The one I chose was called ‘vintage tea dance’. It wasn’t an original but a copy but I just loved that dress. It was duckegg blue with sprigs of tiny darker blue, yellow and white flowers scattered over it. It had cap sleeves, a fitted bodice, a V neck back and front which showed off my cleavage, and a full skirt. It was made from polyester, not cotton, and was cut on the cross so it hung right. It fitted as if it was made for me. I put it on a hanger so as soon as I woke up I could see it. It was pretty and feminine and the style clashed with my burlesque black lace and mesh bra and pants, but I didn’t care. I liked them both.
Now I had my dress I wanted a bag that matched but that put me in a quandary. My Anya bag, strictly speaking, didn’t match the ‘tea dance dress’ so after a lot of thought I decided not to take it. That was a big mistake.
Every time I thought about meeting Gareth I felt nervous. I was still suspicious and apprehensive about why he’d asked me to his B&B. I didn’t want a repeat of Harry, who, a month after the Liverpool trip had written to say he was sorry I’d left so suddenly and he hoped there hadn’t been a misunderstanding, but apologised if he’d upset me. I hadn’t replied. I’d heard that crap before, the denials, the implication I’d got something wrong; it was like when Ifan had disappeared and I’d almost been called mad to my face.
A week before I was to meet Gareth I had a dress rehearsal in the flat. I wanted to look absolutely right. I put on my new underwear, my tea dance dress and the retro style shoes I’d bought off a stall in Camden Market. I loved them as much as my dress. They were pale green with a block heel and they did up with a bow. Dressed in my new outfit I pirouetted around the kitchen. Then I stopped and imagined Gareth making love to me. That was a real turn on.
The day of his book launch came and the weather was glorious; he’d arrived in London the night before and rang to tell me he loved his B&B and that his host and hostess were interesting, gracious and well travelled. The man had been a film editor and on location all over the world.
My mother sent her love from Wales but Gareth didn’t mention Philomena, and although I’d assumed she wasn’t coming, I asked where she was. There was a long silence. He said they weren’t getting on too well so I guessed she was pissed off about his affair with Chloe. I kept my mouth shut.
He asked whether I was sure I wasn’t going to come to the launch. I said, ‘What will you do there?’
‘Read from Girl in the Flowered Dress, answer questions, sign my book, things like that.’
When I heard that I was so embarrassed, I thought I’d pass out. My dress was flowered and people might think he was writing about me. It just hadn’t occurred to me. Maybe no one would notice, wouldn’t put two and two together, but I couldn’t be sure and that meant I’d have to keep away from them.
So I said, ‘I tell you what, I’ll be down in the café, level two, and I’ll wait there for you.’
He accepted that. So I got to the South Bank, went to the café and sat and waited for him. It was packed, noisy, but no one gave me a second glance. I didn’t get there until ten but he didn’t pitch up until almost eleven. I was reading my book, listening to music and on my second drink, when he tapped me on the shoulder. I hadn’t seen him for a year and I was shy.
He looked good in his denim shirt, black cords. Cool, I thought. He took my hand, pulled me gently out of the chair, kissed me lightly on the cheek and holding me at arm’s length studied me. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘you’ve grown up,’ and then, ‘Your outfit suits you. Quite the young lady.’ I thought about my black lingerie underwear – when he saw that, he wouldn’t say I was a lady. ‘How did your reading go?’ I asked.
‘Well. Very well, they liked it, interesting people and good questions by and large. Book sales went well too.’
He sat down and for the next five minutes talked about the launch of his book. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about going with him to his B&B and wondering about why he might be interested in me. I knew why I was interested in him.
I interrupted him, ‘Shall we go? It’s late.’
‘Of course, you’re right.’ He stood up and said, ‘We’ll get a cab.’
We went down in the lift, got to the ground floor, walked towards the exit, when three middle-aged women rushed towards him. They stood blocking his way.
