by Caro Fraser
‘Maybe we can do that again some time, Felicity. In the meantime’ – he paused, still regaining his breath – ‘I don’t see the need to take the matter of your work any further. Not for the present, anyhow.’ He moved over to the door and unlocked it. Felicity stood motionless. ‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ added Mr Lamb, and he opened the door, indicating to Felicity that she might leave.
Felicity went out in a daze, went straight to the Ladies, and rubbed at the inside of her mouth with liquid soap, rinsing and spitting until she had washed away the taste and feel of him. Still shocked, she stared at herself in the mirror. She was uncertain what she felt. Part of her told her that she should go to someone, tell them about this. But whom would she tell? And what would happen then? She’d be forced to leave, in any event. Another part of her said, forget it, you’ve still got your job. He’s just another sexist shit who wanted a quick fumble in return for you not losing your job. Count yourself lucky that was all it was. She ran a hand through her ragged curls. That was all it was. She would make sure he never got the chance to lay a hand on her again. But that was all it was. She still had her job.
Try as she might to rationalise it, she was aware all the rest of that day of a tight knot in the pit of her stomach, a feeling of shock and nausea. She needed something to get rid of this, she thought. She’d get something from Vince this evening. She’d promised herself to ease up on the drug thing, but a little couldn’t hurt, and she needed it. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the other secretaries. The atmosphere in the office was one of wordless malice. When Doris approached her, touched her lightly on the arm, and asked sweetly, ‘Everything all right, dear?’ it was all Felicity could do not to strike her. But she managed to smile shakily and reply, ‘Everything’s fine, thanks, Doris.’ You had to hand it to her, she had real hypocritic gall, did Doris. Felicity only wished she could have the satisfaction of telling them then and there that she hadn’t been sacked. They’d find out soon enough. That would disappoint them. But as she remembered the reason why she still had her job, her face burned with self-disgust.
By the time five-thirty came, she could take no more. I’m going to tell Rachel, she thought. She’ll know what to do. He can’t treat me like that. She went to the Ladies to have a pee and prepare herself, staring at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands and tried to think of the right words.
But when she went back to Rachel’s office and knocked on the door to go in, there was someone with her. Some bloke, really nicely dressed, dark and slim, stood up.
‘Oh, Felicity, I thought you’d gone home,’ said Rachel. ‘This is Anthony Cross, counsel in the Valeo Dawn. Anthony, this is Felicity, my secretary.’
‘How do you do?’ said Anthony, and held out his hand. Felicity shook it limply. Gordon Bennett, he was drop-dead gorgeous. I couldn’t half do him some damage, thought Felicity, gazing at Anthony’s brown eyes and boyish smile.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said brightly. ‘I remember your name from the file. Well …’ She glanced at Rachel. Rachel’s face was soft and pleased, watching Anthony.
‘We’re just off to an exhibition of some paintings,’ said Rachel, ready to share her pleasure with the world. ‘Chay Cross. He’s Anthony’s father.’
‘Oh, nice,’ said Felicity, and tucked a curl behind her ear. Well, bang went her chance of telling Rachel. Probably just as well. She wouldn’t want to know. Best just forget the whole thing. She glanced from Rachel to Anthony. They were perfect for each other, she thought. So clean and nice and lovely. Oh, shit, she thought. ‘Right, well, have a nice time, then,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow, Rachel.’
She closed the door and went to get her coat. All the way home on the tube she kept trying to push the thought of Mr Lamb’s sloppy mouth and eager hands out of her mind, but the memory refused to go. I’ll tell Vince, she said to herself as she got out at Clapham North. She felt better as she walked through the frosty darkness to the flat. Yes, she would tell Vince, at least get it off her chest, let him comfort her and tell her what she should do about it. She was sure there must be something she could do about it.
