The Things That Stay

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

In which Simon consumes a surfeit of pie

and has trouble overcoming child-proof locks.

            “Simon, you’ve been in there for over an hour! I have to use the loo very much and this is the last time I’ll ask you politely to get out.”

            Simon smirked at his reflection in the mirror and ran his hands through the pomade in his hair. It had taken a great deal of teasing and tousling, but his usually limp fringe was finally saturated with enough product to be pushed back. It now fell in a carefully casual swathe perpendicular to his brows. He bounced upon his heels with his forehead puckered in light-hearted concentration, and made sure to keep time with the upbeat cadence of “All My Loving”.

            When he at last felt sufficiently handsome, Simon came bounding out of the lavatory in a cloud of warm shower fog and took an exasperated Holly into his arms, sashaying her about as he did. “—And then while I’m away, I’ll write home every day—and I’ll send all my lovin’ to you,” he sang as Holly squirmed from his hold and huffily closed the bathroom door behind her. “Don’t act like you don’t want my lovin’, Holly!”

            “Sod off and put a shirt on—we’re already late.”

            “What—you don’t like the view?”

            “As alluring as your bare ribcage is, Simon, I think I prefer it under your clothing, thank you.”

            Simon at last obliged, and by the time they strode from the hotel lobby, night had fallen and the streetlights had flickered on. He had been pestering Holly for the past two hours, insisting that he didn’t need to be driven to Lettie’s house, for the address was quite near and an easy trip for the both of them. But it became clear the moment they descended the front steps of the inn that he was in no condition for more walking, and thus his laboured breathing and fits of dizziness chained him to Holly’s tiny car. Simon truly couldn’t fathom why a woman who spent so much time on the road would choose such a minuscule, impractical and unreliable thing. The sound its engine made was dubious at best, there was little to no insulation from outside sound, and it couldn’t go more than forty-five miles an hour without the growling of the engine rising to a throaty snarl. It made him feel as though he were riding an elderly and cantankerous lion, not a car! For heaven’s sake, even his grandmother’s old 1935 Talbot was easier on the ears than Holly’s yellow Bug.

           

After fighting over the radio station—Holly wanted the NPR and Simon was always keen for Radio Caroline—they reached the apartment building that Lettie had told them about. It seemed clean enough and well cared for. Nothing grand, of course, though Simon didn’t mind: it wasn’t dingy in any way, and that was good enough for him. They parked across the street and made their way into the building’s foyer (after more Goddamn stairs, which were starting to become the bane of Simon’s existence), and as he glanced at the faded address upon his palm, Simon grimaced.

“Christ, fourth floor—they better have a lift.”

“Really, Simon, I’m sure Lettie wouldn’t have invited you to her home if she didn’t have a lift,” replied Holly coolly.

Simon wanted to be insulted by this, but he was finding it hard to take offense with Holly’s honestly. It was never rude, never sympathetic: it simply was, and he couldn’t quite stir himself to feel umbrage. However, he did manage a slightly annoyed scoff before ringing the doorbell to the Aster family flat. Soon the muffled sound of the descending elevator could be heard through the closed complex doors, and Lettie herself presently greeted them. She really was a nice-looking girl, though much like Holly she wasn’t the type to stand out or catch ones eye in a crowded room. One had to look at her for a moment to notice her prettiness, and perhaps it was the pleasantness in Lettie Aster’s manner, the lightness in her eyes, the high, girlish trill in her voice that made her as attractive as she was. Still, even Lettie’s charm and childlike features couldn’t hold a candle to Petal. Nobody could—not Abbey Lincoln or Billie Holiday or Sara Vaughan or any of those lovely, silken-voiced singers Petal would listen to every night. Simon felt as though he should tell her that more often.