by Nuala Casey
‘I just think the donor should have some attributes in common with me,’ she snaps. ‘Otherwise, what the fuck am I doing here? Where exactly do I fit in with the plan?’
‘Where do you fit in?’ says Paula, her voice getting higher. ‘You’re my partner, you will be part of this baby’s life for ever.’
‘Yes, but what will I be to it?’ says Stella. ‘You’re its mother, Mr Scientist’s its father. What am I? The spare part?’
‘Stella, you’re being ridiculous,’ shrieks Paula. ‘We’ve discussed this at length for over a year and now, the night before we’re due to set it all in motion, you’re talking rubbish like this.’
‘Rubbish?’ yells Stella, leaping out of the bed. ‘Is it rubbish to want to have a say, to have my opinion taken seriously rather than just be dismissed out of hand. To be told that being an artist doesn’t contribute anything to society, so the work I do is of no consequence. Fuck it, Paula. Do you even like me?’
Paula sits in the bed, shaking her head. ‘This is crazy, this is absolutely crazy. I knew this would happen, I knew it. This is the first time you’ve been back to London and already you’re slipping back into the old Stella. It’s too much for you, I can see that. You get yourself all hyped up and you’ve had a long journey on your own to stew things over in your head.’ Her hands are shaking now. ‘And then I read that article about that bloody artist and it’s his wife who runs the restaurant – I didn’t know that when I got the job – it’s his wife who ordered the jasmine.’ Her voice shakes and she starts to sob.
Stella sits down on the bed next to her, trying to take the anger out of her voice. ‘What artist? What are you talking about, Paula?’
Paula leans across to the bedside table and picks up a copy of Vogue.
‘Look at this,’ she says. ‘Page 103.’ She hands the magazine to Stella.
Stella takes it and flicks through the pages, still unsure what this is all about. She opens it out as she reaches the back page and a face she has not seen for seven years beams out at her.
Seb.
‘Oh,’ she whispers. She tries to speed-read the article, but her eyes are tired from the wine and she only registers a few words: ‘Successful gallery … Yasmine … opening in Soho … The Rose Garden …’ She is more interested in the photograph. He looks different. How old must he be now? Thirty-seven, thirty-eight? He was a bit older than her, she remembers. He looks well, perhaps a little rounder in the face but it suits him. His blond hair has grown longer but it’s still curly and his face looks softer, less haunted than it did. As she looks at the picture a thousand memories flutter in and out of her mind: The Dog and Duck pub, the little studio flat on Frith Street where she spent five years of her life, Caleb the doorman from Ronnie Scott’s with his cheeky smile … Ade, the sound of the saxophone streaming through the open window as she walked up the street … It seems like a century ago now, that time, that life.
She closes the magazine and hands it back to Paula. ‘I don’t see why you’ve got yourself so worked up over this,’ she says, as Paula wipes her eyes with the corner of the quilt. ‘I knew this guy a million years ago, he was a nice person, kind and gentle, and by the look of him he’s done well for himself. But how has it got anything to do with us?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Paula, slamming her hands down onto the bed. ‘I guess I’m just feeling really vulnerable at the moment.’ A tear falls down her face and she quickly swipes it with her hand. She looks up at Stella, her face red and swollen. ‘I’m scared.’
‘Scared of what?’ asks Stella, putting her hand on Paula’s shoulder.
‘Of everything,’ says Paula. ‘God, look at me, what am I doing crying like this? It’s just that I love you so much Stella, but there’s a part of you I’ll never really know, never fully understand. I don’t feel it as much when we’re in Exeter but even there you disappear into your own world – your books and your writing and I feel I daren’t come near. It’s as though there’s this invisible border with you on one side and me on the other …’
She starts to cry again, great sobbing wails. Stella has never seen her like this before.
‘Paula, please.’
‘It’s being back in London, that’s what it is,’ sniffs Paula. ‘It’s just making the wedge between us a thousand times bigger.’
