by Nuala Casey
‘No worries,’ she says. She is looking at him in that way; the way Mark remembers girls in the pub looking at him, before Lisa, before Zoe’s death, back when he was a single young man without a care. The look unnerves him and he tries to block it out by returning to the vending machine, but his hands are shaking as he feeds the pound coins into the slot and waits for the chocolate bar to fall into the tray with a thud. He picks it up and sees the girl still standing there.
‘I’m Liv,’ she says, holding out her hand.
Mark’s mouth goes dry, he feels the pulse in his head start to thump against his temples. It’s the hunger, but it’s also a sense of panic. He has to get back to his room, get dressed and get out of here. He has an itinerary to stick to, a list of places to visit, locations to reccy, a brain to get into gear; the last thing he needs is to be distracted, least of all by this girl with her slim, tanned legs and white lace knickers.
He ignores her outstretched hand and simply nods his head as he walks back to the corridor, back to the safety and anonymity of the room. As he closes the door behind him, he rips open the chocolate and stuffs it into his mouth, the sugar hitting his bloodstream in great instantaneous bursts.
He looks at the thin grey towel folded on the bed. He had collected it in the early hours of the morning, tip-toeing along to the laundry room like an intruder. Fuck it, he thinks. He can’t face going back along the corridor to the shower room; can’t risk another backpacker offering help and guidance and inane chit-chat. So he takes off his clothes, goes across to the small cracked sink and turns on the hot water tap. It shoots out in little intermittent sprays but it is warm and Mark splashes it onto his face, under his arms, his groin. Then after drying himself with the towel, he sprays a great stream of deodorant all over his body. It’s not ideal but it will do and he can have a proper wash when he gets back tonight, he thinks, when it’s quiet, when all those numpties have gone out clubbing or whatever it is they do.
He pulls his jeans and sweatshirt on and slips his feet into his trainers, then kneeling on the floor he drags the long black bag out from under the bed. This must stay with him at all times, he has to guard it with his life and he holds it to his body like a baby in a sling as he creeps along the corridor and makes his way out into the crisp Soho morning.
*
Stella looks at Paula as they stand on the steps outside the clinic on Harley Street. She looks thin and pensive, thinks Stella; scared, like a small child.
‘Come on, we’ll be late,’ she says, grabbing Paula’s arm and marching her up the steps.
Inside, the clinic is more or less what Stella had expected; a three-dimensional version of the website that Paula has pored over each evening for the last few months. The waiting room is painted a sickly pale peach colour, there are large posters on the walls of parents cradling chubby-cheeked babies, a glass vase filled with cerise and orange gerberas stands in the middle of the table, and the insipid hum of classical music floats through the chlorine-scented air.
They walk across the waiting room to the front desk where a nervy-looking receptionist is sitting.
She looks up at them, wide eyed, as they approach.
‘Welcome to the clinic,’ she says, the words rushing out of her like hot stones. ‘Can I take your names?’
‘Yes, it’s Stella Blake and Paula Wilson,’ says Stella, smiling as the girl shakily types their names into the computer.
‘You’re booked in to see Dr Wyatt is that right?’
‘Yes,’ replies Stella. ‘For 11 a.m.’
The girl nods then picks up the phone.
‘I’ll just tell her you’ve arrived.’ As she goes to dial in the extension number the phone rings and she quickly slams the receiver down, then picks it up again.
‘Good Morning, The Vita Clinic, how can I help you … hello? … hello? … oh, damn they’ve gone.’
Her face reddens as she looks up at Paula and Stella.
‘I’m really sorry. It’s only my second day and I’m still getting used to the phone system.’
She replaces the receiver and tries again to buzz the consultant.
‘Oh hi, it’s Lara … erm I’ve got Paula Blake and Stella Wilson here to see you …’ She puts the phone down and smiles nervously. ‘If you want to take a seat, Dr Wyatt will be along in a minute.’
