by Clare Naylor
“Hi, Jake.” Kate raised herself onto the bar stool and gave Jake a kiss on the cheek. She pulled her shoes back on and then sat up and looked at him. She was still a little unsure of postrelationship etiquette, but one thing she knew for sure: She didn’t want to make it too easy for him. Even though she knew she’d been criminally available when she rang him, it didn’t mean she had to roll over and concede defeat now that she was here. In front of him and as good as on a plate with goddamned garnish on top.
“You’re looking like a million dollars.” Jake smiled at her over his drink. She looked away.
“I went on a date from hell. I came to wind down a bit before bed,” she said by way of an excuse. She had also hoped that Jake might be taken aback or even upset by the fact that she was dating again so soon after him. If he was upset he didn’t show it.
“We both know why you came.” He leaned in close and breathed on her neck, near the back where her hair was hot and sticky.
“I wanted a drink and, frankly, Jake, you’re the only person in London I know who would be available for a stiff one at this hour.”
“No pun intended.” He wouldn’t let her drop his gaze.
“None at all.” Kate picked up the Scotch that had been placed in front of her and took a pinch between her lips. It melted the back of her throat and tasted awful. She took another sip. “Just too much work and then terrible men.” She looked down into her glass, through the deep amber liquid to the heavy bottom.
“Nothing changes, then.” Jake smiled.
“You got it,” Kate said. “Anyway I didn’t come here to discuss that. I came to escape it. So what’s new in your life, Jake? Since we didn’t get a chance to talk much last week.”
“I very much enjoyed our not talking last week,” Jake said as he took a drag of his cigarette and leaned forward onto the bar. And Kate knew that this was why she had come back. Because when you were sitting next to Jake it didn’t matter what he’d done or what you knew he wouldn’t do next, like not call you or not fall in love with you, it just felt like the only place she could ever imagine wanting to stay for the rest of her life. And she felt this so acutely that her eyes stung with the Scotch and tears.
“Shame you only have one birthday a year then, hey?” Kate ignored the hand he’d placed on her knee. Not on her thigh where there was a protective layer of skirt, but on the pale brown skin of her knee. This wasn’t actually why she’d come. She hadn’t come so that she and Jake could abscond to his flat, do the whole great-sex thing all over again, and then she could be politely evicted at nine o’clock tomorrow morning when he remembered he had to meet some producer on the other side of town. Kate had no idea why she’d really come other than to remind herself that there was at least one man in the world whom she could love.
“So if there’s no birthday to celebrate, how about we bring Christmas forward?” Jake put his hand over Kate’s as she held the glass between her fingers.
“I don’t know why I’m here, Jake.” She looked him in the eye and let out a sigh.
“I want to play you this new record I bought.” He picked the keys to his flat up off the bar and stood up. “Will you come?” Kate looked up at Jake and stayed seated in a feeble gesture of defiance. Jake put a twenty-pound note on the bar to pay for the drinks and looked down at her. “I’d like you to.” And every fiber of her brain screamed not to and every inch of her flesh ignored it. She tipped the last drops of her drink into her mouth and stood up.
“Sure.” But she refused to hold his hand. She knew that she was going to go home with him and have sex, but she didn’t want to encourage any superfluous intimacy that might confuse her even further.
Jake’s room was its usual mess, but the smell was so evocative of all the great times they’d had that it nearly floored her. She sat down quickly on the sofa as Jake kicked off his shoes and went to his music corner.
“It’s this really sweet reggae record,” Jake announced with his back to her as he carefully placed the black vinyl onto the record player and set it playing with a faint crackle from the needle. Jake was obsessed by music. He’d spend hours online tracking down old recordings by obscure Jamaican artists or heartbreaking country-and-western songs. He had the soul of a DJ and he loved playing to an audience. It used to be Kate. She’d sit for hours on his sofa painting her toenails silver, reading a book, or she’d be in the kitchen cooking supper and with all the sweet simplicity of a teenager Jake would call out what he was putting on next, imploring her to listen to the lyrics or the cute voice of the female singer. Or he’d tell her how the artist had killed himself not long after or some other piece of trivia. And though most of it had gone over her head when they were going out together it was one of the things she missed most about Jake: his music, the hours chilling and just being in the same space as him.
The song started and Jake went into his own world, dancing a bit as he put the record sleeve back on the table. “You like, baby?” he said in a singsong Jamaican accent.
“I like.” Kate smiled at him from the sofa. She’d taken off her shoes and had her knees curled up to her chest on the sofa in a pointlessly defensive pose. The room, Jake’s scruffy but somehow immensely comfortable bedroom with the old guitars and the books, filled with the airy sound of a summer evening. Kate rested her head on the arm of the chair.
“Listen to this bit . . .” He hummed along and crossed the room with his hips swaying and his holey gray socks peering out from beneath his too-long jeans. Jake had great limbs, Kate remembered as she watched him meander toward her. He sat down on the sofa next to her and gently sang along to the music as he took her face in his hand and looked at her lips. Kate closed her eyes. Oh shit. It wasn’t that she was a fool. She wasn’t one of those women who can’t resist a bastard and brag about it. She wanted Jake to love her. She wanted him to be good to her. She wasn’t out for some man who would treat her badly. She just wanted him to settle down and appreciate her a bit.
