Walter Whitstable catches a flight on short notice the day before the opening of the city’s music awards ceremony. After a half-hour, the plane starts coming in to land at an awkward descent. Walter pulls his sleeping mask over his face and begins humming along to Fern Kinney’s sole hit from her youth; lyrics that speak to him of what once was – to a calming effect. As a subject of an article titled One-hit Wonder Whitstable, Walter feels he’s been poorly represented. Slanderous little shits he thought…yes, he often felt like this about the press. For Walter, the invitation to present at the awards ceremony meant opportunity, exposure, and a return to centre stage; Jimmy Osmond had pulled out last minute for unknown reasons and Walter was asked to step in. The host had booked him for his uniqueness, his depth of talent, and because everyone else was busy. Walter braces himself for landing.

The hotel receptionist that checks Walter in has the name Susansewn into her blouse. She smells of cigarettes, beer, and bad nights out. This puts him at ease; Walter’s been clean from substance abuse since his wife left him but being around his kind of people made him feel better about himself.

Walter looks through the adjacent window to see the oncoming summer rain as it darkens the sky to a ruder shade of purple. The air was still outside, yet when you breathed it in, it felt dull and moist. The receptionist compliments Walter’s designer baseball cap which he recently bought to hide the thinning hair. Walter does not see himself as a hat kind of person; beanies, bowlers, flat caps, and fedoras, none of them feel right to Walter.

‘I like your perfume,’ he says. He doesn’t actually like it; he just feels it’s the right thing to say.

‘It’s Anaïs Anaïs,’ she says. She pronounces the Anaïs with just two syllables, the way people do when they don’t know better. Walter doesn’t care – for a cheap pharmacy perfume, it’s a pretentious name anyway.

‘Smells great,’ Walter says.

Walter’s fall from grace has not totally destroyed his credibility within the music circuit; he was still getting bookings. ‘A day feels like a lifetime when you’re constantly pushing for the next gig,’ he’d said to his manager. Walter senses the receptionist staring at the sweat patches in his shirt, and she turns to retrieve his key. ‘Spa stays open until 8pm each evening,’ she says, ‘there’s an indoor pool, sauna, and jacuzzi.’ Walter thanks her and takes his bag.

On the way to his room, Walter sees the Spa is near empty; a lone female in a black swimsuit and cap is doing the backstroke down the middle of the small pool. He watches the way her arms rise, and how her breasts heave with each stroke. Walter lingers a beat too long and then shuffles forward.

Walter enters the lift. He lets his head fall back against the breakfast deals poster and sighs.  He wonders if this is his moment. He’d show them. Walter unbuttons his collar, self-doubt creeping up from within.

A green carpet running along the floor, walls, and ceiling leads him to his room. Sliding his key against the door handle, Walter enters the bathroom, strips himself down, and tosses his clothes down onto the lino; he has a thing about taking a hot bath with every hotel stay; his way of letting it all go. As he turns the tap, he looks back into the mirror to see a blotchy face, one too many chins, and a hint of morning toothpaste lining his bottom lip. Walter lets the water run as he sits on the side of the bath. He closes his eyes.

Walter recalls how his wife was a fanatical swimmer and that she liked to remind him how she’d given it all up for his ‘so-called’ career. In fact, she would often talk about moving back home to where she grew up. It had just taken her a long time to really mean it. She was always talking about her former trips to the lido; It was always about the water for her. The truth was that Walter has never actually learnt how to swim and was unable to join her. Backstroke, breaststroke, front crawl, sidestroke, trudgen, even the doggy paddle eluded him. Walter is the very essence of a non-swimmer, and to this day he does not own a pair of trunks.

Walter enters the bath and turns his head to the side, resting his cheek against the cool blue ceramic edge. He listens to the water sloshing around his body. In the misted bathroom mirror, he pictures the lone swimmer from the spa approaching him. Removing her swimming cap and all-in-one Speedo, her red hair drops around her shoulders – her bare flesh translucent against the lino tiles. She lets her swimwear fall to the floor. And as the longing grows within, he rises to meet her. His eyes meet hers; he can sense her every breath, and as she lifts her arm, she slaps Walter square in the face.

The night Walter’s wife finally did leave him, the night he wanted to forget, he recalls it being the worst night of his life. He imagines her carrying her bags past him, though he can’t be sure of the memory; he’d slept right through everything, even when the car doors had slammed shut. And as he pictures his wife and daughter slipping away in his prized E-Type, he remembers how he’d remained out cold in the armchair until daylight. That was the last time he’d injected anything into his body. Walter struggles with sleep even to this day.

