The Thing with Neema (Part II)
A novella by Nicholas Penrake
They spoke less on their way back to the station. Didn’t feel the need. Content in their bubble of post coital bliss, enjoying the fine weather, distance from others, and the intimacy of each other. Watching her walk, picturing her walking away from a place of death, he reached for her hand, holding it gently in his
They paused to sit on a bench overlooking a stretch of trees sloping down to the river basin. He cast his eyes to the horizon, drank in the simple English beauty of spring. When he turned to check on Neema, he noticed a tear rolling down her cheek.
Hey, what’s up? he asked softly.
A second, heavier tear rolled down her cheek. She wouldn’t look at him.
He moved closer – no one else around, watching them – and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
Hey... don’t be down.
I think... She sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. I feel... Her voice cracked. She paused, pursing her lips. I feel I am losing it, really.
He hadn’t expected this. Her quiet desperation fluttering in his chest.
Why do you feel that? His own voice suddenly dry, like he’d swallowed a bit of sand.
For so long, I am not myself. I am someone’s portrait of a victim, a refugee. I don’t even use my brain anymore. I just become stupid.
Not to me, you’re not. Not at all.
When you told me that story, when you were a boy... It made me feel – it's not your fault – but I, I have those thoughts. I mean, like ending it all. Like I can’t go on.
No no, Neema...
He turned further in his seat, lifting his left knee onto the bench, so he was more present to what she was telling him.
I know, but I... She sucked in a sharp breath, exhaled to regain control. Like, the other day, I was thinking, my life here, it is almost worse than the war, because, even though I live in London, in a free city, I am a slave now, to this dull routine – for rent, for babysitting, for cleaning, Instagram friends, like I’m walking down a long tunnel with no light at the end, no light at all.
She gave her head a shake of disbelief, dropped her gaze to her dusty shoes.
He thought to say: You have me... But maybe that didn’t amount to much. A fun time, maybe. She needed to feel looked after. That had become clear to him over the past few days. Not with bank notes, with heart and devotion. It pained him to think he might not be up to the task.
Two months previously he could have offered to take her on holiday somewhere – a break from the routine that was sucking the life out of her. But he can’t. Not now, not for some time. Only the day before their rendezvous, he’d got confirmation from a so-called high-ticket client that their arrangement was at an end.
If I'm being perfectly honest, ran the client's WhatsApp message, it’s got very little to do with your performance, it’s our exposure in China at the moment. Hopefully we can reconnect later in the year.
Worse, he’d foolishly gambled future earnings from this client on a YouTube campaign, which had flopped.
Talk of cleaning, that’s all he’s been doing recently: mopping up and plugging of leaks in the vessel he might loosely describe as his consultancy business. Cut subscriptions, supplements, clubs and hubs. Even as you get busy with this, saving little amounts of money, you worry that you aren’t spending time on tasks that might move the needle forward. If this is anything like the last time, you will also become a sort of slave – to a loop of maintenance activities that suck more energy out of you, leaving you too jaded to work on fresh ideas, which inevitably must involve new learnings around AI. And all this at the start of a new relationship that relies so heavily on you having cash in your hand.
And once the business goes, what next? He’ll have to ask Bea to contribute more to the mortgage, pay off more of their credit cards. There have been a couple of conversations recently around her moving back to Portugal – will she now accuse him of pushing her out, forcing her to go home, start again? Will the kids stay with him, go with her?
He’d been here before, 2010, ground down by the fallout from the 2008 crash. But it had never happened this fast, and he’d been younger then. He thought he’d learnt from past mistakes, but his cash was unravelling like a ball of wool kicked across the floor. Was that down to his poor judgment, or a sign of the times? Another week from now and his impecuniosity would be oozing from his pores, wafting off his clothes, like some sort of rotten fruit. At some point, he’d have to tell Neema the truth. Then what? Would she declare him a sham? Would she disappear?
==
For two weeks he didn’t see her. A few messages back and forth. Like a weary ping pong that never quite makes it to a rally.
Him: Sorry, this project’s going on longer than I thought. I’ll be free next week.
Her lonely OK. No x, no emojis.
Monday comes around and he finds himself waist-deep in an unpaid pitch. Nice of the woman who asked for it not to acknowledge. Courtesy? Such an outdated concept. Do you follow up? Beg?
