by Lesley Lokko
‘I . . . I was just . . . it’s my . . . it’s a bit complicated,’ she stammered, embarrassment seeping up through her pores like sweat. ‘My . . . my life, I mean.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Yves’ eyes, darkly brilliant, watched her intently.
She looked down at her hands. If she did open up to him, he would immediately withdraw. Who would want to take on the burden of a girl whose parents had been murdered, whose life had been turned upside down, whose future was so murky and undetermined that it wasn’t possible to see a month ahead, let alone six. Who would want that? ‘I . . . you don’t know much about me, do you?’ she said at last.
‘I know enough,’ he said carefully. She looked up. His expression was hard to read.
His answer caught her off-guard. ‘It’s just . . . I’m probably not who you think I am,’ she said slowly. She picked up her chopsticks and began to fiddle with them. ‘I’m . . . well, the thing is . . .’ She stopped again, unsure of how to go on.
He made a sudden, oddly familiar movement with his hand – a gentle flick of the wrist, fingers splayed outwards, as though chasing something off. It was a gesture she’d seen her father make, many times before. ‘What does it matter?’ he said slowly. ‘You’re a bit of an enigma, Annick, but I like that. You’re interesting, you’re kind. You have a good heart. Those are the things that count. That’s all I need to know.’
Interesting, kind, good-hearted . . . they weren’t the sort of compliments she was used to hearing, but then again it had been so long since she’d actually received a compliment, who was she to argue? She bent her head back down to her food, hoping the blush staining her cheeks didn’t show.
64
REBECCA
London
‘But you can’t not have a launch,’ Rebecca said, quickly scanning the menu. ‘I’ll have the Caesar salad,’ she said to the hovering waiter. ‘And a sparkling water.’
‘Same here, but I’ll have glass of the Sauvignon Blanc,’ Tash said, folding her menu with a snap. She turned back to Rebecca. ‘We’ll be going live at midnight the night before. I don’t think we need a launch.’
‘It’s not about what you need, darling,’ Rebecca said mildly. She waited until their drinks had been carefully put down and the waiter had disappeared. She looked at Tash closely. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair, whilst never exactly glossy or full, was lank. She watched her pick up the glass of wine and down it in one gulp. ‘Tash,’ Rebecca murmured. ‘Go easy.’
‘What?’
‘The wine, darling. You’re meant to sip it, not swill it.’
Tash rolled her eyes and signalled to the waiter. ‘I’ll sip the second one,’ she grinned.
Rebecca bit her lip. It was the third time in as many weeks that she’d had dinner with Tash and she’d been shocked by Tash’s ability to knock back one glass of wine after another. The last time they’d eaten together, Tash had barely touched her food. She’d always been slim; now she was positively scrawny. ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked hesitantly.
Tash paused, the glass already on its way to her lips. ‘Yes, of course. Why d’you ask?’
‘No particular reason. You just look . . . well, a bit tired.’
‘Of course I’m tired. I’ve hardly slept all week. Fuck, I’ve hardly slept since March. But we’re close . . . we’re nearly there.’
‘Don’t you think you ought to . . . I don’t know . . . get some rest?’
‘I’ll rest when we’re ready to go,’ Tash said firmly. The waiter interrupted them again. Their salads had arrived.
Rebecca watched Tash chase a piece of limp lettuce leaf halfway round her plate before putting it reluctantly in her mouth. ‘So . . . what else needs to be done?’ she asked hesitantly.
Tash looked up and grinned. ‘Everything. God, it just never seems to end.’ She rattled off a list of things that left Rebecca reeling. IT, finance, merchandising, packaging, logistics – words that Rebecca had barely heard of, let alone imagined that her best friend had a handle on. Despite her appearance, Tash was formidable when she was in full flow. ‘Packaging’s one of our biggest costs right now and Julian thinks I’m going overboard, but I think it’s crucial. Every box has to seem like a gift, d’you know what I mean?’
Rebecca nodded hurriedly. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘And then there’s the bloody designers. They’re a complete pain in the arse. Edith’s great – she does most of the pitching – my contacts are mostly editorial, you know, not the designers, but still . . . this one wants to know who’s signed up before she makes a decision, that one doesn’t want this one on board . . . Christ, they’re worse than schoolchildren. They just can’t seem to get it through their heads that the more they sign up for it, the more we all win.’
Rebecca nodded again, this time uncertainly. The truth was, she couldn’t imagine shopping for anything online, much less designer clothes. She’d bought the occasional book from Amazon but that was about it. Embeth was more of an internet user than she was, much to Embeth’s amusement. She thought Tash’s idea was absolutely genius, as did Julian, though he had reservations of a different kind. He thought that Tash herself was a terrible advert for an online fashion business. ‘She’s got to do something about those damned teeth,’ he’d said to her on more than one occasion. ‘And that awful hair. Why can’t she just go to a hairdresser like everyone else?’
‘That’s just Tash,’ Rebecca said, sighing. ‘She’s not interested in herself.’
