Pillow Talk

by Freya North

  ‘We didn't smoke, sir.’

  ‘I think there's probably more harm in a dodgy kebab than in a ciggie, Thomas.’

  ‘Can I have a fag instead of a kebab then, Mr S?’

  ‘No, you bloody well can't!’

  ‘If we queue for a kebab, it gives you and Miss Petra some, you know, time?’

  Arlo and Petra glanced at each other, then they looked at Felix as if he was a genius. So the boys queued and Arlo and Petra stood, out of earshot but in view.

  ‘So,’ he said.

  ‘So!’ she said.

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’

  ‘Did I! That Chris McCormack is a rock god!’

  ‘Are you drunk, Flint?’

  ‘I think I am rather! Do I look like the wild woman of Borneo?’

  ‘You look lovely. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Do I look lovely – tonight?’

  ‘No. I mean yes. I mean you look lovely. And what I mean is tomorrow. Can I see you?’

  ‘Aren't you tied to your flock?’

  ‘I can leave them in the capable hands of a shepherd at Columbia Records.’

  ‘Your friend?’

  ‘My friend Mike Smith.’

  ‘Good old Mike Smith.’

  ‘He's a lovely bloke – you'd like his wife too. I'll introduce you one day.’

  ‘Talking of wives, did you hear about Jenn and your Nige?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I miss Jenn.’

  ‘Come back.’

  ‘I don't know, Arlo. I—’

  ‘Look, I need you to meet me tomorrow, Watford Junction. I'll escort the boys to Columbia Records first thing – then make my way over.’

  ‘Watford? Why Watford?’

  ‘I have an errand. I need you there. There's something I have to do. Something I have to tell you. Somewhere I have to go. Something you need to know.’

  Chapter Forty-six

  There was a shoe in the fridge when Petra went there for the milk for her morning coffee. But she removed the shoe as if it was nothing unusual, nothing more sinister than a yoghurt past its sell-by date. Something that shouldn't be there – but no big deal. Very privately, she was frustrated at the indisputable evidence of her somnambulism because actually, she had awoken feeling well rested and eager to have the day under way. Oh, most auspicious day! A trip to Watford. A mystery! Why Watford? Why, why? She went back into her bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed contemplating the mug of coffee, blowing on it measuredly like a flautist, sending glinting concentric circles rippling across the surface, sipping demurely as if the Nescafé was Noilly Prat.

  ‘Why Watford?’ she wondered out loud. But she didn't dare answer herself out loud too. Nothing must tempt fate. She let two thoughts scuttle across her mind:

  Watford is where my father lives.

  Is Arlo all set to do the honourable thing?

  A surge of adrenalin coursed through her. A sense that this was to be one of the defining days of her life.

  Little did she know it was to be one of the defining days of Arlo's life, too. But he was acutely aware of the fact. It had prevented him from sleeping a wink.

  It did cross Petra's mind that Watford underground station would be more convenient than Watford Junction mainline – it was a pleasant walk to her father's house from there. But of course there was no way she could alert Arlo to this; nothing should compromise the magnitude of the gesture she was willing him to make. She did wonder if Arlo had actually been in touch with her father and if so, how had he come by his number? And if he hadn't, then might it be a wasted trip – because it was unlikely her father would be at home on a Friday morning. And then she thought that her daydreaming was veering off on a ridiculous tangent. Perhaps this trip had nothing at all to do with her family. But it would be amazing if it did have to do with the other. With betrothal. Perhaps there was some idyllic spot, which happened to be nearer Watford Junction, that Petra didn't know. Or perhaps they were going to meet someone. Arlo's mum, maybe? How far was Potters Bar? Could Watford be her suggestion? Is there a stately home near there with a nice place for lunch or something? Where's Hatfield House? Petra was hoping to meet her; Arlo spoke so fondly of her. And, being someone whose parents showed little interest in her, Petra had long been on the lookout for surrogates: subconsciously or otherwise. Was today really going to be that mystical day when she was going to be invited into a family? Whatever, Watford was fine by Petra.

  Here we are.

