Before I Met You

by Lisa Jewell

  She stared at the broad set of his shoulders as she walked behind him down the stairs. His hair was so thick, even at his crown, the kind of hair that looked like it would still be there when he was an old man.

  ‘What happened to you, anyway?’ he said suddenly, without turning round.

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the party? You were going to come out and find me. You didn’t.’

  He sounded diffident, curious.

  Betty thought about her proximity to the front door of Candy Lee’s flat and said, ‘Ah, yes, sorry about that. It’s a very long story. And one best saved for another time.’

  He turned then and said, ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Tonight ...?’

  ‘Yeah. Tell me the story tonight. I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘I’m working tonight,’ she said, too fast and too carelessly. ‘Sorry.’ She immediately cringed at the sorry. Sorry implied that she was letting him down, implied that she had taken his power away in some way when all he’d done was suggest a quick drink. ‘I mean –’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to save it for me for another day.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will.’ She inhaled and then said, ‘Tomorrow? I’m free mid-evening?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m DJing. Most nights, in fact. I don’t get much free time.’

  Now he was reclaiming his power. He was too busy for her. It was tonight or never. She smiled tightly and said, ‘Ah well, never mind.’ They left the building and John slid his sunglasses down onto his face and smiled at her nervously.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Although ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  His body slackened again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes. You probably will.’

  ‘Oh, thank God. Thank God. Come in.’ Dom Jones ran his hands through his unruly hair and pulled the front door closed behind him. In the background Betty could hear a baby screaming and someone else having a tantrum.

  ‘Listen. What are you doing today?’

  She opened her mouth to reply but he talked over her as he led her into the kitchen. ‘I’ll give you two hundred quid,’ he said, scooping the baby from a bouncy chair and stepping over a prostrate Donny on the floor. ‘For the day,’ he continued. ‘I’ve got to go out, like, now. I mean, like an hour ago. I’ll be out all day. Don’t know what time I’ll be back. Will you do it? Please?’ He looked at her with angel eyes. ‘Please say you can do it?’

  Betty looked from Dom to the screaming baby, to Donny on the floor, to Acacia sitting on the kitchen table eating an overripe mango, sticky juice running down her face and onto her white cotton T-shirt. Then she thought about two hundred pounds. A week’s rent. A new hair colour.

  ‘I’m supposed to be working tonight,’ she said, ‘but I suppose I could call in sick. What time, roughly ...?’

  ‘No idea,’ he said snappily. ‘Could be late.’

  ‘So you want me to put them to bed?’

  He shrugged and moved the convulsing baby onto his other shoulder. ‘Yeah. I don’t know. Probably.’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘sure.’

  ‘You little star,’ he said. ‘You perfect little star.’ He looked at the clock again, looked at her, handed her the wailing baby and said, ‘I’m going to have a shower. Help yourself to anything. And yeah, thanks. Really. You’re the best.’ He smiled cheekily, the stress leaving his demeanour almost immediately.

  Betty smiled back. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

  She waited until he’d left the room and then she finally exhaled.

  The baby quietened in her calm embrace, Donny had stopped yelling and was looking at her curiously through a gap under his arm. Another stream of mango juice dripped down Acacia’s chin. It was silent.

  Dom poked his head round the door a few minutes later.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, surveying the scene. ‘You really do have the magic touch. Here,’ he passed her a piece of paper. ‘My mobile number, if you need to call me. I’ll ring when I’m on my way back. And, you guys,’ he addressed his children, ‘be good, otherwise Betty won’t come back and look after you again. OK?’

  He threw Betty a smile and said, ‘Got everything you need? All cool?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All cool.’

  He glanced at Betty. ‘You look lovely today, by the way.’

  Betty blushed and buried her face in the baby’s hair, but couldn’t think of anything to say in reply.

  27

  1920

  ARLETTE COULD NOT think what to wear for such a meeting. Lilian lay upon her bed, still in her nightdress at almost eleven o’clock, watching as she pulled items from her wardrobe. She had a cup and saucer balanced on her stomach and was tickling the cat with her big toe.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘absolutely not. Mr Beach will think you are a nun. A nun with very poor colour sense. Don’t you have something, I don’t know, something green?’

