by Taylor, Lulu
‘I’ve been thinking about it since we met in the park,’ he murmured. ‘About what happened back then.’
There was a sudden clatter as a tray appeared on the floor by the hatch, pushed through by an unseen hand and followed by Polly’s fair head.
‘Ah,’ exclaimed Nicky, ‘here she is with the tea. She’s a deft hand with that tray, aren’t you? Lots of practice. Now, Pol, I need you to put some war paint on Mrs Sykes – what we discussed earlier.’ He turned back to Alexandra. ‘I’m just going to sort out some bits and bobs while Polly gets you ready.’
When he went, clambering away down the hatch, it was as though all sense of life had gone with him and she was left bereft in the hot airless space. Polly took a bag from over one shoulder and emptied pots and brushes on to the floor. Then she looked over at Alexandra and said coldly, ‘Don’t be flattered. This is what he does with all the girls.’
It was like a punch in the stomach but she tried to show nothing on her face of the swirling dark disappointment that was drowning out all the pleasure she’d experienced so far. When Polly came towards her, gesturing for her to sit down on a collapsible chair, Alexandra was startled by a violent feeling of jealousy, because Polly was close to Nicky and part of his world.
He came up again twenty minutes later. Polly was doing something to the front of her hair with a hairbrush but her face was finished. Nicky approached, saying, ‘Let’s take a look then.’
Alexandra looked up at him, aware of a slight heaviness on her lids and moisture on her lips. Nicky was staring at her, astonishment in his eyes. He seemed stunned by her transformation, then pulled himself together, looked away and turned to Polly. ‘Well done, Polls. A triumph. You got it just right. Exactly as I wanted.’
‘Can I see?’ Alexandra asked, desperately curious.
He looked back at her, a curiously bashful expression on his face as he took in her changed face again, then smiled and shook his head. ‘Oh no. Don’t want you getting stiff and awkward. I don’t want you deciding who you are when it’s me who does that.’ He became decisive again, looking at her now with detached appraisal and working out how to get the effect he wanted. ‘Right, Alex, come over here. See that large blue cushion on the floor? I want you to sit on that. Polly, I want a key light, that’s all. But we’ll need the reflectors, one there and the other there.’ He gestured and Polly obeyed orders. Nicky started changing his camera settings, saying, ‘I want you relaxed. I want you to think about things that make you calm and happy.’
What could such things be? As if he could read her mind, Nicky went on, ‘Happy days with your husband, your wedding, Sunday afternoons together . . .’ He stopped suddenly and their eyes met. His expression changed, though she couldn’t identify what to. Was it sympathy? He said quickly, ‘Think of home then. Think of the meadows and the river where we used to play – do you remember?’
She smiled. He lifted the camera to his eye.
‘That’s right, Alex. Now, don’t smile, just dream . . . Move your head to the left, put your chin down . . . yes . . . just like that.’ The shutter began clicking and with the sound of his voice, she started to relax, letting herself float somewhere safe as she moved according to his directions, allowing the camera’s needs to shape her and his commands to propel her as he wanted.
After the session was finished, they left Polly to deal with the films and Nicky took her out to a nearby cafe on Elizabeth Street.
‘I think the pictures are going to be beautiful,’ he said as he sipped hot black coffee from a white china cup.
‘I’m sure you’ve done something marvellous,’ she replied. The make-up had been wiped away before she’d seen it and she’d glimpsed only her normal self in the reflection that showed in the cafe windows on their way in. ‘You were very impressive, the way you know what to do.’
‘Thanks, but actually, I mean you.’ He smiled at her, then said hesitantly, ‘But you seem so very sad.’
‘Do I?’ She was surprised. She’d been happier today than she could remember being for a long time.
‘Yes. Are you very miserable?’
‘No! No.’ She thought of afternoons wandering through Hyde Park and her plan to explore London when the weather changed. She thought of her enjoyment of solitude and quiet, and the way she could drift through days with her imaginings and dreams. She considered the noisy coffee mornings with Sophie and the other wives, who all seemed so worldly-wise, and the bright chatter they brought into her life. ‘I’m perfectly happy.’
