The image of you, p.18
The Image of You, page 18
He thought of nothing other than Zoe. Her lips, her tits, her thighs, her eyes. He tried telling himself he was thinking of Anna—after all, they were so very similar—but he knew he wasn’t. Anna would never put her lips there, pose that way, move like that. Zoe practised yoga, she modelled underwear, she liked secrets, she knew some of his. These thoughts were enough to keep his imagination active, he barely thought about how little he actually knew about her. He was swamped with the sensory pleasure he associated with her. He didn’t need to know what her favourite movie was, the name of her childhood pet, or if there was a country she’d particularly like to visit.
‘So what’s up?’ asked Hal.
‘Nothing.’ Nick forced a smile.
His friend wasn’t convinced. ‘Something so is. Have you and Anna had a row?’
‘No, why would you ask that?’ Nick was aware he sounded tetchy.
‘I just thought, what with you meeting the druggy, drinking sister last night, that something might have gone wrong.’
‘No,’ Nick snapped.
Hal raised his eyebrows to acknowledge he was taking the brunt of Nick’s irritability and whilst he was prepared to work around it he wanted it acknowledged. ‘So, are they identical?’
‘Yes. At least to look at.’
‘Wow. You lucky sod.’
Nick knew which fantasy Hal was accessing; it was filed in all men’s minds between being James Bond and playing volleyball with an all-girl team on a beach. Since it was now a reality for Nick, he found he was in no mood to humour his friend.
‘Grow up, Hal.’
‘What did I say?’
‘It was what you were thinking that I was objecting to. Anna is my fiancée, right.’ He was such a hypocrite.
‘Yeah, yeah. No offence. Although, seriously, what was it like going out with the pair of them? I bet they turned heads.’
‘Actually, Anna had to work in the end. I was left with Zoe.’
‘Is she as much work as Anna said?’
‘More.’
‘Will you introduce me?’
‘Funny.’
‘So could you tell them apart?’
‘Yes. They don’t act at all alike. And I think Zoe is a fraction taller, maybe. I didn’t see them side by side. She seems it.’ He wasn’t prepared to mention the other differences. Couldn’t if he tried. They move differently, hold themselves differently. Zoe is bolder, brighter. Somehow more.
At lunchtime Nick sneaked away from his desk without saying anything to Hal or offering to bring back a sandwich for him. He knew that if he explained he wanted some fresh air and to stretch his legs Hal would offer to come with. What he wanted most was to be alone. He needed space to process.
The phone rang three, four, five times. He dreaded the click that would put him through to voicemail. If that happened, he’d have to hang up. He wouldn’t leave a message. No footprint. Luckily, she picked up on the sixth ring.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
He didn’t hear so much as a flicker of recognition or pleasure. Embarrassed, he felt forced to say, ‘It’s Nick here.’
‘I’m sorry, who?’
It was excruciating. Nick was never forgotten.
He coughed. ‘Nick.’
There was a charged silence.
‘Nick Hudson.’
He realized that might not offer the clarity he was searching for—had he even told her his surname? Anna must have. There was still no response. He thought he could almost hear the cogs in her brain whizzing around as she tried to place him.
‘Anna’s fiancé,’ he added at last, exasperated.
‘Oh, hello.’
Still, there was no warmth in her voice and yet no anger either. He’d expected one or the other. Something like disappointment skittered across his chest.
‘I thought we should talk.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’ He subtly changed the tense. She’d put them in the past. He ought to be content to stay there, but he wasn’t.
‘What would you like to say, Nick?’
He should have found somewhere quieter to make this call. Not that there were quiet streets in the City on a hot, summer lunchtime. Everything and everyone moved at an unstoppable pace. He dodged from left to right, in and out of the shadows of the towering office buildings, avoiding the striding people carrying sandwiches and bottled water in flimsy paper bags.
He cupped his hand around the phone. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Which part?’
It was a good question. He’d hoped that his apology, vague and all-encompassing, might do the trick.
‘Are you sorry for sleeping with me?’
‘Well, yes,’ he stuttered.
‘How lovely of you to call to say so.’ Her voice was icy with sarcasm.
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m not sorry I slept with you,’ he blurted. It wasn’t quite possible to regret it. He wished it was. It was stupid to admit as much, though.
‘You’re not?’ Now she sounded curious.
‘Well of course I am. I mean. You’re my fiancée’s sister. But.’ He didn’t know how to explain it. It had been the best sex of his life. He’d thought of her all day. But if he admitted as much, then chances were that this whole thing would blow up in his face. Carefully, he said, ‘I’m sorry for what I did to Anna.’
‘I see. Are you planning on telling her?’
Panicked. ‘No, no. Are you?’
She sighed and then slowly said, ‘I can’t see what it would achieve.’
‘Right then.’ He tried not to let the relief seep through the phone. It would be somewhat unseemly. Yet it was a relief. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Anna much this morning, his head was too full of Zoe. Besides that, whenever Anna did manage to pick her way through to his conscience, he felt miserable, ashamed, wicked. He did not want to see her hurt, crushed. He did not want to lose her. ‘How do you want to progress this?’
‘So, we’re going to progress this, are we? There is a “this”?’
