by Frost, NJ
“Is this all you’ve taken?”
She nods. Thank fucking God! She should be fine. She’ll pass out and have one hell of a hangover tomorrow. She won’t remember a thing. Xanax on top of booze is a bitch like that. I wish I could wipe this fucking day from my memory, but right now I have to be the sensible one. I’m not the one in need of catching.
I think Jamie maybe is pulling strings from somewhere beyond this mortal coil. He’s looking out for her and I’m his man on the ground, his wing man. I have to be a gentleman about this and put my anger with her to one side. I have to get her home.
I grab her face and make her look me square in the eye.
“I’m going to take you home. Can you tell me your address?”
“Camden, Albert Street.” She slurs.
“Number?”
“Eight. Flat B”
So ridiculously trusting! I think how glad I am that it’s me she’s trusting and not some fucking weirdo.
“Right, let’s get you out of here. Can you walk?”
She shakes her head. Marvellous, I’m going to have to fucking carry her. The thought of her in my arms thrills and terrifies me all at once.
I call a cab. Now I have ten minutes to kill, waiting. Ten minutes of sitting here, watching her, thinking about how much I hate her, how much I want her. Ten minutes of exquisite torture.
She lays her head back and lets her eyes fall shut. She starts to slump over a little, so I pull her into me and let her ballast herself against me. I find myself lost in her face. It’s one of the occupational hazards of being an artist. Portraiture was my specialism at St Martins, so the human face fascinates me. I love the challenge of seeing past the façade. There are little tells in every face. The worry line between Sylvie’s eyebrows is still there even though she’s passed out. Her façade is very polished, very perfect, but it is a construct. The heart stopping fissures in those spectacular eyes of hers speak volumes.
I’m startled out of these thoughts by my phone ringing. It’s Darcey. I pick up but talk in a hushed voice so as not to disturb Sylvie.
“Where did you disappear to and why are you whispering?” Darcey demands. “What the fuck are you getting up to… or don’t I want to know?”
“Keep your hair on. I’m not getting fucked up or falling off the wagon. I’m being the knight in shining armour for once – although I’m not really sure why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Look I haven’t got time for your shady, cryptic shit. You coming for drinks at The Castle?
“No. I’ve kind of got my hands full at the moment.”
“The bitch ex is missing too, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”
“No.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Come on Darce, what would I be doing with Jamie’s ex?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe going off your track record over the past couple of weeks… fucking her?”
“That’s a fucking low blow Darcey. Give me some credit!”
“Sorry Blake.” She sighs, “It’s been a long afternoon.”
“Go get pissed.” I order her.
“Stay out of trouble and don’t get fucked up.” She orders back.
“I won’t.” The contradiction in my answer hangs heavy in the brief silence between us.
“I presume you need somewhere to stay again tonight?” She asks.
“If that’s okay?”
“Of course it is. Call me – when you’re through with your knightly shit.” She sighs, and then hangs up.
I go back to watching Sylvie.
In what seems like no time at all, the barman is calling over to say that the taxi I called is here.
I sweep Sylvie up into my arms. She weighs nothing. Her arms wrap around my neck and she buries her face there. I swear I feel her lips on me and I feel all sorts of things that I shouldn’t. That dark scent of hers is so fucking intoxicating. I don’t need any other drug. Just her. I want the walk to the taxi to last for ever.
I’m being carried. Why the fuck am I being carried? Everything is a blur. I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to be doing. There is something, but my mind can’t quite get a grip on it. Strong arms are holding me. I feel flooded by a sense of ease. It could be that incredible smell that is making me feel calm and safe. It’s spicy and warm and wraps around me like an alcohol infused dream. An unfamiliar voice penetrates my reverie. It’s rough and deep but gentle.
I open my eyes and take in a face, an unbelievably stunning face. I must be dreaming. A pair of strange pale eyes meet mine. So beautiful! I’m in the arms of a beautiful dark angel; mirroring everything that I am, understanding every feeling that I’ve ever had, and have forgotten.
My salvation. My forgiveness. Now I can rest.
Sylvie fucking Smith! I don’t want to think about that moment when she looked up at me, and it felt like the whole fucking world came to a halt. I can’t let myself think about it. I’m going to get this girl home and then I’m going to run and stay as far away as possible, for as long as possible. Right now she’s wrapped around me and fuck me if it doesn’t feel so right. So right, and yet so terribly wrong. I wish that this girl wasn’t the girl. But she is, in more ways than I care to think about.
The cab pulls up outside her place, and my heart sinks a little at the thought of moving her from where she’s settled on my lap. I could stare at her face forever.
I have to move her to pay the cabbie. I give him a huge tip, and he jumps out to get the cab door.
“Take good care of your girl. She’s a beauty.” He says to me in a strongly accented voice as I lift her out.
“She’s not my girl.” I tell him.
“Yet…” He says giving me a hearty pat on the back and a wink.
No. Not ever.