Around 6 pm, he thinks to call Neema. He worries that his fatigue will be read as lack of interest. He told himself he wasn’t going to open another bottle, but there it is, in the kitchen, next to the extra olive oil. All you have to do is pull the cork out.
A podcast on YouTube while you rummage in the fridge. Enough for one plate. Which is fine, because Bea’s on holiday with her boyfriend, one daughter in Italy, the other on a sleepover. Talk to the cats.
The Rest Is Politics with Rory Stewart and Alastair Campbell. Practically his best mates these days. Hardly spoken to any male friends in weeks. A life of prospects and clients waving goodbye.
That wasn't bad at all, best noodles dish in a while, shame to have no one to share it with. He pushes the bowl to one side and picks up his phone. Already 9 o’clock. Hardly in the right kind of mood for a chat about his day her day after all that stuff about Ukraine, Gaza and the madness of King Trump. If you were to call now, and she said yes, was up for it, you wouldn't get to her place till midnight – and you know how that’ll look: a booty call, all for your convenience. That wasn’t how he thought of her.
The next morning, switching off the alarm, sunshine leaping through the gap in the blinds like a dog excited to find him awake, he feels... different somehow. Like a weight’s been lifted off you.
That’s it, I’m done, a voice in his head tells him, as he pulls on his jeans. Done trying, done worrying, done with the sleepless nights, the comfort drinking, the nights waking in a sweat and reaching for the Paracetamol to stave off a panic attack, pacify another caffeine headache.
So you go bankrupt, who cares, it’s not as shameful as it used to be. In a city like London, it might even be considered a badge of honour – you set up a business, you gave it a go, you failed, OK, whatever, the point is failure these days is a springboard to success. Because now you have an authentic, gut-wrenching story to front your next offer – your vulnerability is the genesis to your comeback, the reason you can be trusted, no, better, should be trusted. Frankly, what are you even worried about!
Bea and his two daughters have seen up close what he’s been going through. By turns sympathetic, hopeful and sceptical... increasingly sceptical. To them he must be the equivalent of a punctured party balloon farting around the room, bouncing off walls and ceiling, finally hitting the floor, small and shrunken. Poor Sean, poor Dad.
But family’s family. What about Neema?
He messages her later that morning. They agree to meet that night – but, she warns him, she can’t stay out: she has a job to do, starting early the next day. No problem, he texts back, adding an x. She sends back a smiley.
Setting out to meet her, he’s aware of a new spring in his feet.
He arrives at the Soho Bistro he booked bang on time, 6.59. A message from Neema: she’s 10 minutes away. No hurry, he sends back.
She arrives half breathless. Black skirt, matching tights, dark blue shirt, minimal jewellery. Chattier than usual, breezy, like she’s had some good news for a change. Yes, please, he thinks, let’s have more of this. More tactile than usual, leaning closer, touching his hand, his arm, flashing her charming smile at him like she feels it's time she made more of an effort to entertain him.
Second drink in, Did you ever try a threesome? she asks, having just asked him if he had any fantasies he has yet to explore.
I haven’t, no. You?
No... I’ve been thinking about it, though.
OK...
Would you be interested?
Is this a theoretical question or –
No, for real.
Um, well, not with another man I wouldn’t, but another woman... He shrugs his shoulders... Maybe. It might be fun.
If he was being honest, the subject bored him. Girlfriends had often posed these questions to him as a kind of sneaky test of his loyalty, he felt – and the exercise bored him now. If anything, he was now a little wary of being ambushed.
You know I have a lodger?
I thought you had two. Sofa surfers, you call them.
No, the other guy left already. That was just for the weekend. No, I mean the Russian girl staying with me, Natalya.
OK, yeah. The one you had a bit of a thing with?
You know I like women.
You said, yes. I think you were going to introduce us.
She’s been travelling round Europe, but she’s back now. I told her about you. She pauses, eyes gleaming in the low light. I showed her your photo. She says she likes you.
Really? So she’s like you – bi?
Yes. So I asked her if she’d go to bed with us.
Seriously?
She said, yes.
Just playing along, he asks her if she has a photo.
She scrolls through her photos and taps on a photo of a tall, fair-haired young woman, athletic build, strong jawline, an unwavering blue-eyed gaze.
What do you think?
