The image of you, p.28
The Image of You, page 28
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper and then I lean close to him. Kiss his lips, slowly. I allow my left breast to brush up against his arm.
He responds by gently biting my lip.
‘How was work today?’ I ask brightly as I break away.
He looks surprised; I rarely take an interest.
‘Pretty dreadful, if I’m honest. I’m finding it tricky to focus as well as I should recently.’
‘Hmmm?’ I make a sympathetic, encouraging sound. I wonder how many millions he’s let slip through his grasp since he met me. I’m not concerned. They’re not real numbers. It’s a figure on a screen, a promise, a wish, someone else’s plan.
‘I can barely keep my mind on my job,’ he admits, as he drains his vodka and swiftly signals to the bartender that he’d like another round.
I’m flattered to be so distracting but I don’t actually want him to fuck up his career. His success and drive are part of his attraction, both to me and Anna, we have that much in common. He’s done well for himself. Not that he’s what anyone would call a rank outsider—a white boy with a university education—still he’s worked hard to earn his position. Studied as a kid when he could have been getting drunk or stoned, long hours ever since, lots of research, can-do attitude, talks to the right people, shakes hands, kisses ass, never gives up. What’s notable is that he doesn’t just fit, he’s part of the redefinition, and I like that. However, as he is finding work stressful and not especially fulfilling right now, I decide to move the conversation on.
We’re never short of things to talk about. Very soon after meeting him I identified the fact that he likes to figuratively kick off his shoes, walk in the sand, fist with his toes. He sees himself as a rebel at heart. Of course he does, otherwise why would I be sitting opposite him? Whilst he’s trundling towards wedding vows, a mortgage and presumably a couple of kids and a Labrador, he’s glancing back over his shoulder to days that were more carefree and doused with irresponsible optimism. I allow him time to talk about his thoughts, beliefs, notions and experiences; I recognize that they are fresh and loud and now, far from depleted or obsolete.
I expertly turn the conversation and lift the mood by recounting some charged, long-forgotten encounter with some guy or other on holiday in Jamaica. Of course it was a sexual encounter. He likes hearing about my past conquests. He tells me about his sex life too, pre-Anna. It’s not as daring as he’d like to think it is. Basically, he’s slept with a number of pretty women; a large number, I admit, but there really isn’t much novelty in a good-looking, wealthy, funny man pulling pretty, fit, young women. I vacillate between showing interest and boredom, to keep him on his toes. He doesn’t know what I want so he lets spill all the stories of the women who had names he never knew, or once knew and has now forgotten. He wants to prove to me that he’s careless, exciting, wild, daring. I listen carefully because I find all I want to know is whether there has been a name that has stuck. Is it Anna? Is she truly different? Really, I want to know, am I? He talks about money too. The large amounts he’s made for others, for himself. The even greater amounts he plans to earn. I don’t comment at all. Too many men think too many women are for sale. No one can buy me. Even if I allow them to buy things for me, like vodka, dinner or even a gift, they can’t buy me. Nowhere near. No one ever could. Still, I appreciate that he wants to impress me and is searching around for ways to do that.
He makes me laugh. Have I mentioned that? He’s funny, and I like that in a man. Humour demands confidence, and I appreciate all displays of confidence. I’m funny when I’m with him too. We laugh together—and that feels good. I’m attracted to any number of things about him. If I was more fanciful, more like Anna, I might say that I’m losing count of the things that draw me to him. His recklessness is high up there. As are his stereotypical alpha-male displays of masculinity (don’t judge, it’s Darwinian), his dance moves, his sex moves, the cut of his suits, the smell of his aftershave, even his latent and inconvenient sense of duty. I suppose that’s one of the things I find most fascinating; this deception is harder than he imagined. It’s a battle. Battles are interesting. I like a battle. But I have to win the war.
I like how he has an effect on me. Not many men ever have. Other than dealers, I suppose, and that was in quite a different way. He excites me. He tries to be original but pretty much everything he can think of to say to me I’ve heard before. ‘You beguile me. You’re astounding. You’re exquisite.’ The difference is that it’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to believe it.
