Pyjamas

A short story by Leslie King

The ceiling has a crack in it. She hadn't noticed it before. She turned over and hid her head under the sheet. She had been avoiding the warning for some time. People said you could die from holding it in. But it had been almost two hours now. And getting up to go to the bathroom meant her feet would touch the cold kitchen tiles. Her whole body would lose the heat she had spent hours collecting. The telephone rang. Emma let it ring out before extending her arm around the doorway.

 “Hello”.
“Were you asleep?” the voice queried.
“Er, No”, she replied. “Well. I am in bed”.
“It’s Eleven thirty!”
Suddenly Emma recognised who it was. Her grandmother.
The voice continued:
“I got a postcard from you this morning, so I thought I’d ring. I was delighted to hear from you. You should get in touch more often”
Pause.
“You should be out of bed, shouldn't you?”
Emma stared out the window. She couldn't see the sky. She needed to press her face against the cold pane. Buried in the side of a sealed courtyard, the bedroom's light was dulled. It made Emma feel like it was forever evening. She thought of what she might see if she could look out more easily, over the rooftops. A whole city, moving. She didn't’t much want to think about it. It was so still in her little flat.

“What’s the weather like over there?”
“What are you doing at the moment?
“I hear we have a singer in the family.”

Emma took in all these questions and tried to deal with them as best she could. She spoke fast and nonsensically, like a teenager, so that her grandmother had to ask her to slow down. Summarising her new life was a ritual she loathed. She tried to be enthusiastic all the same. And the response:
“It’s quiet here”
Pause.
“Nothing much to report”
I hope no one she knows has died, thought Emma suddenly.
She imagined her grandmother sitting in the kitchen, on a stool, with the phone on her lap, and the chord wrapped round her long elegant fingers and her perfect red shiny nails. The crossword was on the table next to her, a pen rested against her lips, some whistling earl Grey sat on the hob like a hen. The orange clock ticked above her recipe books: Half past ten. One hour away. One hour behind.

Emma eventually got out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She landed clumsily on the cold broken toilet seat, which slipped and sent her foot into the edge of the door. The pain was so acute that a tear came out of her eye. Comfort found in toilet paper and pyjamas. Her necessities.
She gazed at the mountain of toilet paper she had just bought and then down at her dead pyjamas hanging around her ankles. The one’s her mother had bought her two Christmases ago.
Christmas was a funny time. Emma liked it all the same. She called it “The Great Escape”. Not only because they showed that movie more than once but because she would spend the whole two weeks, wrapped up in a duvet watching television. Heart-warming American television. She would spend the rest of the time eating, or in bed, staring at the small mound of presents she would have collected, and laid out on the floor, to show visitors. And to remember easier, when friends asked her what she got, and she had to remember.

Emma sneezed. It must be really cold, she thought, if I’m sneezing.
As she lay back in bed again, she peered out the large window. It dominated the room like the centerpiece of a nineteenth century drawing room. Its aesthetic presence was the only thing that made living in the flat bearable. She could see the dull net curtains of her neighbor opposite, and some light revealed a bunk bed and stacks of old canvases. There were red carnations in copper baskets on the neighboring windows. An old woman lived there. Sometimes Emma saw her shake out her rugs. Further down in the cobbled courtyard was a green iron statue of a woman. Emma stretched her neck every evening to see her glass flame illuminate the cobblestones, casting its shadows on the old building, like lights on a stage.