  Arlette shook her head. Her mother’s friend had once told her in a very disdainful tone of voice that no one with even a hint of red to their colouring should ever wear green. Red and green should never be seen.

  ‘But, you aren’t red,’ cried Lilian when Arlette repeated this aphorism. ‘Where are you red? You are brown! Brown hair, brown eyes, brown brown brown! Brown and green, looks like a dream.’ She laughed gently at her little joke and pulled herself up to a sitting position. ‘I have the loveliest green jacket. And a matching hat. I’ll get them for you.’ She put the teacup and saucer onto Arlette’s nightstand and collected the cat to her chest.

  Arlette grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. She’d learned how to dress herself very well during these weeks in London. She knew exactly what was à la mode and precisely how to wear it. But this event was so unaccounted for, so beyond the realms of any fashion mores or rules of etiquette that she was lost entirely. How did one present oneself to have one’s portrait painted with a famous negro?

  Lilian returned, clutching both the cat and a bundle of clothes.

  ‘Here,’ she said, throwing cat and clothes upon Arlette’s bed. ‘This is perfect.’ She held up the jacket. Not the drab bottle green that Arlette had been expecting, but a soft sage, and not the harsh tailored shape that Arlette favoured, but a floppy angora affair with a huge pearl button at the front and a velveteen collar.

  She slipped it on and knew that Lilian was right. She looked soft and fresh and young and vulnerable. The matching hat was a beret shape with a velveteen bobble and a pearl stitched to the rim.

  ‘You look so lovely,’ said Lilian, curling herself into a ball around the cat and stroking her cheek against the fur on its face. ‘You should keep them. I’ve never worn them. Keep them. Oh, Arlette, I’m so jealous of you, so jealous I could almost vomit.’ She sighed and lay down her head, staring mournfully and theatrically at the ceiling. ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘having your portrait painted with a world-famous musician. And not just that, but a negro. I mean, how utterly, utterly, utterly glorious ...’

  ‘Miss De La Mare, how lovely to see you.’ Gideon held her hand in his and kissed the back of it. Arlette removed her hat and her gloves and passed them into Gideon’s waiting hands.

  ‘Lovely to see you, too, Gideon.’

  She looked to either side of Gideon and across his shoulder but could see no sign of his other sitter. According to her wristwatch it was already ten minutes past two – she had planned her journey meticulously to ensure that she arrived later than Sandy Beach.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Beach is not here yet,’ said Gideon, placing Arlette’s things upon the sideboard. ‘I do hope he hasn’t got lost. These Chelsea backstreets can be terribly confusing, especially for a tourist.’

  He made her some tea and she took it in his sitting room, a small and familiar ritual by now, but one that did nothing to quell her rising anticipation. She watched the hands on her wristwatch move from two sixteen to two se
venteen and breathed deeply to slow her heart. Two outcomes were now likely. The first was that at any moment there would be a knock at the door and then Sandy Beach would be here in this room, with his smell and his eyes and his teeth, and she would have to find a way to feel normal in his presence for the remainder of the day. The second was that there would be no knock at the door and that Sandy Beach might have found something more pressing, something more appealing to do with his precious day off, and that she and Gideon would sit here in an uncomfortable state of limbo until they had both accepted that he wasn’t going to come. Either way, Arlette felt vaguely nauseous.

  She was about to start making small talk with Gideon when it happened.

  Knock knock knockity-knock.

  Arlette and Gideon smiled nervously at each other and Gideon went to his front door. Arlette listened to their greeting, to the incongruous honey tones of Mr Beach’s voice in Gideon’s hallway.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she heard Gideon implore.

  And then there he was, smart in a starched white shirt, white waistcoat and dove-grey double-breasted suit, his shoes polished to a dazzling gleam and a single yellow gerbera daisy in his hand.

  ‘Miss De La Mare,’ he said, greeting her with a slight incline of his head, his left hand flat upon his stomach. ‘Enchanté.’