  Where's Arlo?

  There he is.

  Christ, he looks dreadful.

  *

  Petra was aware that Arlo had seen her but that he had chosen to look away. He was a hunched figure, deathly pale. His hands plunged deep into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched up against his ears, as if he was trapped in a micro-climate; that it was winter in his world and that he was freezing cold. Actually, it was T-shirt weather; cropped jeans and sandals for Petra.

  ‘Hullo?’ she said, cocking her head to peer up into his downcast face.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, darting away from eye contact as if it hurt. ‘Hi.’ He ushered her into a taxi, mumbling something to the driver.

  She gave him a long, tender kiss on his cheek. He pecked her back. His eyes bloodshot, so dark around the sockets that it looked as though he'd been daubed with coal dust. He had that haunted look about him – like those photographs of miners who'd been trapped in some hell-hole deep beneath the surface of everyday life. Waiting to be rescued.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Didn't sleep.’ He looked up at Petra and she wasn't sure whether his expression was so much beseeching as one of terror. The journey continued in silence. ‘Here's fine,’ he suddenly said, repeating himself when the cabbie said, ‘But—’ He took Petra's hand, dragging her. ‘Come on,’ he said and he set off; a sense of dread about the manner of his walk, as if his body was resigned to be going in one direction but his soul was trying desperately to pull him in the other.

  I don't think we are going to my father's, Petra thought. And I don't think Arlo is going to propose to me today.

  So where is he taking me? And why has he asked me to join him on a journey that he so obviously does not want to make?

  His pace falters and then picks up and then falters again. As if positive thoughts are in constant battle with negative.

  ‘You OK?’ Petra had asked him a couple of streets ago.

  ‘Fine,’ he had said, unconvincingly.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Petra just asked him, deciding to be bright and cheery.

  ‘Not far now,’ he answered, his voice like paper being torn, floating away in the rush of traffic on the A41.

  Petra thinks perhaps she ought not to talk until they've arrived at wherever it is that they are going. His hands are still in his pockets, but she links her arm through his and she thinks it's a good idea to smile for the both of them.

  They are walking now alongside a cemetery.

  Approaching the gates.

  And this is where Arlo stops.

  He turns to Petra.

  ‘I—’ His voice is choked by tears. Petra can see him visibly bite down hard on his bottom lip. He has his back to the gates. He is swaying, just perceptibly, from foot to foot – whether it's to keep his balance, or whether he is losing it, is unclear.

  ‘Arlo?’ Petra says gently, touching his forearm with her fingertips. He takes a step back. Won't look at Petra. ‘She's in there,’ he says, with a quick look over his left shoulder.

  Petra is standing in front of Arlo so she has to move a little to one side, to peer in the direction to which he alluded. She can't see anyone. Well, she can see an old boy, with his wheelbarrow. But she can't see a ‘she’.

  ‘Who is?’ she asks.

  ‘Helen is,’ Arlo says.

  ‘Helen's in there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He's still not looking at her.

  ‘Where?’ Petra is flummoxed.

  ‘In there,’ Arlo says.
>
  ‘She's in there right now?’ Petra asks.

  ‘Yes, she's in there,’ Arlo says. He is shaking. ‘She's dead.’

  Petra is so physically winded by this that she staggers a step backwards. She is shocked, horrified and she's clasped her hands to her mouth – gobsmacked, literally. ‘Helen died?’

  Arlo is staring at his feet, his shoulders are starting to heave. Petra knows that he is crying and momentarily she is not quite sure the best way to react, for Arlo's sake. She's never seen a man cry. Should she leave him alone or crowd him with the surges of love and sympathy she's feeling? She takes a step closer. Another. His hands are in his pockets. Occasionally, his voice breaks through the mostly silent, racking sobs. She slips her arms around his waist and lays her head against his chest. His heavy heavy heart. Her whirling, whirring mind. What should I say? How do I feel? Christ, she's dead.

  Petra is relieved to feel, finally, Arlo's arms around her. He's not so much holding her tight, but clinging to her. And he's crying; his voice light, like a boy's. And Petra is OK with this. So she tells him so.

