It took me all the evening until my walk home from the Tube to realise that what Kaitlyn had said didn’t matter anyway. V wasn’t a banker, so she wouldn’t know if all her neighbours were bankers. I breathed more easily as I walked, but still I peered into all the windows without their curtains drawn. And it didn’t make me feel much better, because I saw a lot of similar rooms, not just to each other, but to my own. A lot of dark walls, industrial lighting, expensive modern art, sleek corner sofas, state-of-the-art media systems, stripped floors. I also saw a lot of bloated middle-aged men in half-discarded suits and thin blonde women in pale cashmere, holding glasses full of what would undoubtedly be the finest red wine.
I poured myself a glass of my own fine red when I got in, loosening my tie and throwing my jacket over a chair, kicking my shoes into the corner. I knew V would hate that, but she wasn’t there to see it and I also knew I would never behave like that once she moved in. I wandered into the drawing room and put Oasis on the media system. Oasis are V’s favourite band; mine too. Before I met her I only listened to bands like the Clash and Nirvana and Hole. I liked to lock myself away with music and let it thunder in my ears while I beat a frantic imaginary drum on my bed. V said I should listen more to the lyrics because that was where the beauty lay. She allowed Nirvana, but she couldn’t believe I didn’t own any Beatles or Bowie, any Lloyd Cole or Prince, any Joni Mitchell or the Carpenters. But mostly she couldn’t believe I didn’t own any Oasis. Noel Gallagher writes the best love songs in the world, she said, which made me feel jealous of him, that he could make her feel something I couldn’t.
V’s wedding invitation taunted me from the mantelpiece and I felt an overwhelming urge to break the rules and contact her. I got my laptop out of the cupboard and sat with it on the sofa. First I googled her name, but as usual nothing came up. Her Facebook profile was still deleted and she had never been on public social media sites like Twitter or LinkedIn. She had, of course, changed her phone number after the American incident and I didn’t even know her address. The only access I still had to her was by email. Between January and February I had emailed her every day, sometimes more than once a day, but she never replied, not until the one I’d sent about coming home. Which meant that my breaking off contact had been the right thing to do.
I realised as I sat there that I had partly stopped emailing her to make sure she didn’t delete that account as well. Because if she had done then I would have had very little link left to her and that thought was too terrifying to contemplate. Naturally I had also recognised that I needed to get myself together and set up back in London before I could present myself as a realistic proposition to her again. I glanced back up at the shiny white invitation and the rage I felt was so pure and intense I was surprised the paper didn’t combust. It had taken her only a couple of months to meet and agree to marry this man. It was possible she had fallen so in love she had been what they call ‘swept off her feet’.
I stood at this thought, knocking my laptop to the floor, and paced the length of my drawing room once, twice, three times. I had to stop then and bend double, placing my hands on my knees and retching. I stood and leant my head against the wall, knocking it slightly as I did, although that felt good, so I did it again, then again, the thump I was feeling reverberating pleasantly through my body. When I stood back I saw some blood on the newly painted walls, so I went into the kitchen to get a cloth. The half-finished bottle of red was on its side so I picked that up as well. But as I was crossing the hall back to the drawing room there was a ring on the doorbell. It was past midnight and V was the only person I could imagine calling at this time. She was practically the only person who knew where I lived.
I rushed to the door and threw it open, but it wasn’t V, just a small, slightly overweight woman, dressed in what looked like pyjamas.
She took a small step back as I opened the door.
‘Oh, sorry. Are you OK?’ she asked, gesturing to my forehead.
‘Yes, yes, it’s nothing,’ I said, realising as I spoke that I was still holding the bottle of wine and the cloth. ‘Walked into a door.’
‘Oh, OK. I live next door.’
‘Yes,’ I said, although I couldn’t remember ever having seen her before.
She held out her hand. ‘Lottie.’
I nodded. ‘Mike.’
She smiled awkwardly. ‘Yes, I know. We work together.’