‘She ought to be. She’s selling beauty and glamour and sex . . . and she’s the bloody polar opposite of it all. No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Julian!’ Rebecca said, shocked at his vehemence. ‘Tash is lovely, you’ve said so yourself.’
‘Lovely person, yes, but hardly lovely to look at. Come on, admit it. Not everyone’s as beautiful as you, darling, but she really ought to make more of an effort.’
She looked at her friend now, trying to see her as Julian – or another man – might. She was in the middle of recounting how she’d walked into some showroom on New Bond Street – with an appointment! – and hadn’t managed to get past the receptionist. Perhaps Julian did have a point? Not about not being able to find a boyfriend, but about her stubborn refusal to do anything about her teeth, hair, face, skin. She had bags of style but seemed totally unwilling to change anything about herself. What was it? She had an almost pathological fear of appearing feminine in any way – perhaps it was because of Lyudmila? Despite the fact she’d known Tash for almost half her life, Rebecca barely knew Lyudmila. She found her accent almost impenetrable, but it wasn’t just that. She found Lyudmila childish – sulky and petulant in a way that Tash had never been allowed to be. At times, when they were teenagers, she’d found it hard to believe that Lyudmila was actually the mother. ‘Tash,’ she said hesitantly, wondering whether it was a good idea to go down this particular road.
‘Mmm?’ Tash looked up when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.
‘Have . . . have you thought about maybe seeing a . . . a dentist? You know, about your teeth? My dentist is brilliant . . . you know where I go, don’t you? Dr Haslam, on Great Titchfield Street. I could make an appointment for you and—’
‘You’re beginning to sound like my mother,’ Tash interrupted her. ‘I’ve got a gazillion things to do that are far more important than my damned teeth,’ she said impatiently. ‘Here I am, trying to get this enterprise off the ground, working day and night, taking on all this debt and all you lot care about is whether or not my teeth are straight and my hair’s been cut. I can’t believe you sometimes.’
‘But, Tash—’
‘But nothing! You’ve got no idea what it’s like, Rebecca. You’ve always had Mummy and Daddy behind you, supporting you all the way, making sure everything’s perfect and just the way their little girl likes it. You’ve never had to work for anything. It’s all there. Well, I haven’t. There’s no one behind me. No one. So excuse me
if I’m not bothered about fixing my teeth or getting a boob job or whatever the fuck it is you think I need. I’ve got other things to worry about.’
‘I never said anything about a boob job,’ Rebecca protested, dismay rising in her like a tide. ‘That’s not what I meant!’
‘Oh, no? You mean Julian didn’t mention that I could do with a little sprucing up? Let me see . . . how would he put it? Lovely girl, Tash, but Christ, she could do with a makeover—’
‘Leave Julian out of this,’ Rebecca said hotly. ‘He would never say anything like that.’
‘Come off it. I know you, Rebecca. I know when you’re lying and you’re lying now. Why don’t you just admit it? And what did you say in my defence, eh?’
‘You’re being horribly unfair.’
‘Am I? Really, Rebecca? Come on, you don’t have to pretend.’
‘I’m not pretending!’
‘Then why even bring it up?’
‘I just—’ Rebecca stopped, floundering. Her cheeks were warm and, to her horror, she realised they were wet. She was crying. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Tash had it all wrong, as usual. She wanted to help her, for God’s sake. ‘I’m on your side, Tash,’ she said shakily, wiping away her tears. ‘Why d’you always have to be so damned prickly about everything? I’m only trying to help.’
‘Then leave my looks out of it,’ Tash hissed angrily. ‘We can’t all be as perfect as you, Rebecca. Some of us have to work at it. At everything. So do me a favour and shut the fuck up about dentists and doctors and hairdressers. If you really want to help me, do something practical.’
‘Like what?’ Rebecca asked helplessly.
‘I don’t know. Figure it out.’ Tash stood up suddenly. She grabbed her bag, yanked it open and pulled out her wallet. ‘Here, I’ll get this. I’ve lost my appetite.’
Rebecca looked up at her, shocked by the anger and frustration etched on Tash’s face. ‘No, no . . . don’t be silly, Tash. I’ll get this. Don’t waste your money—’
‘This isn’t about the money, you idiot!’ Tash flung two twenty-pound notes onto the starched white tablecloth. She picked up her jacket. By now everyone in the restaurant, including the two waiters, was staring. ‘Don’t you understand anything?’
‘I—’ Rebecca started to protest her innocence but it was too late. Tash grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and was gone.
‘No, no . . . I’m fine. I’ll just . . . can I just have the bill, please?’ Rebecca brushed aside the waiter’s concern. ‘No, I’m fine.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin and fumbled in her bag for her purse. She picked up the money Tash had flung at her and folded it away. She handed over her credit card, studiously ignoring the curious glances of the other diners and, at last, was able to get up and walk out with as much dignity as she could muster. She hurried down the stairs, her heart thumping. She hurried out into the street, holding her handbag above her head against the drizzle and flagged down a cab. ‘Flask Walk. Just off Hampstead High Street.’
