by Roxie Cooper
And it’s too late to ask her now, because she’s gone.
CHAPTER 4
Friday 12 October 2007
Stephanie
I arrive at Heathwood Hall, late afternoon. Alone and on time. Has it really been a year since I was here? It’s not as picturesque as last time I arrived. Grey and drizzly clouds gather over the hills, threatening miserable weather for the weekend.
The reception area buzzes with participants waiting to check in. I recognise some of them. Then my eyes are drawn to the sign on the wall.
You meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it
I feel a tap on my right shoulder. Spinning around, I see him standing in front of me. He looks just the same as he did last year: same rugged features, icy blue eyes which contrast to his dark hair, and the black shirt he’s wearing emphasises his tall, broad frame.
‘Jamie, hi!’
He smells so familiar – an infusion of mint, lavender and sandalwood.
‘You returned!’ he says, smiling, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘It’s great to see you. How have you been?’
‘Good, thanks! I’ve even been working on my drawing.’
‘Have you now?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows.
‘Yes!’ I say proudly. ‘Lots of drawing shadows and things which aren’t there.’
I actually have been practising. Dad bought me a whole load of art supplies for Christmas and I wasted no time in putting them to use.
‘And married now, I see,’ he says, nodding towards my platinum wedding band, imprisoned on my hand by the engagement ring.
‘Yes. Got married in July and it rained – so much for a summer wedding!’
‘Ah well, English weather, I suppose,’ he sympathises.
‘Quite!’
Our eyes have been locked on each other the whole time.
‘Anyway, I’d better go to do some prep before my first workshop tomorrow.’
I smile. ‘Yes, of course. Good to see you.’
It’s only when he leaves that I feel the blush in my cheeks fade and my heart rate return to normal.
After dumping my bags, I slope downstairs to the bar and chat to the others, intermittently glancing over at Jamie. It’s a very civilised affair, with people talking about their favourite pieces of art and the odd bit of politics. I feel a bit displaced, and despite feeling the urge to grab the nearest bottle of wine, I stick to having one glass.
I somehow end up in a group who have wild opinions on Jackson Pollock, including Jamie. I watch him talk with such passion about art. He uses his entire body to express himself: his hands wave about, his eyes are animated, he leans forward, inviting everyone in to listen. And they do. It’s compelling. His eyes captivate everyone in the group, including me.
After the mini art lecture, everyone goes up to the bar to get a drink, leaving me and Jamie in the corner of the room. I can’t stop smiling at him.
‘What?’ he says, grinning back at me.
‘You love what you do, don’t you?’
‘Don’t you?’ he asks, quizzically.
‘I don’t love being a marketing manager like that, no!’ I say, laughing.
‘There’ll be something you have the same passion for. You just have to find it and then do it. Everyone has something.’
‘Just like that?’ I shrug, with an air of bewilderment.
‘Yes,’ he says, taking a drink out of his beer. ‘You look very nice tonight, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’ I peek down at my leopard-print, polo-neck fitted top which is tucked into my hipster bootcut jeans. ‘I wasn’t sure if it was too … Shania Twain?’
‘Well, I ain’t got a flash car, brains or particularly brilliant hair, so I can’t imagine you’re impressed much.’
We both laugh, reaching for our drinks, getting comfortable on the sofa.
‘So, tell me about the wedding,’ he says.
‘Ooh, yes! So—’
‘Jamie – so sorry to interrupt you – could I borrow you for five minutes?’ Bob, the course leader asks, popping out of nowhere.
Jamie flashes me a little smile and mouths ‘sorry’ as he’s dragged off. It’s getting late, anyway, so I head back to my room to get ready for tomorrow’s workshops.
Pulling the curtains back the next morning reveals an overcast autumn day.
