by L. V. Hay
‘Yes, you said.’ He’s humouring me.
Irritation prickles the back of my shoulders. ‘No. I mean I’ve met her. Tonight.’
Matthew rubs his face with his left hand. I can hear the scrape of bristles under his palm. ‘So, what does this prove?’
Even I am forced to admit he has a point. ‘I’m not sure … yet.’
Matthew still stares at me. He reaches across the tiny space and grabs for the bow in my hair. It unravels. My hair falls in soft waves around my face. He nods almost imperceptibly, as if to say: That’s better.
Embarrassed, I try to change the subject. ‘I went to see Cerise about JoJo.’
‘I told you, Jenny’s not JoJo.’
I think back to the strange, secretive goth-like girl I met an hour ago. The pale, white make-up, the red wig … her black, shoulder-length hair underneath. JoJo has a completely different bone structure, different-coloured hair. I hate to make comparisons, and as much as it pains me to say it, Jenny is far, far more attractive than India’s old friend.
‘I know. I still think JoJo’s hiding something, though.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. If I could just talk to her…’ As I say this, I see something shift across Matthew’s face. ‘Do you know where JoJo lives?’
‘No.’ He says, his expression earnest. ‘But…’
‘Matthew?’ I prompt.
He exhales. ‘JoJo works at The Obelisk. She’s one of the hotel’s PAs.’
So Jabba JoJo really has moved up in the world. I envisage Cerise, her fierce pride in her eldest child. The Obelisk is one of the biggest employers in Brighton. The hotel and restaurant must employ more than a hundred and fifty people. Waiters, porters, drivers, chambermaids, cleaners, admin, bar and kitchen staff are all required to keep such a huge machine ticking over.
‘JoJo lives at the hotel?’
‘That’s not for me to say.’ Matthew steps away from me now, his back against the wall. Literally and figuratively.
So she does then. The space between us feels charged. Matthew’s gaze flickers from my face to neck, back again. The temperature in the room seems to rise by several degrees. My brain throbs in time with the muffled music of the bar beyond, straining against my skull.
I lose the fight with myself. I reach forwards. But Matthew’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, preventing me. His fingers close around my flesh. His fingertips feel worn, scratchy. His big brown eyes are sad, not angry.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, ‘I should never…’ I can’t bring the words into being. None are adequate.
Matthew draws me closer to him. He presses my body against his, his flesh stiff against mine. I am transfixed, confused by how the tables have been turned on me. I’m following his lead, when before it was always mine.
Matthew growls in my ear. ‘Why did you have to come back?’
He has one hand on my waist, his other now on the back of my neck, holding me still. I know he won’t hurt me, but I am still in his power.
And I like it.
‘For India…’ His grip on my neck tightens and I flinch. I say what I think he wants to hear. ‘I came back for you, too.’
But his expression remains stony. Uncertainty creeps through me. I can’t deny the thrill of it. Matthew has never behaved this way with me before; he’s become someone else.
I try another tack. ‘Look. I get it, OK?’
‘I don’t think you do.’
In a single fluid movement, Matthew turns me around. I’m now facing away from him. He moves me towards the desk, but not before he sweeps his other arm across it. Items go to crashing to the floor: an out-tray, more paperwork.
Before my brain can catch up, Matthew bends me over the wood. My palms lie flat on the table surface, him pressed up behind me. He places one foot between mine, prises my ankles apart.
‘What the hell?’ I struggle a little, but it’s just for show. In the mirror shine of the desk, I can see the smile on my face.
He still has one hand on the back of my neck. The other finds it way inside my sister’s silver dress, grabbing my nipple.
I arch my back as he traces the bumps of my spine in my neck with one finger. He moves both his hands to my breasts, his breath hot on my cheek.
He looms over me. ‘Do you get it now?’
I get it. He is in charge. Matthew’s hands encircle my waist. He grabs my hips, pulling me to him, rubbing me through my dress. I moan. But then…
There’s a knock at the door.
Distracted now, Matthew gives a low groan. He lets go, calling out behind him, ‘One minute!’