‘But when I mentioned your husband . . .’ He looked worried. ‘Your face . . . it was a study of sorrow.’
She pictured Laurence, the stranger to whom she was now eternally bound. They were friendly enough but the memory of those dreadful nights of fumbling failure and mutual humiliation stood between them. It had been almost three months now since they married. That early period must be the hardest time, she thought. It would surely get easier as they learned to love one another the way they were supposed to. Perhaps one day, somehow, children would come and they would have something to love together.
‘Well,’ Nicky said briskly, ‘we don’t have to talk about that. It’s prying of me, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Tell me about something else. Tell me about your friends. Would any of them fancy having their photographs taken, do you think?’
At home she wondered what Polly had meant when she said that Nicky was the same with all the girls. How could he be? Could he really have that connection of their shared past with anyone else? Surely it was impossible. As she served Laurence his supper of a grilled pork chop and potatoes, she was lost in a dream world, replaying every moment of her day with Nicky and the delicious surrender she had felt as he had taken her photograph. He had controlled her and she had let him, revelling in the feeling that she was giving him what he wanted. When she’d hit the perfect pose he’d say, ‘Yes, that’s it,’ in a deep, sincere way that gave her a chill of pleasure.
The photographs came a few days later in a brown envelope addressed in a flowing hand to Mrs Laurence Sykes. She opened it and out slipped some large black-and-white portraits and a note that read: These are the best. Lovely, don’t you think?
She gasped as she looked at them. Were they really her? The girl in the picture had enormous eyes framed by huge curving lashes – the ones that Polly had gummed on before painting swooping black lines over the lids and out at the corners of her eyes – and her pale lips glistened. Her hair was lightly ruffled to create a natural effect, her fringe falling lightly to her eyes, and she gazed up unsmiling at the camera with a look of almost tangible vulnerability. In one picture, she looked away towards some unseen corner of the room. In another she was gazing out just past the lens as though seeing a whole world beyond it. The portraits were full of easy sensuality and grace but also melancholy. They were not like anything she had seen before.
When she showed them to Laurence, he frowned at them and said, ‘I see. He’s one of these avant-garde types, is he?’ A sour look crossed his face as he pushed the pictures away. ‘Someone like him can afford to be.’ But after a moment he said, ‘Still, we should see him. Ask him for supper.’
Alexandra wrote a polite note of thanks and asked Nicky to come and dine. He wrote back saying she was very kind but he wished they’d join him for dinner instead, as he had used the pictures to get an important commission and he owed her instead of the other way round. Laurence was pleased: not only would he establish a friendship with his wife’s society connection but he would perhaps meet other similar people and become part of a smart crowd.
But the club where Nicky took them wasn’t the grand establishment Laurence had envisaged; it was a bohemian place in a cellar near Notting Hill Gate where people wore strange clothes and listened to raucous music. Nicky fitted right in wearing his leather trousers teamed with the pink jacket she’d first seen him in, but Laurence was evidently ill at ease in his smart suit and tie, his short Guards haircut making him look
quite out of place. Alexandra felt stuffy and overdressed in the outfit she’d thought would be suitable – a pale blue two-piece suit with a diamante brooch – when the other girls were wearing sweaters and mini-skirts, or trendy little dresses that stopped well above their knees. She wanted to be like them, so at ease and comfortable with themselves. They danced and drank and smoked cigarettes with casual sophistication, and the music thumped at an unapologetic volume. The pounding rhythm was obviously meant to make everyone want to dance. A thrill ran through her at the sight of so much youth and freedom and possibility. Along with the fug of smoke and thudding beat from the jukebox, there was the unmistakeable tang of adventure in the air.
Nicky was charming and did his best to put Laurence at his ease, asking him questions and focusing on him almost entirely while Alexandra sipped her drink and observed what was happening around her, but the evening was difficult. Even a few drinks didn’t seem to loosen him up. If anything, Laurence became stiffer and more contained as the evening got into full swing around him. When the music became louder and people began to dance in the small space set aside for the purpose, Laurence was visibly uncomfortable. He lit cigarette after cigarette, his left leg twitching, and there was an air of anxiety around him as though he expected trouble of some kind. He didn’t seem able to relax while they ate dinner at a small table at the edge of the dance floor, watching the writhing and bopping crowd.