  ‘It's OK, it's OK.’

  And when he is quieting down a little she gently, very gently, says, ‘What happened?’

  And he says to her, in a voice as clear as the skies above them, ‘I killed her.’

  Chapter Forty-seven

  It does cross Petra's mind that the bench she and Arlo have limped to, and have sat on in long, long silence, is probably reserved for the elderly. It's dedicated to the memory of Alfred Harold and his dates show that he departed this world at a ripe old age. The bench is outside the cemetery, but huddled close to the wall. Arlo is slumped with the effort of his revelation. Petra is sitting bolt upright with the shock of it. It's as if it has left his body and speared hers.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  ‘I drove her to it,’ Arlo says, ‘literally.’

  Petra isn't sure what she feels. Is she to run from him? Or is she here to save his soul? It feels as if her world is on the verge of demolition. Does she have time to stay and listen? Just so that she knows? But she is wary of what she's about to hear. Yet he's brought her this far. Haven't they both come this far? And that's big. She rests her back against Alfred Harold's bench and she and Arlo are shoulder to shoulder, touching.

  ‘Ten years ago,’ Arlo starts and then stops. Petra looks at him because she's sensed he's stopped breathing. He's staring hard and she knows he's a decade away. He exhales. ‘Ten years ago, I met Helen. She was four years older than me. Very attractive. Very – well – sorted, in a way. I was songwriting. She was forging ahead in management – worked for a company that consulted at the record label I wrote for. I really really liked her. I know this sounds stupid – but I liked the fact that she was so driven, ambitious, tailored. She was a proper woman, I suppose. She was unlike anyone I'd been with – who up until then were mostly younger than me and in the music business. Archetypal rock chicks. It's difficult to paint you a picture. It's irrelevant in some ways. I was seduced by the whole yin-yang aspect – me the musician, strumming and strolling through life, working when I wanted, how I wanted, wearing what I felt like, living it up into the small hours, sleeping until the afternoon. Helen was this motivated, vibrant woman who was up with the lark and first in the office and wore expensive suits and killer heels. Initially, I got off on being her bit of rough – though actually, our backgrounds and families were very similar.

  ‘I liked the way she bossed me around and organized my life. Everything felt so easy. I didn't have to think. We had good food, good wine, good sex, good prospects, good friends. So when she proposed to me a couple of years later – on a leap-year Valentine's Day – I didn't really think about saying no. I said yes. I thought, Why not? Everyone was delighted, of course. My mother was thrilled. Helen bossed her around too, in the nicest possible way – took her clothes shopping, tea at the Ritz, organized for the house to be redecorated, invited my mum over to her parents'. Organized her parents to involve my mum in all sorts. My mum was game. She'd been widowed, remember.

  ‘And so my life bowled on. The wedding soon became everything. Helen chose the ring and I sent a cheque because she'd even thought to arrange for the invoice to be sent to me. She showed me pictures of our wedding venue, details of where we'd honeymoon, particulars of houses she thought would be suitable. And on and on it went. Was I happy? I wasn't unhappy. I was happy trotting at her high heels. I didn't have to think.

  ‘Then Rox wanted a song and they didn't much care for my new stuff. And I wrote something specifically with them in mind – with their singer's voice in my ears – and they didn't like that either. And they said, How about a ballad? I hadn't really done ballads in a long while. I told them so and they said, Well, what did you do a while ago, and I laughed and strummed a few chords of “Among the Flowers” very fast and their jaws dropped and they said, We love, we love it. I said, Are you mad – I wrote that when I was a teenager.

  ‘Anyway, I had to stand there and perform it for them and their manager, having not even thought about that song, let alone sung it, for years and years. But something swept over me, engulfed me, while I sang it. I'd love to say it was a vision of you, Petra – especially as look at us now, the full circle that we've come – but it wasn't like that. However, what the song did do, was transport me back to a time of such idealism, a time when my wishes and hopes were so pure, a time when I wrote songs like that because I believed absolutely that love made the world go round, that love was the greatest thing to which one should aspire, love was what songs were meant to be about, love was life's driving force.

