The People at Number 9

by Felicity Everett

  “Anyone else for a beer?”

  She handed them round, pausing for a moment to watch Carol wrestle with the cap. The wine and chocolates sat unopened on the table, like props from the wrong play.

  Gavin cued up a track on the iPod.

  “This is nice,” said Carol. “What is it?”

  “They’re called Midlake,” Gavin said, pleasantly, “Texan band.”

  Simon took a slug of beer. “Glorious day, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “It was,” agreed Gavin. “We sat out and had a pint, by the river. Can’t say fairer than that, can you, in October?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we got a bit carried away, after the first couple of drinks,” Sara said.

  Nobody asked what she meant.

  “What did you do today?” Gavin asked Simon.

  “Oh, you know, thrilling stuff,” Simon replied. “Took Holly to clarinet. Went to Waitrose. Raked up the leaves.”

  “Oh,” Lou looked crestfallen, “I love the leaves.”

  “Is anybody cold?” asked Gavin. “Do we need more heat?”

  People glanced at one another doubtfully, but Gavin got up and adjusted the thermostat.

  Carol turned to Gavin.

  “So, do you work at the weekends?” she asked him. “Or are you nine-to-five, like a—”

  “…Stiff?” Gavin said. “Kidding. Just kidding. No, it varies a lot actually. But the materials I use can be quite time-critical, so once I start, I have to see it through.”

  “He works all night, sometimes,” said Lou.

  “So you sleep in the day, I suppose?” Simon concluded, with unerring logic.

  “Well, in theory,” said Gav, “but with three ankle-biters in the house, it’s not always easy.”

  “I make sure they keep it down before midday,” put in Lou, quickly.

  “Must be rather nice to be your own master,” said Simon. “I’m not sure I’d have the self-discipline. How are you finding it, Sara?”

  “Me?” Sara was surprised to find herself bracketed with Gavin.

  “Haven’t you transitioned from wage slave to creative recently?”

  “I suppose I have… transitioned,” she said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure I’m quite a creative. More of a tinkerer, really, an aspirer.”

  “Er, Sara…” Lou fixed her with a reproachful look.

  “Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot.” Sara banged her hand loudly on the table. “I’m a writer, so you can all fuck off!”

  Carol and Simon looked slightly taken aback.

  “Can we read it then, your novel?” Carol asked, after a moment.

  “Oh, God,” Sara shuddered, “I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I’d really want... It’s very raw, still, isn’t it Lou?”

  “Oh, so Lou’s read it?” Carol’s tone was jokily aggrieved.

  “I wanted a professional opinion.”

  “What’s it like?” Carol asked Lou. “What did you think of it, honestly?”

  “I’m not sure it’s like anything,” said Lou. “It’s simply a remarkable piece of writing. An original voice.”

  “So it’s publishable then? In your opinion?” Carol wanted to know.

  “I don’t know whether ‘publishable’ is really the point,” said Lou.

  Sara bristled. It was certainly the point as far as she was concerned.

  “I think what Sara’s doing with this piece of writing is finding her river,” Lou explained.

  Carol looked nonplussed.

  “The Artist’s Way?” said Lou. “Julia Cameron. Fantastic book. What she says is that you must push through the negativity and self-criticism that dam up your creativity and just let it flow. Be your authentic self. Write or sing or dance or paint with your whole being, without guardedness or cynicism and without trying to second-guess an audience.”

  “Sounds a bit hokey to me,” said Carol. “I should have thought having an inner critic was rather important, otherwise what’s to stop any Tom, Dick or Harriet inflicting their so-called ‘art’ on the world? No offence, Sara.”

  “Why would you want to stop them?” Lou asked. She held Carol’s gaze and her eyes glittered.

  Carol opened her mouth to reply and Sara felt her own go dry in sympathy. She felt sorry for her old friend, yet she could not suppress an unworthy glee. It was good to see Carol on the back foot for a change. It was good to see her cosy metropolitan assumptions bump up against the beautiful, twisted logic of Lou and Gavin’s world.