‘Gareth,’ one of them gushed as if she knew him really well, ‘we were hoping to catch you to sign copies of your book.’ They pushed copies of his poetry book forward. I could see the picture of a woman on a swing on the front cover. I didn’t want to be reminded of Chloe. It upset me but I was about to feel worse. As Gareth signed their books, one of the women turned to look at me and smiling sweetly, she said, ‘Is this your “girl”, the girl in the “flowered dress”?’
Gareth turned and looked at me. His face was blank. I eyeballed the woman. I felt like smacking her one. Gareth was taken aback, I could see that. He blushed, glanced at me again, then at the floor and said, ‘This is my niece.’ He took hold of my arm, and muttered under his breath, ‘Goodbye and thank you for coming, we have to go, it’s late.’
He smiled at her, propelling me towards the door but once out of earshot he muttered through clenched teeth, ‘Bitch.’
He looked grim. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to say anything, but he was right to be angry. The woman was a wind-up merchant. As for myself I was mortified. I didn’t want his yearning for Chloe associated with me. I wasn’t her and I wasn’t a substitute. That’s how I saw it. My mood had plummeted. We walked in silence to the back of the Royal Festival Hall. Once we reached the street, he said, ‘Are you sure you want to come? It’s late. I’ll accompany you back to Stroud Green if you need to get back.’
There was a line of black cabs waiting. It was now or never. The moment I’d prepared for. I took a deep breath.
‘No, I want to see where you’re staying. You said I could. Let’s get a cab.’
He shrugged his shoulders, looked resigned, then smiled.
‘Okay, I shouldn’t let these comments get to me. They’re bad for the soul.’ He pulled the cab door open, did a mock bow, said, ‘Ladies first,’ and leaned over to give the address to the cabbie.
Once we’d left the South Bank, he relaxed and became chatty. I could tell the evening had been successful by how happy he was. He looked good and very fanciable but I was getting more nervous the nearer we got to where he was staying. The cab pulled up, Gareth paid and we walked up the path to the house. He had a key to the front door. We walked into the hall. I was hoping everyone was out. I didn’t want a repeat of the kind of comment we’d heard earlier. I was edgy and wanted to get to his room before we were seen. The house was quiet. Everybody must have been asleep in bed, or out. We walked up the stairs. The hall was lined with paintings and prints, but I didn’t look at them.
He unlocked the door and led the way into his suite. It was a large room, the double bed placed near the window. One corner of the white duvet was pulled across. The room was decorated in shades of off-white, gold and yellow, including the Roman blinds which were made of linen printed with massive, deep yellow, shaggy chrysanthemums.
I avoided looking at the bed. I was feeling slightly intimidated. On the mahogany side table someone had placed bouquets of flowers in glass vases. Gareth walked across and looked at the cards attached to the cellophane wrapping. He read them in silence.
‘Who sent you those?’
‘Chloe, my wife, my publisher, and two anonymous.’
‘That’s nice.’
It wasn’t really, not the one from Chloe, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. Gareth sat down in one of the velvet chairs and looked at me. Not in a horrible way but in a kind of bemused way, as if he couldn’t make out what was going on and didn’t know what to say. I sat down opposite. I felt awkward.
‘Well, that’s it. I’m glad it’s over.’ He paused. ‘It’s good of you to come
.’
‘Anya. Not Echo.’
‘I wasn’t going to call you Echo.’
‘No?’
‘No. What have you been up to?’
By that time, I was really edgy. I jumped up and blurted out, ‘Do you have anything to drink?’
He got up. ‘What would you like? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, Perrier water?’
‘None of those. Haven’t you got anything stronger?’
He folded his arms, looked disapprovingly at me. ‘Yes, I have, but should you have anything stronger?’
‘I’m…don’t be patronising. I’m almost sixteen. I’ve had wine and I’ve been drunk.’
‘Not such a good idea.’
I ignored that. ‘Do you have a mini bar?’
He looked exasperated, walked across the room and opening a cupboard, which concealed a bar, said without looking at me, ‘What would you like?’
‘Is anyone else here?’
‘Don’t know. What would you like?’
‘Wine. White.’
‘A spritzer? With lemonade?’