  He handed her the gerbera and Arlette blushed, as she’d known she would, and smiled. ‘Likewise, Mr Beach.’

  ‘And, please,’ he said, ‘now that we are outside the realms of my professional persona, call me Godfrey.’

  ‘Godfrey?’

  ‘Yes, miss, for that is my real name, the name my mother chose for me twenty-eight years ago. Godfrey Michael Pickle.’

  Arlette attempted to stifle a smile. Godfrey Pickle. It was no less unlikely than his stage name.

  ‘What a wonderful name, Mr Beach,’ said Gideon, entirely missing the point. ‘Now, let me pour you some tea.’

  ‘So, Miss De La Mare, you too have an interesting name. Lady of the sea. What is the provenance of such a name?’

  ‘I’m from the Channel Islands, Mr Pickle. A small cluster of rocks between the south coast of England and the north coast of France. It is a melting point of both English and French cultures.’

  ‘Ah,’ his yellow-tinted eyes lit up, ‘so you understand the island life. Like myself. The limitations and the joys of being hemmed in on all sides by the sea.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I certainly do. Although I should imagine there are more joys involved being hemmed in by the Caribbean Sea, than there are by the cold dark waters of the English Channel.’

  Godfrey smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘indeed.’

  ‘Do you get back at all?’ she asked.

  Godfrey Pickle shook his head and said, ‘I have not been back to my island for eighteen looong looong months. And neither do I have any plans to return. The orchestra is booked up for the next year ahead. It’s possible that I may never return.’ He shrugged. ‘And what about you, Miss De La Mare ... will you be returning to your rock in the English sea?’

  ‘I honestly do not know, Mr Pickle. I’ve been here for only four months. I’m certainly not ready to return yet, but maybe one day. If my mother needs me.’

  Godfrey’s eyes clouded over. ‘Ah, yes, the poor mothers. My mother sits in my heart like a piece of grit every day of my life. She feels I am punishing her by leaving her without me. All the money in the world doesn’t appear to be compensating for my absence ...’ he sighed.

  The three of them fell silent for a moment, until Gideon slapped his hands down upon his thighs and said, ‘Well, I suggest we crack on. The light will begin to fade away soon; better move fast.’

  In his studio upstairs, Gideon had arranged a striking tableau: a daybed draped with red chiffon and ivy, three church candles on towering sticks behind, and parlour palms in copper pots to either side. He asked Godfrey to remove his jacket and unbutton his waistcoat, and then Arlette to take off her angora jacket, under which she was wearing a cream blouse with a ruffled collar.

  ‘Would you mind, Miss De La Mare, just to pull open the top two buttons? Just to give me more skin to ... to make a feature of. And yourself, Mr Beach. Mr Pickle. I think we do need to see just a fraction more of your ... complexion.’

  Godfrey and Arlette glanced at each other and Godfrey laughed. ‘You have a certain way with words, Mr Worsley. But let me first check with Miss De La Mare before I put any more of my complexion on display. Miss De La Mare,’ he turned back to Arlette, ‘if you are comfortable with the opening of extra buttons, then so am I. But I will not undo a single fastening if it any way offends you.’

  Arlette smiled. And then she put her fingers to her top buttons. ‘It is only buttons, Mr Pickle, and it is only skin – how could I find it offensive?’

  Godfrey looked at her through his velvet lashes, and his full lips turned up into a sensual smile. ‘Indeed, Miss De La Mare,’ he said, his eyes still upon hers, his fingers now on the buttons of his own shirt. ‘It is only skin ...’

  Arlette felt herself redden under his gaze, felt the erotic suggestion of what they were both doing, the unbuttoning of clothes, the beginning of the process of getting undressed, an act normally carried out in the privacy of their own sleeping quarters. She smiled and looked away.

  ‘Now,’ said Gideon, ‘if it is agreeable with both of you, I would like you, Mr Beach – Mr Pickle – to sit upon the daybed, at this end,’ he patted the mattress at the left end. ‘And you, Miss De La Mare, to sit in the middle here, facing this wall,’ he indicated the right, ‘with your back leaning against Mr Pickle’s shoulder.’