The phone rang again.  Adwoa was in the area, she wanted a coffee.
Emma disliked most hot beverages and breakfast too. Her stomach was always delicate in the mornings. Not only that, as soon as the first bit of food was in her, she knew the day had begun, that everything was moving forward again, and she would have to wonder if she would feel left behind as usual.
Adwoa was already knocking on the door. Her friend, she had not known her very long, was half African half English. She had grown up in Soho, but she was born in South Africa. Her mother met her father as a Doctor in Ghana. He was a peace rebel.
Emma had listened to the story attentively.
Adwoa was tall and athletic, with a beautiful half-cast face and wild frizzy hair that she kept untied. She could wear anything with her perpetually tanned skin, coat-hanger frame and magazine smile. Emma opened the door, “Hello Bella!”
“Hello Ems. I have some pressies for you”.
She put her big second hand leather satchel on the kitchen counter and pulled out a paper bag decorated with an illustrated schoolgirl licking a lollypop. “She looks like you, doesn't’t she”?
“Maybe”, said Emma, impatient to know what she would have to eat.
“Open up then,”
She took the bag, ripped off the pink sticker shaped like a ribbon and peered inside. A wonderful smell of baked bread, icing sugar and almonds. It made her feel nauseous.
“Thanks Ads”
Emma popped a cake in her mouth and offered one to her friend who took two.
“They’re yummy, aren't’t they?”
“Mmmmm” Emma agreed as she tried to chew and digest all at once.

“Coffee?”
“Hot chocolate, only, unless you want to go out?”
“No it’s ok, I think I’m suddenly in a chocolaty mood”
“Good! I’ll get dressed”
She ran into her bedroom while her friend scrubbed her only saucepan.

She tried to think what she could wear. She found it more and more difficult to get dressed in the mornings, maybe because it was so cold, and the more clothes she put on the more uncomfortable her body felt. Stuffed inside tights, boots, jeans, woollies, thermals, a hat, scarf and gloves, she felt unattractive and immobile. She didn't know how other girls always managed to look so neat and at ease, whatever the weather. Adwoa didn't even own a heavy jacket. She was hot blooded, and energetic and smoked lots of cigarettes, which kept her warm, she had explained.

Emma looked miserably at her reflection. She could never escape her image in this grim room. The proprietors had stuck mirrors everywhere. Probably to make the tiny living space appear less illegal.
“What will I wear?”  She called out desperately.
“It doesn’t matter,”
“It always matters!”

“Café de flore or Soupe au lait?”
She appeared dressed and irritable by the kitchen window.
“De Flore”.
She watched her friend carefully prepare her drink. There was an elegance, perfection even, in how she approached the most menial tasks. Everything Emma did was drawn out and rushed. She was always breaking things or ripping her clothes because she was late to meet some one. It was funny how there never seemed to be enough time to do things properly. And yet all the unfilled hours hung around her neck like a noose ready to choke.
“I have to get a job today”, she announced.
“We’ll go to the bar again and see if they need us?”
“OK.”

Emma reluctantly woke up as she sipped her hot chocolate and felt her chest warm up.
“I wish it was summer again”. She sighed.
“Come down to our summer house in May. If you like?”
“Yes, please!”
Adwoa was unfathomably generous, she thought. She suspected it was in someway to ensure people would like her. I mean, how could they not, she’s fun and clever and independent. Emma examined her friend’s face so much that it became a caricature. Her nose became a piece of Plasticine, she wanted to twist.
“What you thinking about?
“Home” Emma lied.

***********************

They arrived at the pub around twelve o’clock. It was quiet and empty. An unsavory odor of stale cigarette, alcohol and fresh floor detergent made it difficult to breathe through the nose. Emma caught sight of their contact piling some glasses onto a tall-mirrored shelf.
“Steve!”
The Australian eighteen year old turned around and stared at them both blankly. He looked so out of place in the cabaret atmosphere, perched on a tall velvet barstool. Long beach shorts, trainers and a short-sleeved surf shirt hid his small but well built body. He jumped down like a Rodeo trainer.
There was no exception; all barmen were self-important and showy.
Emma wanted to laugh at their delusion.

“OH g-day, its you guys” he said a little embarrassed.
“We’re here about the jobs,” said Adwoa confidently.
“I gave your CV’s to the boss, he said he’d call you this evening for an interview”
The two girls looked at each other. It sounded promising.
In a café further down the street they calculated how much they could earn a month.
“1050” proclaimed Emma. “And that’s part-time. Think of what we could do”
So what if it was in a pub. All actresses were waitresses at some point in their lives. They sat back and let their eyes close under the blinding sunlight.

