by Nuala Casey
‘Hi Kia,’ says Seb, trying to keep his voice light. ‘What is it?’
‘Er, Yas just wondered how long you’re going to be. She wants to start getting the tables ready,’ she says, looking at Mark quizzically. He has started to wheeze again and he is holding his hands flat in front of him as if trying to steady himself.
‘Not too long now,’ says Seb, he looks at his watch. ‘Shall we say ten minutes?’
Kia nods her head. ‘Okay, I’ll go and tell her.’
She walks back to the kitchen and Seb can hear her telling Yasmine that he will be ready in ten minutes. Yasmine claps her hands. ‘Come on guys, it’s ten-thirty now, let’s get cracking, yeah.’
‘Let’s get cracking,’ repeats Mark, with a sneer. He picks up his bag and stands in front of Seb, his voice raspy and thin. ‘As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted, I don’t have a family any more, I don’t have anything, so in a way, Sebastian, I don’t have anything to lose, do you understand what I’m saying? Whereas you, you have everything to lose don’t you. Life’s like that you know, one minute you’re on top of the world, the next …’ He clicks his fingers in front of Seb’s face. ‘… it all disappears just like that. Fathers, sisters, wives, daughters, they can be taken from you, just like that.’
Seb’s mouth feels dry. He sees Cosima’s face in front of him, smiling her gappy smile, asking him questions, dancing round the kitchen.
‘She’s a pretty girl, your little’un.’
Seb scratches the side of his head, little beads of sweat have formed at his temples and his heart is pounding so hard it feels like he is going to collapse. He hears Yasmine shout something to one of the chefs and he wants to call out to her but he can’t speak, the words won’t form. Instead, he stands there like a frozen statue unable to move, watching impotently as Mark walks out of the alcove and disappears into the dark folds of the restaurant. He hears soft footsteps then a click as the door closes. His head feels as though it is on fire and he clutches his hand to his temples as he flops down onto the velvet cushions and tries to absorb what just happened.
*
The noise of the key being turned in the lock doesn’t register at first but then footsteps, heavy footsteps, thud across the living room floor and Kerstin jumps to her feet.
She tiptoes to the door and stands in the darkness of the hallway, listening. Someone is whistling; a man. She hears the creak of a window being opened, then the tap in the kitchen running and the clattering of crockery. This is not the police, she thinks, as she walks slowly towards the living room. Could it be him? Has he come to find her, to trick her? Has he got the police outside waiting for her?
When she reaches the living room she stands in the doorway and sees a figure standing by the kettle in the kitchen; a tall young man with blond hair wearing dark trousers and a blue shirt. He whistles to himself as he pours the boiling water into a mug. Then he turns and looks up.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he yells, dropping the cup and its boiling contents onto the tiled floor with a smash.
He stands holding his hands in the air. He looks scared. Kerstin has never seen that look on a person’s face before.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
She steps into the room and stands by the sofa.
‘I’m sorry I shocked you. I’m … I’m a friend of Cal’s,’ she says, her voice sounds low and laboured. There is something seriously wrong with her brain, she thinks, as even the act of talking is making her feel dizzy. ‘I stayed here last night, but when I woke up this morning the door was locked and I couldn’t get out.’
The man holds his hand against his chest as if to steady himself then he looks up and smiles.
‘That’s my flatmate for you. I don’t know, he’s not that great at holding onto women but surely locking them in is taking things a bit far.’
He walks towards her and Kerstin flinches as though she has been hit. He stops and stands by the table, looking at her.
‘Listen, the door’s unlocked now, you are free to go,’ he says as he picks up a clump of kitchen towel. ‘And I’ll have words with Cal when he gets home.’ He walks back to the kitchen and starts cleaning up the spilled tea.
At first Kerstin doesn’t move though she knows she has to. She looks at the hunched figure mopping the floor and she wants to scream, to cry out: ‘Help me!’ But instead, she walks out of the room towards the door, and as she touches the handle and feels it yield, she realises that nobody can help her now. She has to keep moving.
