‘If someone played them, would they make a tune?’ I ask, wanting to run my fingers over the quavers and crotchets on his skin.
‘That would have been a good idea, wouldn’t it?’ he laughs. ‘But no. I didn’t really think it through that well. Considering it’s going to be with me for ever.’
‘Have you had it long?’
‘About a month.’ He rubs his thumb over the tattoo. ‘You can probably guess by now – it was a spontaneous decision. Although, in my defence, I wasn’t drunk.’
‘But was there a reason for it? Does it … you know, represent something important?’
‘It’s supposed to mark a turning point,’ he says slowly, his voice becoming suddenly serious. ‘I want to stop doing what everyone expects me to do, and do what I want instead.’
‘Music?’
‘Yup. So the design isn’t exactly original, but …’
‘To the point.’
He laughs again. ‘You know, it’s odd,’ he says slowly, ‘I meant to say before, but the inscription on this bench reminds me of one on Hampstead Heath.’
I startle. ‘This inscription?’
‘Yeah, it’s got the same bit in it, about the person still sitting beside you. I like that idea. Someone who’s gone, their spirit just sitting there, the memories of them keeping you company.’
‘That place you said? Hampstead Heath?’
‘It’s in London. North London. It’s this big open space with hills and trees and woods. Ancient land.’ He pauses and looks at me, smiling. ‘I think you’d like it. It has lots of benches. Lots of inscriptions.’
‘Maybe I’ll get to go there one day. I’ve always wanted to go to London. I’ve read all of Dickens. And one of my favourite novels is 84, Charing Cross Road.’
‘About the old guy in the bookshop and the woman, writing letters?’ He looks at me. ‘I liked that too. So how come you’ve read so many English novels?’
‘I’ve always had a thing for them. Especially the classics. Way back, Dad’s side of the family were from England,’ I tell him. ‘According to him, we’re descended from Normans. Dad likes to boast they settled in Buckinghamshire, became landed earls and lords.’
There’s blue blood in our veins, Kit-Cat.
I gesture towards the boardwalk. ‘How about I tell you what there is to see?’
He shakes his head. ‘How about we just wander?’
He stands up, putting out his hand. I take it, and his fingers close around mine, warm and certain. As I stand, we lock eyes. My stomach lurches, and we both glance away.
He nods towards the expanse of camel-coloured sand and spiky grasses. ‘Must have been beautiful before it got built up,’ he says. And then his voice softens. ‘Hello, kitty.’
For a second I think he’s getting inventive with my name, but an actual cat is slinking from the gap beneath the boards. I squat and hold out my fingers towards her. She sniffs regally and turns her head away. ‘There are dozens of them living wild under here,’ I tell him. ‘They’re a kind of fixture. There’s a programme to catch them and spay them, but there are always kittens.’ On cue, a tiny creature totters out of the shadows, meowing. The mother gives its rear end an efficient licking before picking it up by the scruff of its neck and removing it from sight.
‘I swear she just rolled her eyes,’ Sam laughs.
God. He likes animals, too. Could he get any more perfect?
Shut up, I tell Frank. Not now.
We walk on, the bustle of the boardwalk fading away. It feels like we’re the only people here: his arm brushing mine, our steps keeping time.
‘So what do you do?’ he asks. ‘I mean, for work.’ He puts his head on one side. ‘I’m guessing it entails wearing black?’
I swallow. Here it is: the million-dollar question. I remember Mom’s warning. I hesitate. ‘I work in cosmetics,’ I tell him.
‘Selling them? Or … making them?’
‘Um. Neither … I just use them to make people look their best – even if they’re …’ I cough, ‘kinda off-colour.’
‘A make-up artist?’
I make a non-committal noise, clearing my throat. ‘It’s not that interesting,’ I say quickly. ‘Not like being a singer.’
‘Actually,’ he frowns, ‘I’m not. I’m really a lawyer. Only … I’ve begun to think I made a mistake, you know, going down the safe route. Pleasing my parents, when I always had this dream of being a singer-songwriter.’ He stops and rolls his eyes. ‘Sounds clichéd, I suppose.’
