Steamed Alive – Chapter 1

 Hello readers!  Here’s the first draft of the first chapter.  What do you think?

We were arguing about shoes.

“You’ve got to get rid of those red Kickers,” Wendy said as I was tying the laces.

” There’s nothing wrong with them,” I said. “Are you ready for work?”

“You’ve had them for years and they’re so seventies,” she said.

“Vintage, you mean?”

“Don’t you want to look smart?”

“Get you, with your policewoman’s pumps.”

“That’s different.”

 

I left for work feeling grumpy.  I didn’t like being told what to wear or not wear, and no lover, however hot, was going to make me part with my red Kickers.  The day got worse.  I’d hardly got my jacket off before Geri said we needed to talk.  We sat down in her little office, which we’d brightened up with a coat of primrose coloured emulsion earlier in the year.  You could still smell the paint.  I’d been expecting it, but my stomach still twisted and sank when she told me the news.

“I’m sorry, Nik, I ‘m so sorry.”  She twisted a wiry curl around her index finger.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’ve seen the figures.  We’ve got to make savings.”  For the first time since I’d known her, Geri struggled to look me in the eye.

“You’ve done your best.”

“We’re going to have to get volunteers to cover reception and some of the admin.”

“Trouble is, there’s not much work around at the moment and there’s still the rent to pay.”

“Will Wendy help?”

“I like to pay my way, Geri, you know that.”

“Yes.  I do know.”

 

So, here I was again.  Jobless and in a hole.  I’d have to look for something else, and I’d have to move on from Action in Caring, the community centre I’d worked in for the past six years.  Geri and I had made a great team, and I knew that this was as bad for her as it was for me.  But the global bankers’ cock-up meant that ordinary people were losing their jobs, small businesses were going to the wall, and some big ones were going bust too.  Who’d have thought that Woolworths would be one of the first? No more pick n mix.  And community groups like ours were struggling more than ever to make ends meet.  The council wasn’t paying us to run youth clubs and people had less money to pay for yoga classes, life drawing, and the sorts of things that bring people together around an interest.  The English classes we’d set up for refugee women had been brilliant and we’d watched broken women heal and find their place in this strange and quirky city.  But then the powers that be had decided that any course that wasn’t about getting a job wasn’t worth funding.  We were looking at starting them up again with volunteer teachers, but that wouldn’t happen for a month or two.  It was costing us more to keep the centre open some days than we were making. We made the hard decision to close for two days each week.  And now there just wasn’t enough money coming in to pay me.

“I think I’ll go home,” I said.

“Ok.  See you tomorrow, Nik,” she said.  “I’m so sorry…”

“Yeah, I know.  Just stop telling me.”

“Sorry.”

 

We were having a glorious September and I stepped out into warm sunshine.  Even seedy Tanners Lane looked inviting in this light.  I unlocked my bike and headed for home.  I’d moved in with my lover, Wendy Baggott, three years ago.  I’d resisted for as long as I reasonably could: there was something terrifyingly final about giving up my independence, my own space, even though I was still crazy about her.  But Wendy had a cosy little house in Balham and I needed to move from my flat in Streatham Hill.  It was hard – the place had sheltered me for nearly ten years, and I loved the big windows; but my friend and neighbour Benjamin had joined the property owning classes and moved to Penge and the tenant who took on his flat played death thrash metal at deafening volume most nights.  I almost became a murderess, but Wendy said that moving in with her was a more constructive way of resolving the situation.  She’s so sensible, is my policewoman partner.  And it was nice at first, having someone to come home to, someone who noticed my ups and downs, who shared the day to day chores, cooked food that was edible, and kept me warm at night.  I’m not sure what she gets out of our relationship.  I’m a lousy cook and my cleaning rarely meets her exacting standards.  At first there was the convenience of knowing that we could make love whenever we wanted in our own space.  No ringing first to check that the other was in.  We could stay in bed all day if we chose to, and on Wendy’s days off we often did.  But lately she’d been working longer hours, coming home too tired to do anything but watch something mindless on TV and order in a takeaway.  The gaps between our lovemaking were longer, and I was spending more evenings out with Carla, my best friend, and Benjamin.  I’m not one to sit watching TV and waiting for my other half to appear, so I signed up for a pottery class a couple of weeks ago.  And of course there was the gym.

 

I didn’t know how Wendy would react to hearing I’d lost my job.  The post on the mat was all for me: a credit card bill and letter from the bank.  I shoved them both under the phone, just as I’d always done.  No point in getting more depressed.  I propped my bike up against the hall wall, and went into the kitchen.  If I cooked dinner it’d take her mind off the bad news.  There was a pepper in the fridge, some mushrooms and an onion that was only slightly shrivelled.  It was going to be Wendy’s lucky night: there was a jar of tomato and basil sauce, endorsed by some famous chef, in the pantry.  Wendy made sure we never ran out of olive oil and garlic, so I started chopping, stirring and cooking.  Pasta was something I could manage, just about.  I’d try extra hard this evening.

I heard Wendy’s key in the door at 7.30.  She walked in and sighed heavily as she threw her bag down on a kitchen chair.

“Bad day?”

“Yeah.  All this paperwork’s doing my head in.  And we’ve hit a dead end on the Kennington post office raid.”

“I’ve cooked,” I said.  Her face said that my news didn’t do much to improve her day.  “It’s penne,” I added.  “Should be ready now.”