‘Oh,’ I said, trying to arrange my face into a look of recognition, although really my brain was scrambling for who she might be. ‘Sorry, yes of course.’
She laughed. ‘I’m at the other end of the trading floor, so, well …’
‘No, no, I was just being stupid.’ Her features meant nothing to me.
‘Although I think I might be moving over to your team in the near future.’
I vaguely remembered an email I’d received in the week about a change in personnel. The idea of living next door to a colleague was terrible, but I smiled. ‘Oh, great.’
‘Anyway. I’m really sorry to ask. It’s just I’m doing a ten K tomorrow and have to be up really early and, well, the music, I just wondered …’
I turned as she spoke, aware suddenly of Liam Gallagher shouting behind me about champagne supernovas, the noise spilling out into the street. ‘Oh I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. Normally I wouldn’t be such a party pooper, but you know.’ Lottie was backing down the path as she spoke, her hand raised in a gesture of farewell.
‘I’ll turn it down right now,’ I called after her.
I shut the door and went into the drawing room where the noise hit me like a wall. I snapped off the stereo, the silence immediately pressing around me, my eardrums still beating.
I sat back on to the sofa and poured myself a final glass. In the silence it was much easier to think clearly. Of course V hadn’t fallen in love that quickly. Of course she hadn’t fallen in love at all. She was still in love with me and I knew that to be true for two reasons: firstly, V wasn’t the sort of person to be swept off her feet, and secondly she would never have been so angry about the American incident if she hadn’t loved me. I had to keep reminding myself what I had already worked out: this was all part of our game. This was our ultimate Crave and only I would understand that.
I picked my laptop off the floor and rested it on my knees. Perhaps it would be stranger to simply turn up at her wedding without contacting her first. The rules of any game dictate that a move by one player is followed by the move of another. She had made the first move; I must make the second.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hi
Dear V
I just wanted to let you know I’m back now. Thanks for the invite to your wedding. I’ve let your mum know I’m coming.
I’ve got myself a job at Bartleby’s and I’ve bought a house in Clapham, although you must know that, as how else would I have received the invitation! I really think you’d love it. You should come round some time. It would be good to meet Angus as well. Where are you living now? Are you still at Calthorpe’s? I hope all is good there.
I’m still very sorry for all that happened and I can’t pretend I wasn’t surprised when you told me you were getting married. But I know life moves on. I understand a lot of what you said to me now.
It would be really good to see you.
Much love,
Mike (Eagle)
I debated for a while about putting in the eagle bit, but V had often called me her eagle and I needed to start reminding her who we were. I wanted her to know that I got it, that I knew we’d started playing again.
I woke a few hours later with a pounding head and stiff limbs, the sun streaming through the window, revealing all the particles in the air before my face. I pushed myself up and saw another patch of blood where I had been lying. I reached my hand to my temple, but it was tender to touch, so I stood and looked in the mirror above the fireplace
. I was shocked to see a mean, red lump protruding above my eyebrow. It looked like a tiny volcano on my face, rising to a dark peak, from which a thin trail of dried, almost black blood had run down one side.
I showered and brushed my teeth and drank a pint of water to rid my mouth of the taste of rotting meat, all of which removed the desire to die. But still all I felt capable of was putting on a tracksuit and dragging a blanket to the sofa. If V was here I knew she would make me some hot tea and feel my forehead; she would tuck in the covers and ruffle my hair. I checked my email, but my inbox was empty.
The day was very long. I ordered in food and watched the sort of television programmes that had punctuated my childhood, but which V had taught me to despise. Where once these types of shows had soothed me, sometimes even made me laugh, now I could only see them through her eyes, could only see fat, stupid people competing for non-existent prizes, as if humiliating yourself in public was the point.
I checked my email every ten or so minutes. At one point I unplugged and then reset my broadband. But I was worried this had done something to it, so I called my provider, who assured me there was nothing wrong with my connection. I asked Google how long undeliverable mail takes to be returned and was told the postmaster should inform you of a difficulty almost immediately, but confirmation could take up to three days.