The photography workshop is first. We attend a quick seminar with our tutor, Tom, before going outside and taking some shots. This is the workshop I really enjoy. I love capturing things on film – a moment frozen in time. You can capture a tree blowing in the wind and you’ll never see it in the same way again. The break of a wave crashes differently every single time. But it’s people I love watching the most. Like the couple in the restaurant I saw with Matt. There’s something about witnessing a split second of a moment and having that on film. Expressions of people together. Expressions of joy, anger, sadness, happiness, disappointment, desire … because you’ll never capture that same emotion again, in the same way. The way their eyes crease, or their mouths move. It’s different every single time.
Reaching the front of the Hall, I see some of the teachers chatting outside. Tom is gesturing towards the front of the building, talking about something.
‘How are you getting on, Steph?’ he asks.
‘Oh, fine!’ I respond, holding one of my iPod earbuds just outside my ear. ‘I was just wondering, can we photograph people as part of this?’
‘Yes, of course. As long as they don’t mind. I think everyone is doing their own thing, though.’
‘I’ll help you out if you want?’ Jamie says.
‘I just want to get some natural shots with some scenery in the background.’
‘Sure, happy to help. I’ve got a spare half hour.’
We walk into the grounds, past the tree where we had that moment together last year. I wonder if he’s thinking about it as we walk by, and try to think of something to say, just to take my mind off it. I ask how his year has been and he tells me some funny stories about his pupils, his holiday to Greece and that his best friend, Cal, got married in Vegas. ‘Did it without even telling me – the bastard!’ he says.
‘Right, so … how do you want to do this?’ he asks. It feels like there’s only us for miles. It’s so quiet, you pick up on people’s voices more.
‘Can you just, you know, look out into the hills? Look like you’re amazed by them,’ I say, laughing, holding the camera up to my face, taking a deep breath. Jamie does a comedic shocked expression.
‘No, a bit too much. Can you tone it down a bit, please?’
‘Sorry, Mario Testino!’ he says, deadpan. He looks out towards the hills, away from me and I take a second before I click, just to admire his jaw, which appears prominent through the lens. His hair, swept back from his face, is untamed, merging perfectly into the scenery we find ourselves in. It’s mainly straight, but curls very slightly at the nape of his neck. His broad frame stands firm in the centre of the photo. He is the definition of tall, dark and handsome. He is what women would probably describe as rugged, but in a very clean, sexy way.
Click!
‘You know, my mum always said that more words are spoken in a silent, captured image than in a full conversation if you take it at the right moment,’ I go on, gesturing for him to move forwards as I walk.
‘She’s absolutely right. It’s exactly the same for portraits, I find. They speak a thousand words. Very powerful stuff. Is your mum into all this, then?’
‘What?’
‘Photography? Art?’
‘Oh …’ I say, caught off guard, which is ridiculous seeing as I brought it up. ‘No. Well, yes, she was. She died.’
‘Oh, Stephanie. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. It was a long time ago now. I was only thirteen.’
‘It’s hard when a parent leaves when you’re a kid. Doesn’t really matter if they died or just fucked off for good. It changes the dynamic.’
‘It really does …’
‘When my dad left, I blamed my mum for so long. Wasn’t her fault, obviously. But it made me so angry. I didn’t have brothers or sisters so I dealt with it myself. I put all of my anger into art and that’s what got me through. Art was my outlet, I suppose. I’d spend all of my free time in the art block, not wanting to go home. I’d spend hours sketching, painting. Became fascinated with drawing people … portraits.’
‘I get that,’ I say. ‘I turned to music.’
‘Ahhh! So that’s why you always have your iPod on?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply, finding it hard to hide the surprise in my voice that he noticed such a thing. ‘I suppose it’s my comfort blanket, my escape. In fact, when I was a teenager I used to—’
I cut myself off before going any further. No way am I telling him that. I’ve never even told Matt or Ebony I used to do that.
‘What? ’ He looks confused.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say lightly, swishing my hand around, to change the subject. Narrowing his eyes, he peers at me suspiciously, like he knows I’m hiding something. I return the look with a cheeky smile.
