Before We Fall

by Grace Lowrie

  Chapter Eight

  In the moment of silence between one track ending and the next beginning, I heard the whirr of the lift rising. Curious, I dropped my sketchbook and pencil and sauntered over to the door. Through the peephole I had a clear view of the lift doors as they parted, depositing Cally onto the landing. She looked entirely different to when we’d met three nights ago. Her hooker outfit had been replaced with a stylish rose-coloured summer dress, a cropped cardigan and burnt umber leather boots. As she moved I caught a tantalising glimpse of pale, bare skin behind her knees. The other night I’d believed her hair to be jet black like mine, but the late afternoon light streaming through the landing window, revealed it to be shot through with fine strands of Indian red. It hung straight down, silky smooth, elegantly framing her face. Her lips were painted to match her dress, but tightly pressed together as she deliberately avoided looking in the direction of my door. Quickly and quietly she let herself into the neighbouring flat and was gone, but I stared at the vacant space she left behind for several long minutes afterwards. Was this what I’d become now? A creepy loser who spied on the girl next door whenever she happened to pass by? Was my life really that empty?

  Eventually, just as I was about to move away, Cally’s door re-opened and I was rewarded with the sight of her stepping back out onto the landing. She’d changed into leggings and a red shirt which only just covered her bottom, and I tried not to notice her perfect proportions; the demure curves of her tight calves and toned thighs. Standing in the lift, waiting for the doors to close, she raised her eyes to the ceiling and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, exposing finely pointed elbows and an elegant neck. It crossed my mind that she might be going out for a run, but the flimsy, slipper-like shoes on her feet didn’t look fit for purpose. Abruptly the doors closed, stealing her from view, and I let out a breath. One thing was for sure; I was not going to stand here like a dick waiting for her to return.

  Stomping across my flat I cracked open a window, extracted a fag from behind my ear and my lighter from inside my pocket and lit up. It was gone five thirty and lights were going off in the surrounding buildings as business closed down for the day. I hadn’t been up long, but the sun would be setting in a couple of hours and a solitary night spent painting stretched ahead. A movement in the garden below caught my attention and I leaned out of the window to get a better look. What the hell? It was Cally – I could see flashes of red as she moved about below the memorial tree, which was in full flower. What was she doing down there? As I watched I saw glimpses of a bare foot every now and then; her toes pointed. Was she dancing…?

  Great. She was a fucking fruit loop. I knew she’d be trouble. If she damaged that tree she’d regret it. Flicking my fag butt out into the air, I slid the window shut and turned my music up so that thrash metal guitars filled the room. Was it too early in the evening to do a line of coke?

  Chapter Nine

  I smiled at the lone man I was dancing for, trying to catch his eye to encourage more tips, but his expression was so glazed over that I wasn’t convinced he was seeing me at all. I got the impression he was a ‘legs man’ and had adapted my routine accordingly, with extra prominent leg stretches as I moved around the pole. He wore a crumpled suit, but no tie, his jacket hanging open to reveal a generous beer belly. He looked unhappy, and although he was neither attractive nor friendly, I hoped I was at least distracting him from his troubles as I danced.

  Without warning, the man suddenly lurched forwards in his seat and grabbed me round the ankle. Losing my balance I clung to the pole for support, letting out a startled cry that was lost in the loud music. As I tried to wrench my leg free of his grasp, he only gripped me tighter, and I watched in horrified fascination as he began to lower his wet mouth to my shin. I’ll admit I was sorely tempted to kick him in the face, but at that moment Leroy, the bouncer who reminded me of Liam, appeared behind him, wrapped a meaty bicep around the punter’s neck and yanked him away from me in one burly move. To my relief my leg was released immediately and I stumbled backwards, instinctively putting the podium between us.

  ‘No touching, mate, you know the rules, you’ve been warned before – let’s go,’ Leroy said, his low voice lending threat to his words. The punter leered at me, but made no attempt to struggle as Leroy hauled him away to the exit.

  ‘You OK, Luna?’ Zena asked beside me.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ I straightened up, pleased that my voice sounded steady. I’d been warned by the other girls that I would experience harassment at some point, and as incidents went, this did not constitute a bad one. The speed and efficiency with which Leroy had come to my aid was reassuring. Even so, the sudden, uninvited contact had been a shock, and that was hard to hide.

  Zena eyed me speculatively. ‘You might as well finish up for the night; it’s not busy and we’re closing soon.’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘OK, if you’re sure… thanks.’ I wasn’t about to let my new-found confidence be shaken by one idiot, but I’d spent a busy day sightseeing before starting my shift and now I was keen to get home and crawl into bed.

  It was only once I reached my front door, at quarter to four in the morning, that I realised I didn’t have my keys. Panic set in as I frantically searched my handbag and my pockets again and again. Had I forgotten to take them with me this morning? Or had I left them at the club? Or dropped them somewhere? Had they been stolen…?

  I couldn’t go back to the club; it would be locked up by now, and ringing Marguerite at this time in the morning would be unfair, especially since I’d been missing her phone calls and ignoring her messages. Calling out an emergency locksmith would cost a fortune, and what if my keys were simply waiting for me on the other side of the door? I had only two options as far as I could see – sit here on the landing until morning, or ask my obnoxious neighbour for help.

