“Ah, that’s right. Your boyfriend – of the painting.” He motioned with both hands up to the picture of Paul, then glanced around the room. It was the one she’d worked hardest on, the one she’d spent weeks perfecting. She’d done secret preliminary sketches while he’d been lost in thought, reclining on the couch. She’d experimented with the composition using different media. But the one she’d done with acrylics was her favourite. She’d stopped at just the right point, hadn’t overcooked it. That was a big step for her. She’d wanted to show it to him tonight.
“Is he here?”
She winced. More than anyone, she didn’t want to tell Mike she’d been stood up. Her eyes dipped and she shook her head, making an excuse for him.
“That’s a shame,” Mike said in a way that made her feel the full weight of Paul’s absence.
The conversation ended and Mike moved on, flitting around the room like a busy moth. Lena stuck out the rest of the evening without enthusiasm, willing it to end quickly so she could go home to the flat and forget about it all.
At the first opportunity, she started to take down her pictures, preparing to leave. Having placed her work carefully in her plastic case, she went round and said her goodbyes. She slipped out as quietly as she could and began to walk to her bus stop, just outside the college grounds, hoping the bus would be along soon. Dusk was falling.
Sitting in the empty shelter, perched on the plastic bench, she swung her legs and became lost in her own thoughts. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed and there was still no sign of the bus. Feeling more and more aggrieved by the way the night had unfolded, she began pacing back and forth.
“Lena!” a voice called out. For a second she thought it was Paul and she spun around excitedly. A sun-bleached old Vauxhall, red with a blue bonnet, pulled up at the bus stop and Mike’s head appeared from the driver’s window. “Lena, I thought that was you.”
Trying not to show her disappointment, she walked over to meet him. “Mike, hi.”
“I thought you left ages ago,” he said.
She motioned to the bus stop and threw up her hands in exaggerated despair. “No bus.”
“Well, I can give you a lift, if you want? Where’re you headed?” He scratched his head awkwardly.
“City centre?”
“Sure, no problem.”
Lena did one final check for her bus but there was still no sign. It was getting dark now and her folder was heavy. She opened the back door and threw it on the back seat, among a jumble of old water bottles, different magazines and random bits of paper.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said as she got in the front and pulled on her seatbelt. He flicked on the cassette player and pulled back out onto the road.
Out of the speakers came the voice of a man squealing about needles and damage and other depressing things. Lena reached for the cassette cover on the dashboard. The song titles were hand-written in blue ink, and little love hearts – now smudged – had been drawn on.
Mike drummed his hands on the steering wheel and hummed along. He turned round and saw her holding the cover. “From my ex,” he said. “She made me a compilation, some of my favourite songs.”
Lena tried to picture what the women he went out with might be like. She imagined ripped jeans and cigarillos. Someone with a vinyl collection and shelves full of important books.
“Was her taste in music as bad as yours?” Lena joked. Mike gave a sarcastic scoff.
There had been mild flirtation between them all year; mostly her teasing him about his age and him mocking her ignorance of what he considered to be relevant culture. Lena listened to music on her MP3 player and didn’t have anything on it that hadn’t been in the charts in the last six months.
“I’ll have you know, this song is a classic,” he said, and quoted some interesting fact about it, which he seemed to be able to do for every song written before the year 2000.
“Do you always listen to old music?” She screwed up her face.
Mike tutted. “Sorry it’s not Now 61.”
She laughed and looked out the window as they joined the motorway. As they flew past industrial parks and high-rises, she wondered vaguely about the people that lived inside them. She wondered where Mike lived; probably the West End, she thought. That was where most people who weren’t from Glasgow ended up, along with the students and yuppies.
“Do you not have something a bit more upbeat?”
Mike flicked on the radio. A dance song came on. Lena tapped her toe. “Finally. Something from this century!”
Mike just shrugged his shoulders and affected disdain but she could see him bobbing his head.
As they approached her street he accidentally took a wrong turn. It took them a minute or two to get back on track. Lena hummed to herself. When they neared her flat she pointed it out. “There it is,” she said, watching it disappear as they passed it.
“You missed it!” she said, louder.
“Oops,” he said and drove on to the end of the street, parking a few hundred yards from her front door. He switched off the engine and the music stopped abruptly.
“Well, here you go.” He held up his hands. “Your boyfriend in there waiting on you, is he?”
“Yeah,” Lena said. She felt uneasy talking to him about Paul. “Thanks again. Hope you enjoy your few weeks off now. Fingers crossed for the weather.” Her hand went to the door handle.
“You too,” he said.
The handle jammed when she pulled it. She pulled it again but it didn’t open.
“Oh, sorry, locked it,” he said and went to click it off. He stopped. Drummed his hands on the wheel.
Lena’s hand went back to the handle.
“Before you go…” he looked at her sheepishly, drumming some more. “I just want you to know, Lena…” his hands stopped. “That I’m here for you. If you ever need me. I want you to know that.”
