by C J Parsons
Bob-bob went the park keeper’s head. ‘Well, I hope you catch ’em, I really do. And of course I’m happy to help any way I can.’
‘We appreciate your cooperation,’ Juliet said. She looked pointedly at his arm, with its raised spots and scratched furrows. ‘That’s quite a collection of mosquito bites you’ve got there. Care to tell me where you got them?’
Nick yanked on his T-shirt sleeve in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal them.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘So not by the north gate then?’
‘What, you mean the old tadpole pond?’ A desperate-sounding chuckle. ‘Course not. I got no reason to go there. No one does.’
Juliet looked him in the eye until his gaze dropped, thinking: liar.
Ten
‘Would you like something to drink?’
There was a flash of lightning, then a rumble of thunder. A parrot let out a harsh squawk.
Carrie’s eyes went from the waiter (Scottish accent, gelled hair and a purple burst of acne) down to the book-like menu in her hands. Would it be appropriate to order a glass of wine with her burger? Or would that be odd, surrounded as they were by children?
‘I’ll have a still water,’ she decided, then looked across the table. ‘Sofia? What would you like to drink with your spaghetti?’
‘Apple juice!’
‘One apple juice.’ Carrie snapped the Rainforest Café menu shut and handed it back to the waiter before remembering to add: ‘Please.’
‘And you, sir?’
Josh did a quick scan of the drinks menu.
‘A glass of Merlot, please.’
‘Oh,’ Carrie said, regretting the water.
Josh shot her a glance as he gave the waiter his menu, then smiled, holding up two fingers like a peace sign. ‘Make that two.’
She experienced a flush of something like gratitude. Her face hadn’t changed, but he had still managed to read her, just from that one ‘oh’. She formed her mouth into a smile to show that she was pleased. It must have looked OK, because Josh smiled back before turning his attention to Sofia. She was gazing around her with shining eyes. They were seated in a grove of simulated trees and exotic-looking plants. A stream trickled past their table, artificial birds perched on its banks. Further along, a robot gorilla roared, beating its chest.
‘So what do you think of this place?’ he asked her.
‘It’s like a magic trip to a real rainforest with real animals.’ Sofia clasped her hands together, interlacing her fingers, shaking them forwards and back. ‘Thank you for bringing me here!’
He ruffled her hair. ‘My pleasure.’ Josh’s gaze moved to Carrie. ‘How about you? Do you think it’s a magic trip?’ His mouth tugged into that sideways smile she’d seen him use before.
Carrie considered the question. It was certainly a unique experience, dining in an imitation jungle populated by robotic animals, with fake storms at regular intervals. You couldn’t really call it ‘magic’, though, could you? Not if you understood the mechanics behind it.
‘It is an excellent simulation, providing an immersive experience of an eco-system most people will never be able to experience first-hand.’ She nodded, pleased with her summary. Yes, that captured the positive aspects of the café, conveying her appreciation of having been brought here. She had thought he would agree, perhaps even thank her for this favourable assessment, but instead he burst out laughing.
‘You know what, Carrie?’ He placed a hand on top of hers, as though they were a couple. ‘You really are one of a kind. And to be clear, I mean that in a positive way.’
Carrie felt a strange, buzzing warmth in her cheeks.
‘Mummy! Your face is turning pink!’
‘Is it?’ Carrie placed a hand against her cheek, surprised by the heat there.
‘You’re blushing!’ Sofia exclaimed. ‘I never saw you do that before in my whole life!’
A peel of thunder filled the pause that followed. The waiter returned with their drinks and Josh withdrew his hand to pick up his glass of wine, raising it in a toast.
‘To new experiences.’
‘Yes.’ And she touched the rim of her glass to his.
Then Sofia’s juice cup barged in, banging against their glasses, making Carrie’s wine see-saw. Josh’s gaze flicked briefly sideways, forehead gathering, as though someone were pulling a string there. He gave her daughter a quick smile. Then his eyes returned to Carrie’s, staying there as she put the glass to her lips and took a long sip, tipping back her head.
‘Would you like something to drink?’
She held up a bottle of red wine with the label facing outward, so Josh could see what kind it was. Sofia had fallen asleep on the drive home, so he had carried her upstairs to bed.
Carrie had assumed he would leave straight afterwards, but instead he’d asked if she had time for a quick chat about the upcoming issue of his magazine, saying he wanted to ‘get her take’. So now, here he was, perched on one of the stools in front of her kitchen counter while she stood behind it, showing him the label of her best bottle of wine.
‘Amarone,’ he said, smiling. ‘Perfect. My favourite.’
‘Mine too.’ Carrie felt a nip of anxiety as she rummaged a corkscrew from the drawer beside the sink. What if the success of their last conversation had been a fluke, a one-off, never to be replicated? What if, without Sofia’s chatter, the flow of words would stop, leaving stagnant pools of silence – the kind in which so many of her attempts at friendship had drowned?
She began unscrewing the cork.
‘How important are exteriors, do you think? I mean compared to what’s inside?’
