LOVE'S GHOST (a romance)

by Ellis, T. S.

  Carl approached me. He didn’t stop until he was very close. He bowed his head and looked straight into my eyes with his dark ones.

  An impulse crept up on me. I wanted to grab the back of his neck and pull him into me, to kiss him. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move at all. My body remained confused.

  I detected that his breathing had also become heavier. Two buttons of his shirt were open and I could see his chest moving up and down.

  We were so close it was painful. I inched my lips towards his and he tilted his head in preparation for a kiss.

  But he didn’t kiss me.

  Instead, he stopped his head moving forward and said, “No.”

  I jerked my head backwards and took a deep breath.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. But…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t even look like he wanted to. There was agony in his eyes. I wondered if he could see the same agony in mine.

  “I think we should get you home,” he said.

  We walked outside to the jetty. The boat trip back down the Thames was taken in silence. He didn’t say a single word. He found a vacant mooring, tied up the boat, then held out his hand for me to take.

  “Goodbye then, Carl.”

  But he didn’t let go of my hand. “When you are free. When you are liberated from this old relationship of yours, then we will see where this can lead. But I can’t take you on that journey until then.”

  “You’re worried about my ex?” It was the first time I had called Russell my ex. And I cannot lie, it felt odd, like an ill-fitting jacket.

  “I’m not worried about him, no. And I'm no moralist. I'm in no position to be a moralist. But my pleasures have to be undiluted. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, I don’t know. But you are haunted, Fay. You carry him around with you. I could exorcise him for you. But I'm not sure you want that right now.”

  I wanted to protest, to tell him how attracted I was to him. He was the most drop-dead gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I was even more sexually stirred than when I’d first met Russell. And more than that, I was attracted to the intrigue that was his personality.

  But he was right. There was something wrong about my current situation.

  “Too right there’s something wrong.” It was Russell’s voice. His voice in my head.

  12. In-between

  EVERY WEEK IS seven days long. But it’s strange how some weeks can seem longer than others. I’ve always found that curious. We’re meant to be intelligent mammals. We know that every week is the same length, but some weeks seem so much longer than others.

  I’d heard that it depends on how old you are. To a baby, a week seems like an eternity. And that’s because she hasn’t lived long and doesn’t have many other weeks to compare it to. Yet to somebody older, the weeks seem to go by more quickly because she has lived thousands of weeks. And because that week is just one of thousands, time seems to go by more quickly. It’s all relative, apparently.

  I’m in my twenties so the weeks should go by relatively slowly. But not as slowly as the week following my sighting of Russell and my afternoon with Carl.

  The first couple of days, I couldn’t leave my mobile phone alone. I didn’t expect Carl to call me, but I wanted him to. Not that I would have known what to say. But I also wanted Russell to call me.

  I wanted them to have a duel over who could make my phone ring first. But that wasn’t healthy. I needed to sort myself out. I needed to get to a place where I was making my own decisions. I just didn’t know how to get there. Seven years is a long time to spend with somebody. As much as you try to retain your individuality, you get used to the idea that your road map is not your own.

  “I am so excited about Portia. And I don’t get excited easily.”

  At least I was back in Polly’s good books. I had won the competition to find a promising face over the weekend. But nobody lost their job. It was all a ruse to shake us up. I wish it hadn’t worked, that we all hadn’t been duped so easily. But it had.

  “Which photographer have you booked?”

  I’d told her a couple of times, but Polly was prone to half-listening to anything you told her. “Tommy Cain,” I said.

  “Tommy, good choice. Good choice. Don’t let him get too arty. Let her face do the work.”

  I trudged off to Tommy’s photographic studio, which was based in the creative community of Shoreditch. I think many creative types made a beeline for Shoreditch because of the number of old warehouses that had been converted into workspaces. Their crumbling edifices appealed more to creative people than the business community.

  I hadn’t seen Tommy for a while. He was a very busy man. But he’d photographed Sienna in those early days. So Polly had paid well over the odds to persuade him to photograph Portia. These days, Tommy considered himself an artist. He’d been exhibited in a gallery. But he could still be bought by the filthy lucre. Tommy was a nice guy, though, one of the more considerate in the fashion industry.

  He wore the scruffiest, most deconstructed jeans you could ever find, and a t-shirt with several holes. It was a popular look among fashion photographers. It was as if they were saying they had nothing but contempt for the commercial world of fashion. Yet you knew they’d spent ages in perfecting the look precisely because art directors expected it of them.

  Portia was forty-five minutes late and counting. I’d tried calling her mobile but there was no reply. I wondered if she’d got cold feet. Tommy and I were on our second cup of coffee.

  “Have you got another booking?” I asked him.

  “Not for a few hours. Do you think she’ll turn up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tommy checked the lighting set-up in the studio once more just to make sure it was working.

  “So what’s happened in your life since we last met? You still with the same guy?”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was as awkward as telling somebody that the person they were enquiring after was dead.

  “I’m not exactly with him. But I’m not without him, either. We’re on a break.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I knew Tommy wouldn’t demur from enquiring further. So I braced myself.

