by Nuala Casey
‘Where are we going? Where’s your flat?’
‘Haven’t I told you before,’ says Cal, as they dip down a narrow side street. ‘I live in Soho. Bit mad, eh? But it’s well cool and saves me a fortune on cab fares.’
Kerstin nods her head as she follows Cal to the traffic lights on Shaftesbury Avenue. As they cross the road he squeezes her hand gently.
‘Nearly there,’ he says. ‘Just a few more blocks and you’ll be fine.’
*
Seb is just taking the food out of the oven when he hears a key in the lock. The noise makes him feel secure; his family is back together, all safe under one roof. He reaches up to the cabinet and takes out two glasses. He fills one with a glug of ginger cordial and a splash of sparkling water; the other with pomegranate juice – Yasmine’s favourite. He takes one in each hand and walks out into the hallway.
Yasmine is sitting on the little wooden stool by the door fiddling with the laces of her shoes. She looks up at him as he approaches; her face looks drained and tired.
‘Everything okay?’ His voice echoes against the narrow walls.
When she finally gets the laces undone, she pulls off the shoes and flings them onto the floor.
‘Why did I ever think this would be a good idea, Seb?’ she says, taking the glass of juice and walking ahead of him towards the kitchen.
She gives a little shrug as she enters the room, then plonks herself down heavily onto the soft velvet sofa by the window and looks up at him. It looks like the filling has been pulled out of her, leaving just an empty wisp of body.
‘You’re exhausted,’ says Seb, taking the glass from her hands and putting it onto the table. ‘Why don’t you have a nice bath? I can keep the food warming in the oven until you’re ready to eat.’
‘Eat,’ she repeats, her voice a glum monotone. ‘I don’t think I can face food tonight. I just want to curl up and sleep and wake up next week when all this is over.’
‘I’ll go and run you a bath,’ says Seb. ‘It’ll do you good.’
He walks to the bathroom and turns on the taps, then opens the large wooden cabinet and rummages through Yasmine’s various lotions and oils, looking for something suitable. He picks up a handful and scans the labels: Ylang Ylang body scrub, peppermint foot balm, lemon and ginger exfoliator. No good. He replaces them and pulls out a long glass bottle with a silver lid: Soothing Lavender Bath Essence. That should do, he thinks, as he unscrews the lid and pours a generous glug under the running water.
Leaving the bath to fill, he returns to the kitchen and sees Yasmine sitting where he left her. Her feet are spread out at a strange angle and her arms are folded across her chest. She is sound asleep. Sleep will be better than a bath, he thinks, as he takes the thick woollen eiderdown from the end of the sofa and spreads it across her body.
He walks back to the kitchen and looks at the mangle of chicken, tomatoes and herbs sitting impotently on the work surface. He didn’t have much of an appetite anyway, after munching half of Cosima’s ham and pineapple pizza. The food was going to be a diversion, an aside to the conversation he and Yasmine were going to have. There were things he wanted to say to her over dinner. He wanted to tell her how proud he was, that he will be there with her tomorrow, he will be her eyes and ears, making sure everything runs smoothly. He wanted to tell her that all she has to do is focus on her work; he and Henry will sort out the rest. He wanted to commemorate the evening, raise a glass of ginger sparkle to this, the eve of her great venture; he wanted, more than anything, to tell her he loved her. To have an hour or so, just the two of them to take on board all that has happened these last few years. To talk.
He looks over at her sleeping form as he covers the food with foil. There will be plenty of time to talk, they have years of talk ahead of them, he thinks as he goes into the bathroom and turns off the taps. Then he steps quietly across the room and eases himself onto the sofa next to her. Taking her hand, he gently kisses it then holds it in his. Yes there were things he wanted to tell her tonight, things that would have made him feel better to have expressed and he feels the words pressing against his tongue as he sits looking at her, but something stronger than words exists between them, some unfathomable bond that has linked them from the start. She knows I love her, he thinks, as he strokes the rough skin on her fingertips, and watches her chest rise up against the thick green eiderdown, she has always known. He cuddles up next to her and as he closes his eyes, he sees clusters of silver and blue lights dart across his consciousness like moonlight streaks the surface of a lake.
