by Grace Lowrie
‘You didn’t have to stay.’
‘I know.’
‘Why did you, then?’ I stood up to leave.
‘Wait, don’t, I didn’t mean it like that; I’m an arsehole.’
‘Yes, you are.’
Bay smiled. It was like sudden sunshine through black cloud;. I took a large towel from where it was slung haphazardly over a rail, dabbed my face and chest and then dumped it on the edge of the bath where Bay would be able to reach it.
‘I’m going to make coffee, do you want one?’
‘Yeah, OK,’ he said, his smile gone again.
By the time I’d found two chipped mugs, washed them up and made coffee, Bay had re-emerged. He still looked pasty and unshaven but he’d washed himself, cleaned his hair and brushed his teeth, so he smelled much better – surprisingly appealing in fact. Dressed in a fresh shirt and boxers, he held a faded black Alice In Chains T-shirt aloft in his hand.
‘Here, put this on, it’s clean; I don’t want you catching cold on my account.’
I hesitated. It made more sense to nip next door and change into something of my own, but he was offering the garment up like an olive branch so I accepted it. Out of prudish habit I considered going to the bathroom to change, but it seemed silly given my job, so without looking at Bay, I slipped off my wet dress and pulled his shirt over my damp underwear. It was large on me - almost as long as my dress had been - but cosy and dry. Bay walked over to his bed, roughly straightened out the cover and flopped down onto it face first with a groan. Following him, I set his coffee down on a stack of dog-eared paperback books – they appeared to be gritty crime novels – and then, at a loss for anywhere else to sit, I perched on the edge of his bed, sipping from my cup.
He convulsed with a moan, awkwardly wrapping his arms around his stomach.
‘Why do you let yourself get into such a state?’ I said.
‘If you’re gonna have a go, you can fuck off.’
I clenched my teeth. ‘Are you at least going to try to drink some coffee?’
Sighing, he sat up, retrieved his mug and took a tentative sip, then a larger gulp. ‘Actually, that’s pretty good,’ he muttered. It was as close to a ‘thank you’ or a compliment as I was going to get from Bay, but it was enough. He glanced around for a bedside clock only to find the digital display blank. ‘What time is it?’
‘I’m not sure; I don’t have a watch; maybe half eight… nine…?’
‘And you only just finished work?’ His damp hair stuck up in every direction and I had an urge to try and tame it, comb it with my fingers, though of course I refrained.
‘No, I went clubbing with the girls after my shift.’ He cocked his pierced eyebrow at me in surprise. ‘Good night?’
‘Yeah, it was OK I guess. My feet will need time to recover, though.’ I flexed them as I said it, wincing slightly. ‘And I stubbed my toes on that wretched ashtray of yours, which doesn’t help. Why do you leave your stuff all over the floor?’ I was surprised at my own boldness; chiding him as if he were a naughty child, but I was still flustered from seeing his naked body, the sight of which was now burned into my brain. And the way he looked at me was unnerving. And anyway, he deserved it.
‘Let me see,’ he said, setting down his mug and reaching out his open palm.
‘No, it’s fine.’ The thought of Bay handling my feet in the same tender way that he touched my hands only made me more jittery.
‘Let me see, I might be able to help—’
‘I don’t want your help,’ I snapped.
Rolling his eyes he went back to drinking his coffee.
Chapter Fourteen
What a scumbag! It wasn’t enough that I’d broken into Cally’s home and snooped through her things, I’d then got trashed and let her deal with the fallout. The mere sight of me should have had her running away screaming, but she’d stayed. And I’d let her.
After a difficult start we settled into stilted conversation – I plied her with innocuous questions about her job and she told me about the club, the other girls she worked with and the music the DJ played. I didn’t let on that I was familiar with The Electric Fox; that I’d been a regular visitor in the past; in the days when all I did was bar-hop, get high and fuck lots of women. She already had enough reasons to dislike me.
