by Andrea Mara
The parallels with my own life are not lost on me.
“And how did that make you feel?”
His voice is tight when he answers. “Angry. When I think of his hands all over her, I want to kill him. Both of them. In my head sometimes I stab them, over and over.” His breath is coming faster now and his cheeks are mottled red.
I’m trying to keep my expression neutral but he must see something there. His shoulders go down and he barks a laugh.
“Jesus, your face. I’m joking! I’m not a psycho. Though if I was having mad thoughts, you couldn’t tell anyone, could you?”
“Anything we discuss here is confidential, of course.”
He grins at that and I squirm. My eyes go discreetly to the clock on the wall behind him. It’s only ten past three. Jesus.
I spend the next thirty minutes trying to draw him out about his ex-wife, and he spends most of that time skirting my questions, going silent for periods of time, then diving back in with something dramatic about what he wants to do to Sorcha and her new boyfriend. He’s baiting me, but I do a reasonable job of staying neutral. When I tell him time is up, he brings up the holiday again.
“So where did you go anyway? Somewhere hot, I bet?”
“Yes, hot and sunny – it was lovely, thanks. Now, can you ask Susan to book –”
“Italy is lovely this time of year.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said Italy is lovely this time of year. Particularly Venice.”
My mouth is open but I can’t think of anything to say as he gets up to leave.
When the door closes, I stand stock still, trying to order the thoughts that are barrelling through my brain. How did he know we were in Italy? Does he have something to do with the VIN messages? I’m careful with clients; I never reveal personal information, and particularly with someone like Jonathan who makes boundary-crossing a recreational sport. Could Susan have said it, when Jonathan tried to book a session?
On my way out, I ask Susan. She shakes her head and looks a little put out – of course she wouldn’t tell a client where I was on my holidays. I should have known that. But she and I did have a chat about whether or not there are mosquitoes in Italy, and maybe Jonathan overheard that, or maybe he spotted the Venice travel guide in my handbag. Or could he have seen my photos online – does he know I’m behind the LePhoto blog? I need to be more careful.
When Dave calls that evening to pick up some paperwork, suddenly, more than anything, I need someone to talk to, and I invite him in for coffee. He glances to his left – checking to see if Nadine is watching? – and steps in.
We sit at the kitchen table, both of us gravitating instinctively to our own chairs, and I ask him about work. The new registrar is an idiot, he says, and today he mixed up two patients who were both called Anne Wilson. Someone could have been killed if a nurse hadn’t spotted the mistake. Then Dave remembers doing something very similar when he was a reg and starts to laugh. He always had a great ability to laugh at himself. He asks me about my day, so I tell him about Jonathan and his Italy reference, without mentioning Jonathan’s name.
“I’m not sure how exactly he knew, and maybe he just overheard something,” I tell him. “Either way, I was a bit creeped out.”
But the sympathy I’ve been craving doesn’t materialise. Dave just shakes his head.
“Jesus, Lauren, you put so much on social media all the time, how the hell can you be surprised when people know what’s going on in your life?”
My cheeks flame. “Hey, that’s not fair! I’m careful not to share personal details online, and nobody knows ‘LePhoto’ is me.”
Dave is still shaking his head. “And yet, here we are – you put stuff online and now you’re creeped out when someone at work has obviously seen it. This is the same old conversation we’ve had dozens of times.”
“Why is it always like this? Instead of giving me a bit of sympathy, you use it as a stick to beat me with.”
He stands up. “I’m not going to pretend I think it’s fine that you share too much, because I don’t. I think it’s the wrong message to give the girls too.”
He puts his cup in the dishwasher, something he never bothered to do when he lived here, and somehow that annoys me even more than his lecture. I bite my lip.
“Do you want to go on upstairs to the girls – they probably don’t know you’re here.”
With a curt nod, he leaves the kitchen, and half an hour later he leaves the house without coming back in to say goodbye.
By ten, the girls are gone to bed, and again it’s just me and the flicker of the TV screen. This is the part I can’t get used to – the quiet at night. Dave never stopped talking when he was here – now there’s only the ticking of the clock above the low hum of the TV and an occasional car outside. A dog barks, or maybe it’s a fox – there are always foxes slinking around here at night, looking for open bins. I shiver.
My phone buzzes with a Twitter notification and I know that on some level I’ve been waiting for it.
So now that you’re home, let’s get back to the woman in Venice. I know she’s American. I need her name.
I block the account again, and open WhatsApp.
Hi Cleo, it’s Lauren from the campsite. How are you? Just getting in touch to say I’m still getting weird comments on Twitter about you re that photo (so sorry again). The person seems to know you’re American? So maybe it’s someone who knows you in real life? Not sure if that gives you any insight into who it might be? Lauren x
A few minutes go by before her reply arrives.
I think I’ve worked out who it is. Maybe I should give you a call.
Before I can reply to say I’m free to talk, my phone is ringing and it’s her.
“So who is it – who’s been sending the messages?” I ask as soon as I pick up.
