Tideline

by Penny Hancock

  By the time I go in to him, with a tray of freshly brewed tea, the surface of the river is deep copper, the buildings opposite bathed in sallow light. He looks up as I enter, puts down the guitar.

  ‘I’ve been banging, trying to call you. Why was the door locked?’ He stands up, his eyes fixed on me and takes a step towards the door. I stay where I am, barring his way. Just in case.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jez. How stupid of me. It’s force of habit. There’s so much expensive equipment in here, Greg insists on me locking up.’

  ‘I was a bit freaked out. I need to go. It must be late?’

  ‘You’ve plenty of time. Relax. Look I’ve brought you—’

  ‘Did you ask Helen? To tell Alicia to get in touch?’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes. They could have rung. But for some reason,’ I shrug, place the tray down on the bedside table, ‘they haven’t.’

  He stares at me, slightly stupified it seems.

  ‘I’ve still got a stinking headache,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, you will do. I’ve brought you tea. You must hydrate. And later you must have some supper. I’ve got some arancini. They’re from the Italian place on the market.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Arancini. Rice balls filled with bolognese or mozzarella, delicious. And there’s some white Rioja. You’ll love it. ’

  Mentioning wine is a mistake. He grimaces.

  ‘You might not feel like it now, but you’ll need that hair of the dog later.’

  ‘Thanks. For all this. But I really must be off.’ He starts to pick up his things, which are strewn about the room: his hoodie, a badge that has come off it, a packet of chewing gum. My heart feels as if it’s being squeezed, I can’t breathe. I know what he’s doing and I can’t bear it.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I’ve got to. They’ll be wondering where I’ve been for the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Let them think what they want,’ I say. ‘Stay.’

  ‘I feel bad. Alicia’ll be wondering what’s happened. I have to explain why I didn’t get the train. My mum will be worried.’

  ‘Jez,’ I say before I can stop myself, and I can hear the plea in my voice. ‘What about how I feel?’

  He looks at me, alarm on his face for the first time.

  I’ve broken a basic rule by appearing desperate. I must employ one of my professional techniques. Make my voice serene. Hide the sea of desolation that threatens to engulf me.

  ‘I cancelled an engagement tonight because I believed you wanted to stay. Do, please, have dinner with me. We can have pizza if you prefer, burgers, anything you like. And I’ll look out my opera friend’s number for you.’

  ‘Thanks, honestly. But I’m going now. I need to get home. You could text me your friend’s details. I’ll get a new phone.’

  I look at him, stare into his eyes, think as loudly as I can: Don’t do this. Don’t make me force you. But he continues to check his pockets, tie his laces.

  ‘You can’t go home with a hangover like that. What will Helen say?’

  ‘I’ll have a quick cup of tea. Then I’m off.’

  I didn’t want it to come to this, but I have no choice. I go to the tea tray, my back to him, and drop one of my mother’s pills into his cup.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Two please.’

  For good measure I add a second pill with the sugar. I give the tea a good stir before handing it to him.

  We sit and sip our tea on the bed next to one another. It should be a lovely moment, like the ones we shared last night but it’s spoilt by the way he keeps glancing over towards the door, as if he’s nervous, as if he can’t wait to finish and get out of here.

  It doesn’t take long for the drugs to take effect. I’m surprised at their efficiency. I had half thought nothing would happen, that I should have to let him walk away from me. But quite quickly, his eyes grow heavy, he murmurs that he feels too sleepy to finish his tea, puts his mug down and lies back against the pillows. I stare at him. He struggles to open his eyes, his lids flicker. His mouth tries to form a word. He lifts his arm, as if reaching for something he thinks I’m offering him, but then he drops it down as if the effort is too much. His eyes close and his head falls to one side. I’m alarmed by my own audacity. And yet I feel an incredible calm sweep over me that I’ve got him. He’s mine.

  I put my cup down and lean over him. The light outside has almost gone. He looks like someone in a black and white movie, the dusk accentuating the shadows on his face. He’s even more beautiful than I first thought.