19
Paula looks at Stella incredulously as they step out of the cab.
‘Old Compton Street,’ she giggles. ‘Stella, you’re turning us into a walking cliché. Next thing you’ll be standing on the bar giving it the whole Gloria Gaynor.’
‘Oh, come on grumpy,’ says Stella, as they make their way into the Admiral Duncan. ‘It’ll be fun. We haven’t had a night like this for ages.’
‘I thought you’d want to go to The Dog and Duck,’ says Paula, as they step into the packed pub. ‘For old time’s sake,’ she shouts above the noise of the bar.
‘No, I thought I’d save the whole prodigal daughter bit till tomorrow night,’ says Stella, as they make their way to an empty table. ‘Frith Street can wait; for now let’s just have fun.’
‘Okay,’ says Paula, taking off her coat. ‘So let’s kick off our fun night with some champagne. Who’s buying?’
‘Tonight is on me, my love’ says Stella, leaning across to kiss Paula on the nose. ‘After all you’ve been through today you deserve to be pampered tonight.’
‘Hah,’ says Paula, raising her eyebrow. ‘I’ll keep you to that when we get back to the hotel.’
Stella smiles as she makes her way to the bar. If she can keep smiling; keep pretending all is fine then maybe it will be.
*
Jesus Christ, thinks Mark as he follows Liv into the pub.
He looks uneasy as they elbow their way past a group of men. One of them, a tall, thin Japanese guy in skinny jeans and a close-fitting striped top, steps out from his companions and stands in front of Mark.
‘Ooh, look. A real man,’ he purrs, his voice light and slurry with drink. His friends gather behind him and nod their heads while the Japanese guy slowly licks his top lip with his tongue then kisses his hand and blows it towards Mark. ‘We like,’ he giggles. Then he pats Liv on the arm and winks. ‘Lucky girl,’ he says as he and the group make their way out of the door.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Mark looks at Liv and she is laughing. He can’t understand why she would be laughing.
‘Oh, come on, loosen up,’ she says. ‘This is Old Compton Street; it’s full of gay men. Anyway, you should be flattered, you nearly pulled there,’ she says, putting her hand into his pocket. She tries to kiss his cheek but Mark is uncomfortable now and he pushes her away. Fucking shirt lifter, he should have smacked him in the mouth.
As they approach the bar, Liv turns to him and smiles.
‘Will you get the drinks? I just need to nip to the loo.’
‘What,’ says Mark. ‘You’re not leaving me here?’
‘I’ll only be a minute,’ says Liv. ‘I’m desperate. Anyway, you’ll be fine, there’s just a nice woman waiting to be served. No scary men,’ she laughs, as she walks away.
Mark stands at the bar and sees the woman Liv had pointed out. Slim, dark hair, attractive face; she is just the kind of woman Mark would normally go for. She looks sophisticated; certainly not the type of woman who would wear cut off shorts and show off her knickers. He watches Liv as she disappears into the crowd and wonders if he should just leave now and get back to the hostel. Then he hears something that makes him want to stick around.
‘The Rose Garden, that’s right.’
It’s the woman. She’s talking to the barman. Mark moves towards her so he can hear better.
‘It’s been seven years, Frank. Can you believe it? And I haven’t been b
ack once,’ the woman says.
‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ says the barman. ‘You haven’t aged a day.’
‘Oh you’re very generous, Frank,’ she says.
‘So do you know Yasmine, then?’ asks the barman, and Mark’s heart leaps at the sound of the name.
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘My partner knows her. Paula’s a herb gardener. She supplied some rare plants for the restaurant roof garden. I’ve never met Yasmine before, but I know her husband Seb. Do you remember him?’
The barman shakes his head.
‘No you probably wouldn’t,’ says the woman. ‘The Dog and Duck was his local. I don’t think he’d ever step foot in here, no offence, Frank.’
‘Is he a dish?’ asks Frank
‘Well he was a good-looking chap when I knew him,’ says the woman. ‘Bit of the young Robert Redford about him.’
‘Sounds lush,’ says Frank. ‘Here let me get that champagne for you.’
