by Ruby Soames
‘I’ll pay when I collect.’
She rolls her eyes, ‘Sure you will.’
I assure her I’ll be back to pay within the next three months, an exorbitant price for a short-term solution.
Coming out of the dry cleaners, I sense that I’m the target of someone’s stare. Looking up, a grey Aston Martin moves away. I’m sure I’ve seen that car several times already. Being followed is not unusual these days – stalkers of Joseph’s, the press, could be anyone, most probably my imagination.
Passing a stall which sells old trinkets and jewelry, I catch sight of a Victorian compass in brass. As soon as I see it I have an infantile faith that with this talisman, everything could change for me. The seller’s just packing up for the day and about to slide the piece into a holdall, so I strike a deal and, with my watch as a sweetener, I can have it. He seems touched by my enthusiasm and throws in the chain as well. It fits snug and warm in my palm. I examine the magnified N,S,W,E half scratched on the yellow face. As I walk from the stall, I realise the needle is stuck between South and West.
As I’m going through my CDs in what’s anachronistically called the Record and Tape Exchange, the Goth girl picks out a photograph of Joseph that must have slipped into my stuff.
‘Isn’t that …?’
‘No-one.’
‘No. Who’s that?’ She holds the photo tight keeping it out of my reach. ‘He looks just like that actor, you know, what’s-his-name, Joseph West.’
‘Yeah. People say that,’ I burble.
Another girl comes over, ‘Oh yeah, it’s him. He’s so fit, I’d give him one. Mwoah!’ She kisses the photo.
I leave the shop and my CDs without any payment. As the door closes behind me, I hear: ‘I’ll give you £30.00 for the handbag!’
I drag the suitcase to a secluded spot by Camden Lock near the bridge. I huddle up to where Joseph and I once sat. The street lights come on.
It’s time, time to end it all. I peel off the long, trailing, multi-coloured scarf which I’d knitted at university and tie one end to my foot. The other end I tie to the handle of the suitcase. Then I look at the world I’m leaving. There’s a mist over the water and the last of the die-hard tourists are taking buses and taxis back to hotels and guest houses.
I’ve come to the end of the line.
Just one little bump forward and a push and I’ll sink to the bottom. Which first, me or the suitcase? I look to Elvis. One last stroke and a kiss. He’s micro-chipped and tattooed, it won’t take long for them to trace him back to Joseph while my body decomposes in the froth and swill of Camden’s water system.
My mum, I think, will understand. It’ll be the first successful suicide in the family, which is something considering the amount of times she’s tried. But I can’t pretend that understanding will make the pain any easier for her.
And I won’t get the chance to tell her that I think I saw my dad today.
I watched my dad getting married today.
As I rally the spirit to end my life in the freezing cold, my dad is planning scuba diving trips and drinking rum punches.
An empty crisp packet floats by followed by a duck.
I can’t really end my life without meeting the man who began it, can I? To just go, and not say hello, and goodbye, to my father who, now, today, I’ve actually seen.
I’m not ready to leave this world until I’ve said my piece to that man. Maybe Joseph, Kamilla, even Tash, were right: I’ll never have an honest relationship with a man until I reconcile myself to how I feel about my father. And if I’m going to break my mother’s heart, I’ll vindicate her first.
‘Have fun in the Caribbean, you lucky devils!’
‘Elvis, I’m going to the Caribbean. I’m going to find Henry Hardwick. Sorry you can’t come with me but I’ll send you a post-card and you can sniff the picture.’ A few stragglers see me talking to the dog, they move quickly on, averting their eyes.
A man in a purple cape appears on the bridge and shouts: ‘Mind out!’ as I trip over the case which is still tied to my leg. I look round to see if he saw me falling but he’s gone. Elvis picks up the other wet end of my scarf and carries it in his mouth, I tell him, ‘Just because he abandoned me – it doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon me.’
It’s getting dark and once again I’m going to have to stay at mum’s.
I find an ATM machine that not only gives me notes, but shows that I’m nearly two hundred thousand pounds in credit.
The flat sold.