  I bend over and kiss him on the lips. Not a deep kiss; my lips rest lightly on his, feeling the tender newness of them. I barely exert any pressure, just let our mouths touch gently without moving or making any sound and I cherish the exquisite softness. I’m back there, with Seb, when the world was laid out in front of us, like a vast, eternal playground.

  I pick up one of Jez’s feet. It’s so big I have to hold it in both my hands. I remove his trainers, his socks. Even here there’s nothing unpleasant. Only babies, I’d thought, had this natural perfume. I marvel at the delicacy of the skin. What I’d like to do is take each of his pink, fresh-smelling toes one by one in my mouth. I imagine the way the flesh would feel, the scrape of his nail against the roof of my mouth. But the taste would be something new and tender.

  However, there’s a sweetness in saving some things for later. To savour the anticipation. Now Jez is here, in the music room, I have all the time in the world again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Saturday night

  Helen

  Headless and legless pregnant torsos on plinths punctuated the gallery. Helen leant on a pillar, one hand clutching a wine glass. She adjusted her stance, tried to look casual, and took another gulp of wine. Her palms were damp.

  In addition to the torsos was a centrepiece, a pool of water with ultrasound scans of foetuses projected above it. There was also a series of vivid orange paintings entitled ‘Variations on the Svadhisthana’.

  ‘They are to do with the sacral chakra. The centre of fertility and creativity.’ Nadia’s voice in Helen’s ear made her jump. ‘I’m convinced orange agate is what helped me get pregnant. That’s why I’ve used the colour so liberally.’ At forty-five Nadia had fallen pregnant for the first time and it was as if no one had ever had a baby before.

  ‘I see,’ said Helen. ‘But why the casts?’

  ‘Not very original, I know,’ said Nadia. ‘Everyone has them done these days. But I wanted to capture every stage. I use Modroc. Get it off the internet. It’s an extraordinarily versatile medium.’

  ‘They’re very realistic,’ Helen said. ‘You can see every tiny wrinkle and bump in the skin.’ She noticed that her damp hand had left a dark print on her skirt where it had rested. She moved to hide it. Glanced over at Pierre, Nadia’s partner, who was circulating with a tray of wine.

  ‘Do you know anyone here?’ Nadia said. ‘Want me to introduce you?’

  Helen opened her mouth, closed it, then took an in-breath.

  ‘You didn’t invite Ben and Miranda?’ The words sounded forced, too loud.

  ‘Oh, no. They’re away. Madagascar or somewhere. Winter break.’

  Helen digested this information, felt relief that he wasn’t here, shock that he was still with his wife. She swallowed.

  ‘What about Greg and Sonia? Thought they might be here,’ she said brightly.

  ‘I gave them an invitation,’ Nadia said, gazing over Helen’s head at some women who had just come in, ‘at your Mick’s fiftieth. Sonia looked rather amazing I thought. In spite of what Greg’s been saying about her.’ Nadia placed her hands under her bump and lifted it up and down gently. ‘God knows how she does it. Though I’ve never been happier with my body than I am now.’ She closed her eyes and smiled beatifically. ‘Overheard one of the youngsters refer to her as a MILF! Mother I’d Like to Fuck,’ she added for Helen’s benefit, though Helen hardly needed a translation.

  ‘What do you me
an, in spite of what Greg’s been saying?’ Helen asked.

  ‘He was worrying about her to Pierre again. How she’s so – unfathomable – I think he called her.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He reckons, since Kit’s left home and he’s got more work in Geneva, there’s no need to stay in her parents’ old house. But she refuses to move.’

  ‘She loves the River House,’ Helen said. ‘Who wouldn’t? It’s in such a unique location.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that. Greg thinks she’s depressed. You have to admit, she wasn’t exactly the life and soul of the party that night was she?’

  ‘To be honest,’ said Helen, ‘I haven’t heard from her much at all since the kids grew up. She seemed to lose interest in me once Kit went to uni. I assumed I’d gone down in her estimation now both my sons have dropped out. But I miss her company. We’d have been out there having a fag on the pavement once upon a time.’