‘Paula,’ says Stella, in a firm voice. ‘Paula, listen to me. You have got to let this go, this feeling that you need to control me; that you have to fear me. When I met you, you were like the brightest light I had ever seen. You had no self-consciousness, no qualms, just a burning curiosity for everyone and everything. I’m your love, Paula, your best friend. You don’t have to worry about me all the time, just be with me, love me, be my adventurous spirited girl again.’ She rubs Paula’s hand as she speaks. ‘I know you rescued me when you took me to Andalucia. You found the clinic, you helped make me better, I know you did and I will never forget that but you have to trust me now, you have to let us move on, otherwise we can never be happy.’
Paula nods her head. She looks like a child, thinks Stella. What happened to the fearless girl she once knew?
‘I’m sorry, Stella,’ says Paula. ‘It’s just when you said “artist” … oh, I don’t know, I’ve always been paranoid about that Seb guy, I always suspected you’d had a bit of a fling with him before we got together and then when I read about him and saw that it was his wife who had the restaurant, I just started thinking all manner of mad, crazy thoughts … like you were going to see him and fall for him and you’d run off and leave me.’
Stella takes her hand from Paula’s and shakes her head, incredulously, trying to imagine this surreal series of events where she and Seb would make some theatrical escape through the streets of Soho.
‘Paula, we’re married, I love you. I would make love to you all day, every day if you let me. I don’t want to run off with Seb, I don’t want to run off with anyone. I just want to be with you, but I need to feel you believe in us, otherwise what is the point of all of this?’
‘I know,’ says Paula, quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
She looks up and Stella feels herself being drawn back in, back to those eyes, the warm, deep layers of their love. She moves the pen and papers from the bed and slips in, pulling Paula close to her, running her fingers along the outline of her lover’s body. Paula lets out a moan but it sounds like a sob.
‘It’s okay, angel,’ whispers Stella. ‘You’re a paranoid, crazy person, but I love you.’
Paula turns round and nuzzles her face into the crook of Stella’s arm. She whispers something but Stella doesn’t catch it.
‘What’s that?’ she says, gently.
‘I said, we can have an artist if you like,’ says Paula, her head still buried in Stella’s embrace.
*
When Mark opens his eyes he feels disorientated. He had been dreaming; they were strange, interwoven dreams that seemed to make no sense. A line of faceless figures stood in front of him, not speaking, not moving, yet imbued with a deep sense of urgency, as though they had something of great importance to tell him. Then, like a chalk drawing caught in a rainstorm, they slowly began to disappear, the blues and greens and reds of their clothes bleeding into each other until all that was left was a wet, blurry ball of grey. Out of this void stepped a man, a scruffy man, unshaven, with dirty, matted hair. He told Mark he would go and find him a map of London. Mark had tried to speak, to tell him that he did not need a map, but no words would come; it felt like his voice was stuck somewhere around his chest like an undigested piece of food. The man stepped back into the shadows, like an actor disappearing into the wings then returned moments later holding the map in his outstretched hands. Mark took it from him but as he touched the paper, it dissolved and fell through his hands like powdery snow. The man smiled; it was a horrific smile, evil and demonic. Then he took off his shirt to reveal an emaciated torso covered in a tiny, detailed map of the underground.
Mark shudders as he sits up in
the hard bed, trying to shake off the deep sense of unease that the dream has left him with. He reaches for his phone which is lying on the floor by the side of the bed, and turns it on. The screen lights up and casts a greeny-grey glow onto the bed. It is almost midnight.
Pulling the blanket around him, he starts to scroll through the internet. He is wide awake now but his eyes sting as he types a familiar name into the search engine. It has been almost twenty-four hours since he last checked but he needs to know if anything has changed, if there have been any developments.
The search engine yields 1.9 million results for ‘Seb Bailey’. Mark clicks on the top result: Seb’s Twitter page. A thumbnail photograph of Seb sitting in a park with his wife and daughter comes up immediately and, as the page develops, a black and white landscape photograph of the words Asphodel Art provides a backdrop to the happy family shot.