But I was only expecting half of that, for some reason I’ve got Joseph’s and my share.
12
I whimper from a public telephone booth outside the tube station. ‘Kamilla? I’m so sorry.’
‘Sarah! Are you OK?’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, I was a git – I shouldn’t have laid into you. I was just stressed – Sarah, where are you? You sound like you’re down a well or something?’
‘I have been but I’m climbing back up. I’m going to Barbados!’
‘Barbados?’
‘Yeah, I’ll explain later. Can I stay over, tonight, book my flight and everything?’
‘Get right over here, I’ve missed you!’
‘I’ll be over. But first, I’ve got to see Joseph – you got his new address?’
Kamilla gave me Joseph’s address and said she’d let him know I was coming. Meanwhile, she was going to start making Pierogi, my favourite Polish dish.
I press the buzzer to Joe’s building, and a bald, burly guy in black leather appears. He asks for my name and demands identification while glaring at Elvis. While he relays my name through the phone in his ear, I see him in the hall mirror clenching his buttocks.
Eventually I hear Joe’s voice down the handset. ‘Yeah, Sarah’s a friend. Let her up.’
‘Mr West’s in the penthouse,’ the security guy announces. ‘Have a good evening.’
I don’t answer, I’m too choked up at hearing Joe refer to me as a ‘friend’, but I breathe hard as the lift travels to the top floor and the doors open to navy blue sky and space – windows and skylights with exposed metal pipes and radiators, empty apart from a so-dark-purple-it’s-nearly-black velvet sofa, a chrome standing light with a bulb as big as the moon and a floor-to-ceiling painting of a man on a motorbike.
It’s nothing like the flat we shared, and images of us decorating flash in my mind: Joseph and I jousting each other on stepladders, singing along to our joint playlist and racing oversized trolleys down the aisle of DIY stores.
Across the space I see a fire burning on a wall and, through the windows, clouds of steam rising from the outdoor Jacuzzi.
‘Sarah!’ Joe calls from the kitchen.
Joseph is in a black sweatshirt with the logo from his last film, Preternaturally Yours, across his undulating chest. He looks so cute that I want to crawl over and grovel at his manicured feet. He must have come out of the shower as his dark hair looks like shreds of silk. Elvis flies across the room, and Joseph bends down to let the dog jump into his arms and I have to stop myself from leaping in too.
It’s Elvis and Cha-Cha all over again – although Elvis is allowed to climb onto Joe’s chest and lick his lips.
‘Kamilla told you I was coming,’ I say.
‘Yeh. Mr Kong didn’t give you any trouble, did he?’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s the –’ Joseph tries to say something but Elvis is still perched around the back of his neck, ‘– security detail.’ He nibbles playfully at Elvis’ ears. ‘Ah! I’ve missed him.’ He scratches under the dog’s chin. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
He pushes Elvis off, stands and fixes his dark eyes on me. Elvis is still bouncing at his legs.
‘Do you want a coffee, wine, anything?’
‘No, I just stopped by to ask if you could look after Elvis for a few weeks. I’ve other people I could ask, just thought you … might … want to.’
‘I’m not always here but
… sure … I’ll work something out. Where are you going?’
‘Away. For a bit. You know the flat sold – a newly married couple.’ I can’t help following this with a cynical ‘humph’. ‘Apparently they’re nice. But I just saw that all the money seems to have been transferred into my account, I’ll put your half in –’
‘No, Sarah. I want you to have it. It’s yours.’
‘Joe, that’s –’
‘Hey, I’m just paying you back what I owe you. You made it possible for me to go to drama college, you covered everything while I was trying to get a break – remember all those pub plays and Edinburgh shows?’
‘Course I remember.’
‘If it hadn’t been for you I’d still be wearing a sombrero and washing up till three in the morning.’
‘It’s a lot of money,’ I say.