  “Well, I’m afraid I think this idea that everyone’s an artist, if you just, you know, put them in touch with their muse, or whatever, doesn’t wash.”

  “I don’t think that’s really what I meant,” said Lou. Her tone was emollient, but a vivid pink dot had appeared on each of her cheeks. “I was talking about creativity. Are you telling me the capacity to create isn’t something we’re born with?”

  “Not if I’m anything to go by,” said Carol, with a staccato laugh, “I haven’t got a creative bone in my body.”

  “Of course you have,” said Lou, irritably.

  “She really hasn’t,” Simon confirmed, as though it were a source of pride.

  “You see, that, to me, is shocking,” said Lou. “That you could have internalised that message about yourself. What an indictment of our so-called education system.”

  “I haven’t internalised anything,” Carol said. “I had a perfectly good education.”

  “Wall to wall A stars.” Sara nodded towards Carol, in corroboration.

  Lou sighed and shook her head, as if contemplating a life of utmost deprivation.

  “You jumped through all their hoops,” she said, “succeeded on their terms; and yet you came away with the mistaken belief that you lacked, that you could do without, one of the key attributes of a meaningful life.”

  “Well I don’t happen to think it’s done me any harm,” said Carol briskly.

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “I don’t think my life’s any less meaningful than yours.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m—”

  “I mean, who says creativity’s the be all and—”

  “YOU ARE CREATIVE!” shouted Lou.

  There was a shocked silence.

  “Whoa, Lou,” said Neil, “tell us what you really think.”

  Sara winced. For a moment, it seemed as though Neil might have crossed the line, but then Lou tittered, and looked a little shocked at herself. The titter became a laugh, which became a guffaw, and then the others joined in, tentatively at first, then heartily, so that a casual observer, witnessing the scene, might have mistaken them for a group of people having a good time.

  The curry arrived and was served up in its foil trays. A mismatched handful of cutlery was clattered onto the table. It must all have been a far cry from the evening Carol and Simon had been expecting, but they helped themselves with enthusiasm from the foil trays, attesting frequently to the deliciousness of the meal. A whole new line of conversation was eagerly pursued, on the fluctuating standards and delivery radii of the local Indian takeaways.

  The irresistible aroma of tikka and bhaji brought the children crowding round the kitchen door, like Dickensian waifs to a chophouse. Egged on by the others, Dash launched a commando raid on the table, sneaking in on his hands and knees while the grown-ups chatted, before rearing up to snatch a piece of naan bread and run away. The second time this happened, Sara was aware of Carol trying to catch her eye. She could sense the battle lines being drawn, tell that her allegiance was being sought on behalf of the forces of civilisation against the forces of barbarism, but she was not playing ball. Lou and Gav had gone the extra mile, and Carol was a guest in their house. It was not her place to criticise. Sara averted her gaze and found herself, instead, watching Dash cram bread into his mouth for comic effect, not thinking for a moment to share it with his co-conspirators. The sight revolted her. Lou was forever trumpeting Dash’s exceptionalness and Sara couldn’t deny that he had a vivid imagination. She ha
d overheard him devising blood-curdling games of dystopian make-believe with Caleb and Patrick, which she found as disturbing as they found them exciting. Nor could she deny that she had felt a pang of envy the other day when Lou had been buttonholed by the Deputy Head. But if giftedness came at the expense of humanity – if its flipside was self-centredness, as it seemed to be in Dash’s case – well, Sara told herself, she would rather her boys were kind than clever.

  Neil had ordered far too much. The half-full foil trays sat coagulating in front of them long after their appetites had been satisfied and the conversation had dried up. No one made a move to clear the table.

  “Well, thanks so much,” said Simon, patting the sides of his coat vaguely, as if to reassure himself it was still there, “we should probably get back now; let the babysitter get off…”

  No one pointed out that it was still only 9.45.

  “Sure you won’t stay for a… er…?”

  “No, no thanks. Lovely dinner. Top notch. We’ll have to have you back, won’t we, Caz? No don’t get up, we’ll see ourselves out... Cheers then, thanks. Bye… bye.”

  The sound of the front door closing prompted sighs and relieved laughter.

