Maria in the Moon

by Louise Beech

  ‘A few weeks back,’ I said. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Last Tuesday. The drying-out is the longest bit.’

  From three doors along came the monotonous hum of a dryer. We both looked towards the sound. Sally was probably glad I’d delayed her unlocking the door. She started to speak but couldn’t seem to decide what to say. Eventually she asked where I was staying.

  ‘Sharing a flat with Fern,’ I said.

  ‘And how’s that lovely Billy?’

  ‘Oh.’ I pushed my unruly hair behind my ear. ‘We split up.’

  ‘Why?’ She seemed surprised.

  I had no answer. We had all struggled for words after the flood. We still did now. I considered offering her words that would satisfy: his job had taken him to Siberia, for example; or ones that would justify a break-up: he’d slept with my best friend, perhaps. ‘It just wasn’t working,’ I said instead.

  She touched my arm. ‘I thought you two were great together. When you came the night Rick made that god-awful green curry I couldn’t get over the chemistry. When you and Rick were looking at the car, Billy told me he’d never felt about anyone the way he felt about you.’

  It began to snow again. White flakes landed like dandruff in Sally’s dark hair.

  ‘I bet he was drunk,’ I said.

  Sally finally looked at her house; newspapers had blown into her porch and flakes of roof tile surrounded the stiff rose bush like petals. I offered to go in with her, but she pulled her scarf tightly about her neck and said she’d be fine. It’s what we all said. I’ll be fine. Fine is a lousy word.

  Sally approached the house the same way I’d faced mine the first time; slowly, warily. I watched her unlock the door and step inside, sure that if I called out and asked her how she felt seeing the inside again she’d have said ‘fine’.

  At the flat Fern was waiting for me in the kitchen, thankfully wearing her white dressing gown, and thankfully alone.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ She produced a bottle of champagne from the fridge.

  I warmed my hands on the clinking radiator. Nanny Eve always used to tell me not to, that I’d get chilblains. I did it anyway. Stupid, with eczema. I told Fern champagne was for special birthdays like forty or a hundred.

  ‘Don’t be ageist – all birthdays are equal.’ She popped the cork and it hit the roof and bounced into the sink. Fizzy liquid filled two mismatched plastic cocktail glasses. ‘Where did you go so early this morning?’

  I told her about the builders and said I couldn’t drink champagne at this time of day. Fern smiled, saying builders were all muscle and sweat.

  ‘No muscles today, only sweat. So where are we going tonight?’

  ‘Town. Kate’s coming too. Read my column, it’s a special one. I’ll get dressed. Read it out, so I can hear.’

  She went to the bedroom, leaving the door ajar, and I picked up the newspaper, turned to page ten, took a sip of champagne and assumed the posh voice I used when reading her work aloud:

  ‘“No underwear – whether lacy, silk or satin – feels quite as sensual on your skin as the fabric of your husband’s shirt after an afternoon session of love-making, especially when you know you ironed it for him. And so I found myself—”’

  ‘No, the last paragraph,’ she called from her room.

  I skimmed the words and resumed:

  ‘“I wish my best friend, Catherine, happy birthday – who knows, she may be married too this time next year if the new man she’s flaunting has any sense. Then he, she, Sean and I can enjoy life as a cosy foursome.”’ I shut the paper with an indignant crunch. ‘You can’t write that! What new man? She might deny it but my mother reads this. She’ll be on my back saying I’m hiding some eligible suitor from her. Why do you have to lie?’

  ‘Don’t you like the message?’ Fern pouted in the doorway.

  ‘Don’t make that face; I’m not some guy.’

  ‘Stop being grumpy. It’s your birthday.’

  I felt bad. She’d meant well. I wasn’t sure why it bothered me so much. She could write what she wanted. Maybe it was my lack of memory. Maybe it was someone adding further to my confusion, muddying what I knew for sure with fiction. I flopped on the sofa and asked her to save my champagne while I had a nap.