When they’d finished and the music was turned up louder, Nicky leaned over to Alexandra. ‘Would you like to dance?’
She wanted to very much, even if the prospect of going among those self-possessed people made her nervous. She’d longed all evening to have a moment alone with Nicky. His presence was magnetic to her, and she’d had to make a constant effort not to stare at him, forcing herself to look elsewhere in case Laurence should notice what a pull Nicky exerted over her. Instead, she’d looked at all the girls with their cool confidence and wondered if any of them had been Nicky’s girlfriend, or if any one in particular was catching his eye. The girl in the mustard-coloured mini-skirt and long boots maybe? Her blonde hair swung enticingly as she bobbed to the music. Or perhaps he liked the striking redhead with her short hair and white lipstick. Surely he must fancy these fashionable women with their style and sophistication? But he wanted to dance with her, and she didn’t think she could bear it if she was not allowed.
She looked questioningly at Laurence, who fidgeted and exhaled a stream of smoke before nodding curtly and saying, ‘If you like. They all look damn stupid if you ask me.’
Feeling relieved, she stood up quickly, afraid he might change his mind, smoothed out the creases in her blue skirt and followed Nicky to the dance floor.
‘So that’s your husband,’ Nicky said as he turned to face her. He took her in a hold as though they were going to waltz but he then began to move around quite freely without any real purpose. Alexandra tried to mimic his movements but couldn’t work out any pattern to what he was doing. She felt that she must look, as Laurence had said, stupid. Her stuffy blue suit and clumsy dancing must be ridiculous to everyone else. No doubt they were all laughing at her.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ she said apologetically. She glanced over to where Laurence sat smoking at their table, his eyes darting about as he observed the crowd around him. ‘I’m sorry if he’s a little unsmiling. He’s in the army; he’s used to rather a different world.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I know his sort. But . . .’ He leaned in towards her and his nearness made her skin tingle. ‘You and he don’t seem very close, that’s all.’
‘We . . . we didn’t know each other long before we married.’ She was at a loss as to how to explain it. She wanted to tell him that getting married had not been her idea and that she hadn’t understood its implications until it was too late, but it didn’t seem right to open her heart to him like that.
‘I see.’ He looked knowing. ‘You didn’t say you have a baby.’
‘I haven’t.’ She flushed violently. ‘It wasn’t like that! Not at all.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’ He looked awkward and his large hand squeezed hers. ‘I just assumed . . . I shouldn’t have. How dreadful. Please forgive me.’ He gazed down into her eyes with a puzzled expression. ‘I just can’t understand how a girl like you . . . and someone like him . . . it doesn’t make any sense at all. Perhaps it’s why you seem so sad.’
She stared back at him, and at that moment she became deeply aware of his physical presence and the way their bodies were touching: his thighs against hers, her chest brushing his shirt, their arms pressed together and their hands holding. The sensation of his skin on hers was overpowering, almost too much to bear – wonderful and terrifying at the same time. Her heart began to race and she felt almost giddy, the effect of his nearness sending her senses haywire. She longed to press even closer to him, to absorb him somehow. His male strength and the warmth of his body were electrifying, unlike anything she had felt when Laurence was close to her. At that moment, something changed inside her and she had a sudden and intense realisation that this was something that she was supposed to feel. It was what had been missing with Laurence and it could not be summoned up at will. She would never feel this for her husband. The thought struck her like a revelation, wonderful and yet terrible. At last she knew what was possible and that she was not dead inside, and the knowledge made her simultaneously euphoric and as wretched as if her life was over. But surely the strength of this . . . whatever it was . . . was far too much, much greater than she was supposed to experience. It was making her faint, helpless. Then she looked up into his eyes and saw at once that he was feeling it too, or something like it. He was staring at her with astonishment as though he’d just seen her for the first time. There was none of the photographer’s objective appraisal in his grey eyes now. It was more than the surprise he’d shown when he’d seen her made up by Polly. He was looking at her with a profound intensity that sent her stomach whirling and her nerves singing, and their connection almost crackled through their palms.