I stand up with as much dignity as the sudden about-turn will allow. Matthew adjusts his crotch, rolls his shoulders.
I smooth down my wrinkled dress and realign the top of it. Matthew waits for me, then unlocks the door and wrenches it open, his body language still rigid.
It’s the teenage kitchen porter. Her expression is poker-faced. If she’s guessed what we might have been doing, she gives nothing away.
‘Lou says get out front ’cos Reuben’s a lazy twat.’
Another smile tugs at Matthew’s mouth. ‘That’s a direct quote, is it?’
The teenager shrugs, unapologetic. Matthew looks to me, holding one arm out towards me. For a moment, I think he’s going to sweep me to his chest and hug me like he used to, one arm around my shoulders.
Then I realise: He’s shepherding me out. My cheeks burn. I am dismissed.
I swallow down my embarrassment. ‘Anyway. Thanks for the information.’
Matthew is cool as ever. ‘You’re welcome.’
Matthew’s smell of tea tree and aftershave invades my senses as he squeezes past me, leaving me on my own.
Twenty-nine
I dream of the Prince Albert, filled with black light like Elemental. The dance floor heaves with bodies. Strobes give the appearance of lightning, illuminating faces as I struggle to focus. Somehow, I know my sister is in the crowd, with Jenny. My eyes can’t find either of them. Instead, I see only Matthew in the middle of the surge of the bodies.
He’s looking right at me.
Matthew is Medusa. I feel frozen in place, my limbs turned to stone. I can’t look away. I don’t want to. His white shirt is luminous, like a beacon; so are his eyes. He smiles. His teeth are impossibly white: wolfish, almost canine. Strobes flash around us like a warning.
I know I shouldn’t go to him, but I can’t help myself. Even though I’m asleep, I know the physical response my body is undergoing is real. I awake, bathed in sweat, heat pours from between my legs.
‘You get off, if you want.’
I blink. Sitting in the booth in the arcade, the petulant squawks of seagulls outside filter into my consciousness. Tim appears next to me, a bucket of coppers trailing from his hand.
‘You sure?’
‘Don’t take two of us. The place is dead.’
Tim doesn’t turn in my direction. He wanders over to the penny-falls machine, shoulders hunched, as close to a physical rendering of ‘miserable’ as a man can get. He kneels down beside the machine, unlocking its back with one of the many keys on the ring on his belt.
‘Well, why don’t you go … sit with Mum?’
Returning to the booth with the bucket, my stepfather looks at me without seeing, a wistful look etched on his features. ‘She doesn’t want me,’ he says.
Of course she doesn’t. She only wants India.
‘We all just need time.’ Even as the words leave my lips, I can hear them for what they are: hollow.
But my stepfather’s attention is already elsewhere. I grab my bag. Tim opens the booth door for me. He pats my shoulder absentmindedly as I pass.
I wander through the glass double-doors of the arcade and out onto the pier. Below, the sea is grey, choppy, silt churning through the water. I walk back towards the concrete of the seafront.
A few of the kiosks and stalls are open now, but the majority of them sit idle. I lean
against a nearby kiosk’s colourful, padlocked front door. The tide is out, far in the distance, leaving pebbles and twists of seaweed stranded.
The seafront is uncommonly deserted, even for a weekday. A figure with a metal detector runs his machine across the shale, but from this distance, he is far enough away to seem like a matchstick man.
The only thing standing between the headland in the distance and me is The Obelisk, reaching its black marble pillar high into the air, a single shaft of sunlight spearing down from the white sky, shining off its tip.
The wind behind me, buffeting me along, I set off towards the hotel. The tinny bells and rattlers on the moored boats below send a metallic, out-of-tune song after me. Teeth chattering, I race up the steps to the hotel and dive into the revolving doors. As I’m forced to shuffle at sedate pace, I flush as a blast of warm air envelops me and my body temperature tries to adjust. The revolving doors spit me out into the vestibule, my face bright red. I must look deranged.