Cally looked exhausted. As she began to relax I shifted over to the other side of the bed so that she could stretch out and rest her head. My shirt did a good job of covering her, but it was too little too late – I’d already had a tantalising glimpse of the body hidden beneath and I couldn’t get it out of my mind, despite how shitty I felt.
Before long it was Cally’s turn to question me:
‘Which band is this?’
‘Nine Inch Nails.’
‘Why do you play it so loud?’
‘I can barely hear it now you’ve turned it down so low. It’s good loud – even better live.’
‘If you say so. Was that your girlfriend who just left?’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend. Why?’
‘No reason,’ she blushed.
I cruelly left her defensive response hanging awkwardly in the air while she tried to think of something else to say.
‘Tell me about your tattoos.’
‘What do you want to know?’
Her ultramarine eyes travelled across my skin as she considered where to start, and the hairs stood up all over my body.
‘Why do you have so many?’
‘You don’t approve.’
She didn’t try to deny it. ‘When did you get this one?’ She pointed to the moon on my left shoulder, but stopped short of actually touching me, though I wanted her to.
‘When I was fifteen.’
‘Fifteen? Is that legal?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘The artist was a friend of my brother’s and knew I wouldn’t rat.’
‘I bet you were a real hell-raiser as a teen.’
‘You have no idea.’
She smiled. ‘How old’s your brother?’
‘Now? About forty-one I think.’
‘And you?’
‘Thirty-six. You?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Do you have a brother?’
‘No.’
The rugby player from the photo in her bedroom flared up in my mind and I worked to keep a ridiculous sense of disappointment from my face.
‘So why did you get it – this tattoo?’
I shrugged. ‘I just liked it.’ I could tell she didn’t believe me, but she let it go and I steered the conversation back to her. ‘When did you start dancing?’
‘My Mum signed me up for ballet classes when I was five.’
‘Five! Fuck.’
‘Yeah, but I loved it – it made me feel like a princess and a part of something; I made good friends there. When I was thirteen I almost gave it up. Ballet dancing wasn’t ‘cool’, but I missed it too much – the steady discipline and the physical challenge of it. So I kept going to ballet classes and took up other forms, too – contemporary, jazz, hip-hop, even pole dancing.’
We talked for a while, or rather Cally did and I kept prompting her so that she would continue. As far as I could tell, her background was typically middle class, suburban, and uneventful. She was an only child, but her parents were still together and had recently retired to Spain. Cally’s conventional upbringing had resulted in an intelligent and seemingly well-adjusted woman with the freedom and potential to do anything she wanted, but she was no less intriguing for all that. Her passion for dancing went some way towards explaining her current bizarre career choice, but nothing she said made sense of her sudden move to London. Of course I couldn’t ask her personal questions without expecting her to do the same, so for the most part we stuck to safe topics; music, art and movies. I revealed nothing of my past or my family; why should I? We were never going to be best buddies. It was bad enough that I’d let slip I had an older brother, even that was too much.
<
br /> Cally made buttered toast, which helped to settle my stomach, but I was still wrecked and at some point, much to my consternation, I must have fallen asleep.
When I woke up in the evening, Cally was gone. She’d washed up, turned off the lights and taken her dress, handbag, and heels next door with her. And my T-shirt. I felt too ashamed to knock on her door and thank her for looking after me – I thought about it constantly, but something always stopped me. Self-preservation, perhaps. And yet I found myself hoping that she might bring my shirt back.
As the days crawled by I lost that hope.
Listening to Muse albums on repeat I threw myself into my work instead. On my windowsill I found a peacock butterfly. I had no idea how it had managed to fly in through a twelfth floor city window, but I carefully trapped it under a glass so that I could study it’s velvet markings more closely. It reminded of Cally; the vibrant cadmium scarlet of its wings; a clear warning; both delicate and alluring, and the whorls; cerulean blue and softly hypnotic, like her eyes. Inspired, I embarked on a new set of paintings; recreating parts of the butterfly; weaving the patterns and the sense of flight and fragility into the canvas with a fresh intensity that left little time to sleep or think about anything else.