Mark scrolls down the page to see if @asphodel1 has tweeted anything new. There are a couple of retweets – one about an arts project in Manchester looking for funding; the other a tweet from @therosegarden with a link to the opening night menu – but nothing directly from Seb since the last one on 21 August when he had posted a rather cryptic message:
From a puddle to a lake – almost finished x
Mark reads the tweet over and over, trying to make sense of it but it baffles him just as much tonight as it did when he first read it almost a week ago. He scrolls back up the page and clicks on @therosegarden. The page fills with deep pink roses set against a black background; a photograph of a tall, elegant Soho townhouse sits in the foreground. Unlike Seb’s page, Yasmine’s seems to be updated pretty regularly. Mark reads:
Two days to go until doors open! So excited! 1hr ago
Watching my o/h work his magic on the walls x4 hrs ago
She’d probably typed the last one just after he saw them. He wonders if they are there every day. Probably. There will be lots to prepare, getting everything ready for the press launch. He scrolls further down the page but the rest of the tweets are familiar, he must have read this page a hundred times at least.
He goes back to the search results. He is working on autopilot now; he could recite the information on the screen verbatim but still he has to check each day just in case some new piece of information comes up. It is not an obsession, he tells himself, it is reconnaissance, evidence gathering. This is what his father would have done before going into battle – find out as much about the enemy as possible, know their strengths, their weaknesses, their routines and habits. Know thy enemy.
Mark clicks on Seb’s Wikipedia page. A fuzzy photograph of Seb in a black suit, holding a glass of champagne is displayed in the right-hand corner. Underneath is a brief biography:
Born: 18 February, 1975 (age 37), Garsington, Oxfordshire
Occupation: Artist
Spouse: Yasmine Bailey (nee Rachi)
Children: One daughter, Cosima
Then a link to his website:
www.asphodelart.co.uk
Though he knows the information by heart, Mark cannot help reading on:
Sebastian Bailey is an English painter and gallery owner …
Sebastian studied Fine Art at the Royal College, graduating in 1997 …
In 2005, he and his business partner Henry Walker launched the art gallery Asphodel in Battersea, South London … as well as exhibiting work by leading British and international artists, the gallery also supports new talent through its scholarship scheme …
Bailey has exhibited around the world and in 2006 he made the headlines when his oil on canvas painting entitled ‘Rotherhithe’ sold to a US dealer for a six-figure sum.
In late 2011, he was asked to produce a series of paintings as part of the 2012 Cultural Olympiad celebrating London life. These paintings were exhibited around London in the build-up to the 2012 Olympic Games; the most prominent being a three-metre high canvas, entitled ‘Running Out of Time’ which was displayed outside Leicester Square Tube Station.
Underneath this biography is a list of links. Mark scans his eyes across them then pauses at the bottom link – a new one. He reads the name: Sir Miles Alfred Bailey. Curiously, he clicks on the link and another Wikipedia page opens up.
Sir Miles Alfred Bailey CBE, QGM, KCB (Born 7th November, 1939, Edinburgh) is a retired British Army officer …
Mark sits up in bed, his eyes widening as he reads the words again. British Army Officer.
He tries to read the rest of the page but his head feels hot and clammy, the words float across his eyes without settling:
… educated at Bryanston School and Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst.
Military Career: Falklands War, Bosnian War, Kosovo …
Mark’s heart thuds against his chest, an ice-cold shiver flutters through his body. The Falklands War. His father’s war. He looks away from the screen and stares at the door, as if the answer lies somewhere out in the darkness of the room. He throws his phone onto the floor but the screen stays alight, illuminating the rest of Sir Miles Alfred Bailey’s life: his two children Sebastian and Claire, his ex-wife Elizabeth Stanley, daughter of a South African landowner, now a resident of Knightsbridge, his new wife, Barbara Picard, a concert pianist with whom he lives in a grand country house in Somerset. But that information is lost to the scuffed, brown carpet; it is nothing compared to the words Mark now rolls around inside his head like a grenade.
A British Army Officer; the Falklands War. So Bailey had a father who had fought in that war, the war that had haunted Mark’s childhood, turned his father mute, made him a pariah among the Thatcher-hating union men in the pub. Bailey had gone through that too, then, thinks Mark, experienced what he had: the tight feeling in the chest when his mam turned on the news; the roll calls, Goose Green … Bailey had gone through that too. A pinprick of recognition opens in Mark’s consciousness letting in a miniscule shaft of light; a shared experience, a shared pain. But then Zoe’s face appears before him and the light fades.
