by Nuala Casey
Seb shudders. The air has grown colder and the skin on his bare arms prickles in the breeze.
‘Come on then,’ says Henry, looking at his watch. ‘I’ve got the table booked for 8:30. We might just have time for a cheeky cocktail first.’
‘Sounds good,’ says Poppy, linking her arm into his. ‘Guys, it was so nice to meet you both,’ she says, turning to Yasmine and Seb. ‘I am ridiculously excited about the launch, it’s going to be awesome. I’ve told all my girlfriends about it. We have so needed a new supper venue in town. Oh, I meant to tell you Henry, my oldest, oldest friend Ollie just started working for Decadence. He’s going to mention you to Freddie Montague.’ As she says this name, her eyes widen and she looks at each of them in turn, waiting for a response.
Henry chuckles. ‘We’ve already got Decadence on board, darling. Seb and I were at school with Freddie; I was best man at his wedding.’
‘Wow,’ says Poppy, looking up at Henry in awe. She turns to Yasmine and places her hand firmly on her arm as if about to impart the secrets of the universe. ‘That is amazing; you’ve got the elite of the elite of concierge services recommending you. That’s your clientele sorted.’ She clicks her fingers, a little too close to Yasmine’s face for comfort.
Yasmine smiles but Seb can tell that her teeth are well and truly gritted.
‘Well it was good to meet you, Poppy,’ she says, ushering Seb inside. Poppy and Henry follow them back down the stairs.
As they open the front door, the noise of Soho hits them like a sharp gust of wind. Seb stands behind Yasmine, his hands resting on her shoulders, as they wave goodbye to the departing figures – short, stocky Henry and his tall, leggy date – disappearing up the street. The rain has left little silky strands of water on the road and the lights of The Dog and Duck next door are reflected in them like opalescent pools. The air is still and warm.
‘The calm before the storm,’ says Yasmine, as they stand on the threshold looking out onto the busy street. Soho is open for business: the restaurants are full, people are spilling out onto the street over at The Carlyle on Bateman Street, huddling together as they smoke cigarettes. It’s funny how the landscape stays the same while the clientele evolve, thinks Seb; those smokers over there look so young; or is it just him growing old? Yet some things don’t change and though restaurants can open and close within the space of a few months, a few endure, the chosen ones that survive through the decades, as though in possession of some sort of magic, some Soho gold dust that protects them from the fluctuations of the city. Maybe, just maybe, The Rose Garden can be one of those places.
They are about to go back inside when a young couple cross the street and come towards them. They stand with their arms linked, looking in at the darkened windows. Seb reckons they are on their second, maybe third date; they still have that look of wonder in their eyes, a certain disbelief at being together. It’s the period in a relationship before meals on the sofa, before fighting over dirty socks left on the bedroom floor and crying silent tears as you curl up to sleep back to back. These are the days of longing looks over candlelit tables; of being curious about every tiny detail of the other person’s story; this is sex with the lights on and talking until dawn.
‘Are you open?’ asks the young man, tentatively.
‘Not yet, but we have our press launch on Wednesday night,’ says Yasmine, smiling. ‘Why don’t you both come along? There’ll be champagne and delicious mezze, live music. It’s going to be a great night.’ She rifles in her pocket and pulls out a creased invitation.
Seb looks at his wife as she hands it to the young man. She looks radiant, her eyes sparkling with excitement. If he were religious he would say a silent prayer right now, ask God to make this restaurant a success. Not for the money or the acclaim but just so that Yasmine will always be as happy as she is now.
‘Sounds good,’ says the young man. He shows the invitation to his companion and she nods enthusiastically.
‘Excellent,’ he says, his voice firmer than before, perhaps attempting to sound more mature, more controlled. ‘We’ll come along.’
They say goodbye and Yasmine heads back inside. As Seb closes the door he sees the young couple walk across the road, holding hands. As they reach the other side they stop and share a long, lingering kiss. Something inside Seb chills; it’s like he is looking at two ghosts; holograms from his past, from a time and an age he will never know again. ‘Freedom,’ a voice inside his head whispers and then again: ‘freedom.’ He feels a warm pair of hands slide around his waist and he turns to see Yasmine. She has her coat on and her large satchel is strapped across her front. He smiles. She’s still the same person he met seven years ago; life has weathered them, certainly, but it’s made them stronger. He still has his freedom; it’s just a different kind.