Chapter Fifteen
As the music built towards a climax I unhooked my bra and let it slither to the floor. I kept dancing; brazenly; as if I was used to baring my nipples to strangers, as if this wasn’t my first time. The resulting increase in enthusiasm from the three young men, who’d been plying me with tips and encouragement all evening, was evident. It was in their eyes; the slackening of their jaws and the way they adjusted themselves. I was determined to go the whole hog tonight – to get over myself and finally strip – I’d convinced myself that I was confident enough and that it would be liberating.
Of all the strippers in The Electric Fox I wasn’t the youngest or the prettiest and I certainly didn’t have the biggest boobs, but I liked to think I was the best dancer, from a technical point of view. Not that it mattered to the punters – they didn’t come here for the dancing – but it mattered to me. As one tune morphed smoothly into another I ran my fingers suggestively around the edges of my frilly knickers. They whistled appreciatively in response and I kept dancing; lifting myself high up on the pole, arching my back and pointing my breasts as I lowered myself in a slow, sweeping spiral under their combined gaze.
All three guys looked to be in their early twenties; still boys, really, with a shared celebratory mission and an eager, puppy-like excitement. Though drunk, they were not unattractive, and their avid attention was flattering. Once they had tucked more notes under the elastic at my hip, I rewarded them by shimmying out of my undies to a roaring cheer of approval. Despite all the mental and physical preparation I’d put into this moment, my cheeks flamed with embarrassment under the spotlights. But I kept moving; braving it out; focusing on the rhythm of the music and grateful for the vodka in my system.
At the next song change I smiled goodbye to the boys, gathered my tips and clothes, wrapped myself inside my robe and fled to the changing room for a break. I was proud of myself for doing it at last; I was done letting fear rule my life, and the money was good; I counted sixty quid and I was only two hours into my shift. But as I washed and re-dressed, I didn’t feel as elated or liberated as I’d expected to. Did I just need more practise? Or was this all a big mistake? I’d been sure this was what I wanted, so why was I doubting myself?
My next-door neighbour popped into my head, catching me off guard as I was freshening up my make-up. Where did he come from? Why Bay? Maybe because in his bathroom he’d shown no embarrassment about his own nakedness whatsoever, and he was the only person, outside of the club, whom I’d talked to about my new job.
That was a fortnight ago now, and I’d not seen him since, which bothered me more than I wanted to admit. I’d left him sprawled out on his bed, sleeping; looking so different. I suppose everyone did when they were asleep, but he looked markedly so; without his mocking smile and the dark glint of his eyes. And yet he didn’t look peaceful in slumber; he looked melancholic; a sadness lay between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth. Not that I’d observed him for long. To avoid any awkwardness I’d returned to my own bed and resolved never to knock on his door again; he was clearly unstable and the last person I needed in my life.
But it annoyed me that he had not made any attempt to see me. We’d spent hours talking; the two of us alone together on his bed, and despite our mutual dislike of each other, I couldn’t shake the sense of intimacy the memory evoked. Thoughts of him plagued my mind more doggedly with each passing day. Was I really so desperate and lonely that I now wanted to befriend an anti-social, drug-addled, self-confessed arsehole? I’d cut myself off from my old life so successfully that I had no-one else to talk to. Having downed some water and freshened up my make-up, I returned to my podium where the three young men from earlier had been replaced by a group of six sweaty, middle-aged men. Reaching out for the pole I smiled as genuinely as I could manage, spinning myself around it with gritted teeth and fresh determination.
*
It was after 3 a.m. when I arrived on the landing outside my flat, and something, or rather the absence of something, caught my attention. The day before, I’d placed a potted palm tree on the landing windowsill, along with a scented room freshener to combat the stale cigarette smoke which seeped out of Bay’s lair. But they were gone; the plant and freshener both; the landing was bare again. Surely no-one had stolen them, why would they? I could only conclude it was Bay’s handiwork.
