Strawberry Tattoo

by Lauren Henderson

  “I thought that was American for ‘Yes, of course, stupid,’” I complained. “So much for my attempts to use the local idiom.”

  Laurence and I were the last survivors of our merry little band. Kevin had peeled off after about half an hour, as soon as Java had announced her intention of leaving, in fact. He had offered to walk her to the subway.

  “He’s a trier, I’ll say that for him,” Suzanne said drily as they left the bar.

  “She’s terribly pretty,” I said, being fair. “Anyone would want to have ago.”

  “Talking of which, I have to go too,” Suzanne said. “I just didn’t say it before because I didn’t want to get in Kevin’s way.”

  “She’s so nice,” Laurence said to me.

  “I’m so nice,” she agreed. “Sam, will you be OK for getting home?”

  “Don’t go yet!” I pleaded. “It’s only eight-thirty, and I need to stay up till eleven! If I go home now I’ll pass out, and I haven’t had anything to eat yet—.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll look after Little Orphan Annie,” Laurence said to Suzanne.

  “You’re so nice,” she said.

  “I’m so nice. Do you like Mexican?” he asked me.

  “If they look like Antonio Banderas.”

  “That’s a really bad joke. And he’s not Mexican, he’s Spanish.”

  “Isabel Allende had a fantasy about wrapping him up in a tortilla and eating him,” I countered to confuse the issue.

  “She’s Chilean.”

  “Well, we’re getting closer to Mexico, aren’t we?” I said unanswerably.

  “Bye!” Suzanne was halfway out the door. “See you tomorrow!”

  “You have to realise that people here work hard and get up early,” Laurence lectured me once we had moved to a little Mexican hole-in-the-wall on the next block. “You can’t expect to be able to drag important gallery assistants out drinking with you every night till the small hours.”

  “It’s not nine yet, and you’re hardly drinking,” I said reproachfully. “Not to mention that you ordered a tofu burrito, which I find pretty sad and not remotely Mexican, frankly.”

  “I have asthma and food allergies and lots of neuroses,” Laurence said, unabashed, “which I think make me a fascinating person.”

  However, my black bean grilled vegetable burrito with extra sour cream and guacamole was infinitely nicer than his dairy-free, spinach, brown rice and organic pinto bean one, which naturally made me smug. I pointed this out.

  “Being a fascinating person doesn’t come easy, you know,” Laurence said. “You have to work at it. Sometimes you even have to suffer for it.”

  “Whereas Kevin has completely given up the struggle,” I said bitchily.

  “Kevin is a straight, straight arrow.” Laurence sighed. “The kind of guy that says what he means and does what he says and thinks irony is the adjective that goes with the thing you use to press your shirts.”

  “Nice to have a couple of those people around,” I commented. “It’s a cheap way of feeling superior.”

  We spent the rest of the meal ripping to pieces as many people as we could think of, and by the time we walked out into the night streets we were in near-perfect harmony.

  “Hey, TAXI!” Laurence yelled suddenly, breaking into a sprint. If nothing else, it shattered the moment. I stared after him in shock. As we got into the cab, I commented that this was a sign of a real New Yorker; nobody here, no matter how cool and laid-back their image, had the slightest hesitation or embarrassment about bellowing across the street, fighting for a cab or giving the driver clear and constant instructions about the best way to get where they were going.

  “Well, what d’you do in London?” Laurence said blankly. “Just raise your hand a little and go, ‘Oh, cabbie, if you wouldn’t mind stopping it would be awfully nice’?”

  I giggled. “Not quite. But if you yelled like you just did in London everyone would turn round to look at you. Here they don’t give a damn.”

  “‘Oh, look at that awe-fully vulgar American,’” Laurence said gleefully. ‘“How terribly loud they are, my deah!’ Hey,” he said to the driver, leaning forward, “I said West End first. We want to take a right here, OK?”

  The driver executed a squealing turn to put us in our place. As he cut the corner at a precise ninety-degree angle, we ended up being practically on top of each other.