  “God!” Lou mugged at Sara.

  “I’m sorry,” Sara said, biting her lip. “Completely forgot I’d invited them. Thanks for getting me off the hook.”

  “Sort of,” said Lou.

  “It was fine,” said Gav, magnanimously. “Top notch!”

  They all collapsed again, except for Neil, who stretched his lips in an unhappy smile.

  9

  They moved through to the living room. Lou put a record on and Neil squatted in front of the hearth and coaxed the fire back to life. Sara nestled herself into a corner of the sofa and watched Gav roll a joint. Apart from the occasional thud and muffled shriek from the kids upstairs, the room now felt cut off from the world – a haven dedicated to adult pursuits. Gav struck a match and lit up, before handing the joint, in a gesture of ostentatious generosity, to Sara. She lifted it gingerly to her lips.

  “He’s not a bad bloke, Simon,” Gav said. “What is it he does again?”

  Sara, who was focusing hard on inhaling, shook her head.

  “Banking, isn’t it?” Lou hunkered down on the hearthrug, her back against the sofa, and intercepted the joint on its way back to Gav. After a token puff she passed it back to Sara.

  “Venture capital.” Neil flopped back into the Eames chair, satisfied that the fire was now roaring again. “Sara, I’d go easy if I were you.”

  She glared at him and took an extra toke.

  “Ven-ture… cap-i-tal,” said Gav slowly, as if weighing the meaning of each word. “What is that?”

  “Sounds a bit Boy’s Own, doesn’t it?” Sara giggled.

  There was certainly no need for Neil’s priggish interventions. The weed was quite innocuous and seemed to be having no discernible effect.

  “It does!” Gav turned to her and beamed. “I can see it now. The pith helmets, the infernal chirrup of the cicadas, the heat… the damned heat.”

  Sara sat up straight on the sofa and shielded her eyes, scanning an imaginary horizon.

  “Pass the spy-glass, Carruthers,” she said, “I think I see an investment opportunity.”

  “You two,” said Lou, shaking her head indulgently. She reached across the hearth-rug to pass the tail end of the spliff to Neil.

  The fire crackled and hissed. The music surged melodically. Sara sighed and stretched and Lou reached up and caught her hand. She held it, gently, experimentally, and when she was ready, she released it again. They had reached that milestone, Sara realised, when they were comfortable in one another’s company not saying anything, just being. It felt much later in the evening than it could possibly have been and Sara was reminded of the tableau she and Zuley had witnessed when the Germans had been visiting: the waxen faces, the strange power play, palpable even from behind glass. She was, she realised, being inducted into a cult, but it was one that held no fear for her; she welcomed it. She was only now beginning to discover how tender and resonant and sweetly complex life was meant to be.

  Neil leaned forward and made to pass a fresh joint across her, to Lou.

  “Whoa!” Sara said, rearing up from her semi-comatose state to intercept it. “Not so fast.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you, Sar,” Neil warned her.

  “You’re not me, though, are you, Neil?” she replied. “And the funny thing is…” she stopped for a moment to enjoy the irrefutable logic of her retort, “… if you were me, then you would, because I’m going to.”

  She put the joint to her lips, drawing on it a little more deeply than she might otherwise have done. Neil held out his hand with an air of exaggerated patience and, in defiance of him, she took a second drag. She had only just exhaled, when the genius of what she had said fully struck her.

  “Jam today!” she announced.

  Gav glanced at her with affectionate puzzlement.

  “Come on, people! Alice in Wonderland. Or is it Through the Looking Glass? Anyway, you can’t have it.”

  Lou turned round and patted Sara’s knee affectionately.

  “You can have it yesterday, or tomorrow, but not today, because today never comes. Or is it tomorrow? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s exactly what Neil just said. He couldn’t be me and still do what he thinks I should do, because by the time he was me, he’d be doing what I do do…”

  “I knew you’d overdo it,” Neil said with a sigh.

  Sara frowned crossly.

  “I don’t know what you mean. What does he mean?” She appealed to the other two, but they had both dissolved into fits of helpless giggles.