I’d never considered myself to be an argumentative person; I despised conflict and usually went out of my way to avoid it. But a furious sense of injustice had been brewing inside me for weeks, and a missing plant was all the excuse I needed to vent.
‘Where are they?’ I demanded, as Bay opened his door to my hammering.
‘Good to see you too, Cally.’ He’d recovered since the last time I’d seen him. He was barefoot, as usual, and loosely dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and paint-splattered combats; his short black hair in tufty disarray. But he looked fresher; clean-shaven; his inked skin glowing, his eyes bright and a teasing smile on his lips. The shock made me falter slightly, but I clung on to my indignation.
‘Where are they?’
‘What?’
‘You know what; the plant and the room freshener.’ With a pointed finger I gestured to the empty space in the window. He deliberately leaned closer to me to look and my nostrils filled with his masculine scent.
‘Oh that; I removed them,’ he said lightly, shifting his gaze to mine without moving back.
‘Why?’
‘Well for one, I don’t wanna have to look at your tedious, suburban crap every time I leave my apartment…’ I gaped at him, ‘…and two, they’re a fire hazard.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous.’
Bay kept a straight face but I could see amusement alight in his eyes as he shrugged. ‘Rules are rules, but you can have the plant back as long as you keep it out of sight.’ He smiled, which seemed to suck all the breath out of my lungs, making me angrier still.
‘You’re unbelievable,’ I muttered. In my head I was swearing and calling him names, but, as usual, an inbred sense of propriety prevented me from cursing aloud.
‘It’s over there by the window,’ he said, standing back and gesturing inside his flat with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
Scowling, my arms crossed, I stomped my way through the gloom of his apartment, temporarily distracted by the changes; the lack of clutter on the floor, the neatly made bed and the tidy kitchen. Even the music, which I now recognised as Nine Inch Nails, was playing at an acceptable volume. But it was the panoramic view of London out of the windows – a thousand lights sparkling and St Paul’s glowing in the moonlight – which really captured my attention. Letting my shoulder bag slither to the floor, I dragged my eyes away from the view as I reached my potted plant and inspecte
d the leaves for signs of damage. It appeared to be unharmed. The door closed, and while Trent Reznor sang softly in my ears, Bay sauntered, with that lazy swagger of his, barefoot across the vast, shadowy space towards me.
‘What about the room freshener?’ I demanded.
He pulled a face. ‘Seriously? It stank.’
‘It’s citrus scented.’
‘Smelled like loo cleaner – I tipped it down the bog,’ he said with an insolent shrug. He stopped a few feet away from me, his gaze locked on mine and my skin prickled with heat and anticipation.
Chapter Sixteen
Fuck me, she was beautiful. Cally stood by the window in a crimson dress, glaring at me, one whole side of her body picked out in moonlight and shadows. ‘Don’t move,’ I said, reaching for a sketchpad and a stick of charcoal.
‘What?’
‘Just stay there.’
‘Why? What are you doing?… Are you drawing me?’ She sounded incredulous – almost appalled – but I stayed silent in concentration as I sketched, my eyes flicking between her perfect curves and the page as I rushed to capture her. ‘Why are you drawing me?’ she said, her voice more subdued.
I shrugged one shoulder without pausing. ‘I’m an artist – it’s what I do.’ For several valuable minutes she didn’t move.
‘You look so serious,’ she said at last. ‘So do you.’
She laughed then – out of the blue – her head back and her whole body relaxing in the wake of the soft, swelling sound. I stared at her transfixed, my fingers temporarily frozen over the paper in awe. And then the desire to capture this new side of her became all-consuming and I turned the page and began again; tracing the contours of her smile and the light in her eyes with almost frantic haste. ‘Did you really tip all that essential oil down the toilet?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did it flush?’ she was still chuckling softly.
‘Yeah, eventually; it took a few goes,’ I admitted, unable to hold back a grin of my own.
‘I bet.’
