by Kitty Wilson
‘And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.’ I quote back. ‘Me too. It’s what I need to remember, not to be a sucker for a pretty face, it’s the mind that’s important, character. See, he’s always wise.’
Rory lifts his eyes from the laptop and looks at me. I feel the tingle of something fritz up my spine, whizzing past every bump of every vertebra. His hair falling slightly forward, a solitary curl dancing, his face lit as it was when he laughed. I feel myself glow; is this what winning X-Factor feels like? I gave up seeking extrinsic validation for the things I care about years ago. I am learning to be happy and to judge me myself, bar my little dips post-parental interaction. But honestly I never thought someone else’s opinion would make me this happy. This is insane. I need to stop staring at him as if he has just brought me all my Christmases at once.
‘You’ve got so much content here, I can’t believe it. Is it all this good?’ His eyes run down the files again. ‘You’ve got maps of all of his settings, fictional and real?’
‘Yep, all the ones it’s possible to have.’ I know I sound like I have just found penicillin, run the four-minute mile and landed on the moon all in the same second, but this is awesome. I shouldn’t brag but I can’t help myself. ‘And there are loads of different levels of knowledge, so whether you come at it as a complete novice, say Key Stage Two in primary school, or someone who wants to really ease into these things like the everyday sayings that Shakespeare came up with…’
‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’
‘Exactly, that’s a really famous one and dead as a doornail. Oh, and bated breath.’
‘Refuse to budge an inch, that’s one, isn’t it?’
‘Yep, and brevity is the soul of wit.’
‘Okay, hint received. Hoist with my own petard!’ Rory winks and I quirk my brows in return, as if he is a naughty schoolboy.
‘I take it all the way up to graduate level studies, I signpost to academic works, JSTOR, CORE and so on. I keep them updated every week so it’s always current. Then here…’ I lean in closer. ‘Here are the primary sources we have about the man and the plays, the primary texts he used as his source materials. For example, for The Winter’s Tale, my favourite, he used Pandosto from 1588 and for The Dream, he had lots including Ovid’s Metamorphoses which obviously dates back to 8AD.’
‘Obviously.’ He smiles. ‘How long has this taken you?’
We are so close now I can feel his breath upon my face, our dinner surely cold and congealing on the plates to our side. This is too much, too many feelings coming at once. What is going on here? Distance, I need distance. I lean back to make sure my backbone is secure against the back of my chair, and breathe. Look normal. Speak.
‘My whole life.’ I hope my tone doesn’t give away any of the tumult of feeling surging inside me. Feelings I am sure have arisen because no one ever shows this much interest in my work, not since Nana died. Plus good food makes me happy, and a little bit horny, and I’m not sure I trust myself not to try and take his top off. I’ve been intentionally celibate for a long time. Such a long time. I need to get control before I make a complete tit of myself.
‘I can believe it. How have you found time to work as well?’ he says and I screw up my face in response. It may be fair to say I haven’t always prioritised my jobs over this.
‘What do you want to do with it? What now?’ He clicks and scrolls through the files.
‘What do you mean?’ I know what I hope he means but with the exception of Luisa, no one has ever been bothered before. Will he laugh if I say?
‘I mean do you want to become the UK’s premier Shakespeare expert, get a doctorate?’
‘Ha, that would be ace but no, no that’s not the dream. I’m thinking of turning it into an app so its accessible to all and when that’s up and running and I have a reputation because of it, I’d love to take it round schools, maybe do a podcast. Schools are the dream though. I think I’ve got packages that would appeal to each key stage. Like I said, I’ve tailored things into quite detailed levels. I’d like to reach out to communities that currently don’t find it accessible, that get stuck at the language, take one look at the page and think nah, not for me. The majority of people write off Shakespeare before they even try it but the truth is … well, the truth is there is so much truth in it. How many of us have not felt like Desdemona, falling overwhelmingly in love with someone who our families are not keen on? I look at Leontes in The Winter’s Tale and I see my dad. I’m sure kids here in Bristol can relate to the gang culture in Romeo and Juliet, to the death of Mercutio, him paying the ultimate price despite actively trying to avoid the skirmishes between the Capulets and Montagues. It should be on every curriculum because it’s just so … so human … and in that example, so scarily fucking pertinent to life today.’