  When I woke at three the flat was empty. The dripdrip-drip of the leaky tap greeted me. At night I had to tie one cloth around it and put another beneath the flow so the sound wouldn’t disturb me. Noises rose now from the kitchen below: Victor and his Happy House staff preparing for a busy Saturday night. Using the last of the cheese, I made a sandwich and ate it while reading Fern’s column again.

  It still irritated me. Did it mock the life I had? Or maybe the life I didn’t. But Fern wouldn’t do that. Perhaps it just reminded me of my inability to sustain a normal relationship. Of Will and Miranda travelling happily to Scotland. Of my losing, even with four aces.

  I’d finished showering and was drying my hair in the cracked mirror above the oven when Fern returned at four.

  ‘Kate isn’t coming,’ she said, dumping a Debenhams bag on the sofa.

  I asked why over the blast of hairdryer.

  ‘She went out last night and she’s too hungover. Bloody weakling.’

  I switched the dryer off and unplugged it. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  She fumbled around and pulled out a crimson dress, waving it like a matador teasing a bull. Frilled, with a slash-split thigh and thin straps that barely supported the soft fabric; designer tags still dangled from the hem.

  ‘You’ll look stunning,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not for me – it’s for you.’

  I opened my mouth but, like so often these days, couldn’t think of anything to say. Eventually words about it being too beautiful and me being too big and her being too kind spilled out.

  ‘Try it on.’

  I fingered the fabric as if it might disappear at my touch. Fern pushed me into the bathroom with it. ‘Don’t make me come in there,’ she called after me.

  Steam misted the mirror, softening my lines. I opened the window and chicken-curry odours wafted in. Reality. Dropping the towel, I slid the dress over my body. Chill air stiffened my nipples; the fabric was alien on my skin, like the hands of a new lover. I held my breath to zip it up. Anticipation. Shoulder straps straightened, I wiped mist from the mirror. The person staring back didn’t look like me. If red aged me then I was better with age.

  Fern demanded that I come out for inspection, and I opened the door, scratching and stretching my raw hands.

  ‘You should wear red more often,’ she said. ‘You’re stunning. Don’t mess with the straps, they’re fine.’

  We finished the bubbly while Fern styled my hair, promising a night of debauchery. She knew the best places, she said, slipping into tight black trousers and a silver top. She insisted we pose for a photo to remember. I hated photos, dreading that I might look back at them one day and not recall the details.

  A taxi arrived at eight and dropped us off near a pub so popular its inhabitants spilled down the steps and onto the street. Inside people jostled for space at the bar to buy overpriced cocktails. Fern flashed her most seductive smile at a man near the front and he bought us both a cosmopolitan.

  ‘We’re going where he goes,’ she said. ‘He’s sexy in a scholarly way. Looks like he could teach me some new tricks.’

  ‘If you don’t know them all already, what hope is there for the rest of us?’ I said.

  We moved from one over-lit bar to the next, hands groping and pushing us through the throng, music louder in every venue. Fern acquired drinks from new contacts and old, had favourite songs played by DJs and found every fashionable spot in every busy corner.

  In a bathroom my reflection surprised me; I had forgotten I was new. Red silk met pink flesh, crimson lipstick finished the newness. I liked how little like me I looked. A small blonde girl said the dress was sexy, and I thought about making a derogatory remark about my figure but resisted. It was nice to be the gir
l in the sexy dress. Nice to be sexy. I smiled at my alter ego.

  Perhaps this was Katrina. Katrina stepped away from the phones and into the world, into the dress. ‘Katrina,’ I whispered.

  I found Fern near a fake bronze Narcissus statue. Eyes bright, she suggested a club next, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I liked being in the bar where I was Katrina in a sexy dress.

  ‘I know one,’ she said. ‘Drinks are cheap and women get in free.’

  It was packed. Sleazy, dark and stinking of sweat, it tainted my dress. Most of the occupants barely looked eighteen; I felt old. But warmed by compliments and cocktails, I ordered more drinks. The barman looked about ten. He asked something I couldn’t hear over the music; I nodded anyway.

  I knew the song. I started to sing, but it was just a sample over pounding bass and screaming lyrics. The original had been cleverly rearranged for the younger generation; same name, different dress.