  ‘Deluded, maybe – I was only sixteen, seventeen, when I wrote “Among the Flowers”.’

  ‘But singing it again made me experience anew all those dormant feelings. Those sky-reaching hopes and the freshness that had once defined me, that had inspired me to write that song, flooded back. And while I knew that I had over-romanticized love – because, back when I wrote it, I didn't really know anything about it, of course – I did know that there had to be more. Between me and Helen. There had to be more. Marriage – however old-fashioned – remains the apotheosis of love. And even though my early twenties had hardened some of the softness of my teenage dreams, I still knew that if you are to marry a woman you ought to really, really love her.

  ‘And giving my love song to Rox was like relinquishing a little bit of me. When I looked to see what was left I saw a man about to fuck up his life and the life of another. I didn't want to be that man. And actually, I couldn't do that to my mum. She'd loved my dad so. I couldn't throw away that gold-edged leaf from their book which they'd so lovingly written.

  ‘I had to call it off. For everyone's sake. For my sanity.

  ‘I was a coward. I dithered and dallied and turned deaf ears to my conscience. And the wedding was getting closer and closer and the plans were being refined and the details were becoming even more ornate and expensive and with one week to go I thought to myself, If I don't say something now, I will be walking up that aisle in seven days’ time and the rest of our lives, the lives of so many, will be my fault.

  ‘But still I was a coward. And I was awful – I was sullen and cold, I suppose hoping to give Helen reason to call it off first. But she just laughed and patted me – I really remember that: she patted me – and she said, Don't you go getting cold feet now, the deposits are non-refundable. And Petra, I don't even know if she was joking. When I think back to it, Helen was so meticulous and organized, of course she'd have ensured money-back clauses where possible. She was brilliant at stuff like that. But it made me feel shit and I thought I'd better just shut up and put up.

  ‘It was making me ill. I couldn't keep any food down. I couldn't work. All I could do was sleep. I'd sleep for great tracts of the day. Maybe it was a form of narcolepsy, I don't know – perhaps I slept to block it all out, to have time out from worrying about how to do what I knew I had to do. I could be anywhere – home, bus, work, eating, reading,
talking – and sleep would just envelop me like a heavy black cloak of sublime nothingness.

  ‘Helen was worried. Helen organized a doctor's appointment. Helen thought I had a virus, or a reaction to the jabs we'd had for our honeymoon. I didn't go to the doctor. I was asleep. I wouldn't have gone anyway. That night, when Helen came home from her last day at work – two days before the wedding – she was white as a sheet. And I just about managed to tear myself away from the TV to say, Are you OK, babe? And she said, You don't love me, Arlo, do you? And my pause was all the information she needed. And she said, Shit. And I said, I'm sorry. And she said, Do you really not love me? And I said, I really really like you – you're an amazing woman. And she said, Did I think I could still marry an amazing woman that I really really liked? And there was no pause before I said, No, I didn't think I could. And Helen yelled, Are you telling me that I'm to call off my wedding? And I yelled, It's my wedding too. And she screamed, It was never your fucking wedding, Arlo.

  ‘And that's the last thing she said to me.

  ‘She drove off in a fury. I don't know where she was going. No one does. To her parents, I suppose. But there was a crash.’

  ‘You didn't kill her,’ Petra weeps, turning to Arlo urgently.

  ‘I did,’ Arlo says before Petra can continue. ‘She was on life support. Her parents thought I should be the one to turn the machine off. On our wedding day. They thought it would be symbolic. They thought it would help me heal. They thought it was what Helen would have wanted. So you see, I did kill her, Petra. I broke her heart. I broke her body. And then I turned the fucking machine off and that was that.’

  His breath is coming fast and shallow.

  ‘And they all still think I'm some kind of saint for whom tragedy struck at such a young age. And I haven't corrected them. Everyone loves me, everyone cares about me, everyone feels so desperate for me. I've never told anyone the truth, Petra. I've been living a lie. I've never told anyone any of this. No one knows. No one knows. Just you. My lovely lovely you.’