I don’t know if this is the famous British self-deprecation or genuine humility. He must know how great he is. ‘You should be singing,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not just my opinion. The club went wild for you. All the girls, anyway,’ I can’t help adding.
He rubs his nose, looking bashful. Then he pushes a hand through his hair. ‘Hey – do you want to come to another of the shows? I could get you a backstage pass.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Sure.’ There has to be a catch. And then I remember: he’s leaving soon.
‘Where are you from in England?’ I ask, thinking wouldn’t it be funny if he was from Buckinghamshire too.
He looks down. ‘We lived in the countryside, but I was away from home a lot when I was a kid.’
‘Oh … why?’
‘Boarding school.’
‘Holy shit! You went to boarding school? I wanted to go when I was a kid,’ I tell him, unable to contain my enthusiasm. ‘I found some Angela Brazil novels in the library. They made it sound so cool, you know … midnight feasts and playing pranks. The characters all said “golly gosh” and “jolly good show”. I began talking like that for a while. People actually thought I was some weird kid from England.’
He laughs.
I fiddle with a strand of my hair. I used to think that going to a school like the ones in the books would solve my problems, that I’d get to sleep in the same bed every night, have real friends.
I don’t want to ruin the atmosphere, so I don’t say any of that. I smile instead, and notice where we are – right outside Ripley’s Believe It or Not! ‘This is where all good tourists go,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ve never been.’
‘Tourist heaven? First time for both of us then.’
As we look at a wax model of the world’s tallest man, I ask, ‘So now you’re aiming to be a musician, not a lawyer?’
He nods. ‘Not an obvious career move, but …’ He shrugs. ‘It’s who you really are,’ I say quietly.
‘Yes.’ He rubs his chin. ‘That’s it. Whether I’m successful or not, it’s only when I’m singing my own stuff that I know I’m me.’
‘You will be successful. I have a good feeling about it. Hey – maybe you’ll even be famous.’
‘I don’t know about being famous,’ he says slowly. ‘But the stakes seem higher because I’m older. I’m not a kid any more. But of course,’ he opens his arms, and his mouth splits into that wide, crooked smile of his, ‘I want as many people as possible to hear my music.’ He nods at me. ‘What about you? Any ambitions for worldwide fame and domination?’
I shake my head, laughing. ‘I’m not good at anything. There’s nothing I could be famous for, even if I wanted to be. Which I don’t.’
‘I’m sure there’s something you’re good at … You’re just being humble. Unlike me.’
I can operate a retort, make a corpse look respectable for the relatives. Not exactly talents to shout about from the rooftop. I’m not going to mention my scribbled stories – that would be embarrassing. Sam has a real gift.
‘What do your parents think of your new career path?’ I ask.
‘My parents?’ He stares at me. ‘They’re … they’re dead.’
‘Oh my God!’ My hands fly to my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ he’s saying. ‘But if you don’t mind, I … I can’t talk about it …’
‘No,’ I say, flustered. ‘Of course.’ My gaze flails about for a distraction. I notice two wizened brown b
alls behind glass. Black hair sticks out at jaunty angles. ‘Look,’ I say brightly. ‘It says here that they’re ancient shrunken heads from an Amazon tribe.’ One sports a substantial moustache, and is wearing a kind of funky patterned headband around his mop of hair. ‘John McEnroe style,’ I say.
‘Whaaaat? You cannot be serious!’ Sam shouts, doing a good impression.
We’re both laughing, and everything is all right again. As we leave the museum of curiosities, happiness opens inside me like blossom, sweet and natural and wondrous.
He stops on the boardwalk, and he’s not laughing any more. ‘I’ve just realised something,’ he says.
‘Yes?’ Our faces are close, and my heart thickens and slows so that I can hardly breathe.
He gestures with his fingers, counting. ‘Not one, but two decapitated heads on a first date.’ He grins. ‘Must be some kind of record. And I’ve discovered something about you. You’re not at all squeamish.’ He smiles. ‘Both my sisters would have found it creepy.’