The day drifted into the evening and the television got worse, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on books or music. I had my laptop open next to me, my inbox forever on the screen, my finger constantly refreshing the page.
I slept fitfully, on the sofa again, although this time I did have the foresight to close the curtains. I dreamt of V, trapped in an electronic world of her own creation, stuck behind a million passwords, which no human would ever be clever enough to decipher. She was being attacked by a massive eagle and screamed my name constantly. I woke with a start, my heart pinning me to the sofa like a butterfly in a box, my body covered in sweat and my mouth painfully dry. I lay very still and regulated my breathing, first into my toes, then up my legs, through my belly, my chest, neck and out of the top of my head. I felt better when I’d done that and I could see light creeping round the edges of the curtains, which gave me some hope. And I remembered all was not lost: Suzi and Colin were still at Steeple House, just as they always would be, and I knew that place as well as anywhere in the world.
I left it until 10 a.m. and then ten minutes more. By then I had run, showered and dressed, cleaned the house and opened the doors into the garden and made myself a pot of coffee. I would walk across the common in a bit and buy a paper, maybe even have lunch in a pub. Normal Sunday pursuits.
Steeple House’s number was still stored in my phone, although it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been lost. Suzi took a while to answer, but I knew better than to ring off, knew she would be in the garden on a fine summer morning with her daughter’s wedding looming and all the guests to impress.
‘Mike?’ she said, failing to hide her surprise behind her over-accentuated vowels.
‘How are you, Suzi?’ I asked, keeping my voice light.
‘Well. We’re fine, thank you,’ she replied, recovering herself. ‘Thank you for replying to the invitation so swiftly.’
I was worried when she said that. I thought I’d left an adequate time, but maybe I was wrong, maybe I looked too keen. ‘It will be lovely to see you and Colin.’
‘Yes. How long have you been back in England for?’
I could hear the radio spluttering on in the background and I knew it would be Radio 4, which was never turned off in Steeple House. V and I always listened to Radio 4 as well and I do miss it, but it’s one of the things I still find too painful. ‘A couple of months. I’ve bought a house in Clapham and got a job at another bank.’
‘Well, yes. Verity told me.’
It was good to know they had discussed me. ‘Fantastic news about Verity’s promotion,’ I said, which was a gamble, but not that big a one, if you knew V.
‘Oh, you heard?’ I could hear the pride in her voice. ‘Have you two been in touch then?’
‘Just by email.’ I let the conversation rest for a minute. ‘In fact, that’s why I was ringing. I wanted to send her and Angus an engagement gift and I haven’t got their address.’
I felt Suzi’s hesitation down the line, as large as a bear. ‘Oh, well, that’s very sweet of you, Mike. But you don’t need to do that, surely? And anyway, why don’t you ask Verity for it?’
I half laughed, trying to sound casual. ‘I was going to, but then I thought that might ruin the surprise.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose it might,’ Suzi said, but I could still feel the hesitation.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I should have realised it’s a bit of an odd thing to ring and ask after all this time. I’ll just email her, don’t worry.’
‘No, no. Sorry, I’m being silly. It’s 24 Elizabeth Road, W8. I don’t know the whole postcode, but I could get my address book.’
‘No, postcodes are easy to find.’ I looked at the words I had written on to the pad in front of me. I knew W8 meant Kensington and I had a feeling I knew Elizabeth Road. Large, grand houses. ‘How about a flat number?’
‘Oh no, they have the whole house.’ Again I heard the swell of pride in her voice. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling, well, better, Mike. It’ll be good to see you at the wedding.’
‘Yes,’ I said, heat rising through my body. ‘Thanks.’
‘I think it’s a good idea to put all that nastiness behind us. And Verity’s very happy now. It’s good of you to understand that.’
‘Yes.’ I wanted to say something more significant but my voice felt caught inside me.