In the empty flat the smell of stale cigarette smoke seemed accentuated by the chilly air. They must have been out all day, she thought. She fumbled in her purse for some coins for the gas meter, then sat crouched in front of the gas fire, her coat still clutched around her, waiting for the room to get warmer. She glanced down; the threadbare carpet by the grate was gritty with dirt. She should clean the place up, but she felt too tired and dispirited.
At last she got up, took her coat off and went into the kitchen. In the sink lay a jumble of dirty dishes; some empty lager cans stood by the side. The cooker was so filthy it depressed her. She wondered if Vince and Sandy were at the pub. She’d go to McDonald’s and look in on the way.
But they weren’t in the pub. Felicity bought herself a quarter-pounder with cheese and small fries, and ate it in the silence of the kitchen. Then she went into the living room and switched on the television. She sat morosely, alternately jiggling the indoor aerial and picking at the chipped varnish on her nails, and watched a soap, a situation comedy and a Channel 4 programme about the roots of African music. She switched that off and read for a while, but by the time eleven o’clock came, they still weren’t back. She felt dreadful. Everything inside her felt tight and weird, and her head seemed to be bursting. Maybe I’m having a panic attack, she thought. She’d often wondered what they were like. She went into the room she shared nowadays with Vince, and rooted around in the pockets of one of his jackets. Eventually she found two Valium in the cupboard beside her bed. That was something, at any rate. She was in the hallway on the way to the bathroom for a glass of water when she heard a key in the door.
Sandy came in, alone. ‘Hi,’ he said. He looked tired.
‘Hi,’ said Felicity. ‘Where’ve you been? Where’s Vince?’
‘Vince?’ Sandy scratched at the back of his head, then took off his leather jacket. ‘Dunno.’ He ducked his head and went into the living room, switched on the television, and flopped into a chair.
‘Well, hasn’t he been with you today?’ asked Felicity.
‘Oh, yeah … yeah.’ Sandy’s voice sounded absent.
‘Well, I looked for you in the pub. So when’s he coming back, then?’
‘Who?’
‘Vince! I need to talk to him.’
Sandy sighed. ‘Look, Felicity, I don’t think you should bother with Vince. He’s bad news, you know.’
She walked round to stand between her brother and the television. ‘You’re telling me he’s bad news? Who brought him round here in the first place? Anyway, what is all this? Why shouldn’t I bother?’
Sandy shifted in his chair, glanced up at her and then back at the television. ‘You know where he is, don’t you?’ she asked suddenly, her eyes on his face. ‘You’ve been with him. Where have you been all evening?’
Sandy scratched his head. He got up and went back into the hallway and fished a half-bottle of whisky from his jacket pocket. ‘Carol’s,’ he said shortly. He went into the kitchen, and took two glasses from the sink and washed them. Felicity followed him through.
‘Carol’s?’ she said, eyes wide.
‘Yeah, that’s right. He told me to tell you he was staying there tonight. So.’ He poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to her. He hated to see her hurt, hated to be the one who had to do it, but she’d been mad to get mixed up with someone like Vince. He didn’t care about anyone.
Felicity drank the whisky and burst into tears. Sandy handed her the half-bottle. ‘You have it,’ he said, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and went back into the living room. She stood there in the kitchen, sobbing. This was all she needed. She felt all the shock, anger, frustration and despair of the day roll up into one great black ball of misery. Still crying, she went back to her room, stumbled out of her clothes and into a nightdress. Then she swallowed the Valium down with some of Sandy’s whisky an
d lay huddled beneath the duvet, shivering and crying, little black streaks of mascara staining the pillow. At least, she thought, I’m getting an early night, with nothing and no one to interrupt it. And she began to cry in earnest again.