  “How long have you been on a break?”

  “About six months.”

  “Six months?” The way his voice went up an octave, you’d think I’d stolen his favourite camera.

  I smiled uneasily. “Yes.”

  “That’s not a break that’s going to heal. That’s a permanent fracture. Who’s holding out for the romantic reunion?”

  “It’s not like that.” I said with as much conviction as I could muster. “We’ve been together seven years. Have you ever been with somebody for seven years?”

  Tommy laughed. “About seven months is my record.”

  “Well, then. It’s different. Breaking up after seven years is not a decision anybody should take lightly.”

  “I understand that. But six months? The life expectancy of some animals isn’t that long.”

  I didn’t know what to say. How long was long enough for a trial separation? Was our relationship already over? Russell hadn’t been in touch for a few weeks. Was he expecting me to take the hint? Was that it?

  I had to change the subject. “Do you think of yourself as an artist, Tommy?”

  He looked at me askance, obviously worried that I was having a dig at him.

  “I met an artist — a painter — the other day. He was a very interesting guy.” That was an understatement. But I wanted to keep the conversation on a less personal level. “He said the difference between artists and other people was the way they looked at life. Is that true?”

  Tommy fiddled with the camera on his lap. There was a sound of regret in his voice. “I don’t know, Fay. Maybe I’m the wrong person to ask. I’ve been trying to make the transition from commercial photographer to artist, but… I don’t know… Deep down I know I’m faking it. I’m saying the right thi
ngs. I’m trying to stretch my talent as far as it will go. But… yeah, I’m faking it.”

  “But maybe all artists are faking it?”

  Tommy put the camera down. “No. The real ones aren’t. I know some of the public think they are. That they’re full of crap. But the real artists are out there. They don’t give a shit about money, about people’s opinions, especially about people’s opinions. They don’t give a shit about other people at all. Life is something that gets in the way of their work. Not the other way round. That’s how I know I’m not really an artist. My life comes before my work.”

  “They can’t be that bad. They can’t all be the same. Besides, they’re human beings.”

  Tommy raised his eyebrows at my excessively eager defence of artists. I bowed my head.

  “Sure,” he said. “They’re not all the same. I’m just giving you the benefit of my experience.”

  The door buzzed. Tommy got up from the chair and opened it. Portia breezed in, carrying shopping bags from some upmarket stores. There was one from Harrods, one from Louis Vuitton, one from Bulgari. Had she really been out shopping while we’d been waiting for her?

  “The most horrible thing,” she said. “On my way here this cyclist cut right in front of me, then slammed his fist on my bodywork, as if it was my fault. I’m sick of cyclists, I really am.”

  I waited to see if this was going to segue into an apology for her lateness. But it didn’t seem like it would.

  “Did you bring the outfits for me to wear?” she asked.

  I pointed to the clothes rail.

  “Good. Excellent. Shall we get started, then? I could kill a coffee before we do, though.”

  I wanted to take her to task, but I wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation. “I’ll make it,” I said reluctantly.

  Portia tilted her head to look round at the kitchen area. “I’m not a big fan of normal coffee.”

  Tommy jumped in. “I have a cappuccino maker in the kitchen.”

  But she ignored his information. “There’s a small café round the corner,” she said. “Makes the most exquisite lattes. Fay, would you be my best friend ever and fetch me a latte?”

  Best friend ever? Did she think we were still at school? I suspected that our Portia collected best friend evers, and that I would probably be the third such person that day.

  I got up out of the chair. “Can you change into the black chiffon number while I’m away?”

  Portia smiled. “Certainly. I like my lattes with one shake of the cinnamon shaker. The funny little man who runs it will know.”

  I wondered whether the café charged extra for arsenic. It was going to be a long day. A very long day.

  I trudged out into the street. My phone rang. My heart skipped a beat. I grabbed it from the pocket of my jacket and nervously looked at the caller ID. It was Emily. Thankfully, my heartbeat returned to normal.

  “Hi, hon. How you doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I’d told her about my date and the confusion it had sewn in my mind.

  “Anybody called you yet?”

  “No,” I said. “Doesn’t look like anybody wants to.”

  “Well, that may not be a bad thing. Give you a rest. Why don’t you come round on Friday night and we’ll go into town the next morning? Have some lunch, go to a museum? I feel the need for some culture.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “And I just read that museums are a great way to meet guys. The trick is to look like you’re pondering the mysteries of the universe while looking at a dinosaur fossil. I can do that. I’ll just think about the horrible dose of diarrhoea I had last year. That made me think about the mysteries of the universe.”

  I laughed.

  “That’s more like it,” Emily said.

  I agreed to go round on Friday night.

  I went to the café and asked for a latte with one shake of cinnamon. The guy gave me a knowing look, asking if it was for “her”. I described Portia and he nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s her,” he said. He didn’t go on to say any more about her. The shrug seemed to be enough.

  I returned to Tommy’s studio. He was scowling and had his arms folding. Portia had a “butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth” expression. They obviously weren’t getting along.