‘I have to listen to music when I’m painting,’ he admits, walking alongside me as I stop him occasionally to take a photo by placing a hand on his arm. ‘It’s important. Like the art, it becomes part of you.’
‘Yes, I can relate to that.’ I look at him through the lens of my camera. He stands, looking at the ground with his hands in his pockets, his hair falling just on to his cheekbones. ‘So, what’s your relationship like with your mum now?’
‘Much better. I feel terrible for putting her through those teenage years, but it was a hard time for us both. Only later on, as an adult, could I properly grasp how hard it was for her. How is your relationship with your dad?’
‘It’s never quite recovered from Mum dying, to be honest. I think a part of him died with her. We get on well, but it’s not the same. Nowhere near.’
Jamie nods, as though he understands where I’m coming from. He’s unbelievably easy to talk to about this stuff.
‘Anyway, how about I take a few photos of you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I reply, firmly. ‘I take pictures, I don’t like being in them.’
‘OK.’ He smiles. ‘Actually, was that a spot of rain?’ Jamie says, looking up to the sky. ‘Let’s take a few more quick photos and head back before it starts pouring.’
The evening is the same format as last year. I engage in polite conversation with the other course members, but it’s Jamie who seems most interested in what I’m doing. I catch him glancing at me from another table throughout the meal. That smile he manages to hypnotise you with becomes even more captivating against the backdrop of candlelight and a glass or two of sauvignon blanc.
Once the meal ends, people start splintering off but I don’t want to go back to my room yet, so I head to the bar for another drink.
‘Why are we the only people ever here under the age of thirty?’ Jamie asks, joining me.
‘Because art is an old person’s hobby?’ I say and laugh.
‘Excuse me, darling! Would you mind awfully …?’ An older woman and her friend totally interrupt by standing between us, clearly a bit pissed and wanting to gush at Jamie about how marvellous the workshop he did for them today was.
‘Not at all! He’s all yours.’ I gesture towards him.
Before he knows it, they’re dragging him off having bought him a whisky and he’s mouthing ‘help me’ over his shoulder. Laughing, I raise my glass to him, but I’m actually relieved. It’s probably for the best I’m not around him when I’ve had a drink.
I’m quite happy sitting alone next to the fire. I pull the sleeves of my top down over my hands, like teenagers do. I never grew out of that.
‘Right, come on. We’ve got to go,’ Jamie whispers urgently in my right ear.
‘See you managed to escape then,’ I say, giggling.
‘For now. Come on, let’s go outside’
‘OK, I’ll grab a bottle of white.’ I smile, punching away all thoughts in my head which are telling me this is a very bad idea.
We pass the fountain with the dancing lady and we’re just about to dash to the tree when heavy rain starts slamming out of the sky, bouncing off the floor. It’s the kind of rain which drenches you in seconds and you don’t know whether to be amused by it or furious.
‘Shit! Plan B?’ he shouts, screwing his face up and narrowing his eyes so he can see me through the sheet-like rain.
‘Back to the bar?’ I scream.
‘We never get a conversation finished in there!’
Before I even have time to think about what I’m saying, I suggest it.
‘My room? It’s a suite, so it’s got sofas and tables!’
‘Yep! Let’s go!’
We dash inside and up the sweeping staircase to The Starlight Room. Rainwater drips off the pair of us as I fumble around for the key.
The thing being with Jamie is that time passes so quickly. It’s ridiculous how much we’ve got in common and how much he makes me laugh. For hours, we’ve been sitting on the sofa in my room, listening to the thunder and watching the lightning outside. Only one lamp, on the side table next to the bed, supplies light to the room. It radiates a soft, intimate feel around us, fitting with the old building and weather outside.
I’m curled up in one corner of the sofa, knees up to my chest. Jamie sits inches away, extending his arm along the back of the sofa, so that his fingers occasionally sweep past my hair. The white shirt he’s wearing contrasts against his dark features and he’s rolled the sleeves up. The top few buttons are undone. He wears it with jeans and looks much more like a model than an artist.
