by Carrie Elks
“You’re too pretty not to smile.”
So, of course, I do. He has the ability to keep me calm and on an even keel. That first night we met, he spotted me as soon as he finished his call. I was standing by the bins, my fingers wrapped around a full glass of wine, and he approached me as if I was a frightened deer. When he spoke he kept his voice low.
“Are you okay?”
I was suffering from severe social anxiety, and I couldn’t speak. Only nod.
“You don’t look it,” he said.
“I don’t like parties. There are so many people. Too much going on.” My voice wavered as I spoke. He took another step forward, and I shrank back.
“Are you claustrophobic?”
This time I shook my head. “No, I’m just not good in crowds.”
“Why did you come here then?” His question wasn’t mean. He sounded confused more than anything.
“I’ve just started working at the clinic, and I couldn’t bear to tell them. I didn’t want them to think I was completely crazy.” I laughed, but it came out too harsh.
“Would you like me to get you a cab? Or I could drive you home, if you prefer.”
My eyes watered at his kindness. This man, who looked old enough to be my father, was being sweeter to me than anybody had in a long time. More so than my own parents, who by that point had pretty much disowned me.
“I can’t leave until later. Somebody will notice.”
He smiled and it was the first time I realised how handsome he was, in spite of his age.
“How about you come and sit with me? I can hold your hand and talk you through any panic attack. I’ll protect you.”
That had been the start of it. He did everything he promised; escorted me all night, held my hand when I started to shake. He even managed to coax me onto the dance floor once. When he dropped me home that evening, barely flinching when he saw the run-down squat I was living in, he’d taken my number and promised to call me the next day.
He was a man of his word. He always has been. What he lacks in passion he makes up for in loyalty.
Over the next six months, he courted me assiduously. Spoiled me with flowers and gifts, took me to beautiful restaurants and upmarket art galleries. And though I liked all these things—who wouldn’t—it was the way he treated me I liked the most. He made the decisions and looked after me like I was his second daughter.
For the first time in a long while, I felt happy. Safe. Within six months I was spending more time at his house than mine. We were married two years later.
I haven’t had a panic attack since.
2
We take a cab to the gallery so Simon can have a drink. As much as he loves driving his Jaguar, he likes a glass of wine more. I hate driving through London, even at night.
“Elise called me this afternoon,” Simon says as we make our way through the wet streets of Soho. “She thinks she’s found you an artist.”
“Really?” My grin is genuine. Elise has never been my biggest fan, but she loves her father, so she tolerates me. I don’t mind; I think I’d feel the same in her position. To the outside world I’m no better than a gold digger—a trophy wife.
“Apparently he’s just come back from the States. Not a student either; an honest-to-God artist.”
My eyes widen. “Is he going to have time to teach at the clinic?”
“Elise says he’ll do it. He’s not short of cash. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Beth.”
When the cab stops outside the gallery, Simon gets out first. He opens an umbrella before helping me climb out. His chivalry took some getting used to when we first got together. I was more accustomed to boys, then. Ones who took more than they gave.
In spite of our best intentions, the showing is in full swing when we arrive. A waiter stops in front of us and holds out a tray full of drinks, and Simon takes two glasses, handing me a white wine, while he sips the red.
“Not bad.” He takes another mouthful. “Elise did the right thing and ordered the good stuff.”
I don’t reply, sipping my wine instead. Since he’s the one funding the whole party, why the hell wouldn’t she order the good stuff?
Simon stops and talks to a group of friends. They’re all around his age, mid-fifties or so. I stand dutifully beside him, smiling when he introduces me, ignoring their raised eyebrows and pointed stares. They look at me as if I’m a money-grabbing bitch. I want to tell them I rarely spend his money. I have my own salary, paltry as it is, and my own bank account, too. It’s not his money that ever attracted me to him. It was his protection.
I swallow the bile collecting in my throat. The paintings on the gallery walls call to me. I drift over to them, getting as close as I can, admiring the composition, the colour, the brushstrokes. I could lose myself in their beauty for hours. I’ve always loved art. I’m not a great painter, but I am an admirer. Not quite a connoisseur.
“What do you think?” Elise’s nasal, upper-class voice whispers in my ear. I turn to her and smile.
“They’re fantastic. So beautiful. It’s killing me not to touch them.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I’ve just sold this one for forty thousand.”
I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’ve been with Simon for long enough to know the sort of things the over-rich spend their money on. I can’t help thinking of what we could do with that kind of money in the clinic.
“I bet the artist’s happy.”
She smiles. “He is. And so should you be, because I’ve persuaded him to teach at the clinic.”
My breath escapes in a rush. Mister forty thousand is going to teach our class? Our deprived, jaded, undernourished kids? I don’t know whether to be pleased or apprehensive.
I laugh lightly, though the smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Does he know what he’s letting himself in for?”
“Why not ask him yourself?” She walks me to the centre of the room where a large crowd has gathered. A hum of conversation lingers in the air. I hang on the edge, a little embarrassed when Elise pushes her way through, trying to open up the crowd like Moses would the Red Sea.
“There you are, Niall.” Her loud voice carries across the room. “I’d like you to meet Bethany. She works at the clinic I was telling you about.”
