39 Civvy Street

Craig sat at the kitchen table. From there, he could see into the living room, where Chloe was sat too close to the television watching a Disney film, her face washed blue. At the counter, her mother fixed a cup of tea—or coffee; he couldn’t tell. He’d lost his sense of smell after a head injury in the Falklands. His eyes worked well enough behind the glasses. His hearing worked just fine.

"You want one?" she said.

"Where are the fags?"

She slid the cigarettes from her back pocket, leaving a worn square in the denim. She was barefoot, toenails painted a hard pink—too long for his liking. She lit one for herself before tossing the pack onto the table. He reached over the fruit bowl and took it.

"Marta’s coming over," she said.

"Why?"

"She’s taking me to pick out a carpet."

"Don’t get nothing fancy. It was either a fancy carpet or the ottoman, remember?"

She flicked ash into the sink. It hissed in the dishwater. "Put a shirt on before she gets here."

He would. He was out of shape; there was no getting around the fact. The Royal Corps of Transport tattoo—a rose in a scroll—lay loose on his arm now. His skin held a stale sheen—not the sweat of a working man.

She sat opposite him, sipping her drink and flicking through a fashion magazine. Last month her hair was blonde; now it was black. Too thick. False, like fiber. It didn’t sit right with that lipstick—the same hard pink as her toes.

"Just you and Marta going?"

"Yeah."

He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke sideways out the corner of his mouth. "How old is Marta?"

"Twenty-four, I think. Why?"

"Bit young to have a seven-year-old, ain't it?"

She turned a page and shrugged; her shoulders lifted her hair and he caught sight of gold spirals he hadn’t seen before.

"Where’s her husband?"

"Working, I guess."

"What does he do?"

"Office work." She still hadn’t looked up.

Craig took another drag and sent a thin funnel of smoke toward her. It came apart on her forehead. "What sort of office work?"

"I don’t know, Craig." She snapped a couple of pages over.

"One of those fuckin' T-shirt under a blazer types, is he?"

"Why don’t you ask her when she gets here?"

"Okay, I will."

"Which will be any minute, mind, so would you please go and put a shirt on?"

He said nothing.

Waited.

"Go on," she said.

"I might not bother, actually."

That got her. She looked at him—quick and flat—then back to the magazine.

"You might not bother?"

"Do we even need a new carpet?"

She shifted deeper into the magazine, where a male model in monochrome was stepping out of a shower.

"Don’t wind me up, Craig. I ain’t in the mood."

"What’s wrong with this one, then?"

"It’s filthy."

"We got a hoover, don’t we?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" He leaned sideways and ground his palm into the carpet, then waved his hand in her face. "Stop what?"

Her eyes stayed on the page.

"If it’s so filthy, why are you walking round barefoot? Who’s that for, anyway—all that pink crap?"

She stubbed her cigarette in the fruit bowl and went back to the counter, taking her drink with her. Even barefoot and from behind, there was that strut, like she was too good for the ground she stepped on. She’d always carried herself that way, even as a teenager—just passing through the council estates she came from on a stretch to a better destiny.

But now here she was. Back on civvy street. Thirty-Nine. Married to a broken squaddie.

"It is filthy," she said. "It stinks. Like a pub's carpet. Ask Chloe if you don’t believe me."

"Like mother, like daughter."

She opened a drawer and sifted through coppers and nearly dead batteries, pretending to look for something.

"Look at me." he said.

The drawer slammed shut. Another opened.

"Look at me."

She spun round. "What, Craig! What am I looking at?"

"Tell me," he said—out the corner of his eye, he saw Marta’s car pulling into the driveway—"tell me what you’re looking at."

"You don’t want a new carpet? We won’t get a new carpet. Okay? Happy now? Me and Chloe will put up with the stink while you sit on your arse all day, blissfully ignorant! Is that your plan? Good! At least you made one!"

There she was. Eyes narrow, jaw jutted out, the tendons in her neck tight as wires. All the pink crap and gold spirals in the world couldn’t hide it. He stood up and dragged his wallet from his shorts. "Go get your fuckin' carpet. In fact, there you go"—he threw the wallet at her face like a Frisbee—"get that wallpaper you wanted as well."

"What the fuck, Craig!" She stepped back. Wiped her nose and inspected her forearm. As if canvas and Velcro had the power to bloody it.

"Why stop there?" he said. "Why not get a patio? You know what? Let's get a conservatory! You can sit in a glass box and show your toes off to the neighbours!"

"Stop it! Stop it!"

A knock at the door.

They stared at each other.

Another knock.

He stubbed his cigarette in the fruit bowl next to hers, then went to put a shirt on. Marta let herself in as he got to the foot of the stairs, and he stopped and put his arms around her. She didn’t know him well and she went stiff, her small hands patting his shoulder blades in a robotic manner. He held her longer than was decent, pressing and wiping his damp armpits up and down her blouse. She must have felt what he was doing, but she didn’t say anything and neither did he. He just stepped back and left her there with his offering on her white, laundered clothes.

Chloe was still sat too close to the television. From there, she could see the foot of the stairs. But it didn't matter. She hadn't turned her head. Even though the film had finished some time ago.