He thinks he gets me. He doesn’t know the half.
We drink more than is sensible, which both of us still judge not to be enough. The lights are dimmed and the atmosphere thickens. Nick gets drunker than I’ve ever seen him. His inebriated state allows him to touch me more than he usually chooses to in public; his hand rests heavily on my thigh. He works it further up my leg, with all the subtlety of a man who has consumed a week’s worth of units in one night. I don’t move him away immediately, I encourage the overt declarations of affection that pour, unchecked from his mouth. I wonder whether he’ll tell me he loves me tonight. It’s possible, since he’s so shocked and hurt by Anna keeping secrets. He’ll feel wrong-footed and wants to even the score. Couples don’t often acknowledge it but basically relationships are a long game in accounting. A magnificent and constant tally: adding, subtracting, carrying over. Compliments, chores done willingly, incomes earned, sicknesses nursed are on one side; lies, infidelities, cash blown, expectations dashed are on the other. He said this. She did that. He earned this. She’s due the other.
If he tells me he loves me, I wonder whether he’ll mean it.
We become taut and jittery as we both feel a need to find a pragmatic way and place to hammer out our needs. Expediency, not discretion, has clearly become more important to him; he grabs my right tit and fondles it in the bar. It’s the sort of place where anyone who notices, pretends not to. I’m surprised by his lack of discretion but not perturbed. I don’t move his hand. His screamingly careless behaviour makes me wonder whether he is willing to get caught? Whether he wants to be? I’m still aware that we need to achieve some element of privacy; I like being an exhibitionist but I don’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure. He’s drunk so much that he’s becoming reckless; he necks the shots I sip and refuses to hydrate with water in between. If I don’t move quickly, I doubt he’ll be much use to me tonight. I make the decision to take his hand and boldly lead him to the toilets. I head to a cubicle in the women’s; I draw a line at having sex up against a stinky urinal. Two girls are putting on their lipstick. They stare, open-mouthed.
I say, ‘You should probably leave, now.’
Shocked, they do as I tell them.
It’s hot and quick. He’s told me a lot of stories and so I think I can confidently say this is in his top three in terms of craziness. He’s game and grateful. Afterwards we hold on to each other, let our breathing slow, listen to the door to the bathroom open and close. Groups of young women enter. We hear them chatter; others we listen to whilst they pee. We stay silent and cling to each other. There’s a lull, the place has emptied out. We’re alone.
Usually he avoids talking about Anna but tonight it seems he can’t get her out of his mind. Who else can he speak to about her, other than me?
‘It was awful, having to ask her about the marriage,’ he whispers into my ear.
‘I can imagine.’
‘I should know that much about her.’
‘Yes, you should.’
‘Yes, I should,’ he repeats with the belligerence of a drunk.
I pull apart from him a fraction, make eye contact and ask, ‘Did she tell you about her kids?’
‘Kids? Fuck me, you’re joking.’ He turns pale, almost transparent.
I laugh quietly. ‘Yes, actually I am. There are no kids.’
He bites his lip. Angry with me and himself. Unfair, it’s her he should be angry with. I’m sitting on the lid of the toilet seat now. I want to get out of here. We should go back to the hotel. He needs to sober up. I need to sleep.
Nick shakes his head, perhaps trying to dislodge a thought, perhaps trying to chase one. ‘I feel I don’t know her.’
Let’s face it, he doesn’t. The problem is, he wanted steak at home for the rest of his life but he’s come to realize he’s settled for cold slices—you know, those processed things you buy at the supermarket. He’s naturally disappointed. A blast of music blares into the room as someone comes into the restroom again. By their voices, I’d guess it’s two or three girls. They talk amongst themselves. Someone rattles on the door of our cubicle. ‘I’m in here,’ I call. We wait as they use the facilities, reapply make-up, talk about their bosses and boyfriends and then, eventually, go. Another blast of music and then the volume is muffled again.
