The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me

by Lucy Robinson

  The afternoon rain had cleared, leaving a sky that seemed to have been swept clean with a giant brush. It bled pink as the sun dipped behind New Jersey, while Manhattan’s buildings lost their lines and became light-dotted silhouettes.

  I had something bitter and appley in my hand and was talking to Barry, who was standing with a man we’d seen quite a lot of lately but who Barry claimed was ‘Just a friend, Chicken.’

  ‘It’s a sad moment all right,’ Barry said, gazing at Manhattan. ‘It’s been a time of glory, has it not, Chicken?’

  I nodded. ‘Glory is a good word.’ Barry’s ‘friend’ wandered off to get more drinks.

  ‘What’s going to happen with you and Julian?’ he asked slyly. ‘Do you reckon he’s going to, like, propose tonight? I wouldn’t put it past him and I’ll tell you that for nothin’.’

  Worry tried to ambush me but I squashed it down. Julian had been sweet and lovely and silly this evening – dancing around my room with a coffee sock on his willy, telling me I was absolutely beautiful in the dress. ‘You cannot leave me,’ he shouted, laughing. The coffee sock slid off and he jumped around the room naked. ‘Look! Look at what you’re abandoning! Are you INSANE?’

  There had to be an explanation for him lying to me about being with Fiona. And I had to wait patiently for it.

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to propose,’ I said firmly. ‘But he is coming over to London in three weeks …’

  ‘Oh, my days! He never is!’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘He loves you,’ Barry stated. He looked very pleased.

  ‘He does, actually.’ I blushed. ‘God knows why!’

  ‘Don’t you encourage me to smack you, Chicken,’ he said calmly. ‘By the way, did you see that Raúl’s here?’

  ‘Yeah. I hope it’s OK.’

  Barry grimaced. ‘Nothin’ about Fiona is OK right now,’ he muttered. ‘I think we need to do something when we get home. Go up and see your parents or somethin’.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? Tell my parents she’s on drugs?’

  Barry nodded. ‘Hmm, you might be right, Chicken. Well, we’ll have a pow-wow on our return, OK? You, me and Bea? We’ll sort her out. Somehow.’

  ‘Do you think?’ I asked weakly. For the first time ever I’d begun to lose hope.

  ‘Deffo,’ he replied firmly. ‘She’s a fuckin’ mess but she’s not that bad. Not stealin’ or nothin’! I promise,’ he added quietly, ‘we will sort this out. I want you to enjoy your night with Mr Fancy Pants, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time in weeks, I felt a chink of positivity about Fiona. Of course I couldn’t sort her out alone. I’d have Barry and Bea to help me, and I’d have my lovely boyfriend on Skype. Maybe, just maybe, we could do it.

  ‘Now, Chicken,’ Barry said briskly. ‘What did you bring for your present? Anything good? If so, can you describe your wrapping paper so I make sure I choose yours?’

  I clapped my hand to my forehead, cursing. Of course! The presents! Bea, who had organized tonight, had come up with the idea that everyone at the party should bring a present. We would put the presents on a table and, once we were all there, we would all take one without knowing who it was from. ‘It prevents us buying two hundred goodbye presents,’ she had explained. We’d all gone along with it, even though probably none of us except Bea would have bought goodbye presents in the first place.

  I had meant to get mine in SoHo this afternoon, but after I’d seen Julian and Fiona I’d struggled even to buy a pair of shoes.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Barry sighed. ‘Don’t let Bea know you haven’t brought a present. She’ll eat you for dinner, Chicken. Find something quickly, I urge you.’ The sunset was bleaching his face and he suddenly looked incredibly distinguished in his expensive shirt and jeans.

  ‘I love you, Barry,’ I told him, haring off to find my handbag. ‘I really, really love you.’

  ‘Massive lesbian, that one …’ I heard him say to his handsome friend.

  My handbag was round the corner, on the part of the terrace that faced east across Brooklyn towards Queens and, somewhere, the Atlantic. It was mostly empty, save for two people in the far corner. Julian and Fiona, I thought childishly.

  Then I saw that it was, in fact, Julian and Fiona.

  ‘Um, hello,’ I called, rummaging through my handbag for my wallet. I’d run off and get something from one of those little shops around Sixth and Bedford.