In the gallery in Cork Street, people drifted around admiring the paintings, sipping wine and talking in low voices. Anthony stood with his father and Rachel near the gallery door, impatient to leave. He listened absently to their conversation, thinking how much his father had changed over the past three years. All his life Anthony had known him as a superannuated hippy, living in various squats around London, moving from one fad to another, chemical, religious and artistic, without any apparent aim in life. He’d just been a long-haired, penniless embarrassment. Now look at him, thought Anthony. He eyed his father, a lean, angular figure clad in a pair of Gap denims, nubuck boots, and a hand-painted silk jacket bought on the Maximilianstrasse. He made Anthony feel stuffy in his City suit. Chay’s hair was cropped, his chin silvery-grey with designer stubble, and he wore a silver earring in one ear. Two years ago he had jumped bail on a drugs charge, gone into ‘spiritual retreat’ in California, begun work again on his paintings, and emerged into the LA sunshine hailed as a genius among postmodernists.
Anthony couldn’t decide whether luck, talent or lack of critical discernment in the art world was more responsible for his father’s success. Still, even if he was not entirely admiring of Chay’s work, he was ungrudgingly pleased for him. The poor guy had had a lifetime of failure – mainly through his own fault – and it was good to see him successful. And though he would never have admitted it, Anthony was not averse to basking a little in the reflected glory of his father’s cultural acclaim.
He and Rachel were getting along pretty well; she seemed to know something about modern art and was discussing Mark Rothko’s work earnestly with Chay. Perhaps I’m a bit of a philistine, thought Anthony, as he wandered a few feet away to inspect a very large exhibit, described in the catalogue as ‘Nostalgia (fibre glass, epoxy resin, acrylic paint)’. It looked to Anthony like nothing more than three badly painted clouds and a tree house. Yet he had read reviews of this work in the Sunday papers, one of which had described it as ‘massively confrontational’ and another as ‘perhaps under-motivated, but wonderfully uncompromising’. Even Rachel had thought it marvellous. Perhaps I should try and learn more about it all, if Rachel likes it, thought Anthony. Leo, he recalled musingly, collected modern art.
He turned to look at Rachel and smiled; though still talking to Chay, her slender body seemed poised to move in Anthony’s direction, as though drawn to him. She and Chay walked slowly over to join him.
‘Anthony, I’ve had a wonderful evening. I’ve just been telling your father that I think the exhibition is stunning.’ Her eyes were shining with genuine warmth and pleasure. Anthony smiled at her, then at Chay.
‘Not bad, Dad,’ he said, aware that it sounded childish and slightly ungracious, but unable to find anything else to say. He just wanted to get her away, have her to himself.
‘I’m glad you came,’ said Chay. He turned to Rachel. ‘Anthony doesn’t generally take much of an interest in my work,’ he added, ‘but I’m glad he managed to bring someone a little more appreciative along this evening.’
Oh, get you, Dad, thought Anthony. What a class act, and all because he obviously fancied Rachel. Looking at his father’s fashionable person, set against the backdrop of a chic London gallery, Anthony felt a little spurt of jealousy. ‘Perhaps you’d both like to come to supper one evening?’ Chay asked, still looking at Rachel.
‘Yes – we’ll see. Great. Thanks,’ said Anthony, and glanced at his watch.
‘Well, goodnight,’ said Rachel, and shook Chay’s hand; Anthony could have sworn he held it for longer than was absolutely necessary.
‘Goodnight,’ said Chay.
‘I’ll call you, Dad.’
When they were out in the cold air of Cork Street, Anthony took a deep breath. ‘At last,’ he murmured.
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’ asked Rachel in surprise. She tucked her chin into the collar of her coat and dug her hands deep into her pockets. Anthony was annoyed that he couldn’t even take her hand.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he replied. ‘Well, I mean, it’s all right, that sort of thing. But I can’t say it does a lot for me.’
‘Philistine,’ said Rachel.
‘Just what I was thinking,’ replied Anthony, and smiled.
‘Anyway,’ added Rachel, ‘I thought it was heaven.’
‘Honestly?’ Anthony stopped and turned to look at her.
‘Honestly what?’
‘Was it honestly heaven standing around looking at meaningless pictures with titles like “Puffin Number 8” and “Still Life in Exodus” and saying how wonderful they were?’