“When did you put the pasta on?”

“A few minutes ago.”

She went over to the stove, stirred at the sauce and then at the pasta bubbling away in its pot.

“Not edible,” she pronounced.

“What do you mean?”

“The pasta.  It’s over cooked.  How hard is it, Nikki?  How hard to just cook up a pot of penne?”

“Look, I tried!”

“Yeah, you’re really good at trying.  When are you going to get it right?”

“You know what, Wendy?  You’re not the only one who’s had a crap day.  In fact, I’ll bet mine was worse than yours.  Geri told me she’s laying me off.  I’m to be made redundant.”

“Oh, great.  How are we going to pay the rent?  Let alone the bills?”

“I’ll get something else.  You managed ok before I moved in.”

“But  everything’s gone up, fuel’s soared, and there are the payments on the new furniture to cover.  Christ, Nik, and that’s not taking into account your credit card bills.”

“I’ll get another job.”  I’d hoped for more sympathy.  “Let’s eat.”

“You eat.  I had supper at the station.  I’m not hungry.”

“But I cooked!”

“How was I to know you’d be doing dinner?”

“We used to eat together.”

“Sorry Nikki, you should have told me you were cooking.”

I’d felt bad enough before Wendy came home.  Now I felt wretched.  There was only one thing for it: a good workout followed by a long, hot sauna.  I turned off the cooker, chucked the penne in the bin, grabbed my gym bag and slammed the front door behind me.

 

My health club had re-branded and was now called Body ‘n’ Soul instead of plain old Gunns.  Not much had changed, other than the colour of the paintwork and the wording on the notices and welcome signs.  Jumoke was vacuuming the reception area as I breezed through the door.  She was humming to herself and I noticed she’d got a new weave.  The sleek new manager, Naomi, swiped my membership card to let me in, favouring me with a hard little smile as I passed through the turnstile.

“Enjoy your evening,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said as I headed for the changing rooms.  I glanced at the members’ notice board on the way and stopped.  A neat notice on Body ‘n’ Soul corporate stationery announced a vacancy for a membership officer.  If you’re a people person and can juggle a busy admin workload, we want to hear from you it read.  Well, that just about described me, and as of eight hours ago, I was looking for a job.  I turned back to Naomi.

“I’d like to apply for the job,” I said.  She looked up from whatever she was doing underneath the counter and blinked several times.

“I can give you an application pack,” she said. “We’re looking for someone with the right experience.”  Did I look like someone who had the wrong experience, then?

“I think practically running   Action in Caring gives me bucket loads of the right experience,” I said.  “And I know how this place runs, I’ve been a member for long enough.”

“There’ve been some changes.  Body ‘n’ Soul is a completely different concept from Gunns,” said Naomi with a little sniff.  I couldn’t see it myself.  True some of the tattier equipment had been replaced and the paint was pink instead of green, and there was a smart new carpet in reception; but there was the gym and there were classes and you could book in for massages and manicures.  It had always been thus.  You were no less likely to pick up a verucca from the pool side, we just paid more each month for the privilege.

“I’d like to apply,” I said.

“I’ll get you a pack.”

Thirty seconds later and I was back on track for the changing room, clutching a bulky envelope.

“You’d be good,” said Jumoke.  “Hope you get it.”

 

I was just in time for a body pump class.  Just what I needed to burn off some of the day’s grief.   Clem Jordan was at the front, preening in front of the mirror as usual.  She must have come from the gym because she’d already worked up a sweat and her taut muscles were gleaming.  I said hi to my gym buddy Sara who was limbering up in the middle row.  A man with a salon tan and hair slicked into place with products chatted to Barrington, who was arranging the sound system and getting ready to teach the class.  I liked Barrington: he’d worked at the gym for years and he had a friendly, easygoing way about him.  He switched the music on, and we started to work out in time to the pounding beat.  An hour later, Sara and I headed for the changing room.

“I needed that,” I said as she held the door for me.

“Tough day?”

“Yeah.”  I told her about losing my job and the dinner that had gone so wrong.

“Steam?”

“Yeah.”

When we got to the steam room, Clem was wrapped in her black vinyl sauna sweatsuit and stretched out on the top shelf.  I didn’t know how she could stand it, the heat would be unbearable after a few minutes.  But she did this most days.  Maybe it was good for detoxing.  I thought she’d just end up dehydrated.  It wasn’t something the gym staff recommended, that was for sure.

Two of the regular guys sat on the lower shelf talking loudly about football.  Sara and I sat up high, opposite Clem.

“You looking for another job then?”

“Yeah.  I’ve got a month’s notice to work out, so I need to find something by then.”

“You’re not going to fight it?”

“No point.  There’s no money.”

“Why you, though?  Why not someone else?”

“The place can keep going without me.  At least with Geri still there, there’s a chance that something will survive.”

“Fucking Tories.”

“Yeah.”  We let the steam do its work and felt our worked-out muscles loosen.  “There’s a job going here.  I thought I’d apply.”

“What, work with Miss high and mighty Naomi?”

“Yeah, well, it’d be a job”

“And you’d get to use this place for free.”

 

Clem was still on the top shelf when we decided we were cooked enough.  The guys had moved from football to cars.

“Hey, Clem, don’t go to sleep,” said Sara as we rose to leave.

“I won’t,” she said.