He wouldn’t have swiped right – not least because she looks half his age – but he doesn't want to come across as picky or flippant.
How old is she?
Twenty-two. She just wants to try something different, for fun. But you have to be free this weekend if you want to, because she has to go back to Russia on Sunday.
At your place?
Yes.
You’re OK with it?
Yes.
He’s still struggling to take her seriously, waiting for the punchline.
Do you want me to tell her: Yes?
OK.
I will miss her when she goes. We became good friends.
He’s not sure what to add. She falls quiet for a moment, pensive, as she sets her phone down on the table
I think I will move next month, she says.
Why?
I get tired, always looking for these people to help me pay the rent.
I thought you were enjoying it?
Yes, but, also, not everyone is like Natalya. Sometimes problems, you know? Also, I have to be careful.
Careful?
She composes herself, and in that brief moment, he identifies a precious dignity in her expression, as if he’d only seen it for the first time. How strange, how negligent of him.
You know I tell you about my husband, that he was so angry with me he sends out people to look for me, his bodyguards?
I thought you said that was, like, three or four years ago?
Yes, but no, even now. She frowns urging him to take her seriously now, to understand her culture, the darkness she sprung from. And recently... I don’t know if my brain is playing tricks on me, but I was at the market last week, and I see this man in a cafe looking at me, and I think I recognise him, from the time I was with my husband.
Her expression is stark and accusatory, as if her ex, not Sean, were sitting across the table from her.
Did he approach you?
No. He just – like this at me, she says, directing a fierce gaze across the room.
Was he following you?
I don’t know. He was sitting on a stool by the window in a café, and he was looking through the window... at me.
You’re an attractive woman, Neema. Maybe –
No no no, she says, waving her hands, not to be contradicted. This isn’t the face of a man who is thinking, she’s nice girl. No. His eyes – she points a fork of two fingers at her eyes, then at his – like a hunter’s eyes.
Did you see him again?
No, I didn’t. But this was close to my apartment, and now, you know, with Natalya going, I think I should move. I feel anxious, you know?
But what can he do, this guy, even if he is connected to your husband?
She weighs his question in her mind for a moment... raises her eyebrows at him. He can kill me, she says, without blinking.
He might like to think about that. This part of Africa, this kind of madness she may unwittingly have brought with her into his life as well.
To think she’s contemplating a threesome at the same time as moving house to avoid a man who might be out to kill her makes his head spin. This is how con artists operate, it occurs to him. Pretending to be in imminent danger in order to convince a sympathetic dolt like him to come to her rescue by sending her money.
As they kissed goodnight just the other side of the ticket barriers in Piccadilly underground, she appeared to have shrugged off her fears of this man she’d seen staring at her, and excited again about their arrangement with the Russian. She said she’d let him know if it was definitely on. She waved as she headed off for the Northern line escalator.
Funny girl, he thought to himself as he got on the escalator for the Bakerloo. Like you dreamt the whole evening.
Back home, the flat in darkness, everyone asleep. Cats sitting on the kitchen table, sleepy-eyed, but wanting food.
Like a burglar creeping into the bedroom. Just make out Bea in the bed, back from her holiday, probably hearing his every sound as he gets out of his clothes. No sweet words hoping he’s OK, nothing like that. No kiss on her forehead. Like strangers in a dorm.
As deftly as he can manage, he climbs over her to the other side, his side by the wall. Slowly pushes his feet down the bed so as not to cause any further disturbance.
He lies there, rigid, conscious of the invisible fence between them. No touching, no farting, no breathing close to her face. Berlin Wall, he thinks to himself, and closes his eyes.
==
He still can’t quite believe it – a threesome. Organised by his girlfriend. It’ll probably never happen. And yet... she’s confirmed, sent him her address, a time to arrive.
Finsbury Park, north London, home of Arsenal’s football club. Been a while since he was here. Similar racial mix – diverse – but more dynamic, less milling around, more walking purposefully. The blue sky still holding, a warm breeze still wafting him along, as he follows the slightly skatty blue arrow on his Maps.
OK, this is it. A modern-looking block of flats, at least £1,500 a month for a one-bed rental. No wonder she needs sofa surfers.
Third floor. She buzzes him up. He sees there’s a lift. After a long day on the sofa with his laptop, he’s happy to climb on foot.
Street sounds in the distance now as he arrives at her door. Knock knock.