‘I’m glad you came back, I’ve been wondering how you were getting on,’ he says.
‘I wasn’t planning on it. My husband was the one who booked it, actually.’
‘Oh, OK,’ he replies, looking slightly disappointed. ‘Well, anyway, looks like the universe wanted you back here, Little Miss Cynical.’
I laugh at him. ‘You and your universe nonsense again.’
‘Shhh! It can hear you!’ he says, putting his index finger against his mouth in a bid to get me to zip it. ‘Anyway, I’d better get moving,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘Don’t want you losing out on your beauty sleep.’
‘Yes, I didn’t even realise the time,’ I lie. As the last hour or so wore on, I’ve started to feel a little more awkward, wondering how this was going to end.
We both get up off the sofa, standing opposite each other. All manner of thoughts start rapidly whooshing through my head. Do I hug him? Kiss him on the cheek? Do I dare get that close to him?
‘Well, I’ve had a great night … again,’ I tell him, walking him out. What an understatement.
‘Me too,’ he says.
The short walk over to the door fills me with sadness and dread. What if this is the last time I ever see him? He might not come back next year. I want to say … something to him; absolutely no idea what. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.
He gets there first and reaches out for the handle. Then he stops.
Turning around to face me so that I’m right in front of him, he’s closer than a friend would be. But he doesn’t look freaked out by it, and nor does he look away. He stares right into my eyes. Neither of us say anything. I have to tilt my head to look at him.
His fingers slide through the front of my hair, behind my ears. He gently places his hands on either side of my neck. My heart races as I move closer to him. Our mouths get nearer and just before they touch, we stop for a few seconds.
Millimetres away from each other. We make a choice. This is the moment to turn back, or change everything.
The kiss starts soft and slow. It builds and swirls deeper into an urgent, passionate one within seconds. Like our mouths were meant to be together. He uses his weight to turn us around, placing me against the door, pressing up to me with his body. I put my arms a
round his waist, pulling him closer. He gently bites my bottom lip. All I can think is just how amazing he is, and this feels. We both start instinctively moving towards the huge bed.
I lie down and he kisses my neck; sensual, soft, tender kisses. His body presses against me as I wrap my legs around him.
And then he breaks away, abruptly. I take a deep breath, as does he. He lies next to me, his hands covering his mouth. Silence hangs in the air but I don’t want to be the one to break it. I don’t know what to say.
‘Look, Stephanie … my God, I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m not that guy. Fuck, I’m so sorry.’
‘I know you’re not,’ I interrupt.
‘Never in ten years have I ever …’
‘I believe you.’
‘But … fuck …’ he says, looking at me. ‘There’s something about you I can’t get out of my head. I can’t imagine walking out of here and not seeing you again, talking to you. I know that sounds crazy. I know …’
I try to reassure him. ‘It doesn’t at all. I feel the same.’
‘And I know I’ve only met you twice, but I don’t know … I need to see you again.’
He needs to see me again.
‘Well, there’s always the same weekend next year?’ I suggest.
‘Well, possibly. Hopefully.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure if it will be running next year; it’s in the balance at the moment. Bob isn’t in great health and he’s unsure if he can run it any more.’
‘Oh,’ I say, trying hard to hide my disappointment. ‘Well, why don’t we exchange phone numbers? That way if it’s not on we can do something else?’
My God, what will he think of me? I’ve been married for three months. What the fuck am I playing at? It’s like all rational thought has gone out of the window and the only important thing at this moment in time is how I can see this person again.
‘I mean, if you want to?’ I go on. ‘And we don’t even have to do anything. God, not that I’d expect to do anything. Fuck. I don’t even know what this is … but we could maybe stay friends?’ I’m torn between cringing and feeling utterly wrenched apart at never seeing Jamie again.