His words stopped her mid-twist. What did he mean by that? Was he asking what emphasis she placed on physical attractiveness versus intelligence and personality? She turned, still holding the bottle, assessing his features from across the counter: a square jaw and straight nose, medium-brown eyes framed by rectangular glasses. A good face, though not in a way that was striking or memorable. A better face than hers. She had a slim figure and shapely legs, which counted for something. But her features were pale and undeniably plain. Was that what he wanted to discuss? Whether her looks – or the lack of them – mattered?
‘Whose exterior are you talking about?’
‘I. M. Pei’s. Comparing it to one by OMO.’
Carrie hadn’t realised her body had tensed up until she felt it relax. She returned her attention to the half-skewered cork. Resumed twisting.
‘You’re talking about architecture.’ The cork came unstuck with a satisfying pop.
‘Of course. What else would I be referring to?’
Carrie took out a pair of wine glasses, placing them on the counter.
‘I. M. Pei designed one of my favourite buildings in the world,’ she said. ‘The Bank of China Tower in Hong Kong.’
He leaned against the counter on his forearms, watching her across it.
‘Interesting. Tell me what you love about it.’
Love? Had she used that word? Unlikely. It wasn’t a term Carrie tossed around the way other people did, sapping it of power (‘I love your dress!’ ‘Don’t you just love this song?’). No. She didn’t love I. M. Pei’s creation. But she did have great admiration for the skyscraper, with its sharp angles and dark, gleaming surfaces, its sleek originality. She poured his wine as she tried to shape her feelings into words. ‘I appreciate its asymmetry, and the way it appears folded, almost like a piece of origami.’ The Amarone gurgled as she filled her own glass. ‘It’s striking without being showy or garish. It transformed Hong Kong’s skyline, making it instantly recognisable.’
‘Precisely! Which is why it’s just the building I’m using in my example. Contrasted with one of OMO’s.
‘Which one?’
‘Rothschild Bank’s London headquarters.’
‘
I’ve seen it.’ She set down the bottle and came around the counter to join him on the neighbouring stool. ‘I was disappointed. A glass box, nothing more.’
‘I completely agree.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘But here’s the thing: it’s stunning inside. The people who work there couldn’t be happier. Conversely, the Bank of China’s interior is perfectly serviceable, but nothing to set the world alight. Which brings us to the theme of my next issue: to whom does the architect owe the greater responsibility – those who actually use the building, transforming it into a living, breathing space? Or to the far greater number of people who experience the design from the outside, where it can shape the aesthetics of an entire city? Setting aside client demands, which should take priority?’ His hand circled the air in front of her. ‘Discuss.’
And she did. The hours that followed were a fast-moving debate that struck at the heart of who – or what – architecture was for. Carrie argued passionately about the power and importance of aesthetics while he played devil’s advocate, drawing out her views (‘But Carrie, aren’t you reducing buildings to mere baubles, decorating postcard skylines?’ ‘No, Josh, this isn’t about postcards, it’s about the depressive effect that a shabby, unimaginative skyline can have on a city . . . versus the pride of looking out and seeing something unique, even uplifting’). They talked about striking the right balance between the two, of not getting so carried away with a concept that you forgot the people inside (‘Look at London City Hall,’ she argued. ‘Making it open and transparent may have been clever and symbolic, but assembly members complained that it was too open plan for separate political parties to work in’).
Carrie hadn’t realised how much time had passed until she went to fetch a second bottle of wine and glanced at the clock. 11.30. They had been talking for more than two hours. She had been talking. And it hadn’t been difficult or stressful or laboured. She had opened her mouth and the words had come. Important words, delivering passionately held opinions.
Josh smiled as she leaned across the counter to refill their glasses and Carrie felt a warmth bordering on affection. It wasn’t like her, forming an emotional attachment to a man she’d known only a short time. Then again, this wasn’t just any man. This was the man who had saved Sofia.
But what was she to him? The question slipped into her thoughts as she returned to her stool, a little unsteady from the alcohol. Why was Josh here right now? Was it out of some leftover sense of obligation to the child he’d rescued, his desire to see things through? Maybe. But if that was the case, why stick around after Sofia had gone to bed? Was it conceivable that he’d wanted to spend time alone with her because he found her physically attractive? The thought set off a spark of excitement which she quickly snuffed out. No, that was silly. Josh was here because he needed an architect’s opinion and she was able to provide it. This was work research. Nothing more.
He lifted his glass towards her.
‘Thank you. For sharing your insight.’
‘I hope my opinions were helpful. I have strong views on this subject.’
‘I like women with strong views.’ Then his voice changed, the pitch becoming lower, the words less crisply outlined. ‘Women of passion.’
Passion. Her heart beat faster. Passion was usually associated with sex. Was Josh hinting that he wanted to have sex with her? If she had been out at a nightclub in the short black dress she used to wear before Simon and Sofia came along, she would simply have asked. Carrie had always had a very utilitarian approach to sex. Flirting was beyond her, and her dance style wasn’t remotely sexy. So she would see who made eye contact, who offered to buy her a drink (she always asked for a shot of whisky: something she could toss back quickly to avoid attempts at small talk shouted against music). And then she would say: ‘Would you like to have sex with me?’ Some men didn’t like her directness and backed away. But at the right kind of club at the right time of night, the most common response was a laugh or a shrug and a ‘sure, why not?’