The words stuttered out of him. There was a moment of awkwardness as it became clear what he was saying. Their eyes met briefly before she looked down. She’d had a feeling something like this would happen but she’d hoped it wouldn’t. He placed a hand on her knee.
She yanked her knee away. “I have a boyfriend.”
In another life she might have thought about it. He was witty and smart and handsome and fun. But he wasn’t Paul and that was what mattered.
“I’m sorry, Mike. You’re a really great teacher—” she said, her hand still on the handle.
“Now that you’ve had your good reference, you don’t need me, is that it?” He cut her off. “Forget it! I don’t know what I’m saying. You’re not my type anyway.”
He tapped the switch and the door handle clicked. Lena opened the door. Air rushed in. He nodded towards the street. “And let me know how you get on with the art school,” he said and cocked an eyebrow, sounding like a teacher again.
“OK.” She got out of the car.
Before she shut the door, she saw his head bow down and heard a sigh. “Cock-tease,” he muttered under his breath.
She tutted and opened the back door to get her folder, slamming it when she was done. She stood on the street and watched as his old red Vauxhall pulled off down the road. Hoping she’d never have to see him again.
The flat was dark and empty; she wasn’t surprised. Dropping her folder in the hall, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a large glass of wine then took it into the living room and sat there alone in front of the TV.
Paul would have hated it at the exhibition. But it was still shitty that he hadn’t been there. Feeling totally deflated, she had to remind herself that it was just one bad day for them. They happened. And a good day would be waiting just around the corner. She had faith in that. It would carry her though. The next day would be better.
Maybe there was a good reason. Maybe he was still annoyed about her box of money. S
he hoped he’d come home soon so they could talk it through.
Curling up on the couch, she pulled a felt blanket over herself and fell into an unsettled sleep, trying not to think about what she knew in her heart to be true. Whatever was wrong, it was about more than just some money in a box.
The sun was coming up when Lena finally heard Paul’s key turn in the door. It jolted her awake and she sat up on the couch. The room was a dull grey and it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust.
“Paul?” she shouted. She could hear his feet in the hall. He hadn’t turned the light on.
Getting off the couch, she went out to meet him in the hallway.
“Paul? Where have you been?” she asked through the gloom.
He came through the door dishevelled and bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. It looked like he’d been fighting. Not for the first time.
“What happened?” she said, her voice rising an octave.
“I went to the casino.” He brushed past her, into the bedroom.
She followed him in, consumed with worry. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He looked broken as he flopped down on the bed. “We’ll talk about it after. Please, I’m too tired right now.”
He put his head on the pillow. She walked round to continue the conversation and get into bed alongside him, but his breathing grew heavy and she realised he was already asleep.
When she woke up a few hours later, the summer sunshine was streaming through the window and he was still in bed beside her. Usually he was up and gone before seven. He was lying motionless, staring at her. She wondered how long he had been like that.
“Don’t you have to be at work?” she said, opening her eyes fully.
“I took the morning off.” He ran his fingers through her hair and smiled.
She stared back at him. Looked at the cut above his eyebrow; at the reddish stain on his pillow.
“I’m sorry about the exhibition,” he said. “I didn’t forget. I just got caught up in something.”
She traced her hand down his face, touching the blackened skin around the cut. They lay together for some time, not talking, neither of them knowing what to say.
Eventually she got up and went into the bathroom to take a shower, leaving him alone on the bed.
Bacon and eggs were frying on the cooker by the time she emerged. Paul had laid out cutlery for two on the work surface.
“Breakfast?” he said. It was the first time they’d eaten a meal together in weeks.
She nodded.
Stepping away from the sizzling pans, he came towards her and put his arm around her. She could smell the antiseptic cream he’d applied to his forehead. It rubbed off on her cheek, leaving her smelling of hospitals.
“Did you sort the problem with the plumber?” she asked.
He nodded and kissed her on the head. She watched as he turned off the cooker and began to spoon the food onto their plates. He placed the breakfast on the counter in front of her and began to eat.
She took a forkful.
“You know I love you, don’t you? More than anything in the world.” He turned towards her.
She nodded uncertainly. “I love you too.”
“Once we’ve had the opening night for the relaunch of the bar, it’ll all go back to normal, I promise. I’ll make it up to you.”
She smiled, uneasily. “Not long now.”
He chased his food around the plate. “Do you ever just wish we could run away together?” he asked, then added abruptly, “The two of us, no one else, just getting away… Away from the rain. Away from here.”
“Paul…” She sighed. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
He looked at his watch. “Shit, look at the time. I have to get going.”
She sighed again. She’d learned not to expect answers.
A few minutes later, he rushed out the door. She barely saw him for the rest of the week.
On the night before the opening he didn’t come home at all.