He wanted to bite out his tongue. ‘I didn’t mean that. I don’t mean we should continue it or do it again.’
‘I see.’
‘I meant, how do you want to handle this situation?’
A man on a bike swerved to avoid Nick, who was aimlessly pacing up and down the footpath. The biker almost lost his balance; he didn’t fall but he wobbled precariously, and so he turned and flicked the bird. Nick felt a prickle of irritation shimmy through his body. He wanted to yell, ‘Get off the bloody pavement, mate,’ although he didn’t. He had enough to deal with.
‘I don’t know. Have you any ideas?’ Zoe asked. ‘Anna has been ringing me all morning. No doubt she wants to know how we got along.’
‘Yes, she’s been calling me too.’ He’d managed to avoid her calls. He’d got Hal to answer at one point and say he was in an all-day meeting. He hadn’t responded to her texts either. Sometimes he cursed the modern world that provided a million ways of communicating with a person. It made it impossible to take any time out to think about anything. Five minutes passing without responding to a happy-faced emoji led to major concern.
‘Well? What do I tell her?’ persisted Zoe.
‘We got on well.’ Nerves made him snigger.
‘This isn’t funny.’ Zoe sounded irritated now.
‘I never for a moment thought it was,’ he admitted more seriously.
‘I don’t know what to say to her.’
‘Oh, come on, Zoe. Don’t pretend you’re someone who can’t tell a lie.’
He didn’t want to sound harsh but following the femme fatale act last night, it was hard to imagine she was squeamish about lying to cover up indiscretions. She must be practised in this sort of duplicity. She had done this before, many times. She’d do it again. He was in a line, a long line. The thought should have frightened him, or at least warned him. It didn’t.
‘You’re not asking me to lie to just anyone.’
‘No. Of course.’
Well, maybe not this sort of duplicity, exactly. This was so much worse. Not anyone. A sister. Her twin sister. His fiancée.
‘That’s what you want, is it? For me to lie?’
Well, yes, of course. ‘It’s what’s needed,’ he said. He couldn’t come clean. He just couldn’t—Anna would never forgive him.
‘At least be honest with me, Nick.’
‘Yes, it’s what I want.’
It was brutal but emancipating. He was being selfish. He was asking Zoe to collude with him to maintain a relationship that he didn’t deserve.
She let out another sigh. This one was more accepting, practical. ‘So what are you going to say, exactly? We need to get our stories straight.’
‘I don’t know.’ He hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘That we had dinner. That we got on well enough.’
‘She’ll ask you how crazy you found me.’
‘She won’t ask that.’
‘She will.’
He thought he could hear hurt in her voice but that was unlikely, surely. Zoe was tough. Nick read the poster splayed on the side of a big red bus that was passing by. It was advertising the summer blockbuster. He planned to take Anna. With a studied sense of irony, they’d sit in the back row, giggle at the ludicrous plot the superheroes encountered, eat hot dogs and popcorn. He turned his head, and studied the poster on the bus shelter. A beautiful, bikini-clad woman crawled in the sand. She was holding a bottle of perfume; it was irrelevant, gratuitous and yet gorgeous. He imagined Zoe holding the perfume, crawling around in the sand.
‘I’ll tell her we had a lovely night.’
‘Did you?’ The tone changed. It was more as it had been last night. Warm, inviting. ‘Did you have a lovely night, Nick?’
He decided to be as honest as the situation would allow. ‘Excellent, actually.’ It was true, and he hoped it was enough; some consolation, because no one liked being undervalued.
‘Me too.’
It was just a show of respect because, after all, he had put his mouth between her legs, she’d done the same for him. He couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, that it was nothing. Odd, because he’d always thought it was. Sex. Nothing more than a sport. Until Anna.
And now Zoe.
Yet they were completely different experiences. One was love. The other. What? Not just lust. He’d been there, done that, got the venereal disease. It was more profound than lust. It was imprudent, impressive and unforgettable. He didn’t mean to blurt it out, he just couldn’t stop himself.
‘I’m not sorry for sleeping with you.’
‘I see.’
And then. ‘What are you doing right now?’
‘I’m in Regent Street.’
‘Are you working?’
‘Not today. I’m heading back to my hotel soon. I’m tired. I need to sleep.’
Without thinking, he said, ‘I can be there in fifteen.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No, not now. In three days. If you feel the same in three days, call me then. See Anna first. Talk to Anna, spend the weekend with her.’
Nick felt crushed by the rejection. He was desperate for her, suddenly; like an unruly dog pulling at its lead, he feared he might choke. Yet he admired her restraint. Her sense of fair play. The fact she had a plan. The office workers continued to teem past him, talking into their phones, smoking cigarettes and chatting with their colleagues, oblivious to the road he’d set out on.
Yes, spend the weekend with Anna. Clear his mind. Get his head straight.
Then call Zoe.
Or not.
Probably call.
Probably shouldn’t.
Twenty-Seven
Anna
Anna and Nick had plans to have Saturday lunch at his parents’ home; Anna had ensured that doing so had become something of a habit since Pamela’s fall and their engagement. She wanted the family to be knitted closer together, the yarn intertwined, making a regular, neat pattern that ultimately formed a useful, comforting blanket that any one of them could crawl under for solace and cheer if need be.