He shrugs. We sip our freshly ground Italian coffee at his kitchen table. His telephones ring incessantly. He winces every time the answering machine picks up the messages and the voices amplify against the glass ceilings. It’s clear by the disproportionate number of females that his engagement to Sylvia Amery hasn’t discouraged other contenders. As he jots down their names and numbers, he smiles and says, ‘I don’t know who half these girls are,’ he shakes his head, grinning. ‘Honestly.’
And then another message comes through: ‘Joseph, hi! It’s Tashie! Just calling to let you know Sarah moved out today. I know, so sad! We were both really emotional about saying goodbye and everything.’ She leaves a moment for a sorrowful sigh, ‘Anyway, we decided it was best she make a clean break from her past. She was on great form, talking of a cool job in the media and a new man I suspect. Anyway, I know you’ve been worried about her, listen, if you want a shoulder to cry on, I’m always here for you, babes. Oh and hope you and Sylvia are still on for Thursday night chez moi – I’ve got lots of exciting people for you to meet! Bisous!’
Joseph moves closer to me, ‘Kamilla said you’d lost your job, that all the press and stuff got too much for them. I feel terrible about that – and you were going to be made a partner?’
Another call comes through. Now a falsetto voice is giving elaborate details to where the caller is holding her birthday party.
‘I tried reaching you, Sarah. Writing and leaving messages – you could have at least talked to me?’
‘I gave up the internet,’ I say.
He blinks at me, mystified.
‘Yeah. Facebook, Instagram, all the social network sites, all of it – it’s really freeing. I bought a simple phone but then someone stole it or I lost it.’
‘How can you –’
His phone rings and it’s his little brother. I watch Joe write down his brother’s name. We listen, feeling callous. But even in Ben’s voice there’s a timbre of self-consciousness, a doubt that Joseph’ll be free enough from jet-setting to get back to him. Everyone has been affected by what’s happened to Joseph. And for the moment, while he adapts to his new world, we are all kept at arm’s length.
He writes down what his brother says, that one of his mother’s cats has been run over. Hurricane. Could he call his mum, maybe send flowers? I loved those afternoons with his family, and Hurricane was my favourite. I’m still feeling nauseous at the idea of being the ‘friend’ who’s not a part of that anymore.
Joe clocks me watching him, ‘You OK?’
He says this like he cares, like a stranger prepared to stop everything for someone in need.
‘Joseph,’ I say, loathing the crack in my voice. I jump up and fumble around in the bag that Joseph chose for me.
‘I got you this.’ I hand him the brass compass. It actually hadn’t occurred to me to give it to him. But it seems the perfect gift. I can tell immediately that he likes it. He rotates it through his fingers, smiling, ‘It’s great.’
I take the chain out of my pocket and thread it through the top. ‘I’m not sure it works, I think it’s stuck.’
‘And you will always be stuck until you find me again.’
‘Joe! How can you say that?’
‘Because I’ve never been unfaithful to you.’ He puts the compass around his neck, looks at it, then at me. ‘I can understand what you must have thought … but you’re wrong.’
‘I really don’t know what to believe. These stories … it’s happened so many times and … it’s not what I signed up for.’
His hands run through my hair, touching my face. He chuckles. I kiss the little dimples that punctuate the curl of his lips at each side of his cheeks.
‘Stay,’ he says, catching my wrist.
‘Listen, there’s something I’ve got to do.’
‘Kamilla said something about Barbados.’
I nod. ‘I’m leaving as soon as I can. You were right about a lot of things,’ I look at Elvis who’s now curling up in front of the fire. ‘There are things I have to sort out. Before I do, I just can’t –’
‘Well, listen, as soon as you –’
His Samsung buzzes and I see the unmistakable face of Sylvia Amery.
‘Sarah!’
But I’ve already turned away from him – I don’t even stop to say goodbye to Elvis.
‘Let me explain. Sarah, no!’
13
It’s been years since Kamilla and I pulled an all-nighter but settling on the sofa in front the fire and cracking open a bar of chocolate, I tell her. ‘I saw my dad today.’
‘What?’
‘I saw my dad. In the park. I was walking Elvis and there was this wedding going on … and then someone said the groom’s name – Henry Hardwick. It was my dad, getting married!’