  Fern returned from the bar, grumbling that she’d lost her necklace. Stupidly, I asked where, my question lost in the noise. The dance floor disappeared; I didn’t know if it was the fog emanating from a smoke machine or if it was the effect of the cocktails. The crowd appeared to be dancing without legs, a collective of waving arms and heads.

  ‘If you pass out I’ll never find you,’ I said into Fern’s ear.

  She ordered a vodka, drank it in one and demanded we dance. I didn’t think I could – my legs no longer felt attached to my body either. I wanted to curl up on a sofa in a dark corner and people-watch.

  ‘It’s your birthday,’ cried Fern.

  ‘Happy birthday to me.’ I downed another drink. It meant Nanny Eve’s would be next week. Happy birthday, Nanny Eve.

  Fern kissed me and was swiftly swallowed by the smoke on the dance floor. I got another cocktail and looked around.

  Sofas scattered randomly under an archway sagged with the weight of kissy, gropey couples. I found a vacant one near the cigarette machine. A girl was arguing with her boyfriend near the stairs, waving animated hands in his face and shaking her head, incensed by his lack of response. When he walked away she cried on a friend’s shoulder. Fern didn’t return. I was beginning to think I could escape, when a man in a cream shirt dropped into the seat next to me.

  ‘I was in your house today,’ he shouted.

  ‘What?’ Then I recognised the irritating, floppy hair. ‘You’re Robin.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Robin,’ I yelled. ‘John-the-builder’s apprentice.’

  ‘Who the hell is Robin? I’m Stan.’

  ‘I’ll stick with Robin.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  It was the perfect conversation: the music was so loud we couldn’t hear each other, so I could say anything I wanted.

  ‘Nice dress.’ That I heard. Also: ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  He reminded me of the men I’d had in my early twenties – young, eager, wanting to please. Promiscuous years of picking them up, sleeping with them and then calling them a cab afterwards. No names, no promises, no feelings.

  ‘If you want to,’ I shouted.

  A drink was a drink. I barely had my taxi fare home now. At the bar Robin slid a wallet out of his pocket with hands too graceful to tear houses down.

  I’ve always loved hands, marvelling at how one pair could create the Mona Lisa while another might steer an aeroplane into the World Trade Center. What might Robin’s do to me? Ten years ago I’d have taken him home. I’d have enjoyed the rush of his attention, his eyes on my body. I’d have devoured him in the dark. But I’d have cried the next day.

  Robin turned now and smiled at me, reminding me of a man once upon a time, whose name I’d never requested. No name meant no confusion. We’d fucked in an alley. He’d pulled up my dress, undid his zip, and entered me against the bins. It had rained halfway through, disguising my tears. Regret didn’t always wait until I’d called them a taxi.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ Robin resumed his place on the sagging sofa and handed me a blue drink.

  ‘Are you really asking me that?’

  ‘I thought it was cute today when you told me off for lighting up.’

  ‘Just how old are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Isn’t there some eighteen-year-old you could talk to?’

  ‘What?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Older women are hot,’ he shouted.

  ‘How old do you think I am?’ So much for all birthdays being equal.

  ‘Thirty. Are you wearing anything under that dress?’

  ‘Under this dress I’m actually a man,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I yelled.

  He grinned and put his hand on my thigh.

  ‘I meant that I said nothing.’ I moved his hand back to his own jean-clad thigh. ‘Look,’ I said into his ear. ‘You’re probably what normal people would call cute, but I’m with a friend and it’s my birthday and I’m not after a shag.’

  ‘There are so many other things we can do.’ He grinned.

  I studied him. He had his own teeth and they were clean, had hazel eyes, a good nose and soft hair. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I enjoy the attention without overanalysing his intentions, my misgivings, the what-might-happens?

  A song with a sample of a ringing phone played. The dancers cheered. I thought of helplines, that maybe the appeal of callers’ stories was their distance. Distant drama, safe danger. No names, no attachment.

  ‘Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Robin?’

  ‘How do you know I don’t? And I’m Stan.’

  ‘So do you?’