  “Whoah, there goes my burrito,” I said, sitting up straight again. “I can feel it all squashed up against my right stomach wall…. There’s something about burritos that makes me think they reassemble back into that shape and size as soon as all the pieces hit your stomach.”

  “One great lump of carbo,” Laurence agreed. “Of course us dairy-free mavens have it a tad lighter.”

  “Right,” I said a few beats later, when I’d caught up with his meaning. Several margaritas and jet lag didn’t help with Americans using dialect at high speed.

  As the taxi shot up Tenth Avenue, braking and accelerating with abandon—sometimes simultaneously—I found myself clasping my stomach with both hands as if to cushion the burrito against the impact. I should have side roll bars installed.

  “So, are you seeing someone?” Laurence said casually.

  I thought this was a good way of putting it. If he’d asked if I had a boyfriend my toes would have started to curl; but seeing someone seemed pleasantly light and airy.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “You don’t sound too keen on him.”

  “No, I am. It’s just that I’m not used to, um, actually seeing someone.”

  “So are you guys going steady?”

  “Well, we’re seeing each other,” I said cautiously, baffled by this new query. “Does that count?”

  “I don’t know,” Laurence said with the air of a professional relationship assessor. “Are you dating him?”

  “Laurence, I haven’t the faintest idea what the fuck you’re talking about. Oh, whoops—”

  The taxi made a left that sent the burrito dangerously high up my oesophagus. I tried to massage it down again.

  “I’m going to have to explain the dating thing to you,” Laurence said. “It’s important and it will take some time. Remind me to set aside an afternoon in the days to come, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “Which number West End did you say?”

  I fumbled in my pocket and produced the crumpled memo to myself I had prudently made.

  “Next block,” he said to the cabbie. “On the right.”

  We squealed to a halt. I tried to give Laurence some money but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “First ride is free,” he said. “Welcome to the city.”

  “Well, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? Thanks for looking after me.”

  “Any time.”

  The taxi screeched away. I turned towards my building to find the doorman already holding the door open for me. By now all my various New York experiences were blurring together—crazed taxi drivers, the castellated Manhattan skyline, downtown bars. I could hardly remember where I had dumped my bags; this afternoon felt like days ago. The green awning which stretched out grandly from the façade of the apartment block, almost to the street, came as something of a shock. It was so posh. So was the doorman, in his gold-braided uniform and cute little peaked cap. He was smiling at me politely.

  “4H, right?” he said. “You’re staying in Ms. Bishop’s apartment? Ramon—the day guy—told me you got in this afternoon. Hope you have a pleasant stay.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. He had recognised me with frightening ease. Doubtless Ramon had described me as a typical dissolute scruffy British chick who was sure to fall out of her taxi, drunk and disorderly and full of Mexican food, within eight hours of arrival. And Ramon had been absolutely right.

  The entrance hall, floored with marble and shiny with gilt, had me blinking as if someone were shining a torch in my face. The lighting in here felt like a hundred watts and it gleamed off the huge polishe
d armoires on either side of the foyer as if they were glass-fronted. I made straight for the lift, which was panelled, mirrored and carpeted as elaborately as one of Louis XIV’s retiring rooms. If the doorman hadn’t already told me which apartment I was staying in I would have forgotten, which would have been embarrassing. I should have tipped him just for that.

  It was definitely strange coming back to someone else’s place rather than a hotel room. Not only were hotels neutral, but it was immediately reassuring to see your possessions strewn over every available surface. As soon as I put something down in Nancy Bishop’s apartment, however, it disappeared seamlessly into the clutter of throws, knick-knacks, piles of magazines and objets d’art arranged carefully on every table, sofa, bookcase and whatnot. I was beginning to suspect that she was not, in fact, absent doing a play in San Diego, as I had been told, but running a stall at a series of antique fairs. If she didn’t sell more than she bought the apartment would burst.

  There was such a strong sense of her own life and personality here that I felt rather squashed out. Besides, I was used to the great, draughty, open spaces of my studio. Cosy it was not. Apartment 4H, by contrast, was on a mission to boldly go further than cosy had ever been before. The frilly pelmets and seventeen embroidered cushions on the white-painted four-poster bed were the final touch. My head was still spinning and even the sight of my gutted suitcase spilling the contents of its stomach all over the bed, like something out of a Patricia Cornwell novel, didn’t help much with my self-orientation.

