‘Who’s this?’ Dad frowns, first at Jem, then at me.
Jem comes forward. ‘I’m’
‘James. This is James, Dad.’
Jem raises an eyebrow but rises to the occasion and extends his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Dad shakes his hand, but the frown remains. ‘James,’ he says. ‘You’re at Oxford, I hear.’
Jem turns to me, puzzled. I give a little nod. ‘That’s right,’ he says.
‘What are you studying?’
‘Medicine. He’s studying Medicine. Aren’t you, James?’
‘Medicine. Yes. I’m studying Medicine.’
I can feel them both appraising each other carefully as we sit down together in the lounge, like a couple of stags, ready to lock horns.
Jem slips on to the sofa beside me, his arm resting possessively on my shoulders, which leaves Dad isolated in the armchair opposite us. Immediately he starts cross-examining Jem about Oxford and Medicine – of which, of course, Jem knows zilch. My heart sinks. He’s so non-committal in his answers, he’s coming across as rude.
I can feel Dad watching us all the time, watching Jem’s hand with its distinctive tattoo stroking my arm, fiddling with my hair, even, at one point, absent-mindedly stroking my breast until, hot with embarrassment, I move to the edge of the seat. As the conversation dwindles, I become more and more tense and when Dad announces that he’s going at last, it’s all I can do not to jump up in relief.
Out in the hall, my father turns to me, his face serious.
‘You do know what you’re doing with him, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Only’
‘Only what?’ I sound defiant, even to me.
‘He’s older than you and’
‘A couple of years. You’re twenty years older than Jude, in case you’ve forgotten.’
He nods, contrite. ‘I know. But I’m not sure’
‘What’s wrong, Dad? Is it the tattoo you don’t like? Or the accent? Or the fact that someone actually wants to be with me?’
‘Don’t be silly. I just care about you, Anna, that’s all. I don’t want you to be hurt.’
‘I’m not a kid any more. And Je He’s not going to hurt me, Dad. He loves me. And I love him.’
‘I can see that,’ says Dad. ‘That’s the trouble.’
He stares down at me, his eyes full of concern, and suddenly I don’t want to argue with him any more, I just want him to put his arms round me and make it all better like he did when I was a kid. So I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face to his chest and he gives me a hug.
And I try not to cry.
When he’s gone, I go back into the lounge. Jem is sitting with his feet up on the sofa, staring into the fire. I flop down beside him. He’s as tight as a coiled spring.
‘Why did you tell your father my name was James?’ he asks.
‘It was a mistake.’
‘And I’m at Oxford? Studying Medicine. Was that a mistake too?
I groan.
‘Are you ashamed of me?’
‘NO!’
‘Why then?’
‘Because I’m an idiot,’ I wail. ‘Because I say the first thing that comes into my head. Because I was trying to impress his stupid girlfriend, if you must know.’
There’s silence then he snorts derisively. ‘You are an idiot. She doesn’t deserve to be impressed.’
‘I know! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!’ This is all going so wrong.
He’s silent for a while. Then he says, ‘I don’t think your dad liked me very much.’
I don’t think so either. But at least I manage not to say it out loud.
‘He was surprised to see you, that’s all. What did you come downstairs for? I asked you to stay in the bedroom.’
‘I wanted to see what he was like.’
‘And?’
He shrugs.
Great. My boyfriend and my father hate each other.
‘You should have stayed upstairs,’ I say regretfully. ‘He’s not daft, Jem. He knows we’re sleeping together.’
Jem’s beautiful mouth stretches into a pleased smile.
‘Good,’ he says and pulls me back into his arms.
The empty streets echoed with the rhythm of his pounding feet. He’d learnt how to deal with the rage that burnt within him on that course they’d sent him on last time. Part of the deal. Go on an anger management course and stay out of jail.
It was working. He was able to control his anger now. Most of the time. Keep it on pilot.
Until someone set it off again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Falling in love is everything I hoped it would be. Jem is the most sensitive, creative, romantic, original person I have ever come across in my whole life.
He is also the most deep and complex.
Every day I discover something new about him. He loves poetry, reading to me from Shakespeare and the Romantics and poets I never knew existed, even though I’m the one who’s studying A-level English. Believe me, there is nothing more erotic than someone reading love poems to you in bed, even if the bed in question is in a poky hotel staff bedroom shared with others who could burst in on you at any moment.
He writes his own too – spare, bold verse, stripped of all pretence, that leaves me in no doubt about his feelings for me. He declares his love in striking, merciless rhyme:
I would go down for loving you.
But if I did, I’d bring you too.
And if you sent me down to hell
I’d take you with me there as well.
OK, I’m a Lit student and I recognize it may not be exactly the best poetry in the world. But, believe me, delivered in Jem’s matter-of-fact monotone, it’s powerful stuff. It’s scary but humbling at the same time. He is so open, so trusting. For all he knows I could tread on his love, tear it to shreds, scatter it to the winds. Because he is so honest with me, I find myself opening up to him too. I write him poems back, laying bare my most passionate, private thoughts, for his eyes only.