The concierge who lolls at his post barely takes any notice of me. In his late thirties, he reminds me of a young Alan Temple: ambition exudes from every pore. But I am of only minor interest to him. He can see I am not The Obelisk’s regular clientele just by glancing at me. No tips here. Just like the seafront beyond, the hotel is deserted. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to explain my presence.
I flip my straggly hair out of my face. ‘Hi. I’m looking for the restaurant?’
The concierge smiles back, out of politeness more than anything else. He nods in the direction of a glass foyer beyond the reception, clearly marked BAR & RESTAURANT. Sheepish, I slope past, but as I do, he makes a fist in the air, as if to say ‘Yes!’ I freeze. He remembers himself, looking around the hotel reception, just in case. I see then that he has an earpiece in his left ear, a surreptitious cable under his collar. He’s listening to some game. Embarrassed, I rush into the bar.
Crossing the threshold, I look around, expectant. The place is empty. No one sits at any of the restaurant tables. Did I really believe JoJo Musgrave would be here, waiting for me? I must have, because a perverse disappointment lances through me.
There is just a young barman behind the huge, black-marble bar. He gives me a forced smile as I meander towards him. He is stacking a tray of clean shot glasses under the counter. I can smell lemon detergent wafting from the tray.
‘Hi. JoJo Musgrave in today?’
The young barman’s fake smile wilts. He has no idea who I’m talking about.
‘Maybe later?’
He shrugs: ‘Sorry. I’m new.’
Me too, I want to say. Except, am I? Everything seems so familiar, yet so markedly different. I feel as if my old life has been demolished, like our old flat in Hove. My new life seems like it’s made of dust and chunks of old brick, recognisable yet impossible to put back together. Now what?
‘Can I get you anything?’
I glance back towards the reception, which is still deserted. I won’t make it past the concierge into the hotel itself. I resolve to wait. I sit down on one of the stools at the bar and flash the young barman a wide smile.
‘Sure. A Coke, thanks.’
Half an hour creeps around the clock face as I drink my Coke. Some early diners appear in the restaurant, eager to get a seat in one of the booths with a view of the beach. A writer sets up in the corner, nodding to music playing in his headphones, only pausing to look up from his laptop occasionally, as his coffee cup is refilled by a young waitress with a glass jug and a bored expression.
A professional with a knotted scarf and bare arms, no jacket, drifts in. He taps his phone and barks drink and lunch orders. (Hipster, noun. A wearer of beards and ironic t-shirts; thinks he’s better than you.) But the young waitress takes it all in her stride. As she slams his toasted panini in front of him, I find myself hoping she’s spat in it.
Another hour passes, the restaurant fills up. A hubbub of conversation surrounds me. I know I have to admit defeat. I can’t rely on chance any longer. I will have to go and look for JoJo … even if that means running the risk of getting thrown out of The Obelisk.
I amble back out of the restaurant. The reception of the huge hotel is moderately busy now. A small queue of people waits to check in. The concierge chatters to an old couple, who try and communicate with broken English and strong Eastern European accents. No one pays attention to me. I flit through reception, past the elevator, the freight lift. I make it through a side door.
I’m in.
Thirty
I discover I am in a service corridor. Last night, Matthew said JoJo was one of The Obelisk’s PAs. She must have an office. Where would that be? There are no helpful signs, like you might find in a hospital. Typical.
Up ahead, a couple of teen boys in the black-and-white junior uniform of The Obelisk staff appear out of another door. They look at me but don’t challenge me. They’re carrying boxes. From one, a banner trails. They crash through more doors.
I hang back then follow them. But they don’t end up at any offices. Instead, we’re in a large, echoey room on the ground floor. Expensive oak-block flooring booms under my feet.
I’m in The Obelisk’s ballroom.
The staff inside are preparing for an event. Streamers, shaped balloons and bags of favours in boxes line the room. I grab a flyer from a box on the nearest table to me. It reads: SPRING BALL, about a week from now. I recognise it, of course. The Obelisk holds one every year, as a celebration of Jayden Spence’s birthday. It’s a display of obscene opulence: anyone who’s anyone will be here.
‘What do you want?’
