Squalor

W. is discoursing on love again. You have to court women, he tells me. You can’t just jump into bed with someone. Women like being courted, he says. Eight months, he says, that’s how long I courted Sal. This in a Spanish restaurant, outside in the warm night.

A few days earlier, a similar conversation in my flat. It’s very late – three, four in the morning. We drink Plymouth Gin. You need a woman in your life, he says. Look at this place. It’s a dump. It’s filthy. You wouldn’t live like this if you had a woman in your life.

Earlier that evening, I’d started to empty the cupboards in the kitchen, preparing everything to be stripped ready for the damp proofers. What’s that smell?, says W., who is setting down the pots and pans I pass him in the living room. These are filthy, he says. How can you let them get like this?

I wash my hands. That kind of grease won’t come off, says W. Grease coats my hands. Just throw this stuff out, says W. of the pots and pans. Have you ever used these? You don’t cook here, do you? I tell him there’s no power in the kitchen. No power! How long have you been living like this?, says W., his voice high with incredulity. Months, I tell him. Why don’t you get someone in to fix it?, he says. I tell him I knew the old kitchen was going to be ripped out. My God. How can you live like this?, says W.

Your wok is rusty, says W. You need to oil your wok. If you lived with someone, it wouldn’t get like this, W. says. Later, I tell him about the smell in the bathroom. It’s the drains, I tell him. They must be backed up, W. says. Why not fix them now, before you get the damp proofers in? It’s too late, I tell him. W. is appalled. The stench when you let the water out of the bath. The reflux of dirt into the shower. The stench.

Later W. sits on the sofa, a glass of gin in hand. He’s talking about love. Have you ever loved anyone?, says W. You’re incapable of love, aren’t you? Then he tells me about love. It’s an ethical commitment, he says. But you don’t know anything about that, do you? You have to go out with someone you can talk to, says W. You have to court a woman, to find out whether you like her.

You’ve got a death-drive, W. tells me, a few days later, in an Edinburgh apartment. R., who is also present, agrees. Listen to the man, says R. He knows what he’s talking about, he says. R. looms closer to me. Look how you’re sitting, says W. I’m scrunched up at the end of the sofa, hands on my thighs, as though protecting myself. You’re scared, aren’t you? I am scared, I tell him. R.’s scary. He keeps looming at me.

R.’s white wine, the best I’ve ever tasted. R’s sourdough bread, the best I’ve ever tasted. A little earlier, whisky, the best I’ve ever had. A little earlier than the that, the best pub I’ve ever visited for I.P.A. It’s very late. The aparment. Listen to the man, says R. This is good advice, he says. You’ve got a death drive, says W. You have to break the cycle, he says.

Pharoah Sanders on the stereo. They open a bottle of red. I’ve had enough, I tell them, but W. passes me his glass to sniff. The best red wine I’ve ever smelt. As we walk back to the hotel, we admire R.’s taste. The best of everything! And what do you have?, says W. Plymouth gin! Oh yes, says W. You have to keep the bottle, he says. They’ve changed the design for the American market. It’s horrible.

On the train to North Scotland. What are you doing?, says W. I’m playing Doom on my mobile phone. I haven’t seen you open a book for days, says W. Later, I take the gossip magazines out of my bag. Why do you read them?, says W. It’s the pretty women, isn’t it? I tell him I found them on the train. You bought them, didn’t you? Didn’t you bring a book? W.’s reading Logique du sens. A proper book, he says. I don’t understand it, though. Pages without any annotations, he says.

So what are you reading, then? Who’s that? Jordan. Who’s that? Peter Andre. Oh yes, I like them, they’re funny. Why’s she always in the same pose. Look. He turns the page. Exactly the same. So what’s Now all about? It’s a chav mag. He turns to the pages with pictures of grossly obese women. My God, he says, and laughs. That’s you in a few years, he says. When do you think you’re going to get as fat as that? It’s going to happen, isn’t it, the way you’re going.

Both of us have bad stomachs. I can’t believe the way you live, says W. No wonder you’re always ill. He’s getting married next year, he tells me. Sal is fiercely loyal, he says. You need to find someone like Sal, he says. Sal loves you, he says. You can tell from the way she takes the piss out of you. That’s a sign of love. Is that why you take this piss out of me?, I ask. Yes. I love you, he says.

In a pub on the Royal Mile, the football on the television. You don’t like sport, do you?, says W. I wish I did, I tell him. He’d been good at cricket at school. What were you like at cricket?, he says, laughing. I can just imagine you. He reminds me of when he took me to a football match. You cheered for the wrong side, he said.

Are you turning?, says W. Because I’m going to bed if you’re turning. W. on the sofa, me on sheets on the floor. We listen to The Letting Go. This is better than Smog, says W. No way, I say. W. opens up the 25 most played songs on I-Tunes. He wants to see if I’m really into jazz. Just let them play in order, he says. The title track of The Letting Go. Then ‘Great Waves’, with Chan Marshall singing. Then a live song by Smog. Then some Euro jazz. God that’s depressing, says W. It’s got something though, hasn’t it?

Outside, the yard. It’s improving, says W., now the sewage’s gone. Oh yes, it’s much better. He goes out into the yard. Your plants are dead, says W. Look at them. I tell him they’ll come back in the Spring. It could be nice out here, says W. Why don’t you go online and get some ideas of what to do in a North facing yard. It’s improved, though, W. concedes. Now the sewage has cleared up.

W. is worried about my cough. The damp’s turning you consumptive, he says. And even he’s developing a cough, he says, and he’s only been here a few days. How do you live like this? How do you get anything done? But you don’t do anything any more, do you? You need to move, says W. Go somewhere you can work.

You’re incapable of loving anyone, says W. Except yourself. He delivers his judgement from the sofa. How do you live like this, he says. No one lives like this. And more emphatically: no one we know lives like this. They all live with women who love them, and who do you live with? My God – look at this place.

W.’s getting married, he says. Next year, probably, he says. At the restaurant in the Plymouth Gin distillery. This as we drink three fingers of gin each, neat, with ice, he on the sofa, I on the bed I made for myself from sheets on the floor. I don’t know how you get any sleep, W. says. I hobble around the room, coughing. Look at you, says W. My God.

All your worldly possessions, says W., looking round the room. Is this what you’ve amounted to? Pots and pans, sticky with filth; tins of tuna and tomatoes; a duvet soaked in spilt fabric conditioner. No wonder Sal refuses to come, he says. I got the shower fixed, I said to W. Yes, but look at this place, says W. This is what you’ve amounted to, isn’t it. This is what you’ve come to.

No wonder you don’t do any work, says W. I couldn’t work if I lived like you. Out all the time, reading nothing, and living in squalor. This really is disgusting, he says. And the damp! My God, I’ve never know anything like it. It hits you when you come in, he says.

The dehumidifier broke, I tell him. It was never as bad as this, I said. It was built on a mine shaft, I tell him. Look at the way the floor slopes towards the wall. Look how crooked the doorframes are. W. laughs. It’s getting better, I tell him. Remember when the windows wouldn’t open? Remember the sewage in the yard, and all the plants dying? They saw you coming, said W. Who was your surveyor?, he says. Didn’t they warn you? My God. 

It always comes back to love. W. holding court on the sofa, a glass of Plymouth Gin in his hand. You see, I love Sal, says W. Not like you, he says. You’re incapable of loving anyone. Except yourself.