  ‘Hello, my little garden gnome,’ Julian said, walking over. Fiona watched him go, with a face of vague resentment. Just for a moment, I hated her. He was mine. My boy. She didn’t get to be cross.

  Julian came over and folded himself around me, hugging me hard. ‘I feel sad,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ I muttered.

  ‘I know I’m going to see you in three weeks but it’s just … wrong. I’ll miss you so much.’ He pulled back slightly and kissed my forehead, thumb stroking the back of my neck. ‘I love you, Sally, you moron. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Oi, stop that!’ Fiona called. She was on her way over. To my surprise, she was drunk. Fiona’s current method of getting off her head was calorie-free but now she had what looked like neat vodka in a glass of melting ice. My stomach spasmed nervously. I’d have to look after her tonight if she was drinking on top of everything else.

  But I felt furious too. Could I not have one night enjoying myself? Would it ever end, this terrible, guilty, maternal pull?

  ‘Hey, turnip,’ Julian said quietly. He was looking down at me. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  Fiona was only a few metres away now. I shook my head, saying I’d talk to him later.

  Suddenly she was on us, throwing her bony arms round both of our backs. ‘GROUP HUG,’ she shouted. We all made group-hug noises and I wondered if Julian and Fiona felt as uncomfortable as I did. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I pulled away.

  ‘Are you OK, Sally?’ Fiona was peering at me, breathing – yes, vodka fumes – into my face. Her skin had got so dry that her foundation had begun to flake and her lipstick clung to her chapped lips. Up close she looked like an extra in a medical drama. Scrawny, unkempt, potentially dangerous. But so vulnerable too. Her eyes searched mine, desperate that she wasn’t the cause of my mood.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, after a pause. ‘I just forgot to buy a present.’

  Fiona crossed her arms and swayed slightly. ‘What’s really wrong? Well, if it helps, I’m having a nightmare. Fucking Raúl’s turned up. I mean, what the fuck?’

  I sighed. There was no point. ‘I’m just sad that it’s our last day. I love New York. And I love …’ I trailed off, embarrassed.

  ‘Me?’ Julian suggested, not embarrassed at all.

  I couldn’t help but smile. ‘Maybe.’

  Fiona shouted, ‘YEAH! Even if I got dumped, at least you two are going strong!’ and downed the rest of her vodka. She slammed the glass down on the table next to us but missed and it smashed on the floor. ‘Ah, fuck,’ she said conversationally, vaguely kicking some glass out of the way with her high heel. Her leg looked like a golf club.

  ‘I’m going to get some water,’ I said pointedly. ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘I’ll have a double vodka, please.’ She held my eye, daring me nervously to challenge her; beseeching me not to hate her.

  I turned and left, expecting Julian to fall in next to me.

  But he didn’t. I looked at them as I went back inside to get the drinks, and he was standing very close to her, saying something that was making her smile grudgingly.

  ‘Chicken?’

  It was Barry.

  ‘Chicken, you’re not … worried, are you?’

  He too was watching them.

  ‘No,’ I said automatically. Then, feeling slightly sick: ‘Well, more just annoyed. They spend a lot of time together. There’s obviously something, even if it isn’t dodgy. Do you have any idea?’

  Barry gazed at them. ‘Nope.’

  I shi
vered. ‘I’m going out to buy a present for the table,’ I told him. ‘Go for a little walk.’

  To my horror, Barry took my hand and said something very, very scary. ‘Don’t go, Chicken. Stay and fight for your man!’

  I swallowed painfully. ‘Um, really? You think I should be worried?’

  Julian reached forward and squeezed Fiona’s freckly nose and she batted him off, laughing.

  ‘I need a drink,’ I said. My voice was not steady.

  ‘Probs a good idea, Chicken,’ Barry said kindly. ‘Now, about that present. Do you have anything in that there handbag you could use?’

  ‘No.’ I sounded dead.

  ‘Nonsense. You must have something.’ He was rooting around. ‘Here we go. A block of Post-it notes. Perfect.’

  ‘I can’t leave a block of Post-its,’ I said distractedly. ‘How about I … I dunno, how about I write down a pledge on one of them? Like, the person who wins this gets brunch at Schiller’s or something?’

  Barry thought about it, then had a better idea. ‘How’s about you offer them a night on the town in London?’ he suggested. ‘I mean, you’d be happy to take out anyone at this party, Chicken! Save for maybe Fiona,’ he joked bravely.

