by Laura Tait
‘I know you’re not enjoying this,’ she mumbles into my shoulder. ‘Neither am I. But this is what girls do, so get on board.’
Neither Danielle nor I are touchy-feelers; it’s one of the reasons we work.
‘For the love of God, pull yourself together,’ I tell her, though I’m smiling.
‘That’s OK,’ Ben says, appearing with a tray. ‘I’ve got this. You two just have a cuddle.’
Danielle breaks away to pick up a food menu. She pulls a face. ‘We eating?’
Ben and I pull the same face. If one thing lets this place down, it’s the food, but we can feel ourselves settling in for the evening.
‘Or,’ I say slowly, ‘when we start to get hungry we could just start ordering cocktails that have fruit on the side.’
‘Yep, that’s a better plan,’ Danielle agrees, slamming the menu back down. ‘Here comes Jamie.’
‘I meant to ask you guys,’ Jamie says, squeezing in my side of the horseshoe booth with a beer while Ben gets in the other end next to Danielle. ‘How’d it go with Padre Giamboni?’
‘Good,’ Ben and I say slowly at the same time, our eyes meeting in an unspoken pact not to bring up the slightly wobbly bit of the weekend. It couldn’t have gone better otherwise.
‘Rebecca’s dad is lovely,’ Ben adds.
‘Isn’t he?’ Danielle says dreamily.
‘Don’t do that,’ I tell her.
‘I’m just saying, he’s a single, eligible man—’
‘No, don’t go there,’ I warn.
‘And you probably don’t realize this because he’s your dad but he’s really rather—’
‘No, no, no, no, no.’ I put my fingers in my ears.
‘And I probably would,’ I still hear her say.
‘My dad could do way better than you,’ I tell her with a grin, then take a big gulp of whisky. ‘He really liked Ben, though. So did Stefan.’
‘I reckon Stefan fancied me a bit,’ says Ben.
‘Stefan fancies Jamie,’ I tell him.
Jamie gives a nonchalant shrug. ‘He’s only human.’
Chapter Five
BEN
Sunday, 26 October
‘Happy anniversary, Becs,’ I say.
I kiss her as I put down the picnic basket, and together we approach the very edge of the cliff. I was scared of heights when I was little, but I was fine when I went up The Shard with Rebecca, and the London Eye with Russ and Tom, so the queasiness I feel when I peer down at the waves crashing into the foot of the cliff comes as a shock.
‘Shouldn’t there be a yellow line or something?’ I say. ‘Like at train stations, to stop you getting too close?’
‘Why did you bring me to Beachy Head if you’re scared of heights?’
I ignore her mocking eyes and open my arms for her to walk into.
‘I’m not scared of heights,’ I tell her. ‘And I brought you here because I’ve seen the way you look at the painting in your bedroom.’
‘Our bedroom,’ she corrects, nuzzling herself into me. ‘It looks exactly like the picture, doesn’t it? The lighthouse, everything.’
Sensing that she’s having a moment, I swallow my nausea and stand with her for several minutes.
‘Come on,’ she finally says.
I unfurl a blanket and start unloading the food while a cloud the size of Russia shoves itself in front of the sun.
‘Do you want my coat?’ I say, gesturing for her to sit.
‘I’m fine.’ She follows my instruction, crossing her legs. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘I know October isn’t exactly perfect picnic weather.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m warm-blooded,’ she says. ‘And this is perfect. If it was sunnier we wouldn’t have the place to ourselves.’
We make light work of the sandwiches I’ve prepared – half BLT, half cheese and pickle, the whole lot cut into quarter triangles – and wash them down with black coffee (Becs) and tea (me) from the flasks I bought especially.
‘Had you been looking for someone?’ Rebecca says, batting away strands of hair that the wind has swept across her face.
‘What do you mean?’
‘A year ago, before we got together – had you been looking for someone?’
I go to read her expression but it’s illegible.
‘I guess I was always looking for something,’ I say.
She places her palms on the turf behind her and leans back in anticipation.