‘Come on then,’ he says, taking her hand in his. ‘Let’s go and find Cosima.’
Yasmine locks up and they walk hand in hand down Frith Street. A beautiful, straw-coloured moon lights their way and bathes the street in its glow. As they walk, Seb shivers. ‘Are you okay?’ asks Yasmine, rubbing his arm with her free hand. ‘I’m fine,’ he whispers, though his heart suddenly feels heavy.
Enough, he thinks, as he holds his wife closer and quickens his pace; there is no space for ghosts tonight; the dead must rest in peace now. Yet the cold stays with him as they cross Shaftesbury Avenue; it is there as they enter Leicester Square tube station and descend into the depths of the city, and as he sits on the half-empty Northern Line train, listening to Yasmine talk, he feels as though his body has turned to ice. He needs to be with his little girl; he needs to get home and tuck her safely into bed. He counts down the stations in a trance – Leicester Square, Charing Cross, Embankment – until the doors open and they tumble out into the gloom of Waterloo underground.
7
Mark shifts his weight from one foot to the other; he feels like he is drowning in a sea of lime green as he stands looking at the bowed ginger head of a young man named Stuart; a man who is here to help, to assist Mark in any request he may have; anything, it seems, but give him the key to his room.
He feels charged, dizzy with adrenalin after seeing them in the flesh. It was dark but their two bodies were illuminated in the light of the restaurant; they had glowed in the darkness like a burning pyre, unaware that he was watching them from the doorway of Hazlitt’s Hotel. He will be closer on Wednesday, hidden away in a room overlooking the restaurant; he will be the invisible enemy, the unseen silent man, waiting for his moment, the glorious moment when he can charge across the neon-lit wasteland and claim his prize.
But that will all come later; the posh hotel, the suit, the charade. His budget will only stretch to one night in the hotel, so he has had to take what he can, and here it is, a backpacker’s hostel tucked away in a little street behind Piccadilly. The fact that the door of the hostel almost blends into the brick work, reassures him, makes him think that here is true privacy, here is a place so discreet he can slip in and out over the next two days like a ghost; a non-person.
‘I’m sorry but I’ve got you down here as a shared dorm,’ says Stuart, looking up from his computer. He bites his bottom lip as he imparts the news, as though trying to distance himself from the mistake.
‘Ah, bollocks to that,’ says Mark, slapping his hands down onto the lime green plastic counter. ‘Look, mate, when I booked online, I specifically requested a single room.’
Stuart, who suddenly looks ruffled, types something into the computer. ‘I am very sorry, Mr Davis, I think there must have been some glitch there, but not to worry, we’ll see what we’ve got.’ He sucks his lips together as he scrutinises the information on the screen. ‘We’re in luck. There’s a single room free on the first floor, but I’m afraid it’s a little bit more expensive than the shared one you booked.’
‘How much more expensive?’ asks Mark, preparing for the worst.
‘An extra ten pounds, I’m afraid, says Stuart.
Mark is getting weary of Stuart’s condescending tone and right now he would pay a thousand pounds if he had to, just to be able to check into his room. He takes his wallet out of his pocket, slides a ten pound note out and hands it to Stuart.
‘Here’s ten pounds. Now can you check me in?’
‘Into the single room?’ asks Stuart, taking the money.
‘Yes,’ sighs Mark. ‘Into the single room.’
Stuart types something into his computer while Mark stands clutching his bags close to his side. Without looking up, Stuart informs him that there are sheets, pillows and a quilt in the room but towels are extra.
‘How much extra?’ asks Mark, digging out his wallet again.
‘Twelve pounds,’ trills Stuart. ‘For a hand towel and bath sheet.’
‘Twelve quid for a couple of towels,’ says Mark. ‘It never said that on the website when I … oh never mind, here.’ He pushes another ten pound note and a couple of coins across the counter.’