  I smiled a thin, mirthless smile. ‘I’m not giving up on her just yet,’ I said. ‘We just agreed we’d sort her out.’

  ‘I know,’ Barry said. ‘And we will. I’m not properly worried, Chicken, cos I know Julian loves you, but she’s drinking as well as getting high and we don’t want her lunging at your man, do we now? That’s all I’m sayin’.’

  I wasn’t sure that was all he was saying, but I left it.

  The recipient of this Post-it note gets a night out in London on me, I wrote. You’ll find me at 36 The Old Wharf, 89 Bevan Street, London N1 2ZM. Sally.

  Scene Eighteen

  An hour later I felt really quite drunk but my anxiety had not diminished in the slightest. I talked to people but couldn’t hear what they were saying. When the presents had been exchanged I’d opened one containing a massive tacky yellow ring and I’d not even been able to laugh as I’d slid it on to my finger.

  Julian and Fiona were still in a club of two that nobody else was invited to. Only now the club was convening in full view of everyone: they stood on the side terrace overlooking Manhattan, huddled in a corner, exchanging jokes and stories that apparently were relevant only to them. People tried to talk to them and soon left. Fiona was visibly wasted, draped against Julian, uncoordinated, either shrieking noisily or whingeing about Raúl.

  Barry was being extra nice to me and even told me at one stage that I looked ‘slim’. It was a bad sign.

  After struggling on for an hour or so he gave in. ‘Look, Chicken,’ he began nervously. I tensed. ‘You don’t think he –’

  I looked at him sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Chicken, it’s just the old drugs business, you know. I’m just wondering if you think he … might be, you know …’

  ‘Supplying drugs to Fiona? Of course not!’

  Barry nodded soothingly. ‘Yeah, of course not. Anyway, good turn-out, is it not, Chicken?’

  ‘Why do you think he’s giving her drugs?’

  ‘Well,’ Barry began, ‘just, you know …’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me.’

  ‘Well, just that he was involved in some drugs thing. Around the time his wife died.’

  The world stopped turning for a moment.

  ‘What?’ I stared at Barry. ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN?’

  Barry dragged me away from the others to the back terrace. Out of nowhere, Bea appeared. ‘You told her?’ she demanded of Barry. He nodded. Bea tutted and handed me some wine, which I didn’t take. Instead she patted my arm as if that would soothe me.

  ‘STOP HIDING THINGS FROM ME,’ I hissed. It was almost beyond comprehension that they could have been carrying knowledge that would alter my life yet were only telling me now.

  Bea affected an expansive Italian shrug. ‘Julian was involved in a grande scandal, I heard,’ she said. ‘People say his wife died in it. It involved drugs.’

  I held on to the table. ‘What do you mean, a scandal involving drugs?’

  ‘I do not know the details, darling. I know only what I tell you.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Please try to be calm, Sally. I know because Fiona told me. Raúl told her. Maybe it is all a big mistake!’

  I swayed, sick and dizzy.

  ‘But, my darling, I confess I have my doubts about Julian. It is obvious that he does not take the drugs, no?’

  I agreed, with a distracted nod. Julian was clearly not taking drugs. Bea was right on that point.

  ‘My problem is this,’ Bea continued. ‘Julian owns a paper that only a few people buy. Think about this paper. He does not receive many advertisements. Is it not strange that he has enough money to own a big apartment on Mulberry Street? That he takes you out for dinner? That he wears these expensive clothes?’

  ‘What do you mean, an apartment on Mulberry? He lives in Brooklyn! He rents a room from a woman with a dog called Pam!’

  ‘Ah,’ Bea said. ‘You did not know about the apartment.’

  ‘Because there isn’t one! Is there?’

  Bea patted my arm again. ‘Perhaps he wanted to surprise you with it one day,’ she said reassuringly.

  ‘No!’ I cried shrilly. ‘You’ve got it wrong! His clothes aren’t expensive … they’re a mess!’ They were. He wore T-shirts. Sometimes shirts with jumpers over them. He looked classic, reasonably fashionable, sometimes scruffy. He didn’t look expensive. And he most definitely didn’t look like a drug dealer, if that was what she meant.

  Bea shook her head. ‘They are expensive clothes,’ she told me. ‘Trust Bea. She knows her designers. It is not all cufflinks and tapered trousers, Sally. His jeans that he wears tonight. Where are they from?’