He draws up a play list for me of his favourite songs and soon they become mine. I feel that he’s educating me, taking me by the hand and leading me into his larger, more interesting world. He loves hip-hop, the urban raps which tell the story of real life on the streets. But then, paradoxically, this man of mine loves the song ‘Vincent’, which is a tribute to the brilliant, tortured artist Van Gogh, one of his idols. It’s the sort of song my mum would like, sweet and schmaltzy, and I’m surprised by his choice. But then, as I listen to the haunting lyrics, his lonely soul possesses me too.
For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night.
You took your life
As lovers often do …
He takes me to an art gallery to see a Van Gogh exhibition, then to others, exposing me to new images and new ideas, from the beautiful to the bizarre.
He does drawings for me, and of me, quick, skilful illustrations, original and distinctive.
He takes photographs himself, all the time, of the docks, the city, people, things, but mostly of me. I’m his favourite subject, he’s for ever clicking away when I least expect it. He must have hundreds of pictures of me. In some of them I’m posing for the camera, but in most I’m looking startled or caught unaware. On the wall above his bed in the hotel is a whole display of me getting on and off buses, bending over drying my hair, coming out of the loo, frowning with concentration, getting dressed, asleep with my mouth open, wrapped in a bath towel, laughing with friends.
Some I like. Some are not so flattering. One or two, where too much flesh is showing or when I’m sleeping, are too intimate to be on display. They make me feel uncomfortable.
‘Don’t put those up!’
‘Why not?’ he says. ‘You’re beautiful,’ and I grow bold in his approval. But later on when I see his room-mate eyeing the
latest picture of me in my underwear I grow hot with shame and make him take them down.
Jem treats me like a queen, everyone says so. It’s only Dad who’s not so fussed.
And Zoe.
Zoe is being really weird about Jem. I think she’s jealous. She’s still single and she resents the time I spend with him. She had the cheek to tell me that she thinks he’s too controlling. We’ve fallen out about it.
In fact she said more than that. It all started because she wanted me to go with her one night to see a band playing.
‘I don’t know …’
‘You’re going out with Jem,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Of course. Stupid of me to ask.’
‘Don’t be like that!’ I said in surprise. ‘No, actually. It’s because I don’t like that band any more.’
‘Why not?’
I shrugged. ‘Moved on, I guess. I like other stuff now.’
‘Stuff that Jem likes.’ She sounded like she was sneering.
‘Not necessarily. What are you trying to say?’
‘Jem says this, Jem thinks that, Jem likes this, Jem hates that. Her voice, high and silly, parodied mine, stinging me to the quick. ‘I’m sick of it, that’s all.’
‘Zoe!’ I stared at her aghast. ‘Jem doesn’t tell me what to think.’
‘You’re joking! He’s got inside your head, Anna! He controls you. Can’t you see it?’
‘Piss off!’ I said, outraged, and she did.
We’ve hardly spoken since.
The thing is, she doesn’t know Jem like I do. He comes across to her as brooding and intense, but there’s loads more to him than meets the eye.
He’s not just broadened my outlook on literature and music and art. He’s introduced me to a whole new world I could never, ever tell her about.
She hasn’t got a clue what we get up to when we’re on our own.
And I’m not talking sex here. I’m talking street.
Jem has a secret.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It turns out that Jem is not just a great photographer. He’s a great artist as well. A graffiti artist. The best.
I guess I could have worked it out. He’s Fin. His tag can be seen all over town. He’s famous. Over the past few months he has stamped his personalized signature on buildings, trains, buses, walls, everywhere. Sometimes it appears on its own in the shape of a shark’s fin; more often than not it is accompanied by an amazing illustration.
To some people he’s a genius. To others he’s a vandal. But no one can deny his talent. He is super-skilled and super-fast, time being of the essence. People write letters to the local newspaper about him; any new venture of his appears in its pages.
Actually, he’s not just famous, he’s infamous, because no one knows who Fin is. And that’s the way Jem likes it. He has no interest whatsoever in revealing his identity, in ‘coming out’. A big part of the buzz is in remaining anonymous, elusive, evading capture.
And all the time he leaves his mark on buildings that represent the establishment or the unacceptable face of capitalism. Schools, town halls, council offices, benefit agencies, the new Docklands development, even, to my own private amusement, the building which houses my father’s brand-new apartment – all of them he has tagged. Sometimes he scrawls comments on them as well: terse, witty, subversive messages that provoke and undermine.
It’s a big deal that he’s told me. It’s an even bigger deal that, more often than not, he takes me with him now. I’ve become his partner in crime.
His tag has changed. Fin no longer exists. Jem Smith has wrapped his arms around Anna Williams and together we have become JAWS. The signature resembles the wide open mouth of a hungry Great White; the W of Williams, a row of savage teeth.
Jem is teaching me everything he knows.
A girl and a boy together. Against the world.
Running through the night.
Stamping their signatures on public property.