I am caught in the sights of a middle-aged event planner. She’s a stocky woman with a confident stance: broad shoulders swept back, head held high.
‘Nothing. I…’
My words trail off as I spot JoJo, wielding a staple gun. A couple of lads carry chairs over to her. She wraps chintzy-looking fabric around each one, before stapling it in place. She hasn’t seen me.
The event planner’s attention is diverted. Her hawk eyes spot someone doing something wrong. The older woman descends, rebuking a small, thin blonde teenager to my left. I’m already forgotten.
No one else’s eyes on me, I hurry over. ‘JoJo?’
She freezes at the sound of her name. As she turns, her eyes roll, but less in annoyance than resignation. JoJo looks over to another Obelisk senior staff member, who nods: He’s fine for the minute.
JoJo’s gaze falls on me, resentful. ‘Come on, then.’
She flicks her limp red fringe out of her eyes, then picks her way around the boxes. I fall into step with her, and we disappear through another side door marked STAFF ONLY and somehow, we’re back in reception.
My eyes blink at the assault of light and noise. It’s even busier now: main check-in time. The concierge is now engaged in banter with a tall model type, who has a small dog in a bag. Porters push wagons loaded with suitcases and bags. I shuffle after JoJo, back into the restaurant.
JoJo sits opposite me in a booth. ‘I’ve got ten minutes.’
Her arms fold protectively across the whole of her upper body. I struggle to connect this young woman with the child I knew. Her skin is still bad, her pale face pasty, her hair thin. I can make out patches of hair dye at her temples. I try to silence a cruel voice in my head: She might be plain, but she is not ugly. As if that justifies my lack of charity.
‘What happened between you and India?’
Whatever JoJo was expecting to me to say, it wasn’t this. Her animosity and suspicion seem to deflate. ‘You really don’t know.’
‘Know what?’
JoJo feels inside her waistcoat pocket. She pulls out a pouch of tobacco, a pack of Rizlas. I recall the Facebook profile photo of India at the festival, a garland in her hair, hand-rolled cigarette in her hand. So JoJo must have taken that picture.
‘It was over that blog of hers.’
My brain casts over the various codenames I saw on India’s site. So one of the entries must refe
r to my sister’s ex-best friend.
‘What was the problem with it?’
‘She thought she was a detective or something.’ JoJo deflects her gaze from mine, concentrating instead on rolling her cigarette. Nervous.
I aim a well-placed jab. ‘You have something to hide?’
It works. JoJo’s eyes flash, anger in them for the first time. ‘It wasn’t like that. Bitch slut-shamed me to everybody.’ She winces, remembering India is dead. But her anger and frustration win out. She lowers her voice. ‘…And I mean everybody. Not just online, though that was bad enough. She tried to lose me my job here, too!’
I try and process these details. ‘Slut-shame’ jumps out at me. ‘Why?’
JoJo blinks. ‘Oh, so it’s my fault? Victim blaming, great.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
Anger and hurt boil under the surface of the girl opposite me. Looking at JoJo, I can see the sweet, easy-going teenager I remember is gone. In her place is a combative young woman. I am reminded of Cerise, always on the offensive.
I take the plunge. ‘Do you know Jenny?’
JoJo’s lip curls in derision before she can check herself. ‘Yes … No. Sort of.’ She puts the rolled cigarette in her pocket.
I’m patient, though I don’t feel it. ‘Which is it?’
‘I know of her. We didn’t exactly all hang out.’
I press on, trying out a theory. ‘You were jealous?’
JoJo looks at me askance. ‘Why would I be jealous … of that?’
I try and keep my tone neutral. ‘You sound like you don’t like her.’
‘I don’t like either of them.’ JoJo’s voice is lofty, filled with a devil-may-care contempt that actually reveals that she cares very much indeed. ‘Anyway, India reckoned she was gay now.’
‘You sound like you didn’t believe that.’
JoJo shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter what I believe. India made that clear.’
An uneasy pause falls between us. With JoJo’s anger receding, I can feel the trail growing cold. I am anxious to keep hold of the thread.
‘So. What kicked it all off?’