Paula looks irritated at the mistake with their names but Stella smiles reassuringly at the girl, remembering all too well the feeling of being new. She had worked as a receptionist herself once and can easily recall those first few days on the job; having to learn all the different extension numbers, the nuances of the switchboard, the entry system. All those details swishing around your head as you tried to remain composed and friendly as one person after another interrupted the flow and led you off in a completely different direction.
They take a seat by the window and Paula picks up a magazine. Stella watches her as she absent-mindedly flicks through the pages. Her face serious; her back curved forward, the pose she always adopts when she’s nervous. Stella places her hand on Paula’s arm; it’s freezing. She rubs the prickly skin and Paula goes to speak but her words are swallowed by the high-pitched tones of the receptionist.
‘If you want to go through, Dr Wyatt will see you now,’ she says. ‘It’s the first door on the left.’ She nods as though relieved that she has got through another task without stumbling.
Paula puts the magazine back into its rack and they hold hands as they walk towards the narrow corridor. It is lined with mirrors and Stella catches a glimpse of herself in the glass. Her dark hair falls in loose curls onto her shoulders; she is wearing black skinny jeans, a white silk top and her favourite navy blue blazer. She looks sophisticated, assured, safe.
Who are you? she thinks.
Thirty-four; not old but older, older than the receptionist, older than she was when she lived in this city. The ageing process is rather like diving down into another part of the ocean, not the deepest bit, but the next stage. Life is fluid, like this moment, the moment she is living through now, standing next to the woman she fell in love with as a teenager, holding her hand as they make their way into the unknown.
One day this will be a memory; like Soho is a memory and the eating disorder is a memory. Even tomorrow’s meeting with Dylan O’Brien – such a loaded, potentially life-changing event – seems, at this moment, as though it has already happened, as though it has consigned itself to the long, unbroken line of memories that follow Stella now as she lifts her hand and knocks gently on a blank, wooden door.
She squeezes Paula’s hand, reassured by the fleshy solidness of it. As Paula’s fingers thread around hers she can feel herself departing; her ‘real’ self floating off into the air, waiting for the ‘other’ Stella, the duty-bound, serious married woman to do what she needs to do.
The door opens and they are greeted by Dr Wyatt, a tall, big boned woman with half-moon spectacles, who insists they call her Sarah.
‘Do take a seat,’ she says, gesturing to two comfy-looking armchairs that are wedged together in front of her desk.
It is all rather perfunctory and they sit there nodding and listening as Sarah explains the procedure to them, discusses their medical history and talks them through their options.
In her usual blunt manner, Paula explains that she will be the birth mother as Stella has ‘… a history of eating disorders and a still birth.’
Stella winces as Sarah smiles at her, a limp, pitying smile.
‘Gosh, if you put it like that, I’m quite a catch aren’t I?’ Stella says it with a dry laugh, trying to lighten the situation, but neither Paula nor Sarah appear to see the funny side.
‘So how long have you been planning this?’ asks Sarah. Her body is curved across the desk and she reminds Stella of a Quentin Blake drawing; all big limbs and rollered hair.
‘Well, we’ve talked about it for a while but began to think about it seriously at Christmas,’ says Paula, nodding to Stella for affirmation.
Sarah starts to type something into her computer, making little noises of acknowledgement as she does so.
‘And I’ve been getting into shape,’ says Paula. ‘No alcohol or processed foods and I’ve been drinking lots of red clover tea to help my fertility.’
‘That’s excellent,’ says Sarah, smiling politely. ‘You’re doing the right thing in addressing your diet and it will certainly help if you reduce your alcohol intake.
Stella notices that the doctor avoids the subject of herbal medicine; she looks like the kind of no-nonsense woman for whom a tincture of red clover tea would be considered as about as much use to a woman’s fertility as a voodoo doll.
‘Now,’ says Sarah, standing up. ‘If you want to come with me I’ll take you along the corridor for your ultrasound scan.’
Stella takes Paula’s hand as they accompany Sarah out of the consulting room and back along the mirrored corridor. Paula looks up at her as they reach the door.
‘You’ll come in with me, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ says Stella, squeezing Paula’s hand. ‘I’ll be right beside you.’