Claiming it as their own.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When I tell Mum I’ve changed my mind about uni and I’m going to London now to be with Jem, she’s OK with it.
‘It’s closer than Newcastle,’ she says, sounding pleased. ‘I’m glad you’re going to be with Jem, though. London’s a big place. You could be very lonely there.’
Poor Mum. If anyone knows what it’s like to be lonely, it’s her. She doesn’t go out much, except for work and her sad nights out with Karen. When she lost Dad, she lost their social life too. She’s got a wardrobe full of posh frocks upstairs she hasn’t put on since the day he left.
But when I tell her I’m thinking of studying Art instead of English, she’s surprised.
‘I thought you loved English?’ she says.
‘I do! But it’s like Jem says, I’ll read anyway, I don’t need a degree to do that. Whereas, Art … there’s more to it than just painting and drawing, you know. Jem says it’s about expressing yourself, giving yourself a voice. I want to get into it, study it properly, find out about different artists, different periods, different methods …’
‘Well, you certainly sound enthusiastic about it!’ says Mum.
‘I am. I’m serious, Mum. Jem and I have talked about it loads, and there’s a great Art department at his college.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ breathes Livi. ‘You’re going to London to be with Jem. That is so romantic!’
Mum looks at me, concerned. ‘Well, you’ve always been such a sensible girl, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Your father’s not going to like it though.’
She’s right. My father goes ballistic.
‘Art?’ he says, like I’ve said I’m going to study party games or joined-up writing. ‘That’s not a subject.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Not a proper subject. You don’t even have to go to university to study it.’
‘I’m not going to uni any more. I’m going to college.’
‘College?’ He looks as if he’s going to explode. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ I mutter.
‘Which college is it?’
I tell him.
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s got a great reputation.’
‘What for? Drugs? Anarchy? The number of students who drop out?’
‘If you’re going to be childish I’m not going to talk to you. It’s a good college.’
‘Who says?’
I don’t say anything.
‘Oh, I get it.’ His mouth curls up into a particularly unattractive sneer. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? The boyfriend. He’s the one who’s pulling your strings.’
‘Nobody’s pulling my strings,’ I protest, my face aflame.
‘I can see it, Anna, even if you can’t. He’s in Oxford, you’re in London. Bit closer than Newcastle, isn’t it? He can keep an eye on you there.’
I’d forgotten Dad thought James-not-Jem was at Oxford. If he found out Jem-not-James was in London, he’d go totally ape-shit.
‘He’s got you exactly where he wants you!’ he says bitterly. I don’t deign to reply. ‘What does your mother think of this idea?’ he adds.
‘She’s fine with it.’
‘She would be. She doesn’t understand the opportunities you’re throwing away.’
I stare at him in disbelief. He knows all about opportunities all right.
Golden Boy. Scholarship to grammar school, a university degree, a career in law. Somewhere along the way he’d returned to marry the pretty girl-next-door, who’d been waiting patiently for him. She’d stayed at home and brought up the kids, he’d worked his way up to senior partner. Perfect arrangement. Till he dumped her for Golden Girl.
I’d hated him for updating my mother for a newer, streamlined model. But until this moment I’d never thought he was ashamed of the old one.
‘She doesn’t understand … How patronizing is that?’
He has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.�
��
‘Yes you did!’ I let him see how angry I am. Because it makes him feel bad. And because it distracts him from the effect his words have had upon me.
Deep down I know I’m throwing away my dream. I don’t need anyone to point this out to me, least of all my father. But it’s too late now to do anything about it. I’m miles behind with my work and I’m never going to get the grades I need to do English at Newcastle anyway.
I want to get away. I’m not hanging around here for another year to watch my father fawning over The Bitch, my mother fading away and my sister making a fool of herself, while Zoe zooms off to uni and Jem goes back to college without me.
And Jem’s suggestion of studying Art – it’s a great idea. A gateway into a whole new world. Art is so much more than conventional painting and drawing. It’s about exposing yourself to whole new cultures.
Like graffiti for example.
Jem says, it’s not just an art form, it’s an attitude.
And now I’m with him, I’m discovering I’ve got plenty of that.
The anger was bubbling up inside him again. She belonged to him. What right did that tosser have to steal her away?
It was all his fault he was stuck here like this in this half-life. Neither here nor there. Just watching and waiting for her to get tired of the idiot and notice him again.
Well, he was getting fed up with it. There was a limit even to his patience.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Despite my good intentions, I allow my father to get to me. It’s not surprising really, he won’t let up. He takes me out for a meal to a posh restaurant and tries to convince me over four courses and two bottles of wine that I’m making a big mistake.
It’s like it’s a personal affront to him that I’ve deviated from the grand plan. At one point he even says to me, ‘Jude thinks this is your way of punishing me for being with her,’ and I snap, ‘This is not about you, Dad! It’s about me!’ I’m furious at the thought of The Bitch and him discussing me in such a condescending way like I’m a child who’s spat the dummy out of the pram. What does she know? She’s only a few years older than me!
He's After Me Page 5