‘I spent my life jumping from obsession to obsession,’ I say, ‘trying to work out what the point of everything was.’
She bites her bottom lip at one side, trying not to smirk, a mannerism I’ve become very familiar with over the past year.
‘That’s why I went travelling after uni,’ I say, following the slow progress of the meteorological Russia with my eyes. ‘I thought I’d find whatever it was, and I had the best time, but sometimes . . .’
A gust of wind causes me to shiver and now her smirk does come. ‘Do you want my coat?’ she says, raising her voice to compensate for the breeze.
‘Oh, get stuffed.’
‘Sorry, carry on . . .’
‘I forgot where I was now.’
‘I think you were looking for something.’
‘Ta,’ I say sarcastically. ‘So, yeah, sometimes I found myself looking at some ancient ruins or a palace or whatever and it was like I was playing the part of an awestruck tourist. It didn’t feel much different from looking at the photos on Google.’ I laugh. ‘I came back with even less idea what the point of everything was than when I left.’
‘This feels like when you ask someone with limited English a question and they answer a completely different one.’
‘Except instead of just smiling and nodding politely, you’re taking the piss.’
Rebecca nods unashamedly.
‘I am answering the question, though,’ I say. ‘Because I was still wondering what the point was when I turned up at Jamie’s that night.’
Rebecca goes for some more coffee but it’s all gone. I reach into my inside coat pocket and produce a hip flask full of her favourite whisky.
She thanks me with a squint.
‘Continue,’ she says after taking a swig.
I look out to the sea in an attempt to re-find my muse.
‘That night was like the story of Christopher Columbus,’ I say. ‘He was actually on his way to Asia, trying to find a better route from Europe than the arduous journey across land, when he stumbled on an island in the Bahamas. That’s how he discovered America.’
I did my dissertation on the birth of the United States. I think this might be the first time it’s come in useful.
‘What’s your point?’ she says.
‘You’re my America.’
Rebecca takes another reckless gulp of the whisky. ‘Thanks. I think.’
She tightens the cap, slips the hip flask back into my inside pocket and kisses the tip of my nose before retreating.
‘Didn’t you tell me Columbus died thinking he’d actually landed on Asia?’ says Rebecca.
‘That’s not really the point.’
‘I’m just saying: your analogy is kinda shit.’
‘I was kinda working off the hoof.’
A year! It’s mad, but I really have to try hard to recall my life before Rebecca came along. It’s like there was Pre-Rebecca, where I spent weekends on sticky dance floors wondering if I’d ever meet the right girl, and then Rebecca, where I spend weekends with the girl of my dreams, buying dining tables, couches and beds.
‘Did you bring us dessert?’ she asks.
I answer by pulling out a huge slab of her favourite salted caramel. Rebecca breaks it into several pieces with her knee and together we look out into the rainbow of blues, the dirty dishwater that crashes against the cliffs becoming a fish pond turquoise and eventually a deep sea blue. The further we stare, the deeper the colour, and even though it’s been a year, I can still feel myself falling deeper and deeper.
<
br /> ‘What went through your head when Jamie gave you the napkin the next morning?’
‘I’ve told you that loads of times.’
It was a good while after I got her number that I realized what Rebecca does: she asks questions, bombards you with them, so she doesn’t have to talk about herself. And that’s normally fine, but for once I don’t feel like indulging her.
‘Tell me about the painting?’ I say.
She doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, she retrieves the hip flask, unscrews the cap and takes another swig, then she leans her back into my chest, so that I can smell her hair, the coconut of her shampoo. I fold my arms around her body.
‘My mum came here and painted it a few months before I was born,’ she eventually starts. ‘Dad let me take it when I left for uni.’ Rebecca adjusts her head towards the lighthouse momentarily. ‘This, here, was her favourite spot in the world.’
We’d been going out about a month when I asked Rebecca why she never mentioned her mum, and she told me she’d died. She didn’t go into details; just that it happened when she was really young. Whenever I’ve pressed her on it since she has told me it’s a story for another time, and so here and now I say nothing for fear she’ll become self-conscious and shut down.