Mark watches as the barman walks towards the fridge at the far side of the bar. He can’t quite believe what he has just heard. A roof terrace. He didn’t know the Rose Garden had a roof terrace. He thinks about the proximity of the hotel he’s booked into tomorrow. It will be a waste of time if they’re all up on the roof terrace. How the hell would he get to Bailey from there?
He looks at the woman. She is playing with her phone. He has to say something now, before Liv and the barman come back.
‘Er, excuse me,’ he says, moving a fraction towards her. He can smell her perfume. Chanel No 5. Lisa used to wear it but it was too heavy a smell for his liking. He preferred it when she smelled of skin and baby powder. He blinks away the memory of his estranged wife and looks right into the woman’s face. She’s lovely and suddenly he starts to feel tongue-tied.
‘Yes,’ she says. Her face is warm and friendly and Mark relaxes.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he says. ‘But I just heard you mention The Rose Garden. Is that Seb Bailey’s place?’
‘Yes it is,’ she says. ‘Well it’s actually his wife’s. Do you know Seb?’
‘I do, yeah,’ says Mark, thinking fast. ‘My dad and his dad were in the army together. We used to play when we were little. God I haven’t seen him for years. It would be lovely to catch up with him again.’
‘Wow, what a bizarre coincidence,’ says the woman, as the barman comes back with a bottle of champagne. She opens her handbag and pulls a couple of twenty-pound notes out of her purse. ‘Thanks Frank,’ she says. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks, turning to Mark. ‘I’ll tell Seb you were asking about him when I see him tomorrow. I could pass on your number if you like.’
‘It’s Denny,’ says Mark, blurting out the first name that comes into his head, a familiar name stained with sadness. ‘Denny Lowe.’
‘Okay, Denny,’ says the woman. ‘I’ll tell him. Oh, hang on a sec.’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out a piece of paper. It looks like a flyer. ‘Why don’t you come to the launch tomorrow? Give him a surprise. Here, you can have this.’
Mark cannot believe what is happening. He holds out his hand and takes the invitation, recognising the black-and-pink branding from the restaurant website. ‘Are you sure?’ He looks at the woman quizzically.
‘Yeah, we’ve got loads,’ she says, as she picks up the champagne bottle and tucks the two glasses under her arm. ‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Denny,’ she says, as she walks away. ‘Might see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ says Mark, tucking the invitation into his pocket as Liv comes back from the loo. ‘Yeah you might.’
‘Here we are,’ says Stella, as she places the bottle of champagne onto the table. ‘Is this sparkly enough for you?’
Paula laughs as Stella pours her a glass.
‘It’s a bit flat actually,’ says Paula, as she takes a sip. ‘Just joking. Oh, dear we forgot to make a toast.’
Stella winces. Please, not another toast. She pretends not to hear and instead takes a long sip of the ice-cold drink. She looks at Paula; she looks so much more relaxed now than she did earlier. Perhaps she can risk broaching the subject. She puts her glass down and leans forward.
‘Paula,’
Stella has to shout to make herself heard above the noise of the bar, even though Paula is sitting right beside her.
‘Are we going to talk about today?’
Paula folds her hands and looks up at the pearly fairy lights that are strung around the walls. Her eyes glisten and she lifts her head skywards and blinks into the light.
‘I’ll be thirty-nine this year, Stella,’ she says, her eyes still on the lights. ‘Almost middle-aged,’ she murmurs. ‘And one of the things I have always wanted to have by the age of forty was …’
‘A baby,’ says Stella, holding her hand out to touch Paula’s arm.
Paula turns and looks at Stella, her face half-lit by red light.
‘No, not a baby, though that has always been up there on the list of priorities. No, what I always wanted to have found by the age of forty was happiness, pure, uncomplicated happiness.’
Stella nods her head as Paula continues.
‘When we were in the clinic today, and we were listening to the consultant I felt you draw further and further away from me until it seemed like I was quite alone, all alone with some mad woman’s desire to have a baby.’
‘No, Paula that’s …’ Stella begins but Paula interrupts her.