‘I don’t trust her,’ he mutters woefully.
This is ironic considering our predicament but I pull up my knickers and don’t say so. Anna is losing him. I can see him slip from her grasp. I have to clasp ever more tightly now. He must feel the same as he grabs my face in both his hands; erotic and tender. Purposeful and desperate.
‘I’m lost, Zoe. So confused.’
‘I know, baby.’ I kiss his forehead with something that could easily be taken as tenderness.
‘The wedding. We’re so far along with the planning. She’s booked this car, a Lamborghini.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yes.’
‘We could speed away in it, baby. You and I. Head for the hills.’
He stares at me, perplexed. He can’t tell if I’m laughing at him or serious. ‘Are you asking me to choose?’ It’s as though the thought has just occurred to him. He might have to choose. Make a decision. This tea party, where he has his cake and eats it, can’t last for ever.
I suspect he was hoping he’d never have to make a decisive move, that instead something would happen to him, to us, to them. ‘You know you have to, sooner or later,’ I whisper.
His face twists; agonized, tortured. ‘I can’t.’ His eyes are wet.
Do I want to see him cry, to watch the tears roll down his cheeks, which are contorted with indecision and shame? Or not?
‘Do you want me to make the decision for you?’ I ask, gently.
The air between us is hot and used.
He looks relieved, joyful. ‘Yes, yes. Will you? I just want it gone.’
Gone. I nod. Just once.
I tell Nick to settle the bar bill and to hail a cab, I say I will meet him on the street. ‘I’ve something I need to take care of.’
* * *
By the time I join him he seems a great deal more sober, and there’s quite an extortionate tab running on the meter. I don’t apologize, he can afford it. I dip my head and climb straight into the back seat.
He clambers in behind me and closes the door.
‘My God, you missed a bit of a rumpus,’ he says, recovered from the near-hysterics in the restroom; like a child, he’s dumped that problem at my feet and is no longer concerned.
‘Oh yes?’
‘You know that girl who tried to give me her number earlier on this evening?’
I suddenly notice he looks a bit bashful and shaken up. I make a show of trying to recall, and finally murmur, ‘Oh yes. I think so.’
‘She’s just been carried out by a bouncer. He put her in a cab. She was in quite a state.’
‘Drunk?’
‘No, hurt. Her face was bleeding. Her nose, or maybe her cheek, was split. I guess. She was sobbing. I think she must have got into a fight with someone.’ Nick’s eyes suddenly drop to my hands.
They are clean.
I’m clutching my bag. ‘She must have upset someone,’ I say dryly.
Then I give the address of the hotel to the driver and we move on.
Thirty-Eight
Anna
The water mark on the ceiling of Anna’s flat, which had started as a small stain in the corner of the kitchen, had elongated. The flat upstairs must have a slow leak of some kind. If that flat was configured like hers, then it was most probably the kitchen sink to blame. She had knocked on the door a few days ago, she’d heard the TV blaring, yet no one had answered. People could be so unfriendly. She’d popped a note under the door but didn’t hold out much hope of a response. She should probably call her landlord, let him deal with the matter, but she’d be out of there in a couple of weeks and didn’t need the hassle.
She had enough on her plate.
The thought of living with Nick, as his wife, sent a shiver through Anna’s body. Excitement. That’s what she told herself. Not apprehension. Why would she feel at all apprehensive? This was it. She was going to be living her dream. A wife! Nick’s wife! They’d share everything, from the bills to the remote control. They’d come home from work and tell one another about their days: the joys, concerns, triumphs, frustrations. They’d build a future; they’d start a family. That’s what was next. Only, sometimes, she couldn’t imagine it quite so clearly as before he’d proposed. Which was infuriatingly illogical.