‘Anyway, take care,’ she said, ringing off before I could say goodbye.
I stayed sitting at the long table which runs along the back of the kitchen, by the bifold doors. I could imagine V holding lunches and dinners at the table, the doors open, me manning a barbeque. The day felt as though it had darkened, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
‘“Oh no, they have the whole house,”’ I said out loud, mimicking her entitled voice. ‘We don’t say toilet,’ she said to me on my second or third visit to Steeple House. They were having a lunch party and she took me to one side before it started. ‘Or pardon, for that matter,’ she’d added. ‘And please don’t hold your knife like a pen.’
She’d walked away from me after that, leaving me to wonder at all the other things I did wrong without realising. I found V in the garden and told her what her mother had said, but she told me not to worry, that her mother was a stupid snob. ‘Please, please promise me you’ll say at least one of those words during the meal and you’ll definitely hold your knife like a pen,’ she said. At first I refused, but she put her hand down my trousers and stroked me until I would have agreed to learn Chinese if that’s what it took.
The guests did flinch when I said both words, Suzi’s colour rising up from her shirt to her taut, chicken-like neck. But V just smiled and winked at me when nobody was looking.
I must have sat at the table for longer than I realised after speaking to Suzi, because it was 2 p.m. by the time I set off on my paper errand. There was a newsagent’s close by but I thought a walk across the common would do me good and there was a pub which overlooked it that appeared nice. I bought the Observer and a pint and sat outside on a table close to the road. I checked my email on my phone, but my inbox was still empty. Instead I did what I’d been avoiding all morning and typed 24 Elizabeth Road, W8 into Google Maps. The house was just what I had expected: grand, white, imposing. I expanded the image, but I couldn’t make out anything beyond white shutters and dark rooms behind.
Next I googled V’s fiancé, Angus Metcalf, my hands shaking slightly against the keys, so I had to retype his name a few times. There were quite a few results, but I knew immediately which he was. Angus Metcalf of Metcalf, Blake, apparently the pre-eminent advertising company of our age, who had embra
ced the more cynical, ever-connected world we live in to come up with the most innovative, exciting and successful campaigns of the past decade. On the staff page was a black-and-white photograph of a rugged-looking man. He was smiling out at the camera, his eyes creased and his hair greying slightly at the temples. I suppose some people would have called him attractive, but I thought he was very simian-looking and I had to tear my mind away from imagining his ape-like hands on V’s body. His smile was too full, as if he was laughing at you rather than with you. I estimated him to be quite a bit older than us, early forties perhaps, which made me feel a bit better because he hadn’t retired yet and he must be approaching V’s magical number of forty-five, which would suggest she wasn’t that serious about him.
‘Mike.’
I looked up and Kaitlyn was standing in front of me on the street, a disgusting little dog in her arms. The thing was yapping at me and I would have dearly loved to kick it across the road. V said anyone who kept pets was mad and this seemed to prove the point.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve just been walking Snowdrop.’ She laughed lightly. ‘Remember, I live here.’
‘Sorry, of course you do,’ I said, remembering our conversation from Friday evening.
‘God, what happened?’ She motioned to my eyebrow.
I reached up to the sore area of skin. ‘Oh, nothing. I walked into a door.’
Her forehead creased into a frown. ‘Are you here alone?’
‘Yes. Just reading the paper.’
‘Where’s Verity?’
I was slightly shocked to hear V’s name in Kaitlyn’s mouth and it took me a minute to remember everything I’d said to her. ‘At home. Making lunch.’
‘Oh, how nice.’ But she stayed standing where she was.
I stood up and drained my pint. ‘Anyway, better be off. I was only meant to be getting the paper.’ I held it up like an exhibit.
‘Oh yes, well. See you tomorrow.’ She put Snowdrop down and they moved away, all their long spindly legs marching on the pavement. I was relieved to see Kaitlyn was wearing trainers today and giving her poor feet some time off the vertiginous heels.
Our Kind of Cruelty Page 3