  “Oh come on guys,” she said huffily, “you’re just… you’re just…” but she could no longer remember what they were “just”. Her lips were buzzing and her head felt like a boulder balanced on a blade of grass. The small adjustment required to rest it on the back of the sofa reverberated through her body like an earth tremor.

  “Here we go,” said Neil.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” asked Lou.

  “I think I’ll just…” Sara closed her eyes and flapped her hand in front of her face. That felt worse, much worse. No amount of wishing it so was going to make this go away. Like a geriatric with brittle-bone disease, Sara began a three-stage manoeuvre to get off the sofa. The fire was unbearably hot. The stag’s head regarded her disapprovingly.

  “Do you need a hand?” Gavin sat forward.

  “I’m okay,” Sara muttered, picking her way through the wine glasses and drug paraphernalia on the rug.

  The toilet seat was pleasantly cold beneath her bottom. Somewhere in the distance, a children’s game seemed to be getting out of hand, but she was in no state to intervene. Her head dangled not far above the dingy lino and she was only just the right side of needing to vomit. With a mammoth effort, she turned on the cold tap and swivelled her body so that she could scoop water into her mouth from the adjacent sink. She swivelled back and the room righted itself slowly like the wheel of an abandoned bicycle, coming to rest. The inside of the door was covered in a collage of clippings – a black-and-white photo of a sumo wrestler texting on an iPhone; a newspaper headline: ‘GOD IS CONCEPT SAYS DEAN OF ST PAUL’S’; a postcard of some kittens dressed in dungarees and neckerchiefs, with fishing rods slung over their shoulders. Sara belched loudly and stared at the floor again. She might have been there three minutes or ten, she didn’t know. At last, she hauled herself to her feet and squinted at her reflection in the tarnished antique mirror above the basin. She looked startled.

  “Feeling better?” Lou asked, as Sara walked back into the room.

  The album had finished, but the crackle and clunk as it circled the turntable seemed of a piece with the indolent melancholy in the room. The fire was wheezing and collapsing in on itself.

  “Kind of,” she said, sinking down onto the sofa again. She closed her eyes. She could hear Neil talking
to Gavin in a low voice. He was saying how much he would love to walk the Camino de Santiago in Spain. Gavin asked him if he was religious and Neil said he wasn’t but that he could really see the attraction of Catholicism – the devotion; the self-flagellation. This was news to Sara. If she had been feeling more robust, she’d have reminded him that he had baulked at paying twelve euros to look round the Duomo in Florence, but, instead, she kept quiet and learned.

  She learned that her husband had more on his mind than asset bases and sustainable-development plans; she learned that he now understood, in a way he never had before, that his ambition to succeed in a conventional career had stemmed from a desire to please his mother. She learned that he wished he had studied music instead of politics, and that a couple of years ago he had joined Facebook, with a view to reconnecting with the members of Busted Flush, the band for which he had played bass in the late eighties. All of this, he had, unaccountably, neglected to tell her. But Gavin and Lou would do that to a person – tease out their hidden desires, the ones they had forgotten about or never given voice to. They had done it to her. She knew now that her creativity was a force to be reckoned with, that she had a talent for female friendship, that she was highly responsive to sensual pleasures: food had never tasted so good; music had never moved her so deeply; sex – well, it was back on the agenda at least.

  Yet, even as Lou and Gavin cracked Sara and Neil open and exposed in them fresh layers of curiosity and desire, they guarded their own enigma. Time and again, just as Sara thought she was starting to figure them out, to get a handle on their elusive shtick, they would slip away from her, like satyrs luring her deeper and deeper into a forest. Sara could never tell what was heartfelt and what was ironic in Lou and Gavin’s lives. The antique pokerwork sign hanging in their kitchen, “GOD BLESS OUR HOME”, she had taken to be tongue in cheek and had conveyed as much in her tone when she commented on it, only to feel like a hard-boiled cynic when Lou told her the sign was a talisman with protective powers against the evil eye. Dolores Fernandez had put a curse on Gavin for killing the fish, she’d said, and the sign gave her comfort.