‘She died giving birth to me.’
Rebecca’s voice is quivering and I feel a thick lump rise through my throat.
‘Dad says she always dreamt of having a little girl, but as I arrived in the world, she left it.’
I sit there, stunned. I cannot even begin to imagine. I realize now that Rebecca shuffled into me so that I couldn’t see her face, nor she mine, as she told the story. I squeeze her tight and say nothing, knowing that comforting words would only make her feel uncomfortable.
‘It’s weird to think if she hadn’t got pregnant with me, she’d still be here with Dad and Stefan.’
‘You can’t think like that, Becs.’
I hear her sniff, so I reach for a tissue, but when I twist around I see that she isn’t crying. She just looks a bit dazed. I give her the tissue for her nose anyway.
‘Thanks.’
I watch her examine it.
‘How long has this been in your pocket?’
She laughs into the tissue, a snotty laugh that precedes blowing her nose.
‘Whisky,’ she instructs, and I oblige, watching her tilt her head back and forward again. She breathes into the burn.
‘Do you and your dad speak about it much?’ I ask. ‘I mean, shit – you must have had so many questions when he told you.’
She shakes her head. ‘There are questions but it’s all in the past. I know he and Stefan never blamed me. We were a happy family but I always felt something was missing. That’s why I ended up living in eight different countries in seven years – I think the only way my dad could move on was to throw himself into his work.’
The pieces start falling into place like Tetris. When she got upset at her dad’s a few weeks ago – it wasn’t just about the pregnancy test. We’d been speaking about her mum.
I want to tell her that talking to her dad might help, because no matter what she says, it is a little bit strange that we’ve been going out a year and this is the first time I’m hearing any of this. But the last thing I want is for her to regret opening up, so I decide it can wait for another time.
‘I’m sure if your mum was here she’d think he did a pretty good job with you.’
Rebecca places a palm on to the back of my hand, a signal that the conversation is at an end. I become aware again of the sound of waves crashing into the bottom of the cliff, as though they’d been on pause while Rebecca was speaking.
‘Come on, we’re supposed to be celebrating.’ She gets to her feet and holds out a hand for me to do the same. ‘I think that last sip of whisky has gone to my head.’
Rebecca pulls my body into hers and we begin to move in tandem, a spontaneous slow dance with the sea and the wind providing the music, and as we sway together it’s like I’m bursting with love, as though my body isn’t big enough to hold it all in. Who gives a shit what the point is? This – this – is all that matters.
‘The B and B we passed,’ says Rebecca as we dance around the picnic blanket, laughing to ourselves. ‘I think that’s where Mum and Dad stayed the time she did the painting. I’d like to stay one time.’
‘Let’s do it tonight.’
She crooks her mouth dismissively. ‘We have work tomorrow.’
‘We can call in sick.’
‘I can’t call in sick. I can’t even call in sick when I am sick.’
I feel like I’ve been told off, and it must show, because after a couple of seconds Rebecca gives me a soft smile.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s find a pub.’
We pack away our stuff and set off.
‘So, do you still want to go on the cable cars for your birthday?’ she asks.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Er, because you’re scared of—’
‘I’m not scared of heights!’
Rebecca laughs as we walk past a flock of sheep, the terrain rising towards the highest spot, 530 feet above the sea. We eventually come to a pub called The Beachy Head.
‘How do you think they came up with the name?’ jokes Rebecca, stopping to examine the stand-alone pub sign made wonky by the wind.
She steps closer, as if assessing the soundness of the steel frame with an architect’s eye, but then her attention is drawn to something on the floor. When she picks it up I see that it is a ring with a chunky diamond cyst. She tries it on.
‘Nice,’ she says, examining her upturned hand. ‘Not my cup of tea, but it’s pretty.’
‘Not your cup of tea?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says eventually. ‘It’s nice, but kind of generic.’
‘I’ll make a note of that,’ I say.
She rolls her eyes but her smile remains as we hand in the ring behind the bar, and right then the seed of an idea is planted in my mind.