‘It’s a simple procedure,’ Sarah assures them as she opens the door of the ultrasound room, where a young black nurse is pulling latex gloves over her hands. ‘We just need to look at Paula’s womb and ovaries. The scan will detect any cysts or polyps that may cause problems with fertility. I’ll leave you with Joyce now.’
Stella stands back in the shadows of the darkened room as Joyce makes Paula comfortable on the examining table and covers her lower body in a blue paper sheet.
‘You’re not allergic to latex are you?’ she asks.
Paula shakes her head and Stella sees in the glow of the lightened screen that Paula’s hands are clenched into tight fists.
‘This won’t hurt at all,’ says Joyce, her voice light and soft like she is addressing a child. ‘But it might be a bit uncomfortable.’ Paula gasps as Joyce inserts the probe inside her and the screen fills with the fuzzy, blue outline of Paula’s empty womb.
And as Stella stands in the shadow of this glowing light, as she lives through this moment she can feel it waivering like the ripples on the surface of a pool, blurring, not settling into any particular shape or form. Only once she emerges will it solidify, become hard like rock and she will see it inside her head developing like a photograph in a darkroom but by then she will be inside the next watery tunnel, making new memories. She has no idea what any of this means but she knows that in a few moments, a few hours, she will.
12
Seb is just on time as he strides up Old Church Street towards the Chelsea Arts Club and lunch with Henry. The meeting with the Royal Opera House took longer than he expected but it was worth it: a dream of a commission, creating a series of paintings to promote next season’s production of Madame Butterfly. Six full-length portraits of the leading opera singers – not bad for a morning’s work.
As he approaches the long white clubhouse his phone beeps inside his pocket. He takes it out and reads the message, it’s from Yasmine:
Some guy’s just been outside asking for you. Wouldn’t give his name. I told him he could catch you tmmrw. Call me when you finish lunch. Love you, xxx
He is trying to digest the message when the club door opens and a large, red-haired man greets him.
‘Seb! How are you?’
It’s Liam Kerr, one of the most successful portrait artists of his generation, famous in the nineties for his reportage-style paintings of Gulf War soldiers and civilians, he has always been one of Seb’s heroes and now, through their similar painting styles and love of good food, a close friend and ally.
‘I’m good, thanks Liam, really good,’ says Seb, smiling warmly. ‘Just here to meet a friend for lunch.’
‘Business or pleasure?’ asks Liam, holding the door while two women duck underneath his outstretched arm to enter the club.
‘Bit of both,’ says Seb. ‘I’ve got a pretty manic week ahead: we’ve got the soft launch of the restaurant tomorrow.’
‘The Rose Garden,’ says Liam, his soft Scottish accent enunciating the name like poetry. ‘We got our invitation in the post last week, thank you. Love the design, I wonder who was responsible for that.’
Seb smiles. ‘I’m glad you like it. Yas is a tough taskmaster. I had to draw draft after draft of that invite before she was happy.’
‘Well, Kate and I will be there,’ says Liam, now holding the door open with his foot. ‘And we shall starve ourselves all day in preparation.’
‘Good stuff,’ says Seb. ‘Oh and feel free to bring the girls. Cosima will be there and she’d love to see Florence and Verity.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure,’ says Liam. ‘They’re a pretty rowdy bunch en-masse, you know.’
‘The more the merrier,’ says Seb. ‘And I think, in a way, it will help Yas relax, having the little ones about.’
‘Then we shall come,’ says Liam. ‘Right, I’m off to meet my accountant; always the highlight of my month. See you tomorrow, my friend.’
‘Bye, Liam,’ says Seb, catching the door before it closes. He switches his phone to silent and tucks it into his pocket as he enters the dark, low ceilinged entrance hall. He has no idea who the strange guy at the restaurant is, but he can deal with it later.