  I could tell he was still up, amazingly, given the hour. I could hear music emanating from behind his door. He’d said he owned the whole building. I wasn’t sure if that was really true or pure arrogance on his part, but either way he might have a spare key I could borrow. Recollections of the way he’d spoken to me swept through my mind.

  Maybe I’d just wait until morning…

  I groaned aloud. Come on Cally, this is the new confident you. So what if he’s rude and nasty? It’ll be over quickly – you can do this.

  I knocked loudly and then chewed my lip as I waited several long seconds for a response.

  He was scowling when he opened the door; all dark eyes, frown lines and shadows, but said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I stammered. ‘But I’ve locked myself out…’ He smelled of tobacco and raw masculinity; his sleeveless black vest showcasing broad, muscular shoulders smothered in tattoos. I fought to keep my gaze on his face as he stared back at me, but he didn’t speak. ‘I… I don’t suppose you have a spare key I could borrow?’

  The tension in his expression eased slightly and he folded his arms, resting his lean torso casually against the door frame. ‘Do you really get paid for this service?’

  ‘What service?’

  ‘House-sitting.’

  ‘Oh.’ My face heated at his implication that I was making a hash of it. ‘Actually it’s my first time; I’m just filling in for a friend and it doesn’t pay as well as you might think…’ Why was I explaining myself? ‘Look, do you have a spare key or not?’

  He sighed and glanced down and I inadvertently followed his gaze over his dark, paint-flecked combats to his naked feet. I found myself thinking they were attractive, despite also being splashed with paint. ‘I think I’ve got one somewhere; give me a minute.’

  He turned and disappeared out of sight, leaving me standing in the open doorway. It was chilly on the landing and I was conscious of all the heat escaping from within, so after a moment’s hesitation I stepped inside, pushing the door behind me. This flat was a world away from the one next door. For a start it was about double the size, dimly lit and virtually devoid
of furniture. A large, unmade bed sat right in the centre of the industrial-sized space like an island, surrounded by stacks of books and a scattering of used crockery. I wondered what it must feel like to sleep in such a cavernous place.

  All along one wall, large windows where hidden behind blackout blinds, concealing what must be a spectacular view west across the city. Off to one side the kitchen area looked to be made of solid concrete and was similarly cluttered with dirty dishes and an extraordinary number of bottles of booze. The odd wooden chair, table or trolley was dotted about; each one chaotically loaded with paints, brushes and other artist’s paraphernalia. At the edges of the vast room, leaning against the bare brick walls, as if washed up by a tide, were hundreds of stretched canvases ranging in size from several metres across, to just one. Most of them faced away, their messages hidden from view.

  My eyes were inevitably drawn to where two bright, free-standing spotlights were trained on a large canvas fixed to the wall. I hadn’t intended to venture further into the flat uninvited; I was lured in through sheer curiosity, and only realised once I was close enough to see that the painting was wet. I recognised the music playing through wall-mounted loud-speakers as Linkin Park, but I could still hear my neighbour cursing as he rooted about in one of the bedrooms. He’d be angry when he found me snooping, but the painting before me had captured my attention so thoroughly that I couldn’t turn away.

  It was intensely beautiful and abstract in style, though certain elements within it were easily recognisable. The primary subject was a group of trees, depicted so realistically – the texture of the bark and the dappled, eerie green light illustrated so masterfully – that they almost reached out of the canvas towards me. In places the trunks and branches were streaked with ribbon-like drips of crimson, as if the trees themselves were weeping blood. But there was the suggestion of a figure there, too; the traces of a young woman, wearing white, hidden amongst the trees. She was by no means substantial – there was a hint of a slender elbow, the outline of her neck, the spread of delicate fingers – and I could only see her out of the corner of my eye. But she was there.

  My skin prickled with goosebumps despite the room being stiflingly warm around me. Feeling light-headed I unbuttoned my coat. As I shrugged out of it, I stepped nearer to the canvas, careful to avoid the wet splashes of paint on the parquet floor.

  ‘It’s not finished,’ said a low voice close behind me, making me jump. I turned to find my neighbour towering over me, his dark eyes glowing with something I couldn’t read – mischief maybe. I was thrown by his sudden proximity and by the fact that he didn’t look angry. Despite the hard planes of his face, the silver barbell in his eyebrow and the scruffy stubble at his jaw, he was actually rather handsome, and that awareness unsettled me even more. ‘What do you think?’

  My thin, cotton dress felt inexplicably tight around my ribs and I stared at him for a moment, my blood pulsing loudly in my ears as I attempted to unscramble my thoughts. ‘I… it’s… unnerving.’ Unnerving? Of all the adjectives I could have used; amazing, beautiful, mesmerising, haunting even, why had my brain thrown that up? Probably because he unnerved me.

  His dark brows lifted slightly in surprise and I rushed to correct my mistake.

