Exposure

by Talitha Stevenson

  But instead he smiled and sat down beside Arianne, out of grim necessity, out of the overwhelming fear of making things even worse. 'Hey, come on,' he said, 'I want you to have a good time. Let's not argue. OK? OK, darling?' He kissed her cheek.

  He had recently begun to appreciate how free, in relative terms, he had always been to show his emotions in the past—as a child, a teenager. He remembered his father telling him to pull himself together when a schoolfriend chose to ask the other member of their gang of three to go on holiday with him and his family. This betrayal had occurred on his sister's birthday and Luke was meant to be changing for a big family supper. For some reason he had been alone with his father, who had said, 'It's rotten luck, but there'll be other holidays and you've simply got to pull yourself together for Mummy and Sophie, Luke.'

  'You don't understand, Dad,' he shouted, throwing his hockey-stick across the kitchen in helpless grief.

  'I do understand, Luke,' his father said. 'It's very tough thinking you're missing out and feeling as if someone else has all the luck when you deserve it as much as they do. You just have to cope sometimes. So, come on, buck up.' Luke had run away up the stairs, choking and sobbing at this insult to his emotions, this soul-destroying, eat-your-greens advice.

  'You just have to cope sometimes.' It chilled the heart.

  He put his arm round Arianne and squeezed her shoulder. He remembered the day his aunt Suzannah had come by to tell his mother that their father had died. They had talked privately for a while and when Suzannah left, wearing big dark glasses, his mother had gone out into the garden with her gloves and her sunhat. She said she was just going to weed the border because it was in a wretched, terrible state. She smiled at them as they sat at the lunch table reading the Sunday papers, and shut the door behind her.

  They had all assumed she was fine until they got hungry at around eight and realized there was no smell of cooking. It turned out she was still outside, on her hands and knees, weeding. They all observed her sadly through the window and wondered what to do. Luke remembered that his father had gone out for her with a glass of whisky in his hand, and from the kitchen window he and Sophie watched them hugging each other in the half-light. When she came in, she said, 'I am so sorry. I completely lost track of the time. You're all starving, aren't you?'

  But his father wouldn't let her cook. He took them out for supper that night and held her hand all the way through. They went to the Holland Park Brasserie—her favourite fish restaurant.

  In the club toilets, a little later, Luke found himself crying at the thought of the tenderness that was sometimes there between his parents. They seemed to go for long periods in which his father didn't really notice his mother's presence, but then suddenly they would silence him and his sister with a litde display of enduring love. He found himself thinking about Lucy and wondering how she was, what it had been like to get that final email from him, with its logical explanation:

  It's simplest just to do it this way, Lucy, because you know there'll only be a dreadful scene if we meet up. You know you wanted to get married and I just wasn't heading that way and neither of us could understand it, really, because you're so lovely, Luce. But I think I've worked it all out now. And the reason I'm so sure is because I've found what everyone's looking for: when it just 'feels right'. I know you'll think I'm a wanker, but I think this is for the best, in the long term, for both of us.

  That had been weeks and weeks ago. She had never replied. Lucy was a good person. She had genuinely loved him; and that morning he had eaten her mother's jam on hot croissants, the taste of Arianne mingling outrageously well with the home-grown strawberries and the creamy butter and with his huge, orgasm-fuelled appetite.

  He went back to the table and the tequila shots and they sat together and drank cocktails and talked to the others. There was no argument. It was such a good show that even Joe felt able to come back and sit with them. But later, when Luke carried her up the stairs to the flat, her weight even more dead than usual, after all the tequila, a terrible thought flashed through his mind. It occurred to him that, if he really wanted to, he could just drop Arianne over the edge of the banisters, on to the marble-tiled floor.

  The weather had been getting warmer and now came the hottest June in fifty years. London did one of its quick changes. Supernaturally white limbs were exposed to the open air and gradually turned pink, music wafted out of shop doorways, adults ate children's ice lollies in the street, and people wore every colour of the rainbow. Every evening, tree-lined avenues were filled with the smell of barbecues—a mixture of beer and burnt sausages and charcoal. With the smell came the sound of adult laughter and of children joyously dodging their control and setting up camps at the far end of the garden.