My words are spilling out on top of each other, tumbling like striped acrobats in a circus from my mouth. ‘It’s helped me to know that every emotion I have possibly experienced has been experienced before, I am not alone, I never have been. All these people have come before me and felt these things too. And that helps me, it helps my mental health, it stops me spiralling when I find things, truth be told, people, a bit difficult. It makes me feel normal. Now I know that as far as normal goes, relating to Perdita or Ophelia or wanting to grow up and be Paulina – she’s proper kick-arse – is not really usual. And I’m not sitting here thinking that everyone’s problems, all the world’s ills, will be solved with one swoop of Shakespeare’s wand…’ I stop and giggle, both at how carried away I have become and at the innuendo. I do like innuendo.
‘Always with the filth, huh, Wilde? Always with the filth.’ Rory laughs as I giggle, and before I know it I am telling him all my dreams, all my fears and all about my passion as the night rolls past.
He that is thy friend indeed, he will help thee in thy need
* * *
December Fifth.
Rory.
I had fallen into bed after chatting into the wee hours with Belle. She caught me up in her talk of Shakespeare, her passion contagious. My mind was fervid and awake, firing off ideas, links, possibilities, next steps. It was a relief to have something other than my memories filling my head as I hit the pillow but by the time my alarm woke me this morning I was groggy and thick-headed.
It’s 4 p.m. now and I think I’ve found a solution. Belle’s work is too good not to be up and running, she just needs the finance. Luckily companies with deep pockets and a philanthropic desire are something I have an excess of. It’s merely a matter of marrying the right ones. I have a feeling Belle may be particular about where her cash comes from and it would have to be from a place that was happy to be pretty silent about its involvement, a few sentences on their website, but no desire to stick logos everywhere, corporate branding tattooed on her face, that sort of thing. Which meant that my initial idea, the problem I had thought she could solve for me, would not be a good match for her – they wanted lots of brand sponsorship to advertise their do-gooding – but I have managed to pair them with a phonics company, only too glad to have the cash input in return for some corporate advertising. However, after seeing her project for myself, I have the ideal pairing.
‘Hey, how you doing?’
‘Oh, hi, Rory.’ Her tone is pleasant but I hear her surprise as she answers my call.
‘Hey. I don’t wanna freak you out but I think I’ve got something that will make you smile.’ I realise that could sound like I’m being sleazy. Truly, sex is the last thing on my mind these days, the thought of any kind of relationship with anyone other than Jess leaves me all kinds of cold, but Belle doesn’t necessarily know that.
A loud mechanical noise comes down the line at me.
‘Sorry, couldn’t really hear that.’ Thank the Lord! ‘Hang on… Marsha, come away from the chainsaw.’ That sounds terrifying. I don’t know who Marsha is but Belle within spitting distance of a chainsaw is a scary thought.
‘Where are you?’
&n
bsp; ‘Christmas tree farm, you should see it up here. It’s proper old-school Christmassy. You can’t help but have your heart lifted, your head filled with “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” and pictures of Bing Crosby, stockings, fireplaces, presents, the smell of cinnamon and orange and pine, the taste of mince pies…’
Oh my God. I thought she was obsessed by Shakespeare. Now it turns out she has a raging passion for Christmas too.
‘Ah, I hate Christmas,’ I say. I’m aware of how Scrooge that sounds, but it’s true. Christmas and I are not friends anymore.
‘You what?’ Incredulity encapsulated.
‘Um, nothing. Are you free later?’
‘No. I’ve got Sankt Nikolaus.’ What fresh hell is this? She says it in a tone that implies everyone knows about Sankt Nikolaus.
‘Eh?’
‘Sinterklaas! Tonight we put out the shoe.’
‘So much clearer.’