The lack of the expected kiss makes me feel unbalanced. Then I remember that he called this a date.
‘Well … maybe it was a bit creepy,’ I concede, trying to sound like I mean it, trying not to think about Cindy’s sad face with her rouged cheeks and stiff expression. At least I got her skin tone to look more pink than green. I shut the image out of my mind. Right now, all I want is to concentrate on this moment, on this man walking beside me.
EIGHT
Sam, March 1983
The club is jammed. Sweat trickles down the side of Sam’s face. He wipes his sleeve across his forehead. The crowd are clapping and whooping. He can’t see anything out front except a riot of silhouettes. Cat is standing just behind the strip of curtain that serves as backstage space. She grins when he turns to look at her, and he’s jolted all over again by that sudden wide, gap-toothed smile. She looks amazing: long legs in bleached jeans, honey hair falling across her shoulders. He hardly knows her, but there’s nobody else in the world he wants here with him, sharing this.
He grasps the mic, brings it close and says, ‘This one’s for Cat. Bad Company’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love”.’ There’s an expectant din from below, and he glances at Len the drummer, who taps the beat with his stick. Then all thought is gone, because he has a bellyful of words; he tilts his head back, eyes closed, and opens his mouth. But the image of Cat remains, blowtorched onto his mind.
*
He escapes straight after the set, turning down the offer to hang out with the rest of the band. He makes his way through the crowd as she waits by the bar. He’s enjoying glimpsing her in snatches, over the shoulders of others, in the sudden flash of strobe, knowing that he’ll be with her any minute, the whole of her revealed. When he reaches her, he whispers in her ear, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The air outside is cool, sounds muted after the clamour of the club. Cat zips up her jacket and shivers. ‘Let’s walk,’ she says. ‘Warm up.’
‘Or we could go inside?’ he suggests. ‘Find another bar?’ He wonders if she’ll invite him back to her place. He doesn’t even know if she lives with someone else – or multiple someones.
‘Can we look at the ocean first?’
They make their way onto the sand, grey and gleaming in the moonlight. He can’t see another person. In the distance, the Ferris wheel is still working. She’s right. It’s good to be next to the ocean. The rush of waves soothes his pounding ears. They walk beside each other, hips and shoulders nearly level. ‘We’d smash any three-legged race,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘English tradition. You run a race with another person with your inside ankles tied together. Do you have that in America?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ she laughs. ‘We have that here too. It’s kinda funny to watch. I’ve never run in one, though.’ She’s pulling off her scarf. ‘Hey, let’s test out your theory.’ She’s kneeling at their feet, wrapping the scarf around her right ankle and his left. He feels the knot tighten. She stands up. ‘Now what?’
‘Well … I need to put my arm around your waist. And you do the same.’ He pauses for a second before he slips his hand around her ribs. Her breath rising and falling under the fabric of her top makes his senses reel. He forces himself to concentrate.
She places her hand lightly on his waist, then turns her head to look at him expectantly. ‘And now?’
He wants to lean in and kiss her, but instead he shouts, ‘Ready, steady, go!’
There’s a moment of complete disconnect. They wobble and nearly fall. Then he grabs her tighter, and they find a rhythm. His teeth jolt as they gallop with three legs over the sand through the dark, and it feels as though his heart is going to burst.
At the shoreline, they stagger to a stop; a big wave swills over their feet, freezing water soaking Sam’s trainers and the bottoms of his jeans.
‘Shit!’ he yelps.
Cat is laughing. She crouches down and unties the scarf, takes off her shoes, kicking them away from her. Her eyes are bright as she rolls up her jeans.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
‘Getting wetter,’ she says, as she wades into the black water. ‘Jeez, it’s cold,’ she exclaims. ‘But it feels kinda amazing. Come in!’
‘Is there something you need to tell me – this weird compulsion to take your shoes off all the time, does it have a name, or a cure?’ He stands at the edge. She’s only a few feet away, but he feels the sorrow of a separation. Waves splash against her legs, sending spray up her thighs. She shrieks and laughs again. Silver light catches in her hair.