Today she had woken up lethargic, sluggish, almost lacklustre. Those were not very bride-to-be feelings; she ought to be feeling vibrant, excited, expectant. She knew that, but knowing it didn’t make it so. It was most likely the heat. The flat, relentless heat that weighed down on her shoulders, climbed into her throat. Not enough places in Britain had air conditioning; it was crazy how the Brits didn’t seem to expect hot weather, even in August.
That’s all it was. The heat.
It was too hot to call the landlord and talk about leaks; it was too hot to eat or sleep. Last night she’d tossed and turned, watched the sun set through her bedroom window, and then, before she knew it, watched it rise again. She felt weary. Her eyes stung. They needed a storm to clear the air. Literally and, Anna couldn’t help thinking, metaphorically. Of course Anna was giddy about the thought of the wedding, becoming Nick’s wife, living in his beautiful apartment, starting their life together. Deep down. It was just that those emotions had been somewhat smothered by the debilitating heat and, well—
Anna had become pretty accomplished at fooling the people around her; playing the part of the eternally chirpy girl from America, a regular cornucopia of optimism and good cheer. However, she wasn’t capable of fooling herself. Not about this. Anna really wanted to simply feel upbeat and concentrate on the lovely things about getting married. Rachel had said yes to being her bridesmaid—that was a good thing. Pamela and Anna talked on the phone practically every day, pinning down the final details as the day loomed ever closer—that was a good thing. Last weekend Anna and Nick had met the vicar, who seemed like a lovely woman—now that was a good thing.
There was a problem between her and Nick. That was not a good thing.
And it was all because of Zoe.
It was not Zoe’s fault exactly; Anna really only had herself to blame. She should have been honest and upfront with Nick about Zoe right from the beginning. The problem was that Nick was such a straightforward, straight-up sort of man. She’d been at a loss as to how to introduce such chaos into his life; she wasn’t sure he could manage the craziness of her raucous, overwhelming, party-girl twin. So she’d been untruthful. It was unforgivable. It wasn’t what marriages were built upon. She’d thought that drip-feeding details of Zoe’s antics, minimizing them, was the best way forward, but it hadn’t been. With hindsight Anna could see that she’d just caused confusion; Zoe had become a wedge between them.
That business about Larry! That was just messy. Awful. What had Zoe been thinking? Nick had been just fantastic about the whole thing. He hadn’t thrown recriminations at her; he hadn’t mentioned the matter again, actually. She’d thought he might. It would have been perfectly understandable if he’d wanted to hear more details. Although she was glad he hadn’t probed. It was a terrible time to think about. To talk about. Her past mostly was. Anna was all about the future. Moving on! That’s what counted, but she knew the only way that was possible was if everything was as it should be between her and Nick. Anna feared Nick didn’t trust her quite so much as he used to; obviously, he felt he didn’t know her as well as he should do. And she supposed he was right about that.
She could fix this. She could! Anna knew what had to be done. It wouldn’t be easy—frankly, it would be terrifying—opening herself up completely, laying herself bare. She needed to place a huge amount of trust in him and in herself. But it had to be done. Anna looked in the mirror. She looked dreadful—sweaty-faced and frizzy-haired—nothing like a blushing bride-to-be. She’d better fix that too. The heat was like a heavy blanket. It was the kind of day that could only be enjoyed if you were outside, yet she was hanging around the flat, half hoping, although not expecting, that Zoe might show up. She had called her several times, left messages asking her to drop by, but there were no guarantees. Zoe was a law unto herself.
Anna opened a window; the gentle evening breeze was welcome in the airless room. Then just when she was beginning to think she’d never see or hear from Zoe again, her twin appeared at the door. She was wearing skimpy denim shorts, an enviably beautiful broderie anglaise lace top, enormous mirrored sunglasses and a floppy sun hat. She didn’t look in the slightest bit sweaty or frizzy. Sometimes, seeing your twin looking more polished that you was motivating, sometimes it was simply embarrassing. Anna really wished she’d already showered. Still, that wasn’t what was important here.
‘Zoe! How fantastic to see you!’ Anna went to fling her arms around her sister.