‘I have to spend the night with Marsha. We get the house ready for decorating tomorrow, that’s why we’re getting the tree now. Then the shoe goes out and the best bit is waking up and seeing her face in the morning. It’s the only time of year I’m allowed to go crazy with the sweets so it’s pretty epic.’
‘Ah, okay, I really hoped to see you today.’ Was that too needy? Only I know that if I don’t get to see her today, the opportunity I have for her may have to be shelved until goodness knows when.
‘Well, come over, I’m sure Luisa won’t mind. She’s not seen you in yonks. Come and join us. It’ll be proper Chr— It’ll be fun.’
At six o’clock I am standing on the doorstep of what I presume to be Luisa’s house. This is surreal. Within two days of being back in the UK I am completely in Belle Wilde’s life. Years have gone by with no thought of her and now here I am.
The house itself paints a picture, a pretty accurate one of the Luisa I knew back in uni and how I pictured her to be now. Sage painted door, beautifully managed front garden, aesthetically pleasing ceramic pots full of tasteful plants, olive tree, bay, that sort of thing. I had googled her before coming over and she is a successful businesswoman, running an ethical, healthy and sugar-free cupcake business – very Bristol – with her husband.
Luisa opens the door and Christmas music floats out to greet me. Ugh. I hadn’t really thought the ramifications of Sankt Nikolaus through.
I can do this. Admittedly, listening to Christmas music in Australia is easier with the sun beating down but I am not going to allow myself to spiral because of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.
Luisa is immaculate. As if she expects cameras to roll any minute. The perfectly groomed woman in her thirties. There is, no doubt, a slot on daytime TV opening up for her any minute now.
‘Come on in, come in. I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you doing?’ There is no sympathy imbued in her welcome, no head tilt and brief furrow of concern. Just an old acquaintance from uni saying hello to someone she once knew. Thank God. It has been a hurdle I’ve been dreading from the moment Belle invited me. People’s micro-expressions, their sympathy, that is partly why I had escaped.
‘Yeah, good, thanks.’
We all move through to the kitchen, the most beautiful scent filling the room as Luisa does busy things at the stove. My eyes, though, are on Belle, sat next to me, colouring in reindeer with Marsha, asking the child her advice on the best colours to use for each part. I have seen a different side to this woman every day so far. I can’t help but wonder what else there is to Belle Wilde.
‘Would you like some mulled cider?’ Luisa brings us over a pile of mince pies and clotted cream decanted into a china pot that would have looked perfectly in place in my grandma’s dresser.
‘Ah, thanks but no, I don’t really…’
Determined eyes, almost black in colour and certainly black in their intensity, stare at me from the end of the table. ‘My mummy makes the best mulled cider. The best. It’s magical.’ Marsha holds her glare as she finishes her sentence, and whilst I have never thought of myself as a weak man, I quail.
‘Right then, that would be lovely. But just a little please, I’m driving.’ I see Belle and Luisa exchange a smirk but what can I do? I’m not upsetting a small child on blooming St Nikolaus Eve or whatever it is. Plus, I was a child who had been fiercely proud of my mum and all she did so I can relate to Marsha.
With a flash I remember where I’ve seen that mutinous stare before. Of course – she’s the child I had seen in the airport and the dark-haired woman must have been Belle.
Wow. The world is a funny place.
Marsha’s eyes are still upon me, I take a sip the second Luisa fills my glass and brace myself.
I didn’t think I would ever enjoy the taste of anything mulled, but the flavours of cinnamon, cloves, orange and nutmeg marry together beautifully, floating on my tongue.
Marsha catches my eye and nods with satisfaction. ‘Told ya. My mum…’ It was cute the way she said that, possessiveness clear in her tone. ‘My mum makes me mulled apple juice which is the same but won’t give me a headache and it’s my favourite drink in the world and I only have it when it’s near Chrissmas and when you’ve finished that and we’ve all had a mince pie, my favourite food in the whole world, then we’re going to bring in the Chrissmas tree ready for tomorrow, aren’t we, Mummy, Belle?’ She looks to them for confirmation.