“It’s a long story,” Cleo says, “and it goes back to Memorial Day weekend last year. Have you got time?”
I do, I say, and she starts to tell her story.
CLEO
Chapter 8
It was the start of Memorial Day weekend when he walked into the bar, and everything changed forever. Cleo was carrying a tray of beers to a group of guys in the corner, ducking to avoid the red, white and blue bunting Gina had strung through the wooden beams above. They passed one another as he made his way to the bar, and when a beer wobbled on her tray, he reached out a hand to steady it. She flashed a smile of thanks. He didn’t smile, he just looked at her with slate-grey eyes as he squeezed past and took a seat at the bar. This one might be interesting, she thought, watching him push a mop of dark hair out of his eyes and raise a hand to get Gina’s attention. It was a busy night – humid outside, and the after-work crowd swarmed in for cold drinks and cool air. The high spirits were converting to cold hard cash for Cleo; she was making double her usual Friday-night tips, and thinking about calling Ruth and Erica to meet up after work. But she never called them in the end, and afterwards she wondered what might have changed if she had.
He sat at the bar all night, paging through a dog-eared paperback and slowly drinking his beer. That stood out. People didn’t read novels in The Cornerstone – it was more of a dance-on-the-bar kind of place. And, every now and then when Cleo looked over, she found him watching. He never looked away when she caught him, and he never smiled. Bit by bit, people rolled out the door to the hot Brooklyn night in search of parties, but still he stayed, reading his book. She tried to see what it was, but it was flat on the bar, cover down. When Gina called time, he closed the book and looked straight at her. Nothing much unnerved Cleo but, with this guy, it was different. She was wiping down a table near the door when he walked by. He came close and leaned in. She didn’t move.
“I’ll be outside,” he said, almost in a whisper, and walked out the door.
Cleo stuck her apron behind the bar and grabbed her phone and keys. Gina was counting money from the till, and muttering something about takings being down. Gina always assumed
takings were down until she counted them.
“Do you need anything else?” Cleo asked.
She held up her hand in an unspoken don’t interrupt.
“Sorry, okay, I’m leaving now, I’ll see you next week,” Cleo said, walking out onto Lorimer Street.
He was there, like she knew he would be. And they didn’t say a word, they just walked together, both of them knowing exactly what would happen. That was the first time. A chance meeting, the flapping of the butterfly’s wings, with a chain reaction nobody could foresee.
And so it went. Every now and then he’d call in during her shift, and on those nights they always went home together. In the bar, they never spoke, and on the short walk to her apartment he said little. In the beginning, all Cleo knew was that his name was Marcus and he smoked a lot. She didn’t mind. He never stayed over, and she didn’t mind that either. When he was leaving, he’d ask about her next shift at The Cornerstone, and sometimes he’d turn up. On the nights he didn’t, that was just fine too.
At least at first it was. She’d never been the girl who watches the door, wondering if the guy will walk in, yet slowly it was starting to happen. She told her girlfriends about it and they laughed. Cleo, the one-night-stand queen, finally getting serious. Only she wasn’t – serious is two-sided, and she didn’t even have his number. She had never been to his apartment. If he was to stop showing up at The Cornerstone, she might never see him again.
But he did show up, and they continued with their series of one-night stands right through June. By the end of the month he was showing up for most of her shifts – three nights a week – unless it was Sunday. He wouldn’t say why, but he never came to the bar on Sundays. And still she knew nothing about him. She asked where he lived, and he said near Union Avenue, but nothing more specific. When she asked what he did, he said he worked in banking, then changed the subject. Usually she was the one being coy and the role reversal took getting used to. She hated it and she loved it. She wanted him in her apartment on the nights he wasn’t there, and once, when he didn’t show up at the bar, she could feel unfamiliar pangs of anxiety. What if he was gone? But he did show up eventually, and they went home together, and for the first time as they walked he took her hand. Much later, she still remembered the feeling when he did that. They’d slept together dozens of times by then, but when he took her hand there was no going back.
The morning after the handholding epiphany, Cleo woke earlier than usual. Marcus was gone hours by then, but something had changed. A switch had been flicked. On her phone, she opened her Norwood Girls group text, wondering if anyone was up. None of her friends were the kind to get out of bed before it was absolutely necessary, though ironically she was the only one who didn’t have an office job – unless you counted designing logos from her apartment for sporadic clients who needed a cheap graphic designer. She started typing a text.
So. I’m officially smitten. I held his hand. Kill me now.
She pressed send and sat back. Ten long minutes went by, so she got up to make coffee, then got back into bed, balancing her laptop on her knees. Jude had replied.
I knew you’d join us eventually. Welcome to the dark side of love and happiness. (It’s not as great as we told you) (OK ignore me, Nate and I had a fight last night)
Erica replied next.
Go, you! So tell us more about the mysterious Marcus – where’s he from, and what does he do for a living?
Erica always liked to weigh up Cleo’s dates based on their net worth. Since she mostly dated aspiring playwrights and starving artists, Erica rarely had high hopes.