‘Sharks can get you in the shallows, you know,’ he calls out.
‘God, that film has a lot to answer for.’
‘But there are Great Whites off this coast,’ he perseveres. ‘Aren’t there?’
‘I guess. But more sharks get killed by fishermen than the other way around. I’ve seen dolphins, though. Early morning’s best.’ She splashes out of the water. ‘I swim before breakfast most days.’
She’s shivering, teeth chattering like maracas on speed, and it’s a great excuse to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. Honey hair tickles his mouth and he takes a deep breath, inhaling the seaweed saltiness of the ocean. Like holding a mermaid, he thinks. His hands are inside her jacket, around the softness of her waist. Desire kindles in his groin. She breaks away, bending to put on her shoes. ‘Let’s find a bar that’s open,’ she says.
Holding hands, they walk briskly up the beach towards a flight of wooden steps and the lights of the boardwalk. He’s wondering if she felt the same careening into lust, or if it was just him. How can he feel this familiarity, and at the same time such hopeless ignorance?
As they pass the dark overhang of a pier, movement jags at his peripheral vision. Two shapes unfurl from the shadows. He grips Cat’s hand tighter. ‘Don’t look round. Keep walking.’
‘Hey!’ A shout. Rough, urgent, slurred. ‘Got a smoke?’
‘No. Sorry, mate,’ he calls over his shoulder, without pausing.
The men are walking with shambling but fast strides towards the steps. They’re parallel and gaining, and there’s an intention there; he can feel the arrowed certainty of it and he knows they’re planning on cutting them off. Adrenalin screams through him, instinct telling him the situation could escalate quickly. There are two of them. They might have knives. They’re probably high on something. He can’t take a risk, not with Cat here. ‘Run!’
Without a word, she leaps forward, sprinting beside him. He’s grateful for her lack of confusion, and her speed. They race for the steps, hand-in-hand. The shadowy figures are running too, a cackle of laughter from one of them. Sam’s chest is tight, Cat’s breath comes fast. He can hear the men behind, thinks they’ve fallen further back. But it’s not safe to stop. Not yet.
Panting, they take the wooden steps two at a time, staggering onto the boardwalk, hands on their knees, catching some air. ‘Shit.’ He glances around. It’s deserted. ‘Where are the bloody
tourists when you need them?’
‘Follow me,’ she’s saying. She heads down a narrow alley between two buildings. It’s pitch black, but her hand steadies him. On the other side, they’re next to a wide street. Cat slips in between two parked cars and crouches down, pulling him after her.
They press together, trying to control the sound of their breathing. Her jeans are wet. All his senses are on high alert, his heart banging in his ears. Everything is clearer, louder: the purr of passing vehicles, the rasp of tyres, distant voices, distant sirens. ‘We lost them,’ she says, and begins to laugh. Relief crashes through him, and he is laughing too. His belly aches with it.
Their laughter fades to hiccups. Her face is right next to his, and all he can see are her eyes, dark pupils pulling him in. He leans towards that twin darkness, and their mouths meet. They are kissing, and he’s falling through the kiss into her body, her soul, their tongues and lips saying everything he’s been feeling since they met.
They pull away, staring at each other. ‘Wow,’ he whispers.
‘I need to tell you something.’ She drops her gaze. ‘I lied,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I’m not a make-up artist.’
His brain can’t seem to catch up. The kiss has disabled the connections somehow, made him feel drunk. ‘What?’
‘I work in a funeral parlour.’
He still can’t react. The words clatter in his mind, not making sense.
‘I’m sorry.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘I knew you’d be put off. You’re creeped out, right? It’s not exactly … I don’t know … sexy.’
‘I don’t understand what it means,’ he says slowly. ‘I don’t understand what working in a funeral parlour means.’
‘It means I spend a lot of time with dead people,’ she says. ‘Corpses. I collect them from their homes or hospital. I cremate them. I scrape the ashes out of the retort. I fix them up to look better for their relatives after the rot sets in. I get them ready for burials.’
‘Okay.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘That’s … wow … that’s …’
The Bench Page 4
