The problem with friends

It should have been a glorious morning. There was a man at her side and a light in the room that hinted at warmer seasons, yet all of this was just deception. Every morning when she woke, there was an air of hopelessness that seemed to follow her. It was never-ending, a feeling so heavy it seemed to pre-empt some kind of storm. Or the end of the world, she thought. Yet neither came. The feeling just hung there, waiting, never passing. And she, like a warbler in a cage, waited with it, poised for the change, ready to sing.

Naomi sat up. Gorgeous was already watching her, his jade green eyes delicately dilated, as though he were assessing the scene in great detail. Or he wanted fed, Naomi thought. So she got up, a feat that seemed a lot harder than it should have. Her whole body felt heavy, as though it were not in fact her body, but a body she’d snatched. And what great progress I’m making with my snatched body, Naomi thought darkly, heading into the kitchen. Or not so snatched body, she quickly reminded herself, catching sight of a very small, yet very noticeable pot belly, which had sprung up since last night and was probably the result of eating half a loaf of bread in one sitting.

The kitchen was technically part of the living room; this being the way people lived now, essentially in one room. Like the olden days, Naomi marvelled, feeding the cat at the windowsill. Though with my skill set I’d have probably been in the workhouse, she thought now. Or on the street as an only semi-successful prostitute.

 What a depressing thought. Naomi glanced around the living room, was appalled, and quickly went about tidying up. She emptied an ashtray, put away some papers and then became distracted. Naomi shared her one-bedroom flat with Emil, the man in her bed, who had acquired many of the objects in it from his grandmother. In their forever rotting Victorian flat, there was a blood-red rug found in a Marrakech market, sets of pillows, with golden tassels, handmade by a woman in Rabat, and various bottles made of mosaic glass in teal, ruby and sunrise yellow, which had been found one summer during the 70s, whilst on a trip to Casablanca. Amongst many other things, Emil would insist he was French, but the gifts from home revealed otherwise.

An eclectic place of found objects. Naomi loved the idea, but less so that nothing belonged to her. Where were her found items? Probably the same place as your travels, she thought, opening the kitchen cupboards expectantly. None existent.

None-existent, just like the content of the shelves. God, their cupboards looked like they were on the receiving end of a church food drive! Quinoa, corn, something so expired by now it was probably less of a food item and more of a bomb. And the fridge told a similar story. Kneeling down, Naomi narrowed her eyes as she looked aimlessly at the barren shelves and the flickering light, the flickering light so symptomatic of every empty fridge. She slammed it shut and made her way back to the bedroom.

“Emil!”

Emil twisted in the dark sheets, contorting his slender body.

“Oh please, such a display is wasted on me,” Naomi said, crawling over him. She sat, kneeling beside him, and gazed over his full smiling face.

“Darling, my darling,” he sung, reaching up and gently teasing the curling tip of her hair between his fingers. “You need a hot oil treatment for these dry ends my darling.”

Naomi looked down on him silently, looking at his mop of curls, his high aquiline nose and growing beard. She looked at the contours of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips. She looked at the muscles in his shoulders and the line of his neck. She looked at all these things, while he observed her back, and then with a smile, she punched him hard in the chest.

“Hot oil treatment? How can I do a hot oil treatment when I can’t even have breakfast? Emil, you didn’t buy shopping again!”

“Urgh…” and he descended into French. “My darling!” he sat up, trying to put his arms around her, but she forced him away. Naomi escaped him and he followed her, as Gorgeous had, into the kitchen with its empty shelves. “What would you have me do, Naomi?” he exclaimed, swooping down to grab the cat, who was cleaning himself quietly in the sunshine. Gorgeous did not appreciate this. He immediately stiffened his body and, Naomi assumed, dug his claws into Emil’s arms, causing Emil to shriek like a harassed woman. But it soon dissolved into laughter. Everything always dissolved into laughter. Emil ushered to the cat who had landed, elegantly and just out of arm’s reach, on the drop leaf table. “Bastard!”

“Don’t you call him a bastard, you bastard, where’s the food?” Naomi demanded.

Emil now grew quiet. He sat down on the trunk, his almost hairless body illuminated by the light behind him. He gave her a solemn look.

“You have no money?” he asked her weakly.

“Are you… are you kidding?” Naomi retorted. “What? You think I got a new job and my first paycheque, since last night when you rolled in and I was still unemployed? You know I’m in between clients – ” Emil pulled a face she registered, but did not comment on “ – Emil! You said you would have money. You went to work yesterday.” He said nothing, and then he looked away. Naomi’s heart sunk. “What happened?”

Emil had two jobs. Mostly he worked from home, tailoring, but more often making cheap amendments. There was also a job across the city, which in times like this Emil would sell his soul to in exchange for a few hours work. It was mostly pattern cutting and sewing for a well-known design house that specialised in expensive suits, but paid their workers like child slaves in a sweatshop.

Then there was his other job. The one were Emil was basically a whore.

Not a whore, he would argue. A companion. A companion who just so happened to be paid for his company in presents and occasionally cold hard cash.

Now Emil had two main ‘companions – ’ both men of course, both middle aged and both married, and Emil loved them both in different ways and for different (usually monetary) reasons. He said he couldn’t do it if there was no love there, therefore by that logic that did not make him a whore. He dubbed them Mr North and Mr South, or Mr N and Mr S if you were feeling informal. Mr North could’ve been your friend’s dad. Warm, cuddly and kind, except where your friend’s dad played golf, Mr North liked to be tied up by pretty little twinks and play at being a bottom. Mr South was the polar opposite and Emil was one for irony. 

“I did go to work,” he said finally. “But you know Warren?”

Naomi felt her hands rise instinctively to her face. Warren was a prolific drug taker and dealer. Which of course, makes for a terrible combination.

“He kindly pointed out that I owe him money.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“How could I tell you when I couldn’t even wake you?” Emil asked. “I don’t even know how you’re hungry! When I came home last night I thought a small family of foxes had broken in and attacked all the Hovis. And I know that’s because you smoked the last of our hash. You know you get terrible carb-rage on hash, my darling, I’m warned you about this.”

“Don’t you dare bring up my carb-rage,” Naomi started, pointing one very shaky finger at him. “I’ve seen you eat nine plain bagels and half a box of Cheerios, with your hands, after a night of hash, so don’t you dare.”

“I don’t dare darling,” Emil retorted. “I said it. I meant it. Besides, stop worrying about money.”

“How can I not when you give all our money to drug dealers?” Naomi looked at him expectantly. “Oh my God. And you were out last night!”

“I didn’t spend a penny, I was with Mr S.”

“Well can you not call Mr S and ask for some money? A loan even?”

Emil breathed out sharply, standing up. He shot her a look like a knife to the chest and went across the room to a pile of clothes on the floor. Within moments he was dressed in mottled tweed trousers and a shirt.

“Emil you still owe me breakfast!” Naomi shouted, as he disappeared into the bedroom.

“Yes, I know!” he shouted back, and reappeared suddenly, hanging onto the doorframe. “You have kindly pointed that out multiple times, Naomi. So here is a suggestion ok?” and he threw something out towards her, which landed by her feet. “Why don’t you stop arguing, stop wasting time and put on some clean knickers so we can leave? I have an idea.”