Tim Lott [Lott - When We Were Rich

For Tamara Gray

Millennium

Veronica Tree turns the key in the latch of the faux Victorian slate-grey front door and hurls herself inward, out of the murk of a chill December evening. She is met with a sultry barrier of convected air. Her husband has turned the thermostat higher than she can stand, both in terms of her comfort and her anxiety about the impact on global warming.

She sheds her denim jacket onto the reclaimed 1950s school cloakroom hook in the hall then removes her chunky orange sweater and drapes it over the jacket. Underneath, she is wearing her blue hospital scrubs. She turns the thermostat down five degrees, knowing that Frankie will turn it up again the moment he becomes aware of the drop in temperature. He is cold-blooded, he says. He also says to her irritation that the planet can take care of itself, or were all doomed anyway, depending on whether he is feeling optimistic or pessimistic.

Divested of outer layers but still overheated and flushed, Veronica strides into the living room of the two-bedroom terraced house in Brackenbury Village, Hammersmith. Or perhaps slides is a better word. She is slim, flat-chested, long-legged, limber. Her slightly snaggled front teeth do nothing to diminish her husbands persistent desire for her, which, after only four months of marriage, is becoming as much an irritation as it is flattery.

There are cardboard boxes scattered on the floor at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the two small bedrooms on the first floor. The couple are moving to a new house soon, to a larger place on the St Quintin Estate in North Kensington. Completion comes at the end of January. Veronica idly inspects the open boxes which contain practically everything Frankie owns. Visible at the moment are board games (Risk, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly), a set of golf clubs, a pair of football shorts and a bottle of Acqua di Parma aftershave. She is astonished at how little he possesses. Her stuff, taken out of her flat (now sold), nearly fills the substantial shed at the back of the house. Thats without the furniture, which languishes expensively in storage.

Veronica sees Frankie is sitting on the sofa, still in his office suit, immersed in cathode rays from the TV, holding the remote in one hand and a bottle of chilled Peroni in the other. Veronica leans over and pecks him on the cheek. He makes a moue without putting it anywhere. The television barks the headlines.

Yeltsin resigns while Vladimir Putin takes over in Russia... The prime minister Tony Blair will get ready to welcome in the new century at the Millennium Dome...

Veronica kicks off her flat hospital shoes and pads her way towards the open-plan kitchen. On the way she stops at the telephone answering machine, which is showing one message. She hits the button and pauses to listen.

Hi, Frankie. Its Ralph. Sorry I didnt see you at the office Christmas party. Ive been a bit off colour. Nothing serious. I hope. (Chuckles) . So. Anyway. Thanks for your all your hard work over the past year. Have a happy new millennium. Love to Veronica. And Ill see you in the office, you know, whenever. Much to talk about. Oh, and Polly sends her love. Pip pip.

A click and a burr as the machine shuts itself off.

Did you hear that?

Uh, says Frankie.

She goes to the kitchen, fills and switches on the Braun kettle.

Hot beverage?

Nah, says Frankie, eyes still magnetized by the television.

Veronica picks a carrot out of the monumental American-style fridge and nibbles on it with her small incisors. She draws a large glass of filtered water from the front panel of the fridge and downs it in one. She cant remember when it became common sense to drink large quantities of water, but she has become convinced by the weight of peer opinion that the practice makes you live longer and keeps you pure. She feels the maintenance of purity to be a pressing concern, although this sits uneasily with her medical awareness that the body is an irremediable and necessary jungle of prowling bacteria and rampaging microorganisms.

The narrow end of the carrot is rotten organic veg goes off almost as soon as you get them from the shop so she flips the food waste bin lid to throw it in, and on impulse checks the other two bins, one for landfill, the other for recycling paper and plastics. She grimaces.

Theres food in the paper bin. Again. What is it, yoghurt?

She is weary and resigned rather than angry.

It all goes in landfill, anyway, says Frankie.

She extracts yesterdays Guardian from under the goo.

The yoghurt is all over it.

Sour milk. Seems appropriate.

I asked you to save that issue. Theres a recipe I want. I never throw away your comics before youve finished with them.

She picks up the copy of Estate Agent Today that is on the kitchen table and flicks through the pages.

Oh look! The results of the Estate Agent of the Year awards. Im surprised that one didnt make the evening news.

You may laugh.

No sign of Farley, Ratchett and Gwynne.

We didnt enter.

Veronica studies the transparent window in the kettle behind which the water will shortly start to effervesce. Frankie stretches out on the white leather sofa, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

How long have we got, Frankie?

You were right about this settee. It looks good in here alright. But you cant find a spot on it.

Did you hear me? And its a sofa.

Frankie puts down the Peroni bottle, picks up his Psion Organiser from the Swedish-style pine coffee table in front of him and checks it.

Youll have time to get changed.

He wriggles on the sofa again.

I dont know why we couldnt get the brown leather one.

Because it was like something out of Acorn Antiques.

Comfortable, though.

Frankie picks at his teeth with a matchstick he has produced from somewhere, and makes a face as he digs at his gums.

You still want to go out tonight? says Veronica. Okay if you dont. We can stay home and watch Jools on the TV.

This is your way of saying you dont want to go. Right?

He digs deeper, right at the back of the mouth, wrenching his face into a distended grimace.

I was thinking of you.

He takes the toothpick out, smacks his lips, and throws the soggy stick into the waste paper bin.

Millennium night isnt every day. So to speak. Celebration is not optional. Anyway, Nodge and Fraser and Colin are relying on me to sign them into the club.

Colin who?

Colin who do you think?

Colin Burden?

No, Colin Firth. Of course Colin Burden.

You didnt tell me he was coming.

I didnt tell you he wasnt coming.

Veronica pulls a mug out of the cupboard, making enough superfluous noise to ensure that Frankie registers her dissatisfaction.

Is Nodge definitely bringing Fraser?

She sprinkles her voice with vinegar, but Frankies mood is antacid, oblivious.

Last I heard.

Veronica propels the mug down onto the worktop with what now registers with Frankie as unnecessary force. He finally summons the wherewithal to look up from the TV.

Theyll probably peel off soon enough, he says. To do something, you know, gay.

Veronica shovels coffee into the Bodum tetchily.

Fraser doesnt like me. Or you. Or anyone in particular. You know what I think of Colin. Id be just as happy watching the Hootennany here.

Too late to change plans now. Whos on Jools anyway?

Jamiroquai. Travis. Skin from Skunk Anansie.