep.” ”Who for?” ”Freelance. Conde Nast, Hachette Fillipaci, whoever needs me.” ”Convenient location, Clinton.” ”Country living. About an hour into the city and I don’t have to put up with the bullshit. I lived in Manhattan for a year while I worked at Doubleday and couldn’t stand it. When I married Rob, I made him promise me a big house in the country. That’s the one promise he’s kept.”

“Doubleday? When were you there?” ”Early nineties.” ”Did you know Mike Carney?” She put her food down. She looked at him and smiled. Flash. Blue, green, blue. “Mike Carney? I love him! What a sarcastic son of a bitch. Used to call me ‘Kingsley’, that was my maiden name. ‘Kingsley, what the fuck is this?’ What a character. How do you know Mike?” ”Used to work with him. I was at Doubleday in the mid-eighties. I remember Mike had that sign on his desk…” ”Assume Nothing.” ”That was it. He copyedited books I worked on. I remember he kept a bottle of real rotgut shit in his desk drawer. One afternoon, I was passing by. ‘Get in here Moss’ he says and starts pouring. Turns out the guy in the next office over had swallowed a gun the night before. Mike was self medicating. So he and I got piss drunk that afternoon reminiscing about Alan.” ”Assume nothing. He was a fucking character.”
“Still is if the shitty scotch hasn’t killed him.You know, if you and I walked in on him, together, he’d probably shit himself.” Chris smiled and took another bite. They ate quietly for a few more minutes.

“So you’re still in publishing?” She asked Harry.

“Consulting. We’re a consulting group that looks at properties. Mostly for publishers. Right now we’re working for Owen Media Group.” ”I have a friend there. Evan. He’s one of their book editors.” ”Don’t know him. We’re dealing with the magazine financial guys. You ever do any photo work with them?” ”Not yet, but its only a matter of time.” Lunch was almost done. Harry was afraid of sitting in the pub for the rest of the afternoon. It was becoming much too pleasant an idea. “Got any plans for today?”

“No. Thought I’d see what happens.” ”I was going to go to the Imperial War Museum. That’s probably a little boring-“

“I wouldn’t mind.” ”You sure?” ”I’ll let you know if I’m about to keel over. You can catch me.” Harry laughed. “I’ll do better than that, let me buy you dinner tonight?” ”Sure.”

“Are you always this accommodating?” ”I’m on vacation.” ”Oh. Sorry. I thought you were here on business. ” ”No, I’m working. I’m on vacation from Rob.”