‘Okay.’
He started to mix one but didn’t finish it because his mobile was ringing. He looked to see who was calling, then he said, ‘Sorry, Anya, I won’t be long. I need to take this.’ He walked into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him.
I was on my own. I looked round the room, walked across to the flowers, picked up a card. It said, ‘Darling, congratulations. So sorry I’m not there with you. Hope it went well, all my love. “The girl in the flowered dress”.’ It was from Chloe.
Another said, ‘From your wife, Philomena. Remember me?’ I couldn’t be bothered to read the others. So far, so predictable. I wondered how long Gareth would be.
I sat down, waiting for him to return. I felt nervous and at a loose end. I finished mixing the spritzer and drank it without tasting it. I peered out of the window into the night. I couldn’t see a thing. I went back to the mini bar. I poured myself another wine, this time leaving out the lemonade. It was a large one. I downed it quickly. He was taking a long time. I walked to the bed and lay down on top of the duvet. I almost fell asleep until I imagined Gareth kissing me. That kept me awake. I didn’t want it to end.
Gareth’s raised voice interrupted me. He was saying, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I told you she’s not here.’ I got off the bed, put my ear to the door and listened.
His voice was muffled, ‘Look, I have Anya here. Echo, yes. She’s changed her name. You knew that. She’s got a right to do that. No, I’m not getting her to the phone. Yes, yes, yes. I know that already. I need to get her home soon.’
There was silence. I could hear Philomena ranting even through the door so he must have been holding the phone away from him.
The wine was getting to me. I walked unsteadily across to the mini bar. There was no wine left. I turned my attention to a row of small cans of cocktails. I didn’t know any of them.
I picked one at random called ‘French Kiss’. It was okay but not wonderful. I tried a ‘Mojito’.
That was better. I liked it. I was about to have another when waves of sickness pulsed through me. I tried to focus. The pattern on the carpet came up and hit me in the face. I was going to vomit. I lurched into the bathroom.
The loo was covered with cling film. I ripped it off and knelt with my head over the bowl. I tried to be sick but I couldn’t, even when I pushed my fingers down my throat. Eventually the nausea passed and I got back on my feet. There was a huge mirror over the bath. I looked at my reflection and began to wobble. I looked weird and felt dizzy. I thought I might collapse and fall on to the edge of the bath, so I steadied myself by holding on to the basin. I noticed a tumbler with plastic over it, so I tore it off, filled it with water and drank it but it didn’t stop the effects of the alcohol. That was hitting me big time. I could hardly stand. I had to lie down before I fell over.
I staggered back into the bedroom, pulled off my dress and threw it on to a chair. I stood for a moment swaying in my new black lace bra and pants. I looked down at my new shoes, then I kicked them off one at a time so they swung through the air, landed across the room and on to the bed. I thought that was very funny. There was a full-length mirror by the side table and I stood admiring myself, practising seductive poses. That made me laugh as well, especially when I wobbled. With my back to the mirror, my hands on my hips and my legs apart, I looked over my shoulder and winked at myself. Maybe I could become a burlesque dancer if I was ever out of work.
After I got tired of posing, I needed to go to the loo and lurched across the room to the bathroom again. I didn’t bother shutting the door. Gareth was still talking in the next room.
I made my way back to the bed, carefully negotiating all the obstacles. I fell over once and banged against a table piled with books. They flew off, including one of Gareth’s poetry books. I picked it up and carefully placed it back on the table. I expected Gareth to open the door but he didn’t. He was so into his row with Philomena, he didn’t hear. I got into the bed, pulled the duvet over me and fell into a drunken sleep.
I was woken by Gareth. He was shouting, ‘I find that extremely offensive.’ It went quiet. I drifted off back to sleep, but not for long.