  One Sunday evening, Luke and Arianne carried a bottle of rosé towards his friend Matt's house. Arianne had begun to regard Luke with open scorn—and, as a short-term solution, he had decided to avoid direct eye-contact with her.

  Matt's girlfriend Leila opened the door and said, 'Hey! Come on in,' in a voice turned honey sweet by the sunshine. She was wearing a blue cotton dress, which tied in a bow at the back of her neck. Behind her, on surround sound, was the French DJ everyone seemed to have discovered a week before. They followed her in, towards the bright french windows on to the garden, beyond which groups of people were holding glasses and talking.

  Arianne had not been in the mood to have sex with Luke for just under two weeks now. His frustration was such that even watching her fingers open a packet of cigarettes was painfully erotic to him. In the garden, he eyed vicious little appetizers of raw ham and melon. Matt held out a plate of them. 'Hi, man. Hey, gorgeous. So, how are the happy couple doing?'

  Luke wondered if there was an implied doubt of him in everything people said.

  The party went on—and on, mercilessly. Candles burnt down and bowls piled up with filthy cigarette butts. Ice-cream pooled on the plates in the hot night air, trapping innocent flies and moths. Luke made insignificant conversation with friends he saw only once or twice a year, and in each case he remembered why this was. Arianne had been tugged away long ago by a girl called Laura to whom she had just been introduced. Laura was the tall, emaciated, hysterical type of girl who developed passionate friendships with strangers, only to throw them away with her empty cigarette pack at the end of the night. She had seemed almost to fall in love with Arianne. Luke had known her a long time and frequently avoided her at parties.

  He left them to it. He had been hoping to see Jessica, but she texted him to say she was working late on set and couldn't make it. He absorbed the disappointment and took a bottle of wine to the end of the garden. It really wasn't his crowd—they were all drama queens, literary types who obviously thought he was a thick rugby player with nothing original to say. Well, maybe he was. He rolled and smoked a joint, then fell asleep on the cool grass.

  He woke up at around three a.m. to the sound of a girl collapsing the deck-chair she was dancing on. Arianne was not in the garden any more. Suddenly concerned, Luke got up and began to search for her. There were no lights on in the house, and even by running his hands in vast circles along the walls, he couldn't find a single switch. He stubbed his toe on a zinc Buddha by the sofa, then tripped over a salad bowl on the kitchen floor. There appeared to be a light at the end of the corridor and he made his way towards it. When he pushed open the door he found a boy he did not recognize being sick into the loo.

  Gradually, his eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he made his way up the stairs where there were still a few candles burning in little pink shells dispersed along the landing. At last he found Arianne in the bathroom. She was sitting in an empty bath with Laura and Laura's boyfriend JJ. Arianne was kissing Laura and JJ had his hand on her breast in a drunken, perfunctory way.

  Luke stood in the doorway.

  'Luuuke. Hello, you. Come and join us,' Laura said. 'I have borrowed your delicious girlfriend.'

  JJ said something indecipher
able that was, apparently, still deeply amusing to himself.

  'I'm sorry, I can't, Laura. We're leaving,' Luke said.

  'Leaving? Noweeyaren't,' Arianne told him. She sounded incredibly drunk.

  'Yes,' he said.

  'Whaddoyou mean, yes? No!

  'Yes. The taxi's here, Arianne.'

  'What taxi?'

  'I ordered one.'

  ' Oh, didjou now? Well, you can jus' geddinit, then.'

  Laura put up her hand to halt the conversation. 'Or,' she said, 'or he could come and geddin the bath.' She levered herself half-way out for her glass, which was sitting among the bottles of shampoo, then flopped down again, spilling some of the wine into her lap, saying, 'Oopsy-daisy, who's a silly cunt?'

  'Oh, that's easy, darling— you,' said JJ.

  Laura ignored him and stared at Luke, her head tipped on one side. 'You know, I do like your boyfriend, Arianne. Known'm fer years but he's never shownenny interest. Fucking insulting, really. Tell the truth, I thoughtee might be one of those rugby queers. You know—the ones who protest jusaliddle too much?'