‘I don’t … What?’ she curls her long legs under her and leans into my face.
‘He was marrying a woman half his age, completely different from him – she was loud, tacky, I had the feeling they hadn’t known each other long. I know he has two boys, they definitely weren’t there. The wedding was formal, cold, weird. I mean, really weird. Anyway, that’s what Barbados is about … they’re going there on their honeymoon. I thought I’d go too.’
‘Why? What are you going to do there?’
‘I don’t know yet but … you were right. All this about trust and commitment, running away from success – I have to meet him, hear him answer my questions – for me, not for him or mum or anyone else – for me to grow up and, hey, I bloody need a holiday!’
Kamilla nods, ‘OK – you know Maddy? She runs an upmarket travel agency. Let’s get her onto booking your flight ASAP.’ She scrolls down her phone, ‘OK, Henry Hardwick … this is going to be a honeymoon you’ll never forget!’
Before my night flight to Barbados, I have a task to do – collect Florence from the psychiatric wing of the Chelsea & Westminster Hospital. It’s not the first time so I know the drill, even recognise a few faces.
Inside the hospital, I lounge against a wall the colour of dirty pants while waiting for a senior nurse to sign my mother over while another hides her laughter as she tells me what happened. But she doesn’t need to give the whole story: I can picture mum’s crime without being given the details. It’s always the same: big houses speak to Florence. She’ll take the longest walk through the most desirable residential highway, and when the old bricks beckon, my mum just has to answer.
For as long as she’s lived, big houses are all she’s ever had a passion for. All her life she wanted to be surrounded by lawns with sculpted hedges like flamed beacons leading to giant-sized doors. Not doors to bungalows or even glossy house-sized doors, but doors to homes too big to be numbered. Doors protecting a multitude of rooms – vast and light, like unexplored glaciers.
My mum can stare at people’s houses like others do paintings in a gallery. When I was a child, I used to stand with her as she pointed out architectural features and criticised the owners’ bad taste. I can see her now, musing on how the beams of light made their way directly through the freshly cleaned windows of drawing rooms and continued, undeterred, into the back gardens where sprinkle
rs pirouetted, chucking diamonds onto budding roses.
Florence nodded to the chauffeur who was rinsing away the soapsuds on one of the cars, and pushed open the gate. The large maple door was already open so that the maid could rush in and out, beating the smaller carpets. She had left the Persian rugs abandoned while engaging in animated conversation with the two gardeners. Florence felt the wetness of the path under her feet, but couldn’t hear the details of their chatter – all she heard was the glorious concerto of people doing their best to dress and pamper a very big house.
The large hall smelling of beeswax polish lured her inside where she set about arranging the central vase of flowers.
The nurse shows me the part in her notes about Florence having a bath. I can see it all. How inside the bathroom suite, Florence ran her hands through the hot water as it gushed out, how she added the expensive bath oils. The glowing pools hovered on the water before disappearing into the steam. She folded her clothes over the towel rail and stood, staring at the bath water. She dipped her finger in and watched it magnified under the charmed pools. Then Florence placed her foot inside the bath, seeing it dislocate and expand in the mirrored reflection of herself. She lowered herself down and unfurled as the heat wrapped around her. She lay motionless, possibly for hours.
She was just starting to feel good when she heard the panicked, grotesque cries of, ‘Allo? Allo!’
Without opening her eyes, Florence murmured, ‘I think we’ll have quail’s eggs, four dozen. I’m not sure about the main course.’
There was a bang. No reply. Her head bobbed in the water, she sensed the slight temperature changes. She gave in to the water’s metallic pull on her hair, sank it down again, came up and said, ‘Fortnum’s is probably your best bet. Hmmmm?’ Florence dipped her head back into the warm water. Another pull up and she came eye to eye with the maid screaming, ‘Mrs Metcalfe! Mrs Metcalfe!’
Florence rested back in the water. ‘Tell her I’m in the bath. I’ll call her later.’ And she dozed, shrouded in heat – until a thudding sound that Florence couldn’t ignore grew louder and louder.