Walter’s thoughts turn to his daughter Britney who’d made the effort to reach out to him the previous month; that she wanted to see him was of some conciliation. And when they’d met at his home, he was relieved she recognised him. Britney had explained how she’d had to be self-sufficient in their teens. He’d felt himself squirm when she explained how her mother had fallen for a local water polo captain; she’d said the man was a bit too touchy-feely in the deep end of the pool for her liking. Britney had decided moving out was the only option. Walter felt disappointment in himself for not being there for her. She had left with a book of baby photos, a cuddly toy from when she was seven, and his sole hit as a signed 12-inch single from the shed. Walter wonders whether he will ever see his daughter again.

…

That evening, Walter stands to the side of the stage with the podium in clear view. As the hostess turns toward him the clapping begins, and a spotlight swings his way; the crowd is covered in a smoke-filled haze somewhere between green and grey. He knows, that they know, he’s the stand-in guy; the make-do celebrity for the evening. He feels a shortness of breath and the words for his presentation all tumbling upside down in his head. And all Walter can think about is the conversation he’d had the morning after his wife had left him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I…’

‘I need you to send on my things,’ she says.

‘I won’t touch another line,’ he says.

‘I’ll need my spare goggles,’ she says.

At this point, Walter began to sob.

‘I’ve booked myself into the clinic,’ he says.

‘I need you to go into my side drawer,’ she says.

‘Come home,’ he says, ‘I can’t do this alone.’

‘In there you’ll find my reading glasses, my book, and my personal massager.’

‘What about Britney?’ he says.

‘Just don’t remove the bookmark,’ she says.

Walter hears the applause as the hostess delivers one nauseating crowd-pleaser after the other. Were those inserts he could see inside her bra? Yes, he was sure of it. He sees the microphone to the side, how it was fixed way too high for him, and the length of her stilettos. He watches how she crosses her palms to avoid clapping her fingernails together. When Walter breathes, it’s something heavy, no, not so much heavy – no it was more of a solitude, like a sense of loss coming across him. Walter starts humming, mouthing to the lyrics in his head:

‘Now we are beautiful,’ Walter takes a breath.

‘I think we’re beautiful,’ Walter pushes back his shoulders.

‘Together we are beautiful.’ Walter brushes caution to the side.

Walter bounds across the stage towards the hostess. Smile for the audience Walter, smile. This is your moment, your calling. Walter knocks into the water jug. With a frown, the hostess leans forward to embrace him. She carefully tucks her talons around his collar, pulls him in a little closer, and whispers into his ear, ‘Do me a favour Whitstable,’ she says, ‘try not to fuck it up for everyone else.’ Walter looks her in the eye and lets the back of his hand brush against her breasts. He can feel the warmth of her body against him. Stepping back, the hostess reveals her most dazzling smile. And as Walter turns toward the audience, he sees a spawn of dilated pupils returning his gaze. His hands begin to tremor as he tears the golden envelope open, and he mispronounces the winner’s name. And as the crowd erupts, Walter’s heart sinks. Walter can feel a breath on the back of his neck.  

Catching his reflection in the glass, Walter pours himself some water and nudges the jug to the side. As the gothic-looking wannabe approaches, Walter pushes the microphone-shaped award into her hands. He opens his mouth, but nothing seems to come. And as Walter scuttles toward the exit he leaves the hostess and the winner to their embrace.

Back in his room Walter changes into the hotel dressing gown and begins flicking through the selection of pay-per-view movies. He settles for a recent Charlie’s Angels remake in the hope of distraction. Ten minutes into the movie Walter pauses on a fight scene and empties the entire contents of the minibar out onto his bed.

…

That night Walter struggles to find sleep. Images of his failure haunt him with every twist and turn. He pictures the competition judges mocking his every lyric. His ex-wife wearing her synchronised swimming outfit is in the panel. He recognises the utter look of disdain. The water polo captain sits beside her; his smile sickens him to the core. Walter cannot find any kind of comfort in his bed. With the sheets wrapped awkwardly around him Walter consumes the last of the miniatures. At some time between darkness and light Walter finally passes out.  

…

It is midday the next day. Walter checks himself before the bathroom mirror and pats away any unwanted marks from his two-piece purple suit. Walter exits the room and makes his way downstairs. As he approaches the Spa, he finds himself alone. All he can hear is the sound of the filter ducts bobbing back and forth. As Walter approaches the poolside, he feels the gentle ripple of water lapping at his feet.

Walter removes his clothes and places them on the bench. He steps up onto the side and walks to the very end of the diving board. Curling his toes over the edge, Walter can feel the textured pattern beneath his feet. Walter Whitstable takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

– Robert Huddlestone Phillips

Author’s Note: Written in the third person, the narrator of “Together we are beautiful” pushes his main subject to the edge while seeking to entertain the reader with his failings. This fictional piece of dirty realism is inspired by the work of Tommy Orange and Denis Johnson.