Chapter Eighteen
Paul surveyed the newly refurbished bar with satisfaction, enjoying its perfection. He felt a small twinge of sadness as he thought of the waiting customers, knowing the place would never be as flawless again. The old dame had been revamped in style. Embracing her cracks and crags, they had stripped the wall behind the bar down to the bare brick and exposed the steel piping that ran along the roof. Every inch of the stone-tiled floor had been scrubbed. The black, granite-topped bar was unmarked, with not a single streak. Behind it, bottles of every shape and colour sparkled. Each one had been individually polished. Newly fitted low-level lighting gave it a forbidden, illusionary feel, as if nothing were quite real.
There was a queue building up outside.
He took one last look at his beautiful bar. Everyone was at their stations, poised. The door staff, in smart black suits, were ready with glasses of champagne to welcome people as they came in. Waiters in crisp white shirts and black waistcoats prepared to circle with trays of canapés.
The place smelled of lemons and fresh leather. Every detail was perfect.
Apart from one.
Paul looked at the empty space at his side where Lena should have been standing. She hadn’t shown up. She was supposed to be there to help with the meet and greet. He nodded at Lauren, the girl he’d put in her place. She wasn’t beautiful. She wouldn’t charm the customers. Lena wasn’t there and he had no idea why.
He did one final check of his phone. No messages. He held his head up. So be it. It was time to open the doors. He adjusted the lapel of his Hugo Boss suit and polished a fingerprint from one final glass.
“OK. Good luck, everyone. Show time.”
There was a brief hush before the crowds began to filter in. Paul watched them enter: well dressed; expensive accessories. The celebrated DJ he’d hired for the night started playing. The launch party got under way.
The initial part was a ticket-only affair, due to last from seven thirty till nine. This was his chance to shine. He’d sent invites to all the prominent businesses, and to theatres, television companies and relevant members of the press, but he was overwhelmed to see how many people showed up. It had kept him awake at night, worrying that no one would come. After nine, the doors would open to the general public.
The week before he’d held a training day for all bar staff on how to make cocktails. For the night he’d hired two expert cocktail makers for some extra entertainment – throwing shakers, spinning bottles to wow the customers. He wanted fireworks.
Paul mingled with his guests, fetched menus, prepared drinks, did whatever was needed. He felt like he’d been preparing for this his whole life and his nerves disappeared as soon as things got under way. When a waiter spilled a drink on a woman’s new coat, Paul offered to pay the dry cleaning bill. When they ran out of midori, he sent someone to the local Sainsbury’s to get an emergency stash. He took everything in his stride. Wherever he looked, customers were being treated like royalty, his staff fighting for each person’s approval. He’d invited them all into his handsome abode and was showing them the time of their lives.
When the free drinks were gone, Paul watched as cocktail after cocktail was poured, the pounds piling up behind the bar. Waiting time was kept to a minimum. Everyone was happy.
Before the doors opened to the public, he made a short speech thanking the representatives from the bank who’d given their sponsorship and provided the night’s champagne. He thanked the caterers, his staff, the builders and their families. And to finish off, he took a moment to mention John, the previous owner of The Low Road who had tragically passed away. Nobody there knew who he was but Paul thought he would have been proud of it. Finally he thanked John’s wife, the current owner, who sadly couldn’t be there either. He made her apologies and bid everyone enjoy the rest of the evening.
After the
speech Paul spent some time out front with the bouncers, monitoring the members of the public who were now coming in. Getting a feel for the crowd, the numbers. It didn’t take long before the bar reached capacity and the bouncers started turning people away. Paul went back inside and mingled some more.
When last orders were finally called, the place was still rocking. The final drinks were sold, the music cut and the cleaning lights switched on. Only then did Paul get the chance to grab another quick look at his phone. Still nothing. With disappointment he put it back in the inner pocket of his jacket.
A journalist reviewing the bar asked to speak to him and they found a seat in the corner from which Paul could also supervise the clearing up and the customers’ evacuation. The journalist wanted to discuss the role Paul had played in the renovation. Paul told him about the initial idea, the challenges of working to a deadline, on budget. But mostly he talked about the effort made by the other people involved. He didn’t like talking about himself. He didn’t need the accolade. It was enough for him to see all his hard work come to fruition and to know himself that he’d done it. It was him that made this happen.
Mid-way through his prepared spiel, Paul was distracted by a familiar and unwelcome face at the other end of the bar. The white-headed man was dressed in the same shabby cream and grey ensemble of their first encounter, in this very bar. Paul excused himself from the interview and crossed over to confront him.
DCI Carmichael’s elbow was propped on the bar; with his free hand, he tapped his cheap watch. “You’re past your licensing hour.”
Paul looked over at the bar clock. It was a few minutes after half twelve. He glowered at Carmichael. “How did you get in? I hired doormen to keep out the riff-raff. There is a dress code.”
Carmichael snorted. “Dress up for this shithole? Why bother? The place stinks.”
“Well, why are you here then?” Paul raised his voice and then remembered where he was. Customers were still within earshot.
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