Outside cars, buses and motorcycles crammed the busy streets; people stood at traffic lights, exasperated from the noise, the pollution, the concentration needed to cross a road at lunchtime.
Emma opened one eye and peered out at the tatty looking shop fronts, the sleazy sex shops.
“Who keeps those place’s open?” She asked her friend who was now in lost in some kind of sun kissed meditation.
“Pervert’s, lonely unloved men, who knows”
“Lucy’s little Lounge” Emma read a loud  “For all your x-rated fantasies”
“Do you have any x-rated fantasies?” asked Adwoa without opening her eyes.
“No”
 The only dream she had ever had that remotely resembled an x-rated fantasy, was obviously when she was asleep so it didn’t really count.
“It was weird.” She began, “ I was tied up in this kind of harness in a black room with velvet black walls. The straps were like the material used to make seatbelts. I’m, hovering, naked, in this empty room and then suddenly, I’m not sure if it’s a man, or an invisible machine, but some one or something starts squirting milk at me. Or some kind of liquid. And I guess it was enjoyable for a while until I realised what was going on and I woke up, a little confused”

Adwoa had since opened her eyes and was looking at her friend with a childish smirk on her face.

“You filthy little girl!”

Emma laughed. For someone who was so squeamish about sex she got a considerable amount of enjoyment talking about it graphically.

“What about you?”
“A threesome. “
“Original”. Emma sighed with mock disappointment.

Adwoa took a deep breath. “I mean I used to really fancy this girl in my class and her older brother was gorgeous. Everyone used to joke about which one they’d prefer. They were a really good-looking family. So I used to imagine what it would be like to be with them both. At the same time.”
Emma stared at her friend a little disturbed. She is a better actress than me.
“Do you know where they are now?” She asked trying to bring the conversation back to a non-make-believe plain.
“He’s in the army I think. She’s a dancer with the Royal Ballet. She had an amazing body!”
Emma started to feel uncomfortable. She didn’t want to. She hated herself for it. But suddenly she wanted to be away from her new friend, and back in her flat.
“I think I might go home and get changed for tonight”
“OK” Adwoa replied. She could tell her friend’s optimistic humor had changed, but she was afraid to ask why.
“You can stay with me later. Since our interview’ll probably be late”, she added to cheer Emma up.

Emma spent the rest of the afternoon in a park watching people eat, canoodle and chat.
She couldn’t read her book. She didn’t have the energy to write a letter to a friend. “Dear ____, here are ten reasons why I am happier than I was back there…I miss you. E ”
But I’m no closer to having an occupation, a purpose, than I was when I was at home, she realised. She looked around her at the patches of snow beginning to melt. Her runny nose mimicked the falling drops of icy water from the trees. She would have stayed there all day if she’d had a tissue. That’s what she told herself. It took her a good ten minutes to finally leave and by that stage she had to use her jacket sleeve to clean her face. She felt dirty all the way home; and she couldn’t steal a serviette from a Café. Not here.
When she got back her flat mate was still at work. Catriona.
She was an odd girl, from a town on the West coast. Emma had only been there once on a school trip. It was nice all the same, to have some one from your own country to live with. But then, this girl, when she thought about it, wasn’t really a comfort. She didn’t listen to Emma’s stories with any interest and only gave her attention when she felt like it.
Emma picked up the telephone and tried to call her mother. It rang out.
“Answer Mum” she called out feebly.
But no one picked up.
She placed the phone back on the shelf.
It was already five o’clock. The flat was dark and cold. She activated all the electric heaters, changed into a tracksuit, made some porridge and got back into bed with a magazine.
The telephone rang about thirty minutes later, but she didn’t answer it.

*****************************

They stood waiting in the beer-scented office at about midnight. He came back in, and sat down aggressively in his spinning chair.
He looked up and down at the computer and then at the two girls.
“Which one of you is Emma?’
“I am”
“You’ll do. You’ve worked as a waitress before, you’re an actress, and you’re cute. That’s what we need, girls who aren’t afraid to talk to the clientele, dance on the bar tops, have some fun. Do you think you can do it?”
“Sure”
“Now, don’t get me wrong, we’re not a strip club. But feel free to take of your clothes and flirt. You know what I mean!’
He winked and grinned, and his whole body moved as he tapped his feet, and played with his biro and his chest vibrated as he laughed his loud unpleasant laugh. He reminded Emma of a character from Vice City, a seedy computer game her ex-boyfriend had played all the time.
She sneezed three times and interrupted his soliloquy on team participation.
“Sneeze one more time, and you’ll have had an orgasm!”
 He laughed hard at his own joke.
                                                                       
“What a weirdo!” Emma said afterwards as they changed into their new size small t-shirts.
“Lets just get on with it”.
But Adwoa failed to hide her disappointment.