“You like this?” He closed his eyes and sealed Kate’s misery for the next few weeks. He kissed her. And so instead of hating herself Kate succumbed. She took the stray curls at the back of his neck in her fist and pulled gently as she kissed him back. And this was just what she’d needed because this wasn’t Joss. This wasn’t paint-by-numbers sexiness with the right sort of man. This was the real thing. Definitely with the wrong man, but then, everything has its price.
Before long Kate was lying in Jake’s familiar bed, with her underwear kicked off and Jake above her, his eyes closed in ecstatic concentration. She hated him. But there was no winning, she thought, as he collapsed beside her and kissed her forehead over and over. And she was back where she’d started.
Chapter Eight
When Kate woke the next morning Jake wasn’t there. But he’d left her a can of Coke and a peanut butter sandwich by the bed along with a note saying that he had to go to rehearsals and he’d see her later. Kate smiled as she pulled the ring on the can. She was glad she had come by last night. Sometimes she just needed to take the initiative, and Jake was perfectly happy. She took a bite of the sandwich and went across the room to find her phone. She knew that Tanya would be dying to find out about her date with Joss Armstrong and was actually a bit worried that he’d have called first and complained what a psychopathic nightmare Kate was. But for once there was no message from Tanya—but there was one from Jake.
That was a blast. Have a good day. Jxx
Kate smiled and wondered how long the goodwill might last between her and Jake this time. Then she remembered that tomorrow was her birthday; maybe she would invite him along to the party she had only just decided that she would throw. Just so she got to see him sooner rather than later. Also it might put an end to everyone’s cynical eye rolling every time Kate mentioned Jake’s name if he was actually by her side on a day that mattered. She pressed REPLY on her phone and tapped out
My birthday tomorrow. Dinner at Lemonia at 8 if you’re up for it. Kxx
&nbs
p; And by the time Kate emerged from Jake’s shower with her hair in wet strands around her face, her phone was winking at her again. The red light flashed as she opened an envelope.
Happy Birthday for tomorrow, beautiful. See you there. xx
Kate smiled and rubbed her hair with a towel. Twenty-nine years old tomorrow and the happiest girl alive. Suddenly living in a shed felt fine. Her animal paintings seemed quite promising, the sun was out, and she suddenly had a party to organize.
“Tanya, I’m having a party.” She called Tanya and left a message. “Come, and bring Robbie.”
“Leonard, it’s my birthday tomorrow,” she said when she finally made it home. Leonard was at the kitchen table eating his scrambled egg and summer truffles.
“And you thought I needed reminding of that fact?” Leonard smiled and looked decidedly worse for wear after his Pimm’s session with Mirri on the lawn.
“I’m having a party at Lemonia. If you can get me a table, that is.” Kate added. She’d suddenly realized that they would be extremely lucky to get a large table at short notice and she had absolutely zero power to alter that.
“Well, I’ll try, my dear, but I’m not sure that I’ll be able to. You know how busy they get, especially on a Thursday night.” Leonard grimaced apologetically.
“I’ll get you a table at Lemonia, pas de probleme.” Mirri sauntered into the kitchen, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, pulling the belt of her dressing gown in a knot about her waist as she shuffled toward the kettle. Looking not dissimilar to any old suburban housewife.
“Really?” Kate’s good mood was pretty unsquashable today, and she wasn’t cross or stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. “That’d be great. Of course you’re invited, too, if you’re around.”
“Okay,” Mirri said as she stubbed her cigarette butt out in the sink. Leonard smiled and rolled his eyes discreetly at Kate. He was enormously house-proud but he was also a very stylish host; he would never have chided Mirri for her slatternly ways. “I’ll come. How many do you want the table for?”
“Well, there’s me and Leonard and Robbie and Tanya and you”—Kate nodded toward Mirri and counted on her fingers—“and Jake,” she added without looking up to take the temperature of the room. Not that she needed to look up, because Mirri always spoke up.
“The Slug?” She gasped in horror. “I thought you were dating a vicar.”
“I went on a date with a banker and he was dreadful. I spent the night with Jake.”
“Ah, well, at least that’s interesting.” Mirri shrugged. “How old will you be tomorrow?”
“Twenty-nine,” Leonard said proudly. “With her whole life before her.”
“Ah, when I was twenty-nine I went to Las Vegas and married my lover. Then we made love in his airplane all the way to Mexico, where we stayed for a month until we got bored and divorced. The ring is quite beautiful.” She held out a hand in front of her, as a canary diamond at least as big as the Ritz, if not the whole of Piccadilly, cast shafts of light around the room. “He was an Italian playboy. Fun, but once you stop making love they want you to make pasta.”
“Thank God times have changed.” Kate buttered a piece of toast. “I couldn’t make pasta to save my life.”
“I liked twenty-nine, though.” Mirri smiled. “At that age one is old enough to know what one is doing and young enough to do it all the same. Well, I was, anyway.” She looked at Kate. “And will The Slug be putting rose petals on your pillow? Will you be drinking champagne and making love all day?”