24
Stella looks at her watch as she crosses Gower Street and approaches the university: it is five to two. Now, if she can remember Dylan’s directions to Foster Court then she should be right on time.
She walks towards the grand porticoed building and thinks of the National Gallery, designed by the same man, and of the July morning seven years previously when she had sat on the gallery steps and looked out across Trafalgar Square as thousands of people cheered and celebrated London’s bid to host the 2012 Olympic Games.
It seems as though everything London was that day; everything she was, has been transmogrified; thrown inside some great petrie dish and emerged as something else; as the London she walks through now; a battered but strong city that has suffered horrors and bears its scars stoically like some ancient soldier. And Stella’s scars, the deep hurt she felt when she lived here, when she almost killed herself with bulimia: an enemy she thought she could never defeat, are fading too though they will always be there as a reminder of how far she has come.
Hearing Dylan’s words in her head she turns right at the edge of the great building and crosses an equally impressive quad and as she does the pounding in her head starts to ease as she remembers all the questions she wants to ask him. She reminds herself that she is a confident, professional woman, no matter what Paula says. She is strong now, stronger than she has ever been. Seven years ago she had been working in a dead-end job, throwing up her potential each night in a poky Soho flat; her self-esteem zero, her prospects nil and here she is weeks away from getting her doctorate.
Yet, still this guilt; she has never been good at deceit and she has felt terrible hiding it from Paula all these weeks and lying about being at the London Library. She has never lied to Paula before but how could she ever try to tell her; how could she broach the subject of Paula leaving her beloved Exeter to join her in London; the city that almost broke her. How could she convince Paula that this is for the best?
But now as she walks towards a modest brick building and sees the sign Dylan has directed her to: a small stone plaque with the words Foster Court written in gold lettering, the voices of the past are silenced; she can do this, she is more than capable of teaching. Her PhD is due to be handed in at the end of September and then she is free to do what she likes and with the academic record she has established at Exeter University, surely this is the next step?
Pulling her bag close she walks up to the entrance, through the glass doors and up the stairs to the second floor. The building is warm and smells of new carpet and as it is still the summer holiday there are no students about. She reaches the second floor and steps into a narrow corridor lined with posters and notices. One catches her eye: ‘Woolf and the City: A series of lectures looking at Virginia Woolf’s London, commencing 7 October 2012 at the London Library.’ Stella smiles as she walks on to the end of the corridor towards Room 220. And there it is, the third door on the right: the office of Dr Dylan O’Brien, Head of Literature Studies, University College London; the tutor who guided her through her MA; who encouraged her to undertake a PhD and who now has the power to change her life.
Taking a deep breath she knocks gently on the door.
She hears movement from inside the room then the door opens and there he is; dressed in a beige shirt and creased navy trousers; a pen in his hand and long, greying hair flopping over his eyes like a messy puppy.
‘Stella,’ he cries as he approaches and kisses her on the cheek. ‘It is great to s
ee you.’
‘Likewise,’ she says, and for the first time since she has been back in London she means what she says.
‘Do come in,’ he says, ushering her into the tiny study. ‘And please excuse the mess; my room at Exeter was a lot bigger. I’m swamped in paperwork for the new term and I still have that lot to get through.’ He points to a pile of bound manuscripts. ‘PhDs,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘God help me if I can get them all marked by mid-September.’
‘Good luck,’ says Stella, sitting down onto a squishy moss-green armchair.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ asks Dylan. He walks across the room to where a plastic kettle and a couple of chipped mugs sit on a shelf surrounded by box files and books.
‘Yes, please,’ replies Stella. ‘White, no sugar.’
‘So how’s the PhD coming on?’ asks Dylan as he spoons instant coffee into each mug.
‘I’m almost there,’ replies Stella. ‘It’s due to be handed in on 24 September so the pressure’s on.’
‘I can imagine,’ says Dylan, handing her a mug of hot coffee. ‘And I really appreciate you taking the time to come down here to meet. It’s a bit of a trek from Exeter isn’t it?’