‘You can collect them from the laundry room on the lower ground floor,’ says Stuart, ringing the money into his cash register. ‘We have free WiFi in the building as well as computers in the refectory on the first floor. You can also purchase a wide range of tea, coffee, confectionary and snacks from the vending machines there.’
Mark nods his head. He has no intention of stepping foot in the refectory; all he wants is for Stuart to hand over the entry card which he is holding tantalisingly aloft in his hand.
‘We have a travel service on site, based on the second floor. If you want to book the next stage of your trip or need any travel advice, that’s the place to go.’ He thrusts a pile of leaflets across the counter, advertising working holidays in Brazil and gap-year trips to New Zealand with bunches of tanned twenty-somethings clad in shorts and vests grinning out. Mark pushes them back towards Stuart.
‘If it’s clubbing you’re after, then we can help,’ says Stuart, his voice brightly persistent. ‘We arrange nightly trips to some of the best clubs in Central London. Everyone gathers in the refectory at nine and then …’
‘No thanks, mate,’ says Mark, his voice coming out louder than he intended. ‘I just want a room. No travel plans, no clubbing, just a room.’
Mark had not gone to university but he imagines that this hell must be pretty close to what it is must be like. All this smiling and hugging; having to pretend you’re happy and having an amazing time, all the time; refectories and communal living; dormitories and never ever being left alone …
Mark coughs. The reception area is small and compact and he can feel his lungs begin to tighten. He reaches into his pocket and takes out his asthma inhaler. While Stuart looks on with a wide-eyed expression of concern, he sucks a deep breathful into his lungs.
‘Pharmacies,’ says Stuart, with a tinge of glee in his voice.
The man seems to get high on offering advice.
‘If you need a pharmacy during the course of your stay, we have one of the biggest right on our doorstep: Boots on Piccadilly. You’ll find a wide range of medicines, first aid …’
‘I think I just need to have a lie down if that’s okay mate,’ interrupts Mark, his voice thin and raspy. ‘It’s been a long journey, yeah.’
‘Sure,’ says Stuart, nodding. He hands Mark the entry card. ‘It’s room 42, on the first floor. If you need anything there is a fully staffed reception desk down here, twenty-four hours a day. There’s also a security button in your room, next to the door, above the light switch; if you have an emergency, or fall ill during your stay and you can’t leave the room, then press the button and someone will come and help you.’
Mark nods and takes the card from Stuart’s outstretched hand.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he says as he picks up his bags and goes to head for the stairs.
‘Oh, and don’t forget to collect your towels from the laundry on the lower ground floor,’ calls Stuart. ‘You’ll need this.’ He holds a pink card in his hand. ‘It’s your receipt, to show that you’ve paid for them.’
‘Thanks,’ says Mark, taking it, ‘but I think I’ll go and put my bags down first.’ He stuffs the receipt into his pocket.
‘It’s up to you,’ says Stuart. ‘Enjoy your stay and if there’s anything …’
He is interrupted by a group of young Japanese backpackers approaching the desk.
‘Konbanwa!’ he shrieks, his eyes brightening.
The group look far more likely to be interested in the travel centre, the refectory and clubbing, thinks Mark. As he closes the door of the stairwell behind him, he hears Stuart commence his spiel: ‘Welcome to the hostel. My name is Stuart and I’m on hand to help you with any enquiries you may have over the course of your stay …’
His voice disappears into the green walls as Mark begins to climb the stairs. His lungs feel heavy as he goes; each step feels like ten. The air smells of stale laundry and tomato soup; it’s a familiar smell, though Mark can’t quite place it. School maybe, or the hospital ward where his father died? The first floor is signalled by a large number 1 painted in white at the top of the stairs. Mark opens the glass door on the landing and steps out into a long, narrow corridor.
The walls here are painted a bluish white. It’s just like the hospital, he thinks; the long, seemingly never-ending corridor that smelled of bleach and tinned puddings and death. The floor is covered in thin maroon coloured carpet and Mark can feel his tired feet clod heavily on it as he walks along trying to find room 42.