I was roused again. Gareth was shaking my shoulder and standing over me. I opened my eyes. Even through the alcoholic haze, I could see he didn’t look pleased. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Gareth…sssh…be quiet…I’m asleep…don’t… A Mojito. It’s that. I’ve. Had. Drunk too much. It’s. Your. Fault. It’s your…’
I was falling asleep between each word and my speech was slurred. I tried sitting up but the room spun round on its axis. I lay back feeling sick as a pig, and drifted off. When I woke, he’d moved across the room and was sitting in a chair. He looked angry. I tried to apologise, but no proper words came out. I was speaking gibberish.
He banged his fist against his forehead and said, ‘This is all I bloody need. A drunken teenager in my bed.’ He was glowering with rage. He stood up. Started pacing the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. He was making me feel worse. He glanced at me, saw I was waking up. I struggled to sit up. ‘I’m thirsty, Gareth.’
‘I’m getting you some water.’ He went to the bathroom, filled a glass and stood over me. ‘Here. Take this. Drink it.’ I drank it. He gave me another, then moved across the room and sat in an armchair, watching me as I drank.
I slowly put my finger to my lips. ‘Sssh, Gareth, you must be quiet, you’ll wake people up. Come here and don’t be angry.’ I patted the bed, pulled the duvet back. ‘Look. I’ve got nothing on. Look. Wouldn’t you like to see me without clothes?’
He was silent. His eyes transmitted hate, hostility, dislike. I, on the other hand, was on a mission. ‘Did you hear me, Gareth? Gareth. Gareth.’ My voice became slower, more seductive each time I pronounced his name. ‘You don’t believe me? Do you?’
I pulled the duvet right down, undid my bra, swung my legs out of the bed and stood up.
‘Oh no, you don’t. You’re drunk.’
With just my pants on, I lurched towards him. He jumped up as if scalded and, turning his back on me, moved fast towards the bathroom, slammed the door shut and locked it. That was funny. So funny. Everything made me laugh now. He was frightened of me. I rattled the door knob. ‘Let me in.’ There was no response. I remembered what that bra fitter had said about burlesque dancers. They tease. I spoke sweetly outside the door.
‘Gareth, I’ve got nothing on. I’m waiting for you to make love to me. You know, like you do with Chloe. I saw you. I want you to do to me what you do with her. Gareth.’
It was cruel, I know. He’d gone quiet. I went across and put on a dressing gown lying across a chair. Then I returned to sit outside the bathroom door like a cat waiting for a mouse. Eventually I fell asleep on the floor and when I woke up, h
e’d come out of the bathroom and was asleep in a chair. I felt mean.
I slowly walked across towards him but he heard me because he opened his eyes and looked at me as if I was a cockroach crawling out from underneath a door.
‘I’m sorry, Gareth, I was drunk, but I don’t feel so bad now.’
He was wary. ‘You’re still drunk.’ As he said this my dressing gown fell open. He recoiled, ‘Don’t come any nearer and do up that dressing gown.’
I pulled it across. ‘I wasn’t going to do anything, anyway.’
‘Behave yourself, because if you don’t, I’ll leave and go elsewhere.’
‘You’re horrible to me. Gareth. What time is it?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Three twenty-five.’
‘I want a cup of tea. Will you make me one?’
He sighed, but got up and silently made one. He put it on the floor by me. ‘Don’t spill it.’ The atmosphere was tense.
‘Don’t you want one?’ I said, as if everything was normal. He didn’t answer, went back to the chair and sat watching me. He shook his head as if he couldn’t make out what was going on.
‘Why didn’t you make love to me?’ He didn’t answer.
‘I wanted you to. You could have been the first.’
‘Give me a break, Echo.’
‘Anya. I keep telling you. I’m Anya. Why? I want to know why.’
After a long time he said, ‘Why do you think?’
‘Because I’m ugly?’
‘Is that what you really believe?’
‘Dunno. Maybe you find me repulsive.’
‘No. I don’t find you repulsive.’
‘Well, what is it?’
He sighed. ‘Maybe it’s because you’re still below the age of consent. Maybe it’s because you’re very drunk. Maybe it’s because I have a wife and I’m in love with another woman. Maybe it’s because I’m already in a mess. Are those enough reasons to be going along with? Do you understand?’
My Name Is Echo Page 15