‘Right you are.’ The cab swung around and sped off towards the Euston Road. She leaned back against the seat and rubbed her temples. She had a splitting headache. It was just after nine. Julian was in Paris – she wanted to talk to someone about what had just happened, but whom? Outside of Julian, Tash and her immediate family, she had few really close friends. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the headlights coming towards them. It was raining; the light droplets fell against the cab windows in spittle streaks, the tyres making a dull splashing sound as they headed towards Hampstead. It was a Wednesday night and there was little traffic about. Half an hour after she’d climbed in, she was at home. She fished out a twenty-pound note and told the driver to keep the change. She climbed the steps to the pale-blue door that was theirs, slid the key into the lock and shut it firmly behind her.
The smell of the flat that was already specially and uniquely theirs, washed over her. A combination of the candles that she bought every other week from The White Company, the scent of whatever the housekeeper had been cooking that day and her own perfume. She inhaled deeply. As soon as she and Julian were married, Martha, Embeth’s housekeeper of thirty-odd years, had insisted on sending over one of the young women who worked at Harburg Hall. Liz was a pleasant, exceedingly capable woman, just a little older than Rebecca, who came in three times a week. Rebecca’s protests that she didn’t need a housekeeper had fallen on deaf ears. Embeth was gently insistent. Embeth won. But it was worth it, Rebecca had to admit to herself. The house, a tall, three-storey Georgian property on the north side of the street, set back from the main road by a narrow strip of grass and the most magnificent cherry tree in their small front garden, would have been impossible for her to keep sparkling clean, polished and dusted in the manner that Julian liked. Liz didn’t just cook and clean – she transformed the house into the sort of gloriously pristine environment that soothed you just to look at it.
She looked down the hallway to the kitchen and dining room beyond. The walls were painted a light, muted grey – Julian’s choice – which complemented his artwork beautifully. There was another Stephen Conroy hanging above the mantelpiece in the living room, and several striking photographs by Gursky, including his famous Shanghai in stunning yellows and golds that he’d hung behind the olive linen sofa in the living room. She’d always thought of herself as having good taste but Julian’s taste was bolder. It worked well.
She walked into the living room, kicking off her shoes and letting her coat fall to the ground in a way she wouldn’t have dared do had Julian been home. The whole house was quiet, thrumming to the hidden, silent beat of refrigerators, freezers, immersion heaters, radiators, the paraphernalia of the modern home that renders everything inside it comfortable. She wriggled her bare toes in the luxuriously soft pelt of the sheepskin rug that lay before the fire and sank down into the warm embrace of the sofa. Her hair was damp; she could feel the moisture at the nape of her neck where her coat had failed to stop the rain. A round glass bowl of deep purple and pink peonies – another of Liz’s gifts; she knew exactly what sort of flowers Rebecca liked and where to get them – sat fat and snug on the antique coffee table. She stared at the petals as if seeing them for the first time. There was a beautiful gold and agate necklace lying across the coffee table; she smiled, remembering that she’d left it there that morning as she was getting dressed. She picked it up, letting the delicate gold chain run through her fingers. Her tattoo jumped out at her from the creamy fold of skin between her thumb and forefinger. She touched it lightly and closed her eyes. She could remember the day they’d got them – all three of them, as if it were yesterday.
They all stop. The sign above the door reads Delaney’s Tattoo Parlour. 122 King’s Road, Chelsea. It’s Annick who voices what they’re all thinking. ‘Shall we? Shall we all get one?’
‘The same one?’ That’s Tash. ‘All of us?’
‘Won’t it hurt?’
‘Oh, Rebecca.’ Both Tash and Annick turn to look at her.
‘Sue Parker’s brother got one done the other day. She said he said it hurt like hell.’
‘Yeah, but I bet his covered half of his back, or something stupid like that. We’re only going to get something small.’
‘Like what?’
Annick shrugs. ‘How about a rose?’
Tash rolls her eyes. ‘Bo-ring. Let’s get something that actually means something. To all of us.’
‘Like what?’ Rebecca’s curiosity gets the better of her.
‘How about something . . . something like that?’ Tash points to the window, which is covered in stickers and posters and drawings of all the things that, for a modest fee, can be yours, anywhere you want on your own body.
‘Which one?’ Annick steps closer to see.
‘That one. The triangle. Three points – that’s us.’
‘How about a triangle set in a circle?’ Annick’s idea.
‘Genius. Fucking genius.’ T
ash grins. ‘The three of us, together, always. I love it. Here, right here where we’ll always see it.’ She points to that tender spot between thumb and forefinger, that little fold of skin which, when the hand is spread, opens out.
‘Come on, before Rebecca chickens out,’ Annick laughs.
‘I won’t.’ Rebecca suppresses the small tremor of fear and apprehension in her stomach. A tattoo. What on earth would her mother say? ‘Does . . . does it have to be right there?’ she looks at her hand. ‘Can’t it be somewhere more . . . well, hidden?’