‘Yes it is but I was so excited by what I read in your email,’ she says. ‘I had to come and find out more.’
‘Well, let me tell you all about it,’ says Dylan, taking a sip of coffee. ‘When the idea for this new module was mooted a few months ago, I felt you would be the ideal person to take it on. Your PhD is one of the most exciting I’ve read on Woolf for a long time. Thanks, by the way, for sending me little snippets. I can’t wait to see the finished, published piece.’
Stella nods. It is exciting, yet she has never allowed herself to be excited about it. ‘Leaden Circles: Virginia Woolf and the Deconstruction of Time.’ A thesis that has been three years in the making; hours of research and time and late nights and now it is going to be published. She should be beyond excited but then her work has always taken a back seat to Paula’s priorities: the herbs and the baby and Paula’s ever-increasing business demands. ‘That little college course’ is how she described it, as though it were a hobby or an evening origami class at the local community centre. Even when Stella got the funding to undertake the PhD, Paula had told her to take it slowly; that any undue stress could cause a relapse.
‘Anyway,’ says Dylan, as he stands up and takes a large green box file down from the shelf above his desk. ‘I’ll tell you a bit about the new module and then outline the role. Remember this isn’t a formal interview – that will take place in a couple of weeks – I just wanted to talk it over with you first before the post is advertised.’
‘Okay,’ says Stella. She watches as he takes a sheet of paper out of the box file then sits back down in his chair.
‘So then,’ he says, taking another sip of coffee ‘We’re setting up a new module and as head of programme I’ve been assigned the task of taking on a new full-time lecturer. It’s an undergrad course but as lecturer you’d also be involved in some postgrad classes too.’
Stella nods and he continues.
‘The module is called Introduction to Modern Literature and in it we will cover the work of three major modernist writers: Woolf, Joyce and Richardson. Within this we’ll look at the concept of the writer’s voice and then explore this further in a sub-module called “Writing the City” where the students will look at the writers in their own contexts: Joyce’s Dublin; Woolf’s London and see how far they created not just their own voice but the voice of their respective cities.’
‘So it will be Dubliners, Ulysses, Mrs Dalloway, Pilgrimage,’ says Stella. ‘And you mentioned The Years in your email too which was music to my ears. That is the core text of my thesis.’
Dylan smiles. ‘Yeah. There is so much you can take from your thesis when it comes to planning tutorials on this. We’ll also be cross-referencing texts so after introducing the students to Joyce, Woolf and Richardson over a series of weeks we’ll then start to compare the texts and engage the students in a wider-reaching debate on modernism. We’ll also look at the wider society, what was happening in the world during those years; how it influenced visual arts, music …’
‘Excellent,’ says Stella.
‘The role itself is a full-time one,’ continues Dylan. ‘Starting salary of £35,000 with London weighting. And it will commence in January 2013’
*
Stella goes to speak but she feels overwhelmed. The idea, the hypothetical question she has churned over and over in her head for three weeks since she received Dylan’s email, has just taken shape in front of her eyes. This is all real; living and working in London again could actually be a possibility. And Paula has no idea of any of this.
‘There’s a lot to take in I know,’ says Dylan, leaning back in his chair. ‘And I imagine a lot to talk over with your partner.’
‘Yes,’ says Stella. ‘And that’s where the difficulty lies, you see my partner, Paula, well she would never move to London. She has a successful herb business in Exeter that she runs from home and she loves it where we are, she’s close to her family and they live nearby.’
‘Oh,’ says Dylan, looking serious all of a sudden. ‘I’d say commute but that’s one hell of a journey each day and most of the lectures start at nine. You would have to live either in London or just outside if you were to take this on, Stella.’
‘Where do you live, Dylan?’ Stella tries to bat away the feeling of hopelessness that is welling up inside her. How could she ever convince Paula to move to London; it just wouldn’t happen. Why has she been trying to kid herself all these weeks?