  ‘I mean in a good way; it’s beautiful and so realistic in places; the way you’ve captured the feel of the trees; it’s almost…’ His gaze had dropped to my mouth as I rambled and I found myself drawn to his in return – his lips looked unexpectedly soft and pink.

  ‘Almost what?’

  Damn. I had forgotten what I was saying. Dragging my eyes away from his I turned back to the painting. ‘You never told me your name.’

  He sighed and padded over to the kitchen area and I clocked the perfect shape of his bum as he strode away.

  ‘Bay,’ he said grudgingly, rinsing a couple of tumblers in the kitchen sink.

  Encouraged, I moved towards him, keeping the kitchen counter between us. ‘Bay? Is that short for something?’

  ‘Bailey, but everyone calls me Bay.’ He poured himself a generous measure of vodka and then hovered over a second glass, looking at me with an eyebrow raised in unspoken offer.

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ I said, lowering my coat to a clean-looking patch of floor, relieved that Bay was being civil to me at last.

  He pushed the glass across the cluttered counter towards me and immediately took a swallow of his own drink. All the paint residue embedded around his fingernails made his hands looked filthy.

  ‘Don’t you have any mixers? Coke? Lemonade…?’ He glared at me before opening the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice and holding it up for me to see. ‘Perfect, thank you,’ I said, made to feel like a difficult guest as he sloshed some into my glass.

  The drink was refreshing and welcome, though it burned on its way down. It was surreal standing in a stranger’s apartment drinking vodka in the middle of the night; completely out of character for me and therefore, oddly satisfying. And I didn’t feel as if I was in any danger – my reluctant host was unlike anyone else I’d ever met, and moody as hell, but I didn’t think he would hurt me. After all, anyone who could paint so beautifully couldn’t be all bad…

  ‘You’re not a hooker are you?’ he said.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘You’re not a hooker are you?’ I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant it that way – in my head it was a rhetorical question; a conclusion I’d reached; a statement – but Cally looked like I’d slapped her. She downed the rest of her drink in one and pushed the empty tumbler back onto the counter.

  ‘Did you find a spare key or not? Because I’d like to get out of here and leave you in peace.’ She glared at me; her spectacular blue eyes stunning me into silence.

  Reaching into my pocket I pulled out the modest set of keys I’d found.

  ‘Great, thank you,’ she said tightly, holding out her palm. It was bright pink and covered in blisters, a couple of which had recently burst and looked sore.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  She glanced down at her raw palm as if she had forgotten the state it was in. She sighed. ‘If you must know I’m a pole dancer,’ she admitted at last.

  ‘You’re a stripper?’

  ‘I prefer exotic dancer, but yes,’ her voice was defiant, she held my gaze.

  ‘Is that what you were doing down in the garden the other day? Pole dancing around a tree?’

  She blushed then, which was surprising considering she had just confessed to removing her clothes for strangers for money. She shifted uncomfortably, a curtain of silky hair falling to hide one side of her face.

  ‘Yes, I needed somewhere to practise and that tree happens to be the perfect size. But don’t worry; I haven’t damaged it in any way. If anything, it has damaged me,’ she gently stretched out her sore palm.

  The sight of her pain bothered me. I moved around the counter towards her, re-pocketing the keys and taking her hand in my own. She started slightly at the unexpected contact, but I lifted her other hand and tilted both of her palms towards the light, so that I could inspect the damage. The feel of her soft skin sent a pleasant sensation coursing up my arms but I studiously ignored it. ‘These need washing and dressing or they’re going to get infected.’

  She went to withdraw her hands, but I didn’t want to give her up yet, and I tightened my grip.

  ‘If you let go of me, I can do that,’ she said. I was close enough to smell the sweet orange juice on her breath and see the endearing gap between her front teeth. Her hands trembled slightly in mine and I wondered if she was afraid of me.

  ‘Has Sidney got proper bandages?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  As I waited, silently, the anger slowly dissipated from her eyes and her hands relaxed in mine. Wordlessly I released one and led her to the bathroom by the other.

  Cally didn’t complain or even so much as wince as I carefully washed and dried her hands and applied sterile dressings
to both palms. Neither did she comment on the jagged hole above the sink, which was once a mirror, and I was grateful for that.

  ‘Do you always work at night?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you need natural light to paint?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you really own the whole building?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deliberately turning my back on her I packed the first aid kit away. I knew I was being a dick, but I resented her intrusion in my life. My self-imposed solitude – the time and space to work without interference or distraction – was everything to me, and her continued interruptions couldn’t be tolerated or encouraged.

  And yet… she fascinated me. She had an elegant, almost regal way of holding herself, and a classical, enigmatic beauty; dark features, dark hair and a contrasting milky-white skin. There was a softness, a shyness about her which was completely at odds with her job as a stripper. I couldn’t work her out. But asking her any questions would only invite more about me in return; questions I was not prepared to answer.

  She was biting her lip in frustration as I turned back to her, or maybe in an attempt to hold back more words. I took the spare keys from my pocket and placed them carefully in her bandaged hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, resigned.

  I walked her to the door.

  ‘I’ll try not to bother you again,’ she said quietly. I nodded and she disappeared next door without another word.