  Suddenly I remembered that I hadn’t made a start yet on hunting Kim down like a dog. I’d meant to look her up in the phone book as soon as I arrived. The prospect seemed scarier than I’d anticipated in London. What if she’d gone native, like Natalie Wood becoming a squaw in The Searchers, and didn’t want to see me? A wave of margarita-induced self-doubt swept over me. I needed to talk to someone sympathetic. Why this brought Hugo into my head I have no idea, but there it was. I grabbed the phone, threw myself on the part of the bed not already occupied by my carefully planned capsule New York autumn wardrobe, and dialled his number in Stratford.

  He answered after five rings, sounding sleepy and bewildered. It was so unusual for Hugo not to be in full possession of his faculties that I felt a warm rush of affection flooding through me.

  “Hello! It’s me!” I yodelled.

  “Sam? Sam?” He still sounded fuddled. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Um, hang on.” There was a digital display clock on the far wall. I squinted over. “It’s jus’ past eleven,” I announced.

  “No, you fool! Here!”

  “Oh, you mean in England? Aren’t you”—I made a heroic effort to do my maths. “You’re five hours behind, so it’s, um, it’s six o’clock—”

  “We’re five hours ahead.”

  “Oh, OK, so it’s—um, it’s—oh.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry! Did I wake you up?”

  Hugo snarled at me.

  “But I want you,” I whined. “I have a four-poster bed with no one to tie up to it….” My native cunning was kicking in now.

  “Oh, darling,” Hugo said sarcastically, “you are so fucking romantic. I’m really touched.” But I could hear his tone was softening.

  “And the men here all wear really baggy jeans,” I complained, “so you can’t see anyone’s bottom properly.”

  “Poor baby! What sensory deprivation you must be suffering! Who have you been out drinking with? Or did you manage to get into this state all by yourself?”

  “I went out with some people from the gallery. There’s this one guy you’d like, he’s very dry and funny.”

  “Attractive?” Hugo inquired.

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh good, so you’ll just be having intellectual sex with him. That cheers me up tremendously.”

  “Sod off, Hugo, you’re surrounded by all these gorgeous actresses….”

  “Sorry, my sweet, what was that noun again?”

  “Uh.” I had to think about that one. “Actresses?” I offered finally.

  “Exactly. No, you’re pretty safe. I don’t know why you should be preferable to a whole slew of actresses—you have an ego the size of a house yourself—but somehow you are.”

  “Oh, that’s so nishe. …” I said sentimentally.

  “You’re drunk and maudlin,” Hugo said firmly. “Go to sleep.”

  “You’re rude and bossy,” I muttered, offended. “You go to sleep.”

  “We’ll both go to sleep.”

  “OK, tha’s a good idea. Goo’ night, Hugo.”

  “Good night, darling. I’ll ring you soon.”

  “Tha’s nishe.” I was fading fast.

  “At four o’clock in the morning, your time, of course,” Hugo said, and hung up before I could retaliate.

  Perhaps it was for the best. I wouldn’t have made a particularly snappy comeback. I just about managed to pull my clothes off before I crawled under the covers and started snoring like a pig.

  The gallery door was locked. I pushed it harder to check, but I could hear the sound of wood coming to a stop against metal. Feeling like an idiot, I tried pulling it towards me, just in case that would work. It didn’t. And the huge ground-floor windows had their white shutters firmly closed. I took a few steps back and looked up at the first-floor windows. The blinds were down and I couldn’t see anyone moving behind them.

  Damn. And I had been doing so well. Up bright and early, unpacking and settling into the apartment, getting used to the constant noise from the street—brakes squealing, the hydraulic whoosh of bus doors opening and closing, periodic shouts and clanks of janitors shifting huge garbage bins in the yard at the back of the building, and a cacophony of honking cars trailing music behind them so loudly you could almost see it, like aeroplanes dragging banners across the sky. One minute it would be a swirl of big band music, the next hip-hop, and after that drum and bass, as if I were twisting the frequency dial on a radio. The sound systems were loud enough for the bass to pound and shake at the scaffolding on the building opposite mine. Certainly in New York you couldn’t forget there was a world outside your window; it was demanding enough to come up and rattle the glass with both hands if you didn’t pay it enough attention.