I see his blue eyes first—bright, intense, azure as the ocean. They make my heart stutter. He narrows them when he looks at me. My stomach tightens and twists as if it’s being wrung by a mangle.
My past has just walked back into my life, and it’s all I can do to breathe.
* * *
The last time I saw Niall Joseph, I pretended I didn’t know him. I was being marched away from the university administration building by my father, his fingers squeezing into my wrist, his lips tight and angry. It was early evening, and I’d been given two hours to clear my room out and leave the campus, otherwise I’d be escorted away by security.
We’d almost reached the halls of residence when I noticed a tall figure lolling against the front porch. He had what looked like a cigarette in his hand, but by the time we reached him I realised it wasn’t a cigarette at all. The musty aroma and his red eyes were a dead giveaway.
Of course, my eyes were red too, but for an entirely different reason. I’d been crying on and off for the past few days. Had been in floods when I answered the investigator’s questions, trying to tell them about my friendship with Digby, and to describe what happened the night he died.
Lying through my teeth that I didn’t know where he got the ecstasy from. Of course I knew. We all did. Niall was quite the supplier back then.
Every time I sobbed, my father rolled his eyes. He’d made it patently clear he’d rather be anywhere than there. He was only accompanying me to make sure I didn’t make a fool out of myself. Out of our family.
“Are you okay?” Niall pushed himself off the wall and walked toward us. My dad said nothing, but I felt his fingers tighten on my arm. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“I’m fine.” Short, terse. I glanced at my dad from the corner of my eye. He was staring at us, open-mouthed.
Niall put the joint to his mouth and inhaled again. Jesus, did he have a death wish? “You don’t look fine. You look crap.”
“Do you know this young man, Bethany?” My father’s patience finally ran out. I was shaking by the time I looked up at him, scared of pretty much everything that had happened. In the past few days I’d seen one of my closest friends die, been questioned by journalists and policemen, and finally been hauled up in front of the administration. I was spent, done. Nothing more than a quivering wreck. Now Niall—who had given Digby the drugs in the first place—was smoking a joint in front of my dad.
Maybe, if my dad had been somebody else, less concerned with appearances and more worried about his daughter, it would all have been different. Perhaps if I had been stronger, not the broken girl I’d ended up as, I might have been able to answer him properly. Instead of that, I shook my head.
“No, I don’t know him at all.”
* * *
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Niall reaches out and shakes my hand. I stare at the way his long fingers curl around my palm, and feel beads of sweat break out on my skin. It takes everything I have not to let him feel my hand tremble, because I don’t want him to know just how shocked I am to see him again.
“It’s good to meet you, too. Elise tells me you’re going to be working with us.” I can’t look at him. Instead I stare at his feet, noting how shiny his black leather shoes are. They look so different to the trainers I remember him wearing. Always beaten up, splattered with paint.
Like the rest of him.
“I’d like to.” His voice is softer than I remember. The Dublin lilt is still there, though. “It’s something I feel strongly about.”
“Drugs?” Surprised, I look up at him, my eyes wide. I have to take a deep breath when I see him staring straight at me.
He’s still beautiful. His hair is a little longer but still as dark as newspaper ink. His face has lost that youthful plumpness, replaced by chiselled cheekbones, shadowed by stubble. But I’d recognise him anywhere. Those full, red lips, that nose with a slight bump on the bridge, the tiny scar next to his right ear that he got playing football when he was a kid. They’re all there, a reminder of everything that happened all those years ago. Everything I’ve tried to forget.
“I want to give something back. I’ve been given a lot of good things in life. Other people aren’t so lucky.”
My mind is full of questions I don’t know how to ask. How he’s been, what he’s been doing, but I don’t voice any of them, I’m too afraid. Scared of dredging up the past like a river full of silt.
“Well, we’d be really grateful for your help. The kids love art on Thursdays; it’s their favourite class.” I feel better when I talk about the clinic. More grounded. This is my reality now, not those memories that are trying to resurface. “They’re not da Vinci’s or anything, but some of them seem to have talent.”
“Well, I’m no da Vinci either.”
I glance around the gallery. “You’re pretty good.”
He actually blushes. “Thank you.”
It’s hard not to stare at his red cheeks. Hard to forget how they used to feel as I traced my finger across them. Niall doesn’t show the slightest hint he remembers me, and I’m trying not to feel disappointed. This situation is embarrassing enough as it is. I don’t need to make it any worse.
“I got you another drink, darling.” Simon hands me a white wine. The glass is misted. Small droplets of water run onto my hand as I take it.
“Simon, this is Niall, the artist Elise has found. This is Simon, Elise’s father. He owns the gallery.”
The two men shake hands, and I can’t help compare them. Simon’s are pale and pinched. Grey hair curls over his cuffs. “Pleased to meet you. Elise says you’re going to do wonders at the clinic.”
An awkwardness descends. We make small talk. I fidget with my wine and glance around the room. Simon and Niall seem so much more comfortable, enough to strike up a conversation without me. It gives me the space I need to calm myself down. I remind myself I’m here as Simon’s wife. The old Beth is gone. I don’t need to be scared anymore. It’s as if my brain knows, but my body doesn’t, and for the first time in years I feel that familiar constriction in my chest.