  ‘Well I’m only saying what Pierre heard from Greg,’ Nadia said. ‘I mean, where is she tonight?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not my place to say this but I will anyway,’ said Helen, accepting another glass of wine from Pierre. ‘It’s bloody typical of Greg to make out something’s wrong with Sonia just because she doesn’t agree with him. He’s always done that. He’s a control freak.’

  ‘And you’ve never liked Greg,’ smiled Nadia.

  ‘Not particularly, since you ask,’ said Helen.

  Nadia smiled at the group of women who’d entered and Helen felt shame, hot and glaring, that she’d mentioned her dislike of Greg. He was Pierre’s friend. She never knew when to keep her mouth shut. So Sonia was a MILF. Ben was in Madagascar with Miranda. Helen felt her nerves slacken, her mood dip. Complementary gasps and exclamations came from the group of newcomers by the door. Nadia was spirited away by one of the appreciative women and Helen saw that the last of the wine on the tray had gone. Time to go.

  She stood for a few moments on the pavement outside, hugging her blue hooded jacket around her and pulling on the burgundy leather driving gloves she kept in the pockets. Stamped her feet in their suede boots against the pavement that was already beginning to twinkle with frost. She began to walk towards the corner where her car was parked. Across the road, boys piled out of a taxi and into a Victorian warehouse that was now some kind of a club, their breath rising in white puffs as they moved across the road. Helen had been surrounded by teenage boys all week. The needy ones at work, her own two and her nephew Jez at home. Their lanky legs and hunched shoulders seemed to be everywhere all the time. She wished there were more women in her life. People you could actually talk to, share your feelings with. Nadia was too wrapped up in her pregnancy, Sonia clearly preferred her own company these days, and Helen’s sister, Maria was far too competitive about the boys. Helen could never confide in her.

  Some of the gallery’s private viewers were meandering across to the warehouse now too. Middle-aged people trying to be young, Helen thought, before it hit her that they were younger than she was. Middle-aged but younger than her. How could that be all of a sudden? She sighed, took a deep breath. It would have been nice to join them, have another few drinks, stay out, but she was tired and she was driving. And Mick had probably cooked. He would be waiting for her.

  In the car, she fastened her seat belt, knowing she was probably over the limit, though she hadn’t in all her driving years been breathalyzed yet. I don’t look like the kind of woman who might drink too much, she thought. Police went for youngsters. Barney and Theo’s friends were always being stopped though they never drank and drove.

  She was just turning the key in the ignition when she spotted Alicia, Jez’s girlfriend, coming along the street from the gallery. She was alone, and looked a little lost. Helen opened the window, leant out.

  ‘D’you need a lift Alicia?’

  The girl looked up. ‘Oh. Cool.’

  Helen opened the passenger door and Alicia jumped in.

  ‘Going home?’

  ‘S’pose so. Thought I might see Jez at Nadia’s. I went with some of my art class. We invited him to come along. Do you know where he is? I haven’t seen him since Thursday.’

  ‘Thought he might be with you actually,’ Helen said. When had she last seen her nephew? It wasn’t last night. Maybe it had been Thursday too, when Alicia had come round, and they’d made those badge things on the computer.

  She pulled out into the traffic and glanced at the girl. Alicia had been in and out of the house since Jez arrived the previous Saturday but Helen had taken little notice of her. Now she saw that the girl was pretty, fine featured, elfin, pale skin. Just a child really. She was staring straight ahead, with a small frown wrinkling her forehead.

  ‘You OK?’ Helen asked, taking Old Street roundabout rather too quickly and braking as she headed off towards the city.

  ‘No. He’s not answering his phone or returning my texts.’

  ‘He was supposed to be going back to Paris this weekend.’ Helen said. ‘I told him to let us know which train he was getting, but I haven’t been in much. The boys will know.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have gone yesterday. We were supposed to be meeting in the tunnel. He didn’t come and I’m worried. It’s not like him.’

  ‘Tunnel?’

  ‘The foot tunnel. We always meet there. While he’s staying with you in Greenwich. It’s like, halfway, and it’s kind of . . . our special place.’