The club is already starting to fill with people arriving for lunch and a great burst of laughter emanates from the bar to the left of the door, plates clatter in the kitchen and phones ring simultaneously in the tiny cramped office along the hall. Seb often pops in there to say hello to Emma, the frazzled office manager, to confirm a dinner booking or talk about his next exhibition. He still finds it hard to believe that four adults – Emma, her assistant Daisy, John, the operations manager, and Aubrey, the club secretary – can all cram into that tiny space, let alone sort out the intricacies of club business: taking dining room and bedroom bookings, organising events, paying suppliers, chasing membership subscriptions, as well as answering the phones that never seem to stop ringing. And they manage to do it all so graciously and still have time for a laugh and a chat with the members.
That’s the beauty of the Chelsea Arts Club for Seb, it’s like a gloriously eccentric home-from-home where priceless works of art hang on walls where the paint is peeling, where multi-millionaires sit wedged on threadbare chairs nibbling on Twiglets and sipping Bloody Marys. Still, multi-millionaires are relatively few and far between and for most of the artist members it’s a case of feast or famine – one month they may be so skint they can’t afford to eat, the next they might have a sell-out show and treat everyone to drinks all night. Any celebrities trying to wangle themselves membership without a genuine involvement in the arts are soon given short shrift by the formidable membership committee who can sniff out chancers like bloodhounds.
As Seb walks down the corridor past the office he can hear snippets of conversation overlapping each other. Emma is talking on the telephone: ‘Yes, I know you need measurements but I’m trying to tell you that I can’t give you them just now …’ She is drowned out by Aubrey’s sharp voice: ‘Daisy, can you tell me WHY there is a cross through the loggia on this booking sheet … and can I say yet again, and I’m talking to everyone here, when you make a booking can you ALL initial it, otherwise we have no idea what we’re doing,’ … ‘Oh, really, do we ever know what we’re doing, darlings?’ Emma’s voice, now raised, intercepts Aubrey’s: ‘And the reason I can’t do that is that we have no rulers in the office at the moment … what’s that? … all I know is that we arrived this morning and there is not a ruler to be had, apparently the chef went quite mad last night, burst into the office and removed all the rulers. Now if you don’t mind I shall have to call you back …’
Seb laughs to himself as he walks towards the dining room and hears Aubrey’s voice call across the office: ‘Daisy, I want you to go to the kitchen immediately and retrieve those rulers.’
As he walks past the staircase that leads up to the bedrooms, a plump g
inger cat slinks round his legs. ‘Hello, Bubble,’ he says, bending down to stroke the cat’s head ‘Are you hungry too, eh?’ He opens the door of the dining room and the cat runs in between his legs and makes a dart for freedom through the French Doors that lead out to the garden. The room is quite full. There are the usual familiar faces sitting round the large shared table in the middle near the kitchen while other members with guests sit at the tables for two, four and six that are dotted around the L-shaped room. The wooden floor creaks as Seb walks across to Marcy, the tiny maître d’ who always reminds him of a figure from a Dutch painting with her long red hair, alabaster skin and black dress. She is busy totting something up at the till but as he approaches she turns and smiles warmly.
‘Hi, Seb, your guest is here,’ she says, handing him a printed menu. ‘We’ve put you in the loggia today if that’s okay,’ she says, as she leads him towards the back of the room which opens out into the airy glass garden room.
‘That’s fine, Marcy,’ says Seb, ducking his head as they walk under the low archway. ‘It’s so sunny, it’ll be nice to sit in there today.’
As they walk through, he sees Henry sitting at the far table. He always looks out of place here, confused and befuddled by it all. He has his hands folded on the table in front of him and looks rather like a schoolboy waiting for matron to arrive. Henry likes slick modern lines and chic formality; the chaos and shabby eccentricity of the club are just not to his taste. Mobile phones are not allowed in the dining room and as Henry’s is permanently glued to his ear like an extra limb, he looks even more awkward sitting there twiddling his thumbs.
He looks up as Seb approaches and stands to greet him.
‘Seb, one of these days you might just be on time.’ He laughs as he pats Seb on the shoulder and sits back down.
Seb rolls his eyes and smiles at his friend. ‘Wait till I tell you about the Opera House meeting.’
‘What can I get you chaps to drink?’ asks Marcy, standing back like a little ghost as Seb pulls out his chair and sits down.