‘I live in Angel,’ says Dylan, ‘it’s great for work. I walk to the campus every morning, really clears the head.’
Stella smiles. ‘There’s nothing like London mornings,’ she says. ‘I miss that.’
‘You used to live here didn’t you?’ asks Dylan, draining his cup of coffee.
‘Yes I did, many moons ago,’ says Stella. ‘In Soho of all places.’
‘That must have been interesting,’ says Dylan. ‘In a cool sort of way.’
‘Yes it was,’ says Stella.
She looks out of the window behind Dylan’s head and imagines herself working here in Bloomsbury each day; teaching young people, sharing their ideas and dreams. If someone had said to her seven years ago when she was working as a receptionist in a dreary asset management company, that one day she would be working in this magnificent university, talking about Woolf and Joyce with her own messy office and box files full of work to be marked, she would have called them crazy. Back then she was a lost soul in need of rescuing then Paula came along and whisked her away and made her better. But she is not ill anymore; she is healed. And what she needed then is not what she needs right now. She looks up and meets Dylan’s eye.
‘There’s a lot to take in, I realise that,’ he says, stirring his coffee. ‘If I were you I’d take your time over this. Give it some thought this week and how about we speak on the phone next week? You can let me know then if you’d like to come for the formal interview.’
‘I’ll do that, Dylan,’ says Stella. ‘But I think I already know what the answer will be. This is an amazing opportunity for me; yes, I would like to have the interview.’
‘That’s wonderful news Stella,’ says Dylan. He reaches down into his bag and takes out a small desk diary. ‘Now, how about we set a date for that?’
*
Mark stands looking at himself in the long oval mirror weighing up the steel grey suit and white shirt he has spent the last ten minutes squeezing into and the hundred-pound price tag that comes with it. He had hoped to find a cheap option but Topman was as cheap as he could find and it was still expensive. But he has no choice, if he is to blend in with the clientele at the posh hotel he’s booked into for the night.
He had checked out of the hostel as soon as he was sure Liv had gone and he was grateful that it was a bored-looking young woman called Sal on the recept
ion desk rather than the over-zealous Stuart. There were no questions, no offers of advice, just a swift handover of his room card and he was out of there, released into the back streets of Soho, to Frith Street and his confrontation with Bailey.
Mark had noted that Seb’s hands were shaking as he left him, he had scared him, just as he intended, taken the sheen off his perfect world; though Mark was angry with himself for coughing, having to use his inhaler, that bloody inhaler. All his life his weak lungs have let him down, stopped him living the life he wanted.
He had wanted to join the army but his asthma was deemed too acute; that rejection had almost killed him. There he was, sixteen years old with no qualifications, he had pissed his way through school because he knew that as soon as he left he was going straight to the army recruitment office, he was going to follow in his father’s footsteps and be a soldier. There was no other life for him, no other choice. But then his lungs let him down, his wheezing, his breathlessness, his sodding blue inhaler.
Nothing much mattered after that, he trained as a welder and got a job in Guisborough with a mate of his granddad, and he sleepwalked through the weeks, living for the weekend when he could go out into Middlesbrough town centre and get shitfaced with the lads. Lisa had stopped all that and when Rachel came along, he lived for the evenings when he could come home and give her a cuddle, tuck her up in bed, sing her the songs his mam had sung to him and Zoe when they were kids. Weekends were spent at soft-play centres and country pubs, DIY outlets and the Riverside Stadium watching their beloved ’Boro FC, the three of them, him, Lisa and little Rachel; that was all he needed. And then one Sunday, when they were all in the car coming back from a walk in the Cleveland Hills, his phone had rang and his mother, barely coherent, told him the news that his sister had been found dead.
And after that there were no more trips out, no football matches, no laughing, no talking, no cuddles. The man Mark had been died that day and would never return; he became haunted by horrific dreams of his father and Zoe, her eyes wide open, staring lifelessly out at him, his father screaming at him to do something; just do something.