  I was bewildered. ‘I have no idea. Gap?’

  Bea laughed, but it was hollow. ‘No, my tesoro. They are from Gucci. They cost five hundred dollars.’

  ‘But that’s not that much, I mean –’

  ‘Sally, he has four different pairs of these jeans alone. I see these things. Tonight he wears a shirt from Armani. His jumper is Phillip Lim. Julian does not iron his clothes and he does not mend them when they get holes. But they are beautiful items of great value.’

  ‘This is just bullshit!’ I cried desperately. ‘Why are you trying to make me suspicious?’

  Bea smiled sadly. ‘Oh, darling, you already are suspicious. Bea is just telling you what she knows. She wants you to have all of the facts.’

  ‘No. No no no.’

  ‘I do not know anything for sure, darling,’ Bea said softly. ‘Maybe Bea is wrong.’

  My heart was hammering and I sat down quickly on a chair before I fell. Julian was not a drug dealer. He was not a drug dealer. I twiddled the manky ring round my finger.

  Was he?

  ‘No,’ I said, decisively. ‘Thank you, Bea, I know you’re looking out for me but I’m just not having it. There’s no way on earth Julian’s a drug dealer. His wife must have left him money.’

  ‘She had nothing when she died.’ Bea had begun to speak rather quickly.

  ‘No! I don’t believe it! Thank you, but –’ I stopped. ‘Why didn’t you say any of this before?’ I asked her.

  Bea held my gaze. ‘I find out today,’ she said, her calm ever so slightly ruffled. ‘I talked to Fiona. She told me about Julian’s wife. She did not know more than I have told you. And then afterwards I began to think about Julian and his lifestyle. Something is not right.’

  A dull block of pain opened in my chest, pressing on my lungs. Everything about Julian Bell was right. It had been the easiest, most beautiful month of my life, being here with him. He was my perfect man. He couldn’t be a lie! He was warm, he was generous. He kissed the tips of my ears and scrunched my bottom and smiled right into the centre of me when he woke up in the mornings.

  No. I
wasn’t listening to Bea’s paranoid bullshit any more. She was probably just bored because she wasn’t shagging anyone.

  I pulled myself up on Bambi legs to go and find my man. I would disprove Bea’s theory and reclaim Julian. I would enjoy being his girlfriend. I would enjoy our last few hours together.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw Julian take something from Fiona. A small piece of cardboard, folded up into a miniature envelope. I stopped breathing. Fiona was thrusting it at him with gay abandon, but Julian looked extremely nervous. He snatched it and shoved it into his pocket. I felt as if someone had turned off my oxygen.

  Julian suddenly caught sight of me. ‘Hey!’ he said, his face stretching into an uncomfortable smile. His finger brushed along the ridge in his pocket created by the miniature envelope. ‘Let me go and get you a drink, my favourite Sallyface.’ He kissed my frozen cheek and strode inside, leaving me with my cousin.

  ‘All righ’, Sal,’ Fiona said vaguely. She was seriously wasted but more friendly than earlier. I moved over and stood next to her at the railing.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘You OK, babe?’ she asked.

  I could feel her watching me. ‘What were you and Julian just doing? With that … that thing?’

  Fiona looked anxious. ‘It’s not what you think, Sally,’ she slurred. She grabbed my hand and pulled me closer to explain. I smelt the sharp, ugly vodka fumes and something chemical coming from her. ‘Pleeeeease don’t get all serious on me. Everyone’s having fun, OK? I’ll explain …’

  She sounded like a cartoon drunk.

  I pulled my arm free and looked her in the eye. ‘I don’t want to hear your explanation. I don’t believe anything you say any more.’ My voice was heavy with anger. ‘You just shared drugs with my boyfriend. I saw you with my own eyes. I … How could you?’

  She shook her head manically. ‘No no no! You’ve got it wrong. Come for a little walk and let me explain.’ She dragged me into a corner of the terrace, tripping over a chair leg and smacking into the wall.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, will you be careful,’ I said tightly. It was a very long way to the ground from there.

  ‘Sally, I’ve decided to sort myself out,’ she began. A waitress handed her another vodka. It must have been at least a double, but she knocked it back in three agonizing gulps, watching Raúl as she did so.