  Arlette looked from the bed to the wall and then back to Gideon. ‘So,’ she said, ‘where are my legs to be?’

  ‘I thought,’ he said, walking to the bed and demonstrating the pose himself, ‘that maybe you could hang them over the side, crossed, like so, and if we could have your hair untied, Miss De La Mare – would that be all right? So that it hangs down Mr Pickle’s shoulder, here, and Mr Pickle will be looking, like this, directly at me – if that is agreeable with you, Mr Pickle? And you, Miss De La Mare, will be staring at this point, just beyond my easel, see, at that damp patch just there.’ He clambered from the bed and let Arlette copy his pose. ‘Yes, like that, but possibly if you could just press yourself a little closer to Mr Beach. Mr Pickle. As if you were, well, I suppose as if you were a romantically entwined couple, possibly pondering the future of your relationship, possibly wondering if your love could ever be realised. Do you see?’

  Godfrey laughed. ‘Yes, I see, Mr Worsley. The Love That Shall Not Speak Its Name.’

  ‘Well, yes, something like that. Something illicit, dangerous, yet also something beautiful, something ... grand. A grand, grand love, one that has brought both joy and heartache. Yes?’

  Godfrey looked at Arlette and Arlette looked at Godfrey. ‘Is there to be a suggestion that myself and Miss De La Mare have ...?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Gideon looked up at him sharply, a finger held thoughtfully to his lips.

  ‘I mean, is an observer to draw the conclusion that there has been something ... carnal between us, between this couple.’

  ‘Oh, oh, I see. Well, yes, I mean, I suppose, possibly. Although –’

  Godfrey cut him off and turned to Arlette. ‘Does this make you feel uncomfortable in any way?’

  Arlette considered the question. She was still a virgin. She had not yet experienced any of the emotions that Gideon was asking her to portray. Yet, sitting here in this room, with this man, her blouse unbuttoned to her collarbone, her hair falling down around her face, she could grasp the tips of those feelings, she could imagine it, and so she smiled at Godfrey and whispered, ‘No, it does not make me feel uncomfortable in any way.’

  She saw Godfrey’s eyes widen in surprise at her acceptance of this scenario and she felt her heart swell with anticipation. In opening her buttons she had opened a door into a part of herself she had not known was there.

  Gideon move
d from behind his easel towards the pair of them and teased the long tendrils of Arlette’s hair into a more pleasing form, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Behind his easel again he peered at his tableau and then he smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. I think that’s just right. Maybe an inch further back, Mr Pickle. Yes. And your head, Miss De La Mare, a fraction to the right. Yes. Now. That is truly perfect. Truly something to behold ...’

  The three of them fell silent, while Gideon put down his first marks. Outside Arlette could hear, just as she’d imagined before, the bleating of a passing barge, the metallic rattle of a carriage on the street below. But not just that. She could also hear the sound of Godfrey Pickle, breathing in, breathing out, his heart pattering lightly beneath his ribs. She could feel the solid mass of his body underneath his crisp white shirt and feel the first flush of warm sweat against the cotton. And there, across the room, she saw Gideon, his soft handsome face aglow with excitement, clearly seeing something remarkable before him. Her eye caught his for a brief moment and she smiled, encouragingly.

  ‘Are you comfortable, Miss De La Mare?’ he enquired gently.

  ‘Yes,’ she said assuredly, ‘I am most comfortable. Most comfortable indeed.’

  28

  1995

  BETTY WAS ASLEEP on the sofa, pinned beneath Astrid, who was slumbering on her chest when Dom Jones finally came home at twelve forty-five.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him blearily. Her neck sang out in pain when she straightened it. She clutched it with her hand and grimaced.

  Dom smiled at her fondly, and then at Astrid.

  ‘Couldn’t settle her then?’ he asked.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, through a yawn. ‘No. Miss Astrid did not want to go in her cot. So she watched TV with me instead.’

  ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Dom said.

  Betty shrugged. ‘No problem. You told me you probably would be.’