Breathe. Just breathe.
There are too many people in the room. It’s as if they’re crowding toward me, crushing me. My heart is speeding so fast it’s almost painful.
“I need the bathroom.” I shove my glass into Simon’s free hand and almost run across the gallery floor, stumbling a couple of times when I barrel into a guest. Looking back, I see the two of them staring at me.
My husband and the man I used to know. The one who protects me, and the one who taught me what passion was.
He painted it across my body when I was a blank canvas.
Something long dormant sparks inside me as I remember how good it felt.
“Hey, Rain Girl!”
I whip my head around and nearly drop the books I’ve balanced precariously in my arms. The grass is teeming with students. The sun beats down. It’s warm enough for girls to be dressed in tiny shorts and skimpy tops. It seems half the boys have taken off their t-shirts, revealing pale skin that’s turning pinker by the second. I can’t see where the voice is coming from, so I shrug and carry on walking. My last lecture has just finished and I’m heading back toward the halls of residence. Clad in jeans and a long-sleeved top, I’m hot and completely overdressed.
“Over here.” Niall rounds his ‘r’s and for some reason it sounds insanely sexy. I glance to my left and spot him, sitting with a group of friends alongside the lake. He catches my eye and smiles, making my stomach clench.
I want to wave, but I’m holding too many books. Instead I kind of tip my head to the side and give him a toothy, lopsided smile. I silently kick myself for being so lame, because this is Niall Joseph we are talking about. God of Gods, King of Kings and he’s talking to me.
He’s still smiling. I begin to feel stupid, standing here goofily, so I raise my eyebrows in what I hope comes across as a nonchalant, see you around kind of expression, and start to walk away.
“Wait up.” He stands up and half-runs after me. He’s holding a spliff between his index and middle fingers. When he comes to a stop in front of me, he raises it to his lips. He exhales and the breeze wafts the smoke over my face.
“You want some?”
I shrug and look down at my arms. He follows my gaze and notices how full my hands are. Switching the spliff around in his fingers, he lifts the blunt end to my lips and I breathe it in. A moment later, I catch his eye and he’s still smiling at me and I don’t know if it’s him or the drugs that’s making me lightheaded. He sticks the spliff back in his mouth and then grabs my books, lifting them easily in his arms. Without even asking me if I want to join him, he walks back to his group.
Of course, I follow him.
Awkwardly, I sit down beside him. His friends are a who’s who of campus elite, either rich, talented or a mixture of both. It’s hard not to feel boring and prosaic in comparison.
Niall puts the spliff back up to my lips, even though my hands are free now. My cheeks heat up when I realise he’s still staring at me. He has this intensity that makes me want to shiver even though I’m boiling in my long sleeves and jeans.
“Does she have a name?” The boy sitting on the other side of Niall looks at me. Or I think he does; it’s hard to tell when he’s wearing Ray-Bans and a cap that cover his eyes.
“She’s called Rain Girl.” Niall’s voice is soft. His lips quirk into a smile and it feels as if it’s just for me.
“Weird name.” The guy screws up his nose. “And singularly inappropriate for this kind of weather. But I guess it suits you.” He reaches across Niall and shakes my hand. “I’m Digby.”
Digby?
“Hi.”
“I think I’ll call you after the Greek goddess of rain... who is... um....”
“There is no Greek goddess of rain, dickhead.” That comes from a girl lying down on her stomach, across the way from us. She has a deep, croaky voice and sounds as if she’s been on sixty a day all her life.
“Yes there is. It’s Iris.”
Throat girl chuckles. “She’s the goddess of rainbows, not rain. Zeus is responsible for rain.”
“I’m not calling her Zeus.”
Thank God for small mercies.
“My name’s Beth,” I say with a small voice. They all stop talking and look at me. Suddenly I understand how a zoo animal must feel.
“I prefer Iris,” Digby says.
“Well, it’s better than Zeus,” throat girl says.
Niall just leans across to me and places his soft lips on the sensitive skin just below my ear. “You’ll always be Rain Girl to me.”
3
I meet Daisy at a cafe on a damp Tuesday morning. She’s sitting outside at a stainless-steel bistro table under the awning. A half-smoked cigarette is clutched between her fingers. She raises it up to her dry, cracked lips, sucking at the filter, her cheeks hollowing as she inhales. When she breathes out, the smoke combines with the vapour dancing in the air.
“Would you like a coffee?” I stop next to her. She looks up, almost surprised.
“Can I have a Coke instead? I’ve got a hangover.”
When I come back out, she’s finished her cigarette. She has her phone in her hand and is leaning over it. Her lank hair hangs over her eyes. I put her Coke and my over-full coffee cup down on the table. It rocks a little, and coffee sloshes over the rim, spilling onto the metal surface, running toward the edge.
“How are you?” I sit down and take a sip of coffee. It’s so hot it scalds my lips.
“Okay.”
“And Allegra?”
Daisy tears her eyes away from her phone; her whites look yellow and there are dark shadows beneath them. It looks as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. “She’s okay.”