  This idea struck Arianne as hilariously funny.

  Laura went on, 'But now he's got you. And we can't argue with tits like that, can we?'

  Arianne glanced down at her cleavage and giggled.

  Laura said, 'Almost makes me wish I was a real dyke, not just at parties. But I can't help preferring him. He is pretty, isn't he? Very pretty boy. I want'm to geddin the bath, acsherly. Use your charms on him, darling. Oh, go on, Lukey-Luke, stop being such a lovely, broad-shouldered spoilsport.'

  They were coked up and blind drunk. He hated their simple way of talking. It was supposed to be sophisticated to sound like spoilt children when you talked about sex.

  'Canchoo make him, Arianne? Jusfer Laura?' she said, pouting. 'We could have loss and loss of fun.'

  'He won't, babe. Only thing he's geddingin's his fucking taxi. Watch him.' Luke turned and walked out. He heard Arianne laughing: 'See. Offee goes. That's all, folks.'

  But, of course, Luke didn't get into a taxi because he hadn't really ordered one. He walked back through the dark streets to his flat. It took almost two hours.

  The days of longing for a mode of self-sacrifice had passed. All that complacent philosophizing! He could not believe he had ever felt at leisure to do it. Now he just wanted her not to humiliate him, not to leave in the middle of the night. In fact, he had started waking up in the middle of the night just to check she was still there at that vulnerable time. He listened to her sighs and wondered who she was dreaming about. Other men? Dan? Or were they sighs of despair? Was his comprehensive inadequacy causing her to feel despair?

  It was five a.m. when he heard her come back from Matt and Leila's. He listened to her filling a glass of water in the kitchen, dropping her clothes on the bedroom floor and getting into bed. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth intricately and crying.

  Was this normal—this crying, this toothbrushing?

  As it happened, Arianne did not leave him in the middle of the night. She left him on a sunny afternoon. She said, 'Look, you know and I know. You know you do.'

  'No, I don't know.'

  'You do. You know really - if you really think about what's good for you.'

  He had never heard her so reasonable before, so rational. Normally her emotions were a deep blue sea she choked in until he hauled her out. Lately she had slipped out of his hands—and now, for some reason, she had appeared on dry land, and was waving casually across. Leaving him was apparently bringing out the best in her.

  She smoked her cigarette efficiently and her eyes darted about the flat for things that belonged to her. She saw a pair of earrings on a bookshelf and walked over to them. Her heels were loud on the wooden floor—she had declared her foot completely better and could wear them now. She slipped the earrings into her pocket.

  Luke said, 'But I love you, Arianne. I mean—I genuinely love you.'

  This was too much for her. She spun round and gesticulated wildly, spreading out both her arms like someone recommending good, fresh air. 'It's not healthy, Luke.'

  Hadn't he seen her make this exact gesture in the lit window at Dan's flat? 'Why isn't it healthy? Why not?'

  'I don't know. But it isn't. Things are mysteries. You need someone more—more you than I am. You know what I mean.'

  'No, I don't.'

  'Look, I'm really sorry. I don't want you to think I'm not sorry. That's the main thing.'

  It was not the main thing.

  'But where will you go?' he said.

  'Oh, I'll be fine.'

  The fear of what this certainty connoted was almost intolerable, but he could not bear to ask the question again. She went into the bedroom and came out with the cardboard box, Dan's old sports bag and an armful of jumpers and other objects. 'Where do you keep plastic bags?' she said. 'Of course it's outrageous that I don't know.'

  'Under the sink.' He watched her go into the kitchen. Why would she be 'fine'? Who would she be 'fine' with?

  'Hey, Luke, what's this? Whose is this stuff?' she called through. 'You've got, like, makeup and stuff under your sink. What the fuck is Oh, Serena! about?'

  He had never been able to send back Lucy's things. The timing of this discovery slotted neatly into the horror. It was hard not to perceive a creative intelligence behind the course of heartbreak. Arianne was smiling knowingly when she came out. She said, 'I'm guessing those things belong to the owner of the makeup remover in the bathroom cupboard.'