There is no greater pain than that, he thinks, no greater pain than what happened to Zoe. Fuck it, he spits. Bailey’s father was an officer, a fucking Rupert. He was as far removed from Mark’s father and his background as it is possible to be. He had heard his father talking about officers with his army mates – there had been a couple of half-decent ones, men his father had respected but Mark has made up his mind that Sir Miles Alfred Bailey was one of the bad ones. He can see the man in his head now, jowly red face, small cruel beady eyes, hawkish nose, an upper class tosser who lived on another planet from the men. Only by thinking like this will he have the strength to see it through.
‘I wish you could hear me, Dad,’ Mark whispers into the hot, cloggy air. ‘I’m not going to let you down, like I did with Zoe. I’m going to rip that man’s life apart, like ours was ripped apart. Can you hear me, Dad?’
Somewhere down the corridor a toilet flushes and he hears footsteps thudding past then the sound of a door slamming.
He turns over and pulls the thin quilt up to his neck. The news has rattled him, but he can do this, he really can. If he keeps focused, if he carries his father’s war inside him these next few days, then he can take this to the end.
TUESDAY, 28 AUGUST
10
‘Come on, Cosima, it’s almost eight,’ shouts Seb, trying to make his voice heard above the rumble of the boiling kettle and the shouting weather forecaster on BBC Breakfast News.
He sets the table: two glass tumblers, two earthenware cereal bowls, two spoons. It is just him and Cosima for breakfast this morning. Yasmine had already left for the restaurant when Seb’s alarm went off at seven. He hadn’t heard her get up, get dressed and leave, but then he never does; Yasmine has it down to a fine art now, creeping silently out of bed, tip-toeing along the passage, making sure the bathroom door is closed as she takes a shower. Seb’s father, who stayed with them for a couple of days over Christmas, joked that Yasmine would have made a good SAS soldier, with her ability to enter and leave a building like
a silent shadow.
Seb feels better this morning. The black mood that had settled on him last night seems to have dissipated. Nothing like a good night’s sleep for a clear head, he thinks to himself as he ladles steaming porridge into the bowls. As he leans across the table, he becomes aware of a presence behind him. He turns to see Cosima in the doorway. She is wearing her lilac furry dressing gown and her long curly hair is tangled, the fringe matted to her forehead.
‘Come on, sleepy,’ he says, pouring fresh orange juice into the tumblers. ‘We’ve got a busy day ahead and you’re off to Gracie’s house, remember? Just think, a full day looking after those guinea pigs of hers.’
Cosima makes a grunting noise as she shuffles into the room and plonks herself down onto the chair. Seb smiles to himself as he prepares the coffee; his daughter is certainly not a morning person, yet neither was he at that age. In the long summer holidays back from boarding school with its 6 a.m. wake-up calls and freezing cold showers, he would lie in bed until midday, buried under his quilt, away from the world, alone with his dreams.
He sits down at the table next to Cosima. She takes a large swig of orange juice then puts down her glass and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Seb watches her as she picks up her spoon and starts to eat the porridge. She is not a baby anymore, he thinks. She is becoming a person in her own right.
He remembers when she was about a year old he had been looking after her on his own one afternoon. She had just started to move onto more solid foods – sticks of carrot, slices of apple, bread rolls, cubes of cheese – and she was sitting in her high chair munching away merrily on a piece of apple when Seb’s phone had rung. He had picked it up from the table on the other side of the room – he can’t remember who it was now, someone from the office, maybe – and spoken for a few seconds when he heard the most awful noise, a rasping choking noise. He turned and saw his baby girl, her eyes bulging, her face red and contorted. He dropped the phone and ran towards her, desperately trying to unhook her from the straps of the highchair. Then he hauled her out, his mind utterly blank, panic enveloping his entire body. He did the first thing that came into his head – he shoved his fingers down her tiny little throat, something he would later discover was the worst thing possible to do. But his hands managed to get a hold of the scrap of apple that was blocking her airways and he pulled it out in one swipe. It was horrendous, Cosima started screaming, he was shaking and he clutched her to his chest and rocked her for what seemed like hours but was actually only a few minutes, because that was when Yasmine came home. The horror of those few seconds when he thought his little girl might choke to death prompted him to take a first-aid course. He had been so vulnerable, he had no idea what to do and that terrified him.