It’s not very dignified, but I have to give Sylvie a fireman’s lift in order to negotiate the steps, her keys and the front door. I try hard not to think about her gorgeous arse just inches away from my face. My hand wrapped around her beautiful legs is torture enough.
When we finally make it into Sylvie’s apartment, I’m struck by how much this place is a reflection of her. It’s understated and yet stunning. It’s a grown up’s home, not a fucking student dive, like our pad in Brighton. The apartment is set over two floors, and I have to trek up another set of stairs to the bedroom.
I wish I was carrying her up here under different circumstances. I wish there was no backstory. I wish that she was sober and willing, and that I was about to peel off her dress, ravage her and bury myself in her.
The master bedroom is huge and has a huge fucking bed at its centre. Oh, the bad things I could do in this bed! I have to remind myself of the bad things virtually every other fucker in London has probably done in this bed.
As I lay Sylvie down I tug off Jamie’s jacket. My breath catches a little as I take in the full effect of that killer black dress. I slip off her heels and smile to myself that her toenails are painted green, not harlot red. It’s a quirky little thing that piques my interest in her. I wonder what she’s really like, when she’s not fucked up on meds and booze. It’s then that I notice the very expensive looking turntable and the stack of vinyls beside the bed. I’m intrigued. I have a quick skim through them. It’s a pretty fucking impressive collection. There are some of the rarest vinyls here that I’ve seen outside of my collection. Sex Pistols, The Beatles, The Stones, Velvet Underground, Bowie, Hendrix… Had we actually met under different circumstances, outside of the shit storm of her relationship with Jamie, I think I may have actually liked this girl. A lot.
Just as I’m making her comfortable, rolling her on to her side, covering her with a throw, her phone rings in her bag. I open it up to see who’s calling. Dent? Alex Denton I presume. She rouses a little at the sound. I can’t answer her phone. How would I explain myself?
It stops. Seconds later it buzzes a text a
lert.
Dent: Where are you? You okay? Need some company?
Fuck no! The old perv. I’m all the company she needs right now. I’ve got this.
I feel a little sketchy doing it, but I send a reply.
Me: No. I’m fine. Home safe. In bed
Shit! As I press send my stomach knots, I hope the old dog doesn’t take that as an invitation.
Thank the fucking stars, he doesn’t.
Dent: Ok. Lunch at ours Sun… if you feel up to it? If not see you Mon
I don’t respond.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch Sylvie Smith – heart breaker, mind fucker, soul destroyer – sleep. It twists my heart a little that she can sleep, but it’s not untroubled. She starts to whimper a little, and she’s muttering things that I can’t make out.
I hate this girl. I shouldn’t care that she’s hurting. It should make me happy that she is. But my throat feels dry, and I’m finding it hard to swallow watching her pain bleed out of her in her sleep. She’s silently sobbing. My body aches to comfort her. I tell myself it’s that basic human trait in all of us – an aversion to suffering – that makes me want to soothe it all away for her.
I’m feeling stone cold sober now, so how I justify this to myself I don’t know. I shift over to stroke her hair and find myself unpinning it from the artful swirl. I run my fingers through it as it fans out in beautiful mahogany waves. The urge to bury my face there is just as strong as the moment when I first laid eyes on her, maybe more so. But that would be creepy, right? I need pull myself together. I don’t get like this over girls. Ever. Especially not this girl.
I freeze as she turns into me, embracing me, pulling me into her. I could so easily resist that pull, but I don’t, and I don’t stop to ask myself why. My heart misses a beat as she curls herself around me. It feels like being wrapped in pure, unfiltered grief and it pulls and frays at my own pain. Here in the enemy’s bed, something fucking weird happens. It’s as though our pain binds together, twists and tangles and becomes inseparable. Like a strange connection is made. I stroke her hair gently, and I feel oddly at peace as her sobs wain and still.
I hate this girl. I fucking hate this girl. Don’t I?
I finally give in to the urge that has been burning white hot inside me since I first laid eyes on her, I breathe her in. Holy shit, she’s like the drug to end all drugs. I’m a dead man.
Jamie is holding me. Not the crazed, ravaged Jamie of recent memory. Not gaunt or unkempt. He’s not twitching and ticking, looking for a way out – a bleak escape. His eyes don’t have that dead look about them. Instead, he’s glorious, golden. My Jamie. His arms have found me, pulled me out from a darkness that I don’t want to face. He’s holding me close, caressing me and all the broken pieces are fusing back together, making me whole again. I’m finally home, here in these arms.
How long I’ve sat here holding her, I’m not sure. It feels like forever and no time at all. Sylvie is fast asleep, but I don’t want to risk waking her and breaking this weird fucking spell I’m under. She feels too good in my arms to let go of just yet. I’m being the good Boy Scout, making sure she’s okay. That’s all. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. And I have been surprisingly good. I’ve tried to keep all thoughts of peeling off her dress at the back of my mind, despite the fact that one of her beautiful tits is almost visible at the plunging neckline. I keep getting tantalising glimpses of a delicately inked tattoo there that I can’t quite make out. I’ve been watching her chest rise and fall purely out of concern for her wellbeing. Honestly. I haven’t ached to brush my lips there at all.