Posters line the walls: most of them adverts for gap-year travels, larger versions of the leaflets Stuart had tried to off-load onto him earlier; others are the usual university bedroom fodder that students from Birmingham to Beijing will be familiar with: Bob Marley smoking a giant spliff; Audrey Hepburn gazing into the window of Tiffany’s; Kurt Cobain smashing a guitar; all interspersed with those hackneyed quotes that nobody over the age of twenty-five ever uses: ‘Dance like no one is watching …’, ‘Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but the moments that take our breath away…’, ‘I hope I die before I get old…’.
Mark shakes his head as he walks through the blurry tunnel of messaging. ‘Load of bollocks.’
His head is throbbing but he is getting closer. 34, 36, 38, 40. Number 42 at last, and as he puts the card into the slot, he imagines himself lying down on a large, warm bed, dissolving into nothingness. After three attempts the door finally opens with a click and he walks into the room that will be his home for the next two days.
It is grim. The garish colours of downstairs are not in evidence here. The room is white and bare but for a flimsy camp bed wedged against the far wall. There is a waste-paper basket by the door and a clothes rail opposite the bed. The small window is made of frosted glass and is framed by a pair of lank brown curtains that look like they have been cobbled together from potato sacks. A solitary, un-shaded light bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a sickly green glow onto the room.
‘Fuck it,’ Mark sighs. He is not here to have a holiday and the grimness of the room is rather appropriate; it will remind him why he is here; remind him of Zoe’s final hours. He needs to have that fresh in his mind if he is to stay strong; stay focused.
He closes the door, takes his trainers off and puts the two bags down onto the floor. Then he flops onto the bed and lies looking at the ceiling. The bedsprings dig into his back, but that is good, he thinks, the discomfort will keep him alert. Despite the bed, he feels his eyelids grow heavy but before sleep can claim him, he reaches onto the floor and pulls the black bag onto the bed. He lies down, curled around the bag, holding it and its secret close to his body as he falls into a heavy sleep.
*
‘God, I love this place,’ says Stella as she settles into her seat and looks around at the warm cranberry walls and black wooden beams of the Troubadour. ‘It’s wonderful to be back, it really is. It must be nine or ten years ago that I sang here. You know Bob Dylan’s played here, in the club downstairs, and Joni Mitchell and Jimi Hendrix.
’
Paula’s eyes look glazed as she sits reading the menu.
‘Sorry,’ says Stella. ‘I guess you’ve heard all this before.’
‘You’ve mentioned it a few times, yes,’ replies Paula, not looking up from the menu.
Stella sighs. They have reached that point; the place where all couples get to eventually; when you know everything there is to know about the other person. There are no new stories to tell because they have all been told.
As they sit in silence, both of them pretending to be engrossed in the menu, a young man approaches the table; a notebook poised in his hand.
‘Are you ready to order, ladies?’
‘Yes, I think we are,’ says Paula, nodding at Stella in confirmation. ‘May I have the pan-fried haddock with a side order of new potatoes, please?’
The young man jots it down then turns to Stella.
‘And for you?’
‘I’ll have the Caesar Salad, please,’ says Stella, in a quiet voice.
Paula raises her eyebrow. ‘A salad? Is that all you’re having? You should have something a bit more substantial after that long drive.’
Stella winces as she picks up the wine list from the wooden rack in front of her. ‘A salad will be fine,’ she mutters.
‘Drinks?’ says the young man, a hint of impatience in his voice. The restaurant is filling up quite rapidly.
‘May I have a sparkling mineral water, please,’ says Paula, handing the menu back.
‘Sure,’ he says, taking the menu and slotting it under his arm.
‘Hmm,’ says Stella, scrolling her finger down the wine list. ‘I will have a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please.’
The young man nods his head, scribbles the order onto his notepad then with a flourish, whisks Stella’s menu from her outstretched hand.
‘Thanks ladies,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back in a sec with your drinks.’
Stella looks over the table at Paula. She is gazing around the room; her eyes look tired.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Stella, taking her hand.