Chapter Six
REBECCA
Saturday, 1 November
I pull the hood up on my parka to block out the wind as we all stand outside the Royal Victoria Dock waiting for Tom to arrive so we can get on the cable cars.
‘Such a shame Jamie misses out on Saturday nights,’ says Danielle.
‘Tell me the last Saturday night we didn’t end up in his bar anyway?’ says Ben.
‘True.’
‘Brilliant,’ mutters Russ under his breath, as Tom comes into view with a girl in tow. ‘Avril’s with him.’
‘Sorry,’ Ben says, shivering in another cold gust of wind. ‘I couldn’t not invite her.’
‘Who?’ asks Danielle, rubbing her leather-gloved hands together.
‘Tom’s girlfriend,’ says Russ.
‘Whatever you do, don’t mention Avril Lavigne,’ Ben tells Danielle and me.
Russ nods. ‘I mentioned Avril Lavigne when I met her and it was like I’d pissed on her shins.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ Danielle says with a laugh.
‘Happy birthday, mate.’ Tom moves a wrapped book-shaped present from his right hand to his left and greets Ben with a toothy grin and a handshake. I can’t help but wonder if his over-enthusiasm is to balance out the fact that Avril looks like a hostage being led into a forest by a tribe of savages rather than to a cable car by a group of friends.
I squeeze Ben’s arm as we board the glass carriage. By the looks of things, we’ve not got much daylight left.
‘Don’t look down,’ I whisper to Ben as we make our slow ascent.
‘Oh, eff off,’ he says, shoving my shoulder with his.
‘Hang on.’ Russ cuts short whatever he’s saying to Danielle to stare at Ben. ‘Are you afraid of heights?’
‘No, I used to—’
‘Don’t worry, Benji,’ says Danielle, pulling two bottles of prosecco from her bag. ‘This’ll take the edge off.’
‘Look, I’m not scar
ed of heights.’
Russ cracks up. ‘You are – you’re scared of heights. What a girl.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Avril says – her first full sentence since we met her.
Russ rolls his eyes as if to say, Oh, here we go.
‘Are you implying that girls are in some way weaker in nature than men, and therefore more likely to be scared of heights?’
Like Tom, Avril is thin, though not as reedy as him. She’s wearing a vest top and lacy cardigan, and a long pleated skirt that covers her shoes. Her dark wiry hair sprouts down to her shoulders underneath her beret. If I didn’t already know she was a poet, I’d wonder if she was on her way to a fancy dress party dressed as a poet.
Not sure what Tom is supposed to be in his bowler hat, but I’d bet money that accessory is Avril’s doing.
‘No, Avril,’ says Russ wearily, ‘I’m not implying that.’
‘Where’s Big Ben from here?’ asks Tom, in an obvious attempt to diffuse tension.
‘Wrong part of the Thames,’ I say, eager to help him out.
‘You know,’ says Ben. ‘George from the post room at work was telling me a flock of starlings once landed on the minute hand of Big Ben and set the time back five minutes.’
‘That must be the moment you chose to set your watch,’ I say to Danielle, making everyone laugh.
‘Big Ben isn’t actually the clock,’ says Avril, looking around the group like we’re all idiots. ‘It’s the—’
‘Yes, we know,’ says Danielle. ‘It’s the bell. Now, let’s have a drink.’ She passes round some plastic cups but Avril quickly grabs the one she’s about to hand to Tom and gives it to Russ instead.
‘We don’t drink, do we, Tom?’ she says.
Russ peers out through the glass wall and I can tell he’s avoiding looking at anyone.
‘Nope,’ says Tom cheerily.
‘I just don’t feel like we need to drink in order to enjoy ourselves,’ April adds condescendingly.
‘What a fun sponge,’ Danielle mutters to me, and I swear I see Avril’s head twitch in our direction.
We toast Ben then float across the sky, sipping our drinks in silence for a minute, watching the sun sink behind the dome of the O2. A tension hangs in the air and I try to think of something to say to turn it around, desperate for Ben’s day not to be spoiled.