Her phone buzzes again. It’s on the night stand in her bag. I’d better check it’s not Alex Denton again, or someone else wanting her. I don’t want to get caught here in her apartment. This would take some explaining. I slide out of her grip to check her phone. It’s a text from a contact named CK and my hackles rise straight away at the tone of the message. It’s far too fucking familiar for my liking.
CK: How you doing gorgeous?
I’m tempted to reply: Fine, now fuck off, but I restrain myself.
Her phone buzzes again.
CK: You said you’d call when you were done. You want me to come over? I could help you shake off the day ;)
This has to be a guy. A guy who she’s more than familiar with. A fucking winky face? I’ll be tempted to give this fucking prick a winky face if he shows up while I’m here. But whoever this CK is, he’s persistent I’ll give him that. A few minutes later her phone buzzes again.
CK: Dent says you’re home… in bed. Come on Sylv, don’t leave me hangin. You said you’d be up for a fuck. I’m at your service. Call me
So this is some guy she’s fucking. It makes me more than a little sour to think that he’s tapping her up for sex barely hours after Jamie’s funeral. I’m disgusted that she told this fucker she’d be up for it. I’m disgusted and furious with myself. I’d started to let my guard down, dazzled by this girl’s beautiful exterior. In its glare, I let myself forget that, beneath it, there’s nothing.
I can’t help myself though. I find myself replying, trying to put this fucker off.
Me: Not tonight
CK: Not going to let you mope. I’m coming over… good job I still have a key ;)
Shit!!!
Me: Don’t
CK: Too late. On my way
Oh Fuck! I have to leave. Now. This guy could live across the street. He could be minutes away for all I know.
But because I’m pissed off, and I’m way beyond feeling despicable, I let myself stoop even lower. As I’m putting Sylvie’s phone back in her bag, I take out the note from Jamie. I unfold and read it. It may be a shitty thing to do, but I don’t owe Sylvie Smith anything. I feel like I deserve to know what it says – what words of Jamie’s she’s hanging on to.
Written down in his unmistakably artful hand are lyrics to a song. They’re beautiful and tortured and so fucking sad. It takes a moment for it to sink in, but this song, for all intents and purpose, is a suicide note. A cry for help. A cry for help that she fucking ignored.
Sylvie,
When you hold my soul
It feels so right
My heart is in darkness
But you are the light
If I beg for forgiveness
Will you banish the night?
How I wanted your truth
Now I can’t deny
The future I crave
Feels like a lie
I crumble, I cave
To your lethal high
So, take my heart and crush it
Take my love and push it
Push it away
Take my mind and blow it
Take my tomorrow and throw it
Throw it all away
When I close my eyes
I see your face
It feels like the bends
It feels like fate
Like this night may end
Before I wake
So, take my heart and crush it
Take my love and push it
Push it away
Take my life and watch me
Mainline it
Mistime it
Throw it all away
Watch me
Throw it all away
Thanks for the good times
And the not so good
I’m glad I spent them with you…
J x
I fold the note back up and put it back where I found it.
As I get up to leave Sylvie shifts, murmuring something in her sleep. Asking me not to leave? Well fuck that!
There’s one thing as clear as fucking day that I take from that note. Sylvie had so much power over Jamie – power that she fucking abused. She was the only one who could have saved him. If she’d cared at all she would have, but she didn’t.
With this realisation, I become more and more certain in my mind that Sylvie Smith is rotten to the core. She crushed my best friend without a fucking care in
the world, and she’s already onto her next victim, the oh-so-eager CK. I wonder if CK knows what he’s letting himself in for. I’m sure as fuck not going to put myself in the firing line. I’m out of here.
I wish I could undo everything that has happened this afternoon. That I could wipe out every feeling that has stirred in me since I first set eyes on this girl. It all felt so fucking fated. Like a ride that I couldn’t step off. A force I couldn’t resist.
Well, fuck fate! As I bolt from her apartment, I wonder if I can outrun it. I’m going to fucking well try.
Half way down her street who should I pass but Hoodie Guy. I recognise the cocky swagger, the battered union jack Chucks. As I get a good look at his face, I see that the swagger is completely justified. Hoodie Guy is Chris fucking Kavanagh… the one and only. I make the connection instantly – CK.
In this moment, the hate solidifies in my heart. I think back to Sylvie and him shamelessly pawing all over each other outside Jamie’s house, sitting in the same fucking spot where the ambulance had pulled up only hours before. I can’t believe that I let myself want her, that she’s all I’ve been thinking about these past two weeks. Who she is, what she’s done… these things are way beyond anything I could ever forgive. I need to get over this and get a fucking life.
As I will myself to keep walking away, to bury this day forever, I try to shake Jamie’s lyrics from my mind, but I can’t. They’re fucking branded there. They’re haunting and unforgettable.