She loved going to see the Hudsons: Pamela, kind and interested; George, dour but honest. She had become familiar with the furniture and the knick-knacks, the piles of newspaper and the bookshelves. The Hudsons were not hoarders nonetheless their home was certainly full; every surface housed an ornament, a well-thumbed book or a brimming file. She occasionally came across a small toy that must have belonged to Nick or Rachel, a random piece of Lego or a Barbie doll’s handbag, left in a bowl or on a shelf, because no one could stand to throw it out and fully discard their childhood. There were cushions and throws scattered everywhere, suggesting that whilst the house seemed warm at the moment—as the summer sun flooded through open windows—during the winter the family used the throws to stay cosy. The crockery and bed linen were very dated—no doubt bought in the 1980s and now faded through an indeterminable number of washes—but their very unfashionableness seemed to suggest a solidity and safety to Anna. She mistrusted homes that were too tidy or modern, where there were no signs of life. It was clear a family had lived, laughed, squabbled, shouted, cried and celebrated in this house. Sometimes Anna believed she could almost feel the pulse of the place.
Her modest one-bedroom flat that she rented from an anonymous landlord seemed hollow and lacking by comparison. Boxy, unremarkable. The IKEA bookshelves were too neat and nowhere near full, even though she considered herself an avid reader; it took years for one person alone to crowd a bookshelf. Her sofa, bed, chairs, wardrobe were all necessary, practical items that the anonymous landlord had supplied; they lacked charm and style. Like most London flats, there simply wasn’t room for clutter or indulgence. She had tried; she’d bought strings of fairy lights and scattered photos about the place, but they did little to counter the overwhelming sense of level-headed necessity. Any one of a vast number of people could live in her flat, probably did live in nearly identical flats. The Hudsons’ large, warm, sprawling home seemed specific to them. It was kindly and substantial, big enough to absorb her too. Keep her safe.
Besides, visiting the Hudsons was a delight because Pamela took great interest in the wedding preparations; she absolutely never tired of Anna debating the order of service, the calligraphy on the invitations or the colour theme for the wedding.
The bridesmaids. Anna sighed at the thought. She had been so decisive about all the other aspects of the wedding except that one. She had told Nick that she wanted Zoe to be a bridesmaid but in her heart of hearts she knew that it wasn’t ever going to happen, not really. And she supposed she’d have to ask Rachel. It was the polite thing to do. Pamela must be expecting it, honestly,that thought didn’t fill her with excitement either. Vera had categorically said she was not the bridesmaid sort. She didn’t much like having her photo taken and certainly didn’t want to be trussed up in anything that might be peach, pink or lemon with bows or frills. Besides, she had the boys to keep an eye on and wouldn’t be able to give Anna her full attention, as was expected, as she deserved. Anna’s friends in the States seemed too distant now for her to call on and ask to fulfil this duty. Distant in terms of space, time and emotion. Anna had let those friendships slip. It was a pity—as the neglect of any friendship always is—but inevitable. Besides, many of her American friends were pregnant or breastfeeding; they wouldn’t want to run about organizing a bachelorette weekend, or have to stoop to fuss about her train or veil on the day. Anna decided to put the problem out of her mind. She’d think about it later. Sometimes it was important and healthy to just draw a line under an issue. Switch off.
This week, Nick had offered to drive to Bath. She couldn’t help but notice that he was being especially nice to her, almost as though he was making a particular effort. He’d arrived at her flat on Friday evening with the most ostentatious display of violet roses, blue hydrangea and lilies. She didn’t have a vase big enough and the flowers had to be split into two. They were wonderful. Smelt delicious. It made her sad to have to leave them in the flat—really, she wished he’d waited until after the weekend to buy them.
He said he wanted to take her out to dinner to make up for her missing out the night before. She hadn’t been able to decide what to wear (her new pale-pink, floral dress from Zara that was just so pretty or, maybe, simply a pair of trousers and her blue T-shirt with the picture of a pineapple). Whilst he waited for her to make a decision he’d opened windows to let some fresh air into her flat, which had a neglected, stale feel to it. He’d taken her clothes out of the washing machine and put them in the dryer, he’d even thought to lie her much-loved linen trousers flat, as they would have shrunk in the drier. Very thoughtful. He’d taken the time to look at her photos. He picked them up and scrutinized them with an interest he’d never shown before: one of Alexia and David; one of Zoe when she was about twenty-two and, for once, holding a tennis racquet rather than a bottle; a couple of her friends’ weddings and children. The usual selection of photos that offered solace and meaning to people living overseas away from their families. Anna came and stood next to him, leaned over his shoulder and looked at the photo that held his attention for the longest. It showed her and Zoe aged about seven at the beach, standing proudly next to the most enormous sandcastle. Both girls were sun-kissed and wore their hair in bunches, sand clung to their wet, skinny legs. Sometimes, when Anna looked at old photos, even she found it difficult to know who she was, who Zoe was.
‘I can’t think how I missed this one before,’ Nick mumbled.