“Well, I don’t expect so.” Kate scowled at the notion. “I’m not sure that I’d really want him to, either. But he is coming to dinner,” she said smugly, and waited for Mirri to make some remark about it not counting as a birthday if you didn’t make love seventeen times with a count from Medici.
But she didn’t, she just smiled, raised her coffee cup at Kate, and said, “I shall call the restaurant after lunch and book for six then.”
“Thanks, Mirri. That’d be amazing,” Kate said as she flicked through her post, which was sitting on the table. No cards yet, but maybe tomorrow.
“Oh, by the way”—Leonard tapped Kate on the arm—“I had a telephone call this morning from a gentleman inquiring about you.”
“Really?” Kate said. “That sounds promising.”
“He wants to employ you, darling, not marry you.” Leonard stirred his tea.
“Oh, well, never mind. What did he want then?” Kate was undeterred.
“He said he’d heard that you were one of the more accomplished animal painters in London and how did he go about hiring you?”
“Well, a commission’s a commission, I suppose,” Kate said, thinking that it would take her at least a small distance closer to her deposit for the flat. “But I’ve got to get to work on Bébé, too, you know.” Kate looked at Mirri. She was feeling a pang of guilt because she always seemed to be walking out the door and not painting the portrait even though Mirri had paid a check into her bank two days ago.
“De rien,” said Mirri with a sweep of her hand, which, even though Kate didn’t speak French, she imagined meant something like “what the hell” or “don’t worry your silly head about that.”
“I told him that you’d be in your workshop this afternoon if he wanted to call around and see your work.”
“Great, I’d better go and hide my underwear then.” Kate stood up from the table. “It shouldn’t take long. I imagine he’ll just want to look at a few of the dog pictures, ask whether I have a problem with temperamental whippets, and go away to think about it.”
“Oh, no, it sounded a good deal more than that,” Leonard interrupted as Kate made for the door. “He was talking about life-sized. He asked what the largest thing you’d ever done was.”
“Oh, well, a Great Dane then. Not a whippet. Do you think he’ll be long?” Kate asked. “Because I’ve really got to get some sketches of Bébé done this afternoon.”
“He said he’d be here before two.” Leonard picked up The Times and began the crossword.
“Okay. Mirri, I’ll be up just as soon as he’s gone if that’s okay,” Kate said. Once again Mirri shrugged and didn’t look up from Le Monde. Well, at least Kate had made an effort.
Kate jumped when she caught sight of a figure outside her shed. It was the back of what she assumed was a man wearing an olive-green parka coat with the hood up. At best he looked like a worshipful Druid; at worst a demented murderer from a teen-scream movie.
“Hello?” Kate asked tentatively as she slowed down her approach a little. She thought he was probably her new client, but then again he might be a lunatic fanboy of Mirri’s or a lurking paparazzo. Things had certainly changed around here since Mirri arrived. And not all for the better where the litany of lurking strangers was concerned.
“Oh, hi.” The figure turned around and pulled down his hood. Well, it was a glorious summer day, Kate thought, why would anyone be wearing such a thing?
“Hi, I’m Kate.” She took a couple of steps closer and instantly recognized the thick black hair and the elegant hand that was extended toward her. “Louis. It’s you,” she squealed. “What are you doing here?” She hugged him and he kissed the top of her head.
“Ah, so Leonard managed not to let on that it was me.” Louis seemed pleased. “Good. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’d have preferred a cake,” she said. He raked the hair out of his eyes and Kate thought maybe she spotted a deep blush creeping up his cheeks. “No, of course I wouldn’t. I’d love to work for you. What do you want? Your sheepdog or goldfish painted?” She walked down the path toward the shed, and he followed.
“I need a life-sized painting of a polar bear.”
“You do not, “ Kate said with disbelief.
“It’s for an exhibition I’m doing in a couple of months.”
“And you want me to do it?” Kate could understand strangers wanting to hire her. But Louis? “You’re a professional
artist,” she reminded him.
“So are you, Kate,” he said quite seriously. Kate took a look at her shed and realized that self-deprecation was not going to pay for a deposit on a home. Well, certainly not one that didn’t have a lawn mower for a roommate. So she straightened up her shoulders and smiled in as professional a manner as she could manage.
“Well, Mr. Alcott. If you want to come in, then maybe we can discuss this.” She opened the shed door and stepped inside.
“Is this your studio, then?” he asked as he stepped into the shed.
“It’s where I live, Louis.” She gave him a friendly push.
“I don’t believe . . .” But before he could finish his sentence he looked up at the room and fell silent. “You live here?”
Kate wasn’t sure whether he was horrified or plain amazed. She drew her lips back over her teeth in a wince; God, she hated having to admit this part. But it did sort the snobs from the good guys. People who thought she was poor and freaky tended to vanish; those who saw the novelty, or at least the necessity, of where she lived were awarded secret gold stars in Kate’s head. And if she ever married George Clooney she’d invite them to the wedding. “I do,” she cheerfully announced. “It’s only temporary, I’m looking for a flat at the moment,” she lied, “but actually I quite like it.”