Cleo chewed her fingernail for a moment, then started typing.
He’s from Texas originally, I don’t know much about his work except that it’s an investment bank, he lives off Union, and seems to have a thing about not drinking on Sundays. And is very beautiful. That’s all that matters, right?
Ruth jumped in then, always Cleo’s defender since they met in second grade at Norwood Elementary. An older kid had knocked her over, and Cleo had helped her up. Ruth was still paying her back.
It’s wonderful, Cleo. I’m really happy for you and Marcus xx
Then Erica asked Jude about the fight with Nate and the conversation moved on and she sat back, drinking her coffee and wondering if this was what it was like to have a boyfriend. All those years she’d been feeling sorry for Erica and Jude, thinking they were staying in because they had to. Finally she understood – they’d found people who made staying in worthwhile.
Chapter 9
“You know, you can stay over if you like,” Cleo finally said, one night in late July, two months after they met.
It was too hot to open the windows and even with her creaky old air conditioner running at full blast, the apartment was sweaty.
Marcus was standing by the side of the bed pulling on jeans, and at first he didn’t turn around. And Cleo thought back to all the guys who’d said the same to her, and all the times she’d brushed it off with a breezy smile. So this was the other side of the coin.
Finally he turned around, though in the dark she couldn’t read his expression.
“I can’t stay, Cleo. I have to work in the morning, and I need to sleep.”
“Well, what do you even do at work that’s so important? You hardly ever talk about it.” The irritation in her voice was palpable and she regretted it as soon as the words were out.
“I’ve told you before – I work in an investment bank and trying to explain it further would be very boring. But I do have to be on my A-game every day, so . . . ” he shrugged.
Cleo nodded, summoning up a casual smile, invisible in the dark. Shit, how had she ended up here? “Sure, I get it. Actually I have a lot on tomorrow morning too. I’ve got some designs to finish for a client and I’m meeting my mom to go shopping . . . ”
Without answering, Marcus went out on the balcony to smoke. Cleo turned over and when he left a few minutes later she pretended to be asleep.
Cleo’s mom knew immediately there was something up that day. They met in a Venezuelan restaurant in the East Village – a new place Delphine’s neighbour had been raving about. Delphine lived in Garden City, Long Island, but always liked to come in to the city when meeting her daughter.
“There’ll be plenty of time for staying home when I’m old,” she said when they sat down, smoothing a hand over her dark-red hair, the mirror image of Cleo’s.
They ordered – roasted pork shoulder with a spicy mango sauce for both of them – and, as soon as the waiter walked away, Delphine asked Cleo what was wrong.
“Nothing, why do you ask?” she replied, picking at a speck of something on the bright-green oilskin tablecloth.
“Cleo, I’ve known you since the minute you came out, squawking and screaming, and you’re not going to tell me now there’s nothing wrong. Talk.”
“Okay. I met a guy.”
Delphine’s eyes widened. This wasn’t what she was expecting.
“And the thing about it is . . . I think I like him.”
Delphine smiled and reached across to put her hand on Cleo’s.
“Oh, my darling, you are the only person I know who could make falling in love sound mournful.”
“Whoa! Nobody said anything about falling in love.”
The waiter arrived with their iced teas and Delphine took a sip before continuing.
“So what is it – what’s wrong? Are you pregnant?”
Cleo spluttered her tea onto the table. “Mom! No, I am not pregnant. Believe me, I know how to not get pregnant.”
“That’s what everyone thinks, Cleo, right up until they pee on the stick. Remember, I know all about it.”
“Yes, Mom, I know I was a ‘surprise’, but that’s not it. It’s just what I said, nothing more dramatic than that: I think I like this guy, but I’m not sure he feels the same way.”
“Okay, sweetheart, tell me about him.”
And Cleo did, in a dramatic monologue that was interrupted by t
he waiter bringing their food – and if her mother was grateful for the break, she hid it well.
“So, Cleo,” she said, once they’d started eating, “it seems to me this will go one of two ways. Either he will realise he’s just as mad about you as you are about him and you will live happily ever after, or that will not happen and you will eventually go your separate ways. So you can push him to spend more time with you, or give him space and see what happens. Only you can decide what’s best.”
Cleo chewed her pork, thinking about her answer, then burst out laughing. “Mom, that’s the biggest load of bull I’ve ever heard! You’ve basically said nothing. I could have given myself that advice.”
Delphine threw up her hands. “But that’s the point – nobody can tell you what to do. Stay with him, keep things as they are, push for more commitment, leave – those are all options but there’s no silver bullet. You know that, right?”
She did know that. And really, she knew Delphine wouldn’t be able to fix it but she felt better having let it out. As Delphine might say herself, since Cleo came out squawking and screaming, she’d always known how to make her daughter feel better.
Cleo was supposed to be working that night, but Gina cancelled her shift at short notice, so she messaged in Norwood Girls to see if anyone was around. Jude was staying in with Nate (again) but Erica and Ruth were free. They decided to meet for beers in a dive bar near Prospect Park, and see where the night might take them.