She stared at him. ‘I wouldn’t say a thing was good if I didn’t think so. It’s not all some kind of joke, you know.’ Her look of icy reserve had returned.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Anthony, wishing he’d never spoken. He felt suddenly far away from her. He sighed, stepped towards her and ran his hands down the sleeves of her coat and into her pockets, where he clasped her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just spent the whole evening wanting to be alone with you.’
Rachel stiffened at his proximity. She should not have suggested this evening. It was not fair to go on seeing him. He would want a closeness she could not provide. She sensed he wanted it now.
Stiffly she pulled her hands from her pockets, his with them, and turned to walk slowly on.
‘Would you like to go for a drink?’ he asked, anxious to prolong the evening, not to let it end on this note.
‘I don’t think so, thanks. I had more than enough wine at the gallery.’
‘Can I see you home, then?’ He felt about fourteen, trying to work out this coldness in her. She behaved as though he were a cipher – not even a trace of physical understanding between them. How could she fail to read his behaviour, his words?
‘No, it’s all right, thanks.’ Her voice was bright, but distant. ‘I’ll just find a taxi.’
‘Rachel—’ He stopped and held her by her arms, looking into her face. The street was deserted. Her eyes were defensive. There was an unresponsiveness about her that disarmed him utterly. He thought of similar situations with other girls, their warm eagerness, and wondered whether he wasn’t just entirely mistaken in all this. He leant towards her; her features were so still that he put his hands gently on either side of her face. Her body was completely motionless.
When he kissed her, she was saying to herself, it’s all right. Don’t be stupid. It’s absolutely all right. But she felt her muscles tightening, her mouth shrinking away from his. Still his lips sought hers. In an attempt to steady herself, prevent herself from falling backwards, she grasped his arms just above the elbows with both hands.
For Anthony, the whole thing was beyond comprehension, as with frustrated longing his mouth tried to find hers. He could feel her shudder faintly, and taking his face from hers, he let her go abruptly. Her arms fell to her sides.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘What?’ Her voice was faint, her head cast down, the street light shining on the blackness of her hair.
‘That I offend you.’ His voice was cold, hurt.
She gave a little laugh, still not looking up. How could she laugh? God, he felt a fool.
‘You don’t – offend me,’ she replied, and lifted her head. In spite of her laughter, her face was serious, her eyes studying his. How beautiful and hurt and childish he looked. This was such a mistake. She wanted so much to be what he wanted. She drew in her breath. ‘Here,’ she said. And she reached up and kissed him lightly, hoveringly. He put his arms around her and kissed her back hungrily, but all he could feel was a complete stillness, right to the core of her being. It was as though there was nothing there.
She stood rigid as he released her. When he stopped kissing her, it was as th
ough it was, for her, an utter relief. He gazed at her. There is something here that I do not understand, he thought. The almond eyes, their blue brightness very still, gazed back at him; her lips were slightly parted, and tendrils of dark hair blew about her cheeks. The light carved her face into soft planes of shadow and ivory.
‘Rachel—’ he began. Don’t ask me, she thought. But he merely sighed, picked up her hand and kissed it. This is not worth going on with, he was thinking. At that moment a taxi swung round the corner from Burlington Gardens, and Rachel looked up with relief.
‘Thank you for this evening,’ she said to Anthony as she raised her hand to the taxi; then, before turning away, she added, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too,’ murmured Anthony to the shadows, as he watched the taxi purr off up the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anthony was standing in the clerks’ room a week later, fiddling with the computer and trying to work out how his fees stood, when Mr Slee put the phone down and turned to look up at him.
‘That was Miss Dean from Nichols and Co,’ he said, ‘fixing a con with you for herself and a Mr Nikolaos. Valeo Dawn.’ He turned to make a note of it in Anthony’s diary. ‘Four o’clock on Friday.’ He glanced back round. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that with the computer,’ he added reprovingly. ‘It doesn’t help.’