  The locked door was my first setback of the day. I tried the buzzer. Even if the gallery were closed in the morning, everyone would still be here, working. And I had an appointment, for Christ’s sake. They should be expecting me.

  After a long wait, a voice said through the intercom:

  “Who is it?”

  “Sam Jones,” I said, as “Jones. Sam Jones,” to my great disappointment, never sounded quite right.

  “Oh,” said the voice with a kind of flat surprise. “OK. Hold on.”

  I raised my eyebrows and waited. I heard footsteps and then the door swung slowly open. Behind it was Java, her prettiness blurred and distorted behind the swollen red rims of her eyes and the bright pink tip of her nose.

  “Java!” I said, shutting the door behind me. “What is it?”

  “Did you lock it?” she said at once. “Only we’re not letting anyone in but the cops.”

  My eyes widened. “What the hell is going on? Are you OK?”

  It was a stupid question and I regretted it as soon as I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. She gulped them down as best she could and shook her head dumbly, turning back towards her desk. I followed her. But I had only taken a few steps into the gallery when I froze in my tracks. Blood was smeared all over the white walls, dripping down onto the floor, scrawled into curses like something out of a horror film. The only thing lacking was meat hooks dangling from the ceiling; then it would have been a dead ringer for an abattoir.

  My body was rooted to the spot but my brain was racing, trying to work out what had happened here and how long ago, whether I needed to grab Java and run for the door. And where was the body? Or the bodies, considering how much blood there was? I had a nasty vision of the rest of the gallery staf
f lying in a heap of gutted corpses somewhere close. Not to mention that whoever had disembowelled them and daubed their contents over the walls might still be here….

  But something didn’t make sense: the blood was bright red, so red it should still be dripping, and it wasn’t. Though it looked as fresh as paint—as paint—I took a few paces closer to the nearest set of stains to confirm my second guess, and felt myself relaxing slightly.

  OK, no mass slaughter for today. Still, the hate on display here had been violent enough. Whole canfuls of paint had been thrown all over the walls and the paintings. I swivelled slowly round, my jaw dropping as I read more and more foul words splashed over the canvasses: “Whore,” “Bitch,” “Slut” and “Filth” were the most frequent, personal enough to make me draw the conclusion that this went beyond mere art criticism, even in a radical form. Trails of drips cascaded down from the graffiti and stained the concrete floor, frozen into waves.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said in disbelief. “When did this happen?”

  The paint was dry already. And there wasn’t a trace of it on Java. It was why, even in my mad speculation earlier, I had never considered her as a homicidal assassin.

  And then I heard the familiar sound of a pair of high heels coming down the metal stairs from the first floor, moving so fast they sounded motorised.

  “Sam! We’ve been trying to call you,” Carol said as the rest of her came into view. “As soon as we remembered you were coming in, Laurence started trying your number. You must have left early…. God, I wish we’d thought of it before….”

  Her voice tailed off. The skin of her face was drawn tightly back from her bones, testimony to the stress she was under. I could see the shape of the skull beneath, as clearly delineated as a death’s-head. For the first time since I had known her, she looked uncomfortable, not fully in control of the situation. What kind of advertisement was it for a gallery that one of its newest artists should walk in to find the current exhibition defaced, maybe even ruined?

  Carol Bergmann was obviously wishing with all her heart that she could make me disappear in a puff of smoke, magically rematerialising only when the graffiti was cleared away and the gallery was once more as pristine and white as a new fall of snow, its floors sheets of glass. But I was here now, and I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. To send me away would be an irrevocable mistake. If I walked out the door now, my head whirling with speculations perhaps even more lurid than the truth, I would spread stories of uncontrolled mayhem to all the other British artists. No, it was better to draw me in and try to enlist me on their side, make me a part of what was happening, protective of the gallery’s interests….