The pub was filled with drunk and bored looking young people. Every now and then, a middle-aged man, alone, would wander in. The work was soul destroying. Collecting glasses; waiting for them to be made empty. Then having to smile and chat up potential drinkers.
Emma wanted to escape, her feet were tired, and the smoky atmosphere was making her cold worse. She watched girls her own age climb onto oblivious young men. The whole thing depressed her.
At 2 AM, they were released.
“Did you give them back your tips?” asked Adwoa.
“No. I’m never working there again. I’ll buy us breakfast instead”
They walked back to Adwoa’s place in silence.
Emma felt lost again.
“Will you keep working?”
“I won’t give up that easily!”
Emma felt angry. Was Adwoa right? Was she giving up? She never gave anything a chance that was true. She was too afraid of making the wrong decision. Ironically this attitude prevented her from making the right decisions. Maybe.

Adwoa lived in her apartment all alone. It was a cosy one room, with a kitchenette and a bathroom attached. She had a large futon. Her paintings were all over the walls, and holiday photographs covered the entire back wall, except for a large black and white portrait. Her father who she’d never met. It looked like a picture Emma had seen in an old Newsweek in her school library. His proud handsome face, stared out at her. How romantic, Emma thought. Imagine if that was the only memory I had of my father.
She looked deep into the grainy photograph, and noticed her friend’s own eyes and lips buried in those of her dead father’s.

“Olive?’
“OK”
 They ate crisps, peanuts, olives and chocolate biscuits. They drank wine. That’s all Adwoa had. Cocktail party food. Emma thought it was strange.

They got into bed, exhausted at around 3AM.
Emma got into her pyjamas. Adwoa put on some bedtime music and slowly took all her clothes off. Her back was turned to Emma. She quickly got under the covers.
“Don’t you wear Pyjamas?” Emma asked, once her friend had gotten in with her and they were facing each other.
“Never. I can’t. I’d get too hot. And it feels so unnatural”
“I’m the opposite. I feel naked”. Naked. Emma replayed the word again and again in her mind. The word sounded ugly repeated.
 “Are your feet sore? Ad? Are you awake?”
“No. My back is a little”
“Me too”
“I’ll give you a massage if you like”
Emma loved messages. She’d had them regularly since she was child. A car accident. Her neck and shoulders were often tense and bruised.
“Are you sure”?
“I’m good at them! Hold on one minute while I just wake up!”
Emma turned on her stomach and waited. Adwoa climbed onto her back.  She put the duvet around her long body like a giant cloak.
“Take off your top!”
Emma didn’t want to but she knew it made massaging easier. She pulled it off. And in raising her body she felt her friend’s breasts touch her skin. It was an odd sensation.
She tried to ignore it.
The massage lasted about thirty minutes. Adwoa kneaded her body like a professional; Emma felt her strength penetrate her muscles. There was something magical and primal in the way she touched her, like she was taking part in a holy act. Emma wondered if she deserved to be on the receiving end of such healing.
“There you go, it’s finished”
She didn’t hear Adwoa’s words. She had already fallen asleep on her chest without her Pyjama top on.
The next morning, she woke up with a dry mouth and an achey jaw. She quietly got out of bed, picked up her bag and covering her breasts with an old teddy bear, ran into the bathroom where she quickly changed. Adwoa was still asleep.
She then packed her things and left.
She was so relieved to be out in the cold air.
Surrounded by people. Thousands, millions.

THE END

Leslie King is the pen name for a new young writer, who has contributed several creative pieces to Verity and wishes to remain anonymous for the time being.