  ‘No.’ He spoke into my ear, hand firmly on his own leg. ‘I’ve been away from home for three months, working here on flood houses. No time for a girlfriend.’

  ‘Make sure you build me a good house.’ I finished my drink.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  I shook my head even though he was teasing and looked out at the dance floor; I couldn’t see Fern.

  ‘I need a cigarette. You coming outside?’

  It was exactly what I wanted. We sheltered under an archway. Lights winked at themselves in frozen puddles. I inhaled fumes from my first cigarette in a long time. The nicotine rushed to my head, and I sagged against the wall.

  ‘Easy.’ Robin touched my waist. ‘Long time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I didn’t want it to end. When it did, he kissed me and I let him. Our lips met clumsily, as strangers’ mouths often do. I bit his tongue. My head span from the nicotine and the cocktails and the cold. I thought of Will. Of how he’d tied me up, restrained me, and I pressed into Robin, enjoying his muffled groan into my mouth.

  ‘You’re so sexy.’ He nibbled my neck.

  ‘Do that again,’ I said.

  He pulled me into him and bit my exposed shoulder. In the street a girl shrieked that she loved to party. I moved my hands up inside Robin’s shirt and scratched his back. He kissed me harder, tugging my hair and pressing me to the wall. The sensation of cold brick behind and hot body in front thrilled me. I was the girl in the red dress; Katrina.

  ‘Come back to my hotel.’ His voice was urgent, breathy.

  ‘You’re staying in a hotel?’

  ‘We all are.’

  ‘I’m not going to an orgy, am I?’ I snapped my head back.

  ‘No.’ He laughed and touched my collarbone. ‘Other builders are staying in the same hotel. Come back to my room, it’ll be just you and me. How good would that be?’

  One of the club’s bouncers threw a man into the road and told him not to come back. He staggered towards a takeaway. I asked if Robin had more cigarettes; his ‘yes’ had me getting into one of the taxis by the club’s doors.

  As we pulled away, the driver changed radio stations. Robin kissed me again and put a hand on my thigh, just beneath my dress’s frill. The leatherette seat chafed. I touched his tongue with mine, expecti
ng him to move his hand higher, hoping the driver might see. But he put it on my back. I rubbed his crotch and whispered, ‘Put your hands inside me.’

  He stroked my nipple through the silky red fabric and moved it lower. ‘You’re so hot, you tiger.’

  I froze, not sure why.

  ‘What did you call me?’ I whispered.

  ‘Tiger.’

  Tiger: it was the word.

  I shoved his hand away and moved my leg. Tiger. I felt like there was a hand at my throat.

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  I didn’t know why the word so affected me. The driver looked at us in his mirror. I needed air. The car was too stuffy.

  ‘What – tiger?’ He leaned close to my ear again. ‘But you are a sexy tiger.’

  ‘Stop it. Get your fucking hands off me.’

  He moved away and I did too. Outside, more snow fell. On the radio a woman sang about saying her name. What was my name? Did Katrina pull away or did Catherine? I tugged my dress down, tearing the frill. The dress. Ruined. The driver eyed me in the mirror and I told him to look at the bloody road when he was driving.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Robin. ‘It’s just a word.’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ I hissed.

  ‘I won’t. Sorry.’

  He looked confused and I felt stupid. How could I explain to him why the word ‘tiger’ had had such an intense effect on me when I didn’t know myself? Muscles in my stomach that had contracted with pleasure only moments before now just caused shame.

  I told the driver to pull over.

  ‘You’re going?’ Robin looked out of the window as the car stopped at the kerb, and then back at me. ‘Let me walk you home.’

  ‘No, it’s not far.’

  As I got out of the car my torn frill swung like discarded Christmas tinsel. I threw a fiver at Robin and slammed the door. He watched from the back window as it pulled away, streetlights shading his face in random colours.

  I got home at one-thirty. Happy House had shut and the flat was cold because the heating clicked off at ten. I threw up in the bathroom sink. Cherry liquid splashed the tiles. Expecting more, I sat on the edge of the bath – but nothing else came.