  So she had acknowledged its significance. She had just never mentioned it, having absolute confidence that this other, shadowy girl would be an irrelevant detail in comparison to her presence. With her eye on the big picture she had decided not to start an awkward conversation full of irritating, messy details.

  'The mysterious lady of the pink toothbrush,' she said, smiling. And, with brutal logic, she tipped her head on one side and said, 'Well, there you go, Luke. Life goes on, hey. Doesn't it just? It's all a trail of plastic bags, really, isn't it?'

  Arianne set down her things on the coffee-table. Inside the bag, the strange and painful mixture of objects held some terrible revelation about what had happened to them, but just now Luke couldn't say what. He took in a few details—the top right-hand corner of the Hollywood Icons book he had got her, the edge of the plate they had found in a market, the flex of her hairdryer, the bosom of the Russian doll they had discovered in an antiques shop and which she had simply had to have.

  'OK. So, I should go. I've got a big audition tomorrow.'

  His mouth went dry at this foretaste of her independent life. 'Audition? How come?'

  'Oh, it's just—it's just through someone I met. It's a West End play. Something called Hotel. New writing—someone amazing, apparently.'

  'Hotel,' he repeated numbly. 'Won't you stay and we can try to work this out?'

  'Look, this was always a temporary thing, Luke. Life's a journey, right? Who wants to settle down and all that?'

  'Me. I want to settle down. I want you to stay.'

  She picked up her things, balancing the box on her hip and holding the two bags in her right hand. The buzzer went. She had tears in her eyes. 'Shit, my cab's here,' she said. 'Luke, I just want you to know that I'm sorry life's so fucking appalling and painful like this. But it's not my fault. Please try to remember that.'

  And then she left. He listened to her running down the stairs.

  Chapter 7

  That Arianne had gone was all Luke needed to know about the world or his place in it. Food was grotesque—vast lumps of substance to be swallowed for some forgotten purpose. And the prosaic satisfaction derived from drinking a glass of water—this was an affront to the complexity of his feelings. He did not want to take in or receive anything except her. He was conscious of a universal pain; he wondered if it was possible that his cells ached. There was no rest: sleep tossed him off its surface right up at the big black sky. He sat on the sofa with the TV
on and let the bright signal pelt against the lacquer of his grief.

  He listened to messages from work playing out on his answerphone, with a vague interest in the development of the narrative.

  'Hi, Luke, it's Jenny,' his assistant said. 'Just calling because we haven't heard from you and Calmaderm anti-dandruff's just been scheduled for next Monday. I thought you'd want to know.'

  Then, the next day: 'Luke, Sebastian. Could you check in with me ASAP? It's nine fifteen now. Thanks.'

  And the day after: 'Urn, Luke ... it's Jenny again.' Her voice was hushed. 'Look, are you OK?'

  He managed a call to Sebastian and explained he had gastric flu and that he was sick to his stomach. If he had felt capable of amazement, he would have directed it at the fact that he had never called in sick like this before. It was so easy. He saw why the neurotic 'creatives' behaved as they did. To think he had always felt he was the one in possession of the facts when it had been them all along! He had been so superior. He had always found Adrian Sand's volatility absurd, for example, and been unable to see why he got so upset if someone criticized an idea of his in a meeting. It was work, for God's sake: a matter for the mind. Why take it to heart?

  Why take it to heart? Because what else was there of any importance? It was only the heart that mattered! Luke put his head in his hands.

  All in all, he preferred TV to life outside the flat. At night, people sold their houses: they redecorated with teams of experts so they could sell up and move somewhere else. In the day, they tried new ways to lose weight, they gave face creams marks out of ten, they called in about child-abuse or alcoholism or low self-esteem. Luke developed primitive loyalties to particular daytime presenters. He felt quietly blessed when they smiled at him. On the fourth morning after Arianne had left, his favourite one gazed at him lovingly in her soft lavender V-neck, twinkling caramel highlights curling softly at either side of her face. Luke smiled back weakly at the screen. She said: 'Our phone-in today is about low-carbohydrate diets' and a memory reflex twitched in him, like a facial tic. Hadn't the phone-in been about domestic violence? It was then that he realized he had been sitting on the sofa since the programme aired twenty-four hours before.