‘We are,’ Luisa says and Belle nods, her mouth too stuffed with mince pie to speak. This is nice, sitting here at this table and it occurs to me this is probably the most relaxed I’ve ever seen Belle. Last night in her flat she had been fired up, passionate about her work, but here, here she is at clearly at ease and her whole body tells it. Her limbs are no longer taut as if waiting for the next attack, there’s a softness to her.
‘Rory, are you Belle’s boyfriend?’ Marsha asks. The question comes from nowhere and I feel my chest constrict. I should just say a simple no, it’s not a tough question but the words are stuck in my throat. My heart is galloping, the very thought makes me panic.
‘No, Marsha, they are just friends like you and Kye at playgroup,’ Luisa jumps in, breaking the tension and causing me to be able to look across at Belle who is bright red and seems almost as flustered as me.
‘Kye was my boyfriend last week, but he doesn’t like Paw Patrol, so he can’t be my friend anymore. Do you not like Paw Patrol?’ Marsha asks me.
‘Um … I just … um…’ So much for being an articulate man.
‘Marsha.’ I can hear warning in Luísa’s voice. Marsha ignores it.
‘Is it because of your wall, Belle, the wall Mummy was telling you off about?’
‘Enough!’ Luisa stands up ‘Sorry, she obviously wants to go to bed early.’ Marsha shakes her head ferociously. ‘Well, in that case stop haranguing our guests and we’ll go get the tree in.’
With huge relief on my part, and I suspect Belle’s as well, we collect the tree from outside.
‘The man told us this tree is two years older than me,’ I am informed by a very proud Marsha, ‘but I’ll probably live longer. Mummy says she kills everything green eventually but I’m pinky-brown so I should be okay.’
I find myself wrapped up in a cloud of comfort as we bumble happily through the evening, threading popcorn and giggling at the antics of The First Snow of Winter. I can’t remember the last time I relaxed like this, not fretted about how I needed to get to the next thing and the next. It is only when Luisa and Belle are putting Marsha to bed – which involves her running up the stairs as if her heels are on fire shrieking, ‘the biggest shoe, the biggest shoe’ – that I realise I have been here for about two hours and, as yet, have not pitched my plan to Belle. So much for my focused professionalism.
There’s a lot of kerfuffling and eventually the two women come down the stairs giggling.
‘Another mulled cider, Rory?’
‘No thanks, it was really good though. Your daughter was right.’
‘Marsha is biased but flattery like th
at will get you almost anywhere. It’s been lovely seeing you again, Rory, really nice to catch up. But now, tell me, what are your intentions with our Belle?’
Belle.
Oh my God. My mouth drops open. I love Luisa but there are times I could bloody kill her and this is one of them. Kill her!
What the hell is she thinking? It’s been a really nice evening, and then boom! She has to drop a bomb into the mix. I’m amazed that Queen Tact here hasn’t followed it up with So, go on, we never got all the details about your girlfriend’s death, tell us everything.
Rory, to his credit, smiles and goes as red as I am and assures us it is merely professional interest.
I am too busy right now trying to get my face to lessen its massive flush of embarrassment, hoping that breathing regularly and plotting revenge on Luisa are the way forward.
‘What is it that you want her for then … professionally?’ Luisa quirks a brow and truth is, had it been anyone but me and Rory frigging Walters at the centre of this I would be hard pressed not to giggle. That woman’s facial expressions are comedy gold. I cock my head and hold my breath. It’s a good point. What does he want from me professionally? Last night he told me he had something sensitive to discuss and came over, but then we got caught up in the project and he never really said anything further about why he was there. And at the time it hadn’t mattered. Was this what that was about?
‘Last night you showed me…’ Rory began.
Luisa quirks her brow again and I go from crimson to scarlet.
‘You’re so bad,’ he addresses Luisa as I nod in agreement. She is. ‘Belle showed me her project and I was blown away. It’s remarkable.’
‘See, I told you!’ Luisa claps her hands gleefully and points to me. ‘It is, isn’t it? I know she loves it and she’s right to but I don’t think she understands the enormity, the magnificence of what she’s done.’