But this was different. The men from the clubs had been strangers, people she had never seen before and was unlikely to see again, brought briefly into her life by an itch she couldn’t reach without their help. They certainly weren’t there to draw out her opinions or explore her emotional connection to design.
‘Carrie.’ There seemed to be more breath in his voice as he said her name. His leg brushed hers and she felt something flip in her stomach. ‘Carrie, I really enjoy talking to you.’ And she had just enough time to think that nobody, in all her thirty-six years, had ever said those words, before he leaned over and kissed her. The contact was soft, gentle – just a brush of the lips, really. Then he stopped and sat back, eyes moving across her face. He placed a light hand on her cheek, the contact setting off a zing of electricity. When he leaned in again, the kiss was deeper, its message clearer. She felt a hunger open up inside her that was different from the simple call for physical release – a yearning that cut right through her, making her feel wild and elated and scared, all at the same time. Josh’s hand slid under the hem of her jumper, moving along her spine. The kisses rolled into one another and her thoughts blurred into incoherence. All Carrie’s fears and doubts and insecurities fell away, until nothing remained but this moment, this feeling. This man.
She was the one to break the chain of kisses, slipping from her stool and taking him by the hand. Neither of them spoke as she led him upstairs, stopping briefly to check on Sofia (sound asleep) before drawing Josh into her room, where they fell onto the navy duvet, rolling across it, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Carrie was lying on her back, deep inside a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, the shock of broken contact registering as pain. She opened her eyes to find his face a few inches above, staring down at her. Why had he stopped? His brows were curved in two directions, like lying down S’s. What did that mean? Had he changed his mind, decided he didn’t want her after all?
Dismay hit her like a gut-punch. Then he touched the top button of her blouse and said: ‘May I?’
She placed a palm against his cheek as relief sluiced through her.
‘Yes.’
He kept asking like that, all the way through. Even when she was naked and pressed up against him, her hands urging him to come closer, to come inside. Kept asking until desire was so thick in her throat she could hardly get the words out.
May I?
Yes.
May I?
Yes.
May I?
Yes. Yes. Please.
Eleven
The sound of breaking glass jolted Carrie awake. She sat up in bed, heart jumping. Looked around the night-dark bedroom. The time glowed red on her alarm clock. 02:47. Had she imagined the noise? Was it part of a dream? But then, from downstairs, came another sound – one that sent her heart slamming into overdrive.
Footsteps. Moving around the kitchen. A slow, heavy tread.
There’s a man inside the house.
Carrie’s mouth went dry. She looked across at the rumpled sheet on the other side of her bed, shaded grey by the moonlight. Josh had been lying there just a few hours earlier. If only she hadn’t sent him home. But Sofia had begun waking up just before dawn, complaining of nightmares, seeking refuge in her mother’s bed. Carrie didn’t want her running in to find a man there – even a man she knew and liked. It would be too confusing.
So now, here she was, alone in the dark, listening to an intruder prowling around her house with fear rising inside her like an icy tide.
It’s Sofia’s abductor. He’s come back to get her.
She groped instinctively along the bedside table for her mobile. Normally she slept with her phone there, using it as a backup alarm. But not tonight. The encounter with Josh had broken her routine and the handset now lay abandoned somewhere downstairs. Panic raced through her, pushing another dose of adrenalin into her veins. She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Order
ed herself to calm down, think things through rationally. The man moving around her living room could just be a burglar: someone keen to get in and out as quickly as possible, rather than risk getting caught. He would take her mobile, along with the TV and perhaps the small speaker she streamed music through. And then he would go.
He would not come upstairs.
Please, God, don’t let him come upstairs.
Then came the sound of crunching glass. He must have stepped on the shards of whichever window he’d broken to get inside. Carrie told herself that, as soon as he left, she would call the police, then the insurance company. There was nothing down there that couldn’t be repaired or replaced. It was all going to be fine. Just fine.
A stair creaked. The sound froze her insides, locked her breath in her throat.
The intruder was coming up.
I have to protect Sofia.
Throwing aside the covers, she scanned the darkened room for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes found the bedside lamp: a stem of tapered metal ending in a square, solid base.
It would have to do. Carrie pulled off the shade and yanked the plug from its socket, winding the chord around the stem. She tiptoed to the bedroom door, brandishing it like a club. A louder creak: the loose floorboard, three stairs from the top.
He was almost here.
Slowly, silently, she eased open the door. Saw the shadowy shape of a man rising from the staircase. She held her breath, lamp at the ready, muscles taut.
But just as she was about to swing, the footsteps stopped. She heard breathing in the pause that followed, superimposed over the drumroll of her own heart.
‘Carrie?’
The sound of her name sent conflicting waves of emotion crashing into each other. On one side: relief. Because the voice belonged to someone she knew. And on the other: alarm. Because that ‘someone’ was Simon.
Simon, breaking into her home in the dead of night.
Simon, who might even now be seeing hordes of enemies surging up the stairs behind him, ready to strike.