‘Please Stella,’ she says, gently. ‘Let me say this, I need to say this.’ She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to go on. ‘When I was lying on the examining table, looking at my empty womb on the screen, the room seemed to shrink around me, it got smaller and smaller until all that was there, all I was conscious of, was the image on the screen and the rhythm of my heart. I stared and stared at that screen, waiting to hear your voice, to feel your touch but it never came. It was as though you had left the room, you were nowhere, I couldn’t find you. And I realised, there in that moment, that I was asking too much of you. I have always asked too much of you. I have given you this impossible task of being my happy ending and that is a heavy weight for anyone to carry.’
Stella shifts in her seat, leaning forward to listen.
‘When I’m with you,’ Paula continues, ‘I feel elated, turned-on, unsure, worried, paranoid … but do I feel happy? I was happy tonight. When we walked into that garden, I looked at you with your beautiful face reflected against the lights and my heart hurt. It made me think of the day I first met you, that hot afternoon when you were sitting in your parents’ garden reading Mrs Dalloway and you looked up at me and asked: “Are you the writer?”’
‘And you said, “Something like that”,’ Stella replies. ‘I was wearing a big white sunhat and I thought you were the most amazing thing I had ever seen.’
‘But you were the writer Stella, not me,’ says Paula, placing her hand on Stella’s. ‘I remember you shouting at me in The Dog and Duck, the night we got back together …’
‘The night before 7/7,’ says Stella, her mind suddenly full of old faces: Ade; Seb; the red-haired barmaid from the pub – what was her name again? Val. That was it, a real old Soho-ite.
Paula nods her head. ‘You told me I was a fuck up, that I had sold out, that I lacked the guts to be a writer. And all the time you were saying those things I was looking at you and thinking: “This is your dream not mine”. I never had plans to be some big-shot writer. I just wanted to find peace and I thought I had found it in you.’
Stella takes Paula’s hands and turns them over, stroking the smooth skin as though making sure she is real. The rose petals she was rubbing in the garden have left pale pink stains on her fingertips and Stella threads her own fingers around them, a sensuous movement that seems out of place now, in the light of what Paula has just said.
‘Do you still love me?’ Stella whispers, not looking up.
‘I will always love you,’ says Paula, her voice cracking ‘You are my one true love, the dark lady of my dreams. I lo
ve you so much it hurts me … and I think my love is hurting you, it’s holding you back. I heard what you said last night about not letting you recover, I know I’m controlling and overbearing and I hate myself for being like that. I feel like you’re a butterfly and I’m this great big net always poised above you, waiting to swoop down and smother you.’
The words march up and down Stella’s head like a thousand footsteps getting louder and louder. Happiness; love; happiness; love. Are the two interchangeable? Can you have one without the other? Would she be happy without Paula? She tries to imagine her life without Paula in it; she sees a university, a building peeking out of a London street, she sees the books on her shelf at home, the spider’s web … she sees her happiness flutter down from the sky like thousands of petals, light and delicate and each with their own unique imprint. What does happiness look like? She sees the faces of her parents, her sister, her grandparents, her bedroom in her childhood home on the moors; she sees the white stubbly town in Southern Spain; the old man with the kind eyes; she sees Frith Street in the early morning light, bleary eyed and virginal; she sees the flashing lights of Piccadilly and Dylan O’Brien’s email; she sees a lifetime’s worth of thinking and writing and discussing and learning. But though she tries, really tries to, she cannot see Paula.
20
Kerstin stands at the window looking out onto Dean Street. It is heaving with people; bodies stream down the centre of the street like a wave gathering more and more momentum.
‘Nice view isn’t it?’
She nods as Cal comes towards her holding a glass of white wine.
‘I’ve fixed you a drink.’
‘No, really I shouldn’t,’ she says.
‘Go on,’ he says, ‘One won’t hurt you. Might calm your nerves. You seem on edge today, Kerst. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says, taking the glass. ‘Just tired that’s all.’
‘You work too hard, that’s your problem.’ Cal has returned to the kitchen and busies himself grabbing plates out of the cupboards and clattering them onto the wooden bench that serves as a table. ‘First one in, last one out. You’re like a machine; and you know what happens to machines when they get overloaded with data. They freeze.’