The music stopped and they pulled apart, both breathless, still staring at one another.
‘I must go back,’ she stuttered.
‘Yes,’ he replied, and she knew that he understood everything.
She turned and weaved her way back through the crowd on the dance floor to where Laurence sat.
‘I think it’s time to go,’ he said, grinding out his cigarette and standing up. He looked so out of place, so small and formal in his suit.
‘All right,’ she said, although she wasn’t sure how she was going to survive even a few more hours trapped back in her old life. Old life? It was her only life. Except that she knew that something raw and physical and exciting existed inside her, and that knowledge was going to torture her. Nicky filled every corner of her mind and being. There was nothing but him. How could she exist away from him? Her life with Laurence was a dead one, she knew that now.
As she put on her coat, she felt electricity course down her shoulder and spine and knew that he was there behind her.
‘Are you leaving?’ Nicky asked. He looked different, his face suddenly a little drawn and his eyes more intense than ever. His easy smile had vanished and he seemed strained.
‘Yes, sorry,’ Laurence said through tight lips. ‘It’s late. I must get my wife home.’
Nicky shook his hand and said in a voice that was clearly meant to sound jolly, ‘I’m having a party next week at my place. I’ll send a card. Please come.’
‘Thank you, we will. And thanks too for dinner. Decent of you.’
‘It was only right. Alex’s portraits have brought me some excellent business.’ Nicky glanced at her quickly but turned away as though he was afraid to look at her too long. He gave a brief smile in her direction. ‘Goodnight. I hope I’ll see you soon. Would you excuse me? I think I’ve seen a friend I must speak to.’
In the taxi on the way home, Laurence said in a slightly sneering tone, ‘Alex?’
�
��That’s what he used to call me when we were children.’
‘Oh. How terribly sweet.’ He didn’t hide the sarcasm. ‘God knows if we’ll go to his party if it’s like that awful club. He’s spoiled, that’s all too plain. Bet his old dad is a gibbering wreck with a son like that.’
Laurence sighed and Alexandra sensed the wave of injustice he breathed out: how was it, he seemed to be saying, that a man like Nicky was born to treat so lightly the kind of privilege that he, Laurence, would have valued and venerated? It simply wasn’t fair.
She leaned her hot forehead against the cool glass of the taxi window, wishing only to be at home in bed, her back safely turned to Laurence, so that she could take out the events of the evening and examine them, replay them, relive them, and feel what she had felt so powerfully in Nicky’s arms. She shivered lightly at the memory.
‘Cold?’ asked Laurence.
‘No . . . yes,’ she said. He mustn’t guess. That was the most important thing.
The next morning she had a letter delivered. Inside was a plain white card that read, ‘I must see you. Meet me in the park this afternoon by the Albert Memorial, 3.30. Telephone if you can’t come. N.’
Chapter Ten
Present day
On Sunday afternoon John put his head round the door of the snug and said, ‘What are you up to?’
Delilah looked up from the laptop balanced precariously on her lap and smiled, glad to see him looking brighter since the disappointment that she wasn’t pregnant. ‘Just emailing my mother,’ she said. Her family were in Wales and ever since she had moved to London in her twenties they had acted as though she had vanished into a far-off land where she could not be reached. Apart from a couple of trips to see her, when they’d been appalled by the journey, the size of the city and the expense of being there, they’d rarely even asked to visit. Her sisters and brother had stayed in Wales, got married and had children; they were all settled and happy where they were. When Delilah had married John, her family had seen it as the rightful continuation of her fairytale existence, but did not expect to be included in it. If anything, the distance between them all grew even greater, although Delilah tried to bridge it with regular correspondence and invitations to the house that were never taken up. She didn’t like it – she wanted to share all this with her family, show them another version of life they might find interesting – but there was little she could do except keep tapping out the emails and trying to find a time when she and John could visit Wales, though it seemed impossible to get everyone together. ‘What are you up to?’