  God, thought Helen, how could anyone, even a starry-eyed teenager view the foot tunnel as somewhere romantic? The floor damp, as if the river were seeping through. The white tiles and exposed electricity cables. The stink of stale urine. The lifts stopped working at seven so you had to take the hundreds of steps up to the surface hoping no one lurked in the corners and shadows.

  ‘You want to be careful hanging about in the tunnel,’ Helen said. ‘Where do you want me to drop you? I can take you home if it’s not too far out of my way. Or to a tube?’

  ‘Docklands.’

  Helen thought of Mick again, at home, griddling something. Tuna steaks with udon noodles were one of his specialities, he often did that on a Saturday night. A bottle of something cold and white and a meal in front of the TV. What more could she want? She shouldn’t have bothered with Nadia’s preview.

  ‘It’s doing my head in.’ Alicia sounded on the verge of tears. ‘He must be in a mood with me.’

  ‘Jez? I’m sure he’s not,’ Helen said. ‘He’s gone home to Paris or he’ll be with the band. You know what they’re like when they’re playing. They forget there are other people out here.’

  Alicia shrugged. ‘He’s the best lead guitarist in all the bands I know. My friends are so, like, jealous I’m with him. But he doesn’t know how drop-dead gorgeous he is and he’s never just blanked me out before. It’s weird.’

  A dispatch rider on a motorbike cut across Helen’s path as they reached Commercial Street and she had to brake. The lights in front turned to red. She could feel her blood pressure rise. Why did everyone go on about Jez all the time? Maria had phoned every night this week to see how her son had got on with his interviews, to check up on what he’d eaten, to remind Helen how talented he was. Maria treated Jez like a pedigree creature rather than an ordinary teenage boy. Now his girlfriend was professing similar adulation and it was annoying. The effects of the wine were wearing off and she felt a headache approaching. Helen craved another drink. She shouldn’t have offered to take Alicia all the way, should just have said, ‘Out here if you don’t mind, I need to get home.’ You offered an inch and . . .

  ‘I’ll make him ring you, I promise,’ said Helen.

  As she turned the car round after dropping Alicia home she wondered whether she felt relieved that Ben hadn’t been at the opening after all. She no longer had to go through the kind of tumultuous feelings Alicia described again. No more waiting for an email to arrive in the inbox, the ping of a text coming in. No more agonizing nerves at the thought of seeing someone again. No more crazy romantic rend
ezvous in impractical locations. The foot tunnel, of all places! She had dealt with that side of things once and for all. Why would she want to open a recently healed wound?

  ‘Think of all the civilized things you and Mick can do now that’s all behind you,’ Helen told herself as the car descended between towering brown walls into the dark mouth of the Blackwall Tunnel. ‘You’re going to do more together than you ever used to: the theatre, city breaks, good food. You’ve both agreed to focus on your relationship. You’ve done the right thing.’

  By the time she was home and turning the key in the lock, she was anticipating the warm smell of a meal ready on the kitchen table. Mick stood in the entrance to the sitting room, a newspaper under one arm, his face grave. There was no welcoming smell from the kitchen. The fire was unlit and the hallway was cold.

  ‘Maria’s been on the phone,’ he said. ‘Jez was supposed to be going back to Paris today. He hasn’t arrived.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Saturday night

  Helen

  Helen followed Mick into the sitting room and unscrewed the cap of a bottle of Pinot Grigio he’d put out for her on the table.

  ‘Was Maria sure he was going back today?’ said Helen. ‘I asked him to tell us which train he was getting, but he didn’t. He must still be here.’

  ‘When did you last see him? I don’t think I’ve seen him since Thursday.’

  Helen sat down. The room felt bleak. It needed flowers. She leant across to put the lamp on over the fireplace.

  ‘Thursday too, I think. No. I saw him yesterday lunchtime. That’s right, he was here when I got in . . . after work. Have you put any supper on?’

  ‘Helen. We need to sort this out. Where is he now?’

  ‘Not with Alicia. I just gave her a lift home from the private view. She says he stood her up in the foot tunnel yesterday. He’ll be with the boys.’

  ‘The foot tunnel?’

  ‘Apparently they meet halfway between south and north. It’s rather sweet.’