  “Fay,” Tommy said. “Let me take your picture.”

  “But we’ve only just started,” protested Portia.

  “Yeah, well, I need a break. And so do you. I don’t like to work models too hard, you know. Don’t want to wear them out. You drink your cinnamon coffee while I take Fay’s picture.”

  Portia took the coffee from me without a word of thanks.

  “Tommy,” I said, “I really don’t want my photo taken.”

  “Please,” he begged. “You’re beautiful… I’ve always wanted to take your photo. Just a couple of shots.”

  I didn’t have much choice in the end. He started snapping away.

  “I don’t know what expressions I should be making.”

  “But you’ve worked with models for years.”

  “Yeah, but that’s about them, not me. Tommy, I really don’t want to.” But Tommy wasn’t taking no for an answer. He guided me over to the white screen and took more photos. When I tried to smile my lips quivered. Out the corner of my eye I could seen Portia sneering.

  “Just be you,” Tommy said.

  I winced. “Do I have to be?”

  13. Coffee and secrets

  EMILY AND I boarded the train from Wimbledon to London Waterloo at eleven fourteen on Saturday. It was a relief to be boarding a train that wasn’t subjected to the rush-hour crush, although just getting on a train still reminded me of the time I met Carl. I nearly took a sneaky peek at the first class carriage to see if he was sitting in it, even though this wasn’t his line.

  As the train pulled out of the station, I asked Emily, “Which museum do you fancy going to?”

  Emily waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve gone off the idea of museums. How about we take a walk along the South Bank? There’s a food market outside the Queen Elizabeth Hall. They usually have amazing foods from around the world.”

  “Okay.”

  In truth, I didn’t mind what we did, as long as we did something to take my mind off Russell and Carl. And temperamental models. Portia had seemed so nice when we’d spotted her in Camden. Just like any seventeen-year-old out shopping. She had seemed sweet and a little shy. If she was going to act the diva at a simple photo shoot for her portfolio, what would she be like if she started getting attention from advertising agencies and fashion editors?

  And as I was thinking of models, what was I going to do about Anna? It wasn’t fair not to tell her that she was no longer on the agency’s books. I still hadn’t mentioned to Polly that I had chickened out of telling Anna the bad news. Perhaps I should go on representing Anna without telling Polly. Not that there was anywhere left in London where I could try and get her a half-decent assignment. I’d tried every magazine lately, every advertising and promotions agency.

  “Try one of these sausages.” We’d reached the food market outside the Queen Elizabeth hall. It appeared on occasional Saturday and Sundays. It was a great place to grab warm food and walk along the banks of the Thames. This part of the river wasn’t the same as the stretch near my home. Here it was wide and majestic, running through the tourist sites of the capital — St Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament all overlooked it.

  Emily always went for the sausage. They weren’t like the puny ones you got in fast food restaurant. The ones on sale at the market were large and meaty. It was an obvious joke, but one too good to resist. We played it out with different variations each time.

  “No, you have the whole sausage, Em.”

  “I don’t think I can manage the whole thing.” The tomato ketchup was dibbling down her chin as she spoke.

  “I think you’ve bitten down on it so hard, you’ve made it bleed,” I said.

  This cracked Emi
ly up so much, she nearly choked on her sausage. As she’d started laughing, her head had jerked forward, plunging the sausage further into her mouth. I leapt forward and pulled it out before it went any further. She was laughing so much that tears were falling from her eyes.

  “Thank you.” She choked and laughed at the same time.

  “Sorry, Em. I didn’t think you’d start choking.”

  “It was worth it. I must remember that one.”

  Emily had trouble finishing off the sausage. Every time she brought it up to her mouth she began convulsing with laughter. I wasn’t helping, humming the music to the movie Jaws, whenever the sausage approached.

  We carried on walking along the South Bank, past the National Film Theatre and the National Theatre.

  Emily was divorced. She’d married when she was very young, eighteen years old. They’d seemed to be the perfect couple, like a couple of decorative figures on a wedding cake. I’ll always remember the wedding photographs. I’d never seen two happier people. At weddings, brides usually look pretty and grooms look handsome. The splendour of the event gives the main protagonists a serene glow. But these two had looked even happier than most. Emily looked like she had been born in a wedding dress. And Jim was so devoted to her, so attentive and dutiful.

  But the marriage wasn’t a happy experience. I remember doing my best to help her through the divorce. But she didn’t need any help. Despite the fact that he had constantly cheated on her, she never took it to heart. That’s the great thing about Emily, she is so strong. Nothing fazes her. She was determined to enjoy the rest of her twenties.

  But what Emily forgets is that not everybody is as strong as she is. Not everybody wants to get up from the canvas straight after being knocked down. Some of us like to lie there a while and take stock of our injuries.

  “Did you know this was on?”

  We were standing outside the Tate Modern, a huge art gallery devoted to modern art that used to be a power station. It’s large chimney and famous Turbine Hall have become iconic images of London.