Eight

Vanessa felt the mattress dip as Andrew rolled away. The sheet was wrinkled and her knickers were damp and clammy between her thighs. His kisses had made her nipples tender. Her limbs were heavy in the stifling heat of the small room, and a line of sweat ran between her breasts.

Andrew sat on the side of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands covering his face. The skin on his back was pearly white, translucent almost. His hunched shoulders were narrow and bony. Her eyes moved down to the fine golden hairs, just above the elastic of his underpants. Only a moment or two ago, his skin had been pressed against hers; drops of his sweat still clung to her body. She reached out to touch the knobbled ridge of his spine, but his back looked stiff and unapproachable. It might as well have had a ‘Keep Off’ sign on it.

‘Andrew.’

He didn’t answer.

‘Andrew. Talk to me.’

He kept his head buried in his hands, his fingers threaded through his blond fringe.

She leant up on one elbow. ‘Please try to understand.’

He looked round at her. They had lain together on his bed for hours, gazing into each other’s eyes – Andrew said he could see her soul twinned with his reflection – but she’d never seen his expression so flat and empty.

‘What’s to understand? This is killing us.’

She pushed herself on to her knees and curled her arm round his shoulders. Her breasts brushed against him, and she felt him tense. ‘Don’t say that. We love each other.’

‘Let’s make love properly then. You don’t know what it’s like for me. I need to be inside you.’

‘Andrew, it’s what I want. But I might get pregnant.’

‘I’ll buy something.’

‘Nothing’s one hundred per cent.’

‘It’s the Catholic Church, isn’t it?’ He pulled away from her arm. ‘It’s those bloody nuns who’ve got at you.’

‘You know I don’t believe any of that stuff any more. But I can’t risk having a baby.’ As soon as she said the word ‘baby’, she wished she hadn’t. Its sounds seemed to wind round her tongue and press against her lips.

Andrew’s eyes had softened. ‘We love each other. Would a baby be so bad?’

All Vanessa could see was nappies, the pram in the hall, and her head filled with constant crying. ‘I don’t want a baby for years yet. I want to finish the course, get somewhere with my art. Anyway, my father would kill me if I got pregnant.’

‘There’s no point, is there?’ Andrew stood up. He snatched up his trousers from the chair. ‘I’m suffocating in this room. I’m going for a walk if you want to come.’

They walked along the path to the small boating lake. A breeze rustled through the trees. Vanessa tried to match her steps to Andrew’s long strides. His hand dangled at his side, only inches away, but impossible to touch. The silence between them grew with each step.

In the months they’d known each other, they’d walked miles around north London, holding hands, chatting about their work, other students, their families and most of all, how they felt about each other. Used to her father’s unpredictability – the gift of the blarney, when it suited him, moody and aggressive, when it didn’t – Vanessa loved Andrew’s quiet steadiness. Until this afternoon, she’d never heard him raise his voice.

They reached the lake, and Andrew stopped to watch a couple of boys playing with a remote-controlled boat. There were some concrete islands in the middle of the lake that the boat kept hitting, and the boys were arguing about who should have the controls. After several attempts, the taller boy managed to manoeuvre the craft across the lake. Above the thin whine of the motor, Vanessa heard Andrew laugh and say something to him. The boat turned in a wide arc and began the treacherous trip back. When it arrived without mishap, the second boy snatched the controls and the boat set out again.

It hadn’t travelled far when it crashed, and the boy started crying. Andrew crouched down beside him. Vanessa saw him fiddling with the controls until the little boat was guided away from the island and set off again. She turned from the lake.

She’d only gone a few feet along the path, when Andrew caught her up. ‘You were kind to those boys,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘I like kids.’

‘Oh.’

‘They’re not complicated.’

‘Andrew, can we – ’

‘I’ve decided to go home for a while.’

‘Home? What, up north?’

Andrew lived on the border between England and Scotland. The landscape was magnificent, he’d told her. Great for painting. He’d take her there one day.

‘Yes.’

She thought about all the things they’d planned to do over the summer. Picnics on Hampstead Heath, swimming at the open air pool. She’d even thought she’d risk him meeting her parents. ‘But what about – ’

Andrew kicked a stone on the path. ‘I think it’s best if we have a break.’

‘How long are you going for?’

‘A few days. A few weeks.’

‘You’re finishing it?’

‘No.’

‘What are you doing then?’

‘I said – a break.’

The sound of her heart thrummed in Vanessa’s ears. It wasn’t fair that he was doing this, making it all her fault. ‘When are you going?’ she asked, pleased to hear the coldness in her voice match Andrew’s.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I thought we were going to Gerald Blackstone’s opening.’

‘Go on your own, or see if Judith wants to go.’

‘But you were pleased when he gave me the invitations.’

‘I know. I think his work’s amazing.’

‘He asked me if you were coming.’

‘I can’t think why.’ Andrew gave a sort of snort. ‘It’s you he wants there.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Come on, Vanessa. You’re not blind. Even Judith’s seen the way he eyes you up.’

‘What’s she said?’

‘What does it matter? He fancies you. Anyone can see that.’

‘Don’t be so stupid! Why should he be interested in me?’

Andrew turned to look at her. The expression in his eyes was flint-like. Then he quickened his pace. With his long legs, he soon pulled ahead of her and she had to do an awkward little run to catch up.

‘Andrew, talk to me.’

He didn’t answer.

‘We were so happy – ’

‘Yeah, we were, weren’t we?’

Vanessa got off the tube at Leicester Square. It was a humid evening and she felt her hair frizz, despite the big rollers she’d put up with all day. She found the street and paused at the bookshop on the corner, pretending to be absorbed in the display in the window. It was seven-thirty, half an hour after the time stated on the invitation.

What was she doing here? She’d debated for hours whether to come. She had a bath, sorted out what she’d wear, finished a drawing she was working on, and all the time she was listening for the telephone. Surely Andrew would phone. He wouldn’t just leave it, would he? She shivered, in spite of the heat in her bedroom. She lay on the bed and pulled the covers over her.

Was that the telephone? She lifted her head from the pillow. Silence bounced back at her. Her brother and sister were at school; her mother had gone shopping. If Andrew phoned now, she could talk to him in private. She pictured the black telephone on the table just inside the front door. Any minute now it was going to start ringing. It was silly to expect him to have phoned earlier. The journey up to Cumberland would take forever on the coach. He might not even have a phone at home … he might have to go to the phone box at the end of his street. At this very second, he could be pulling open the heavy door, sweat prickling his armpits in the hot enclosed space, his hand folding round the receiver, the coins in his palm …

If he phoned, she wouldn’t go to the opening. It was crazy to be flattered by Gerald Blackstone’s interest. Of course she’d seen him watching her in the pub. Sometimes it seemed whenever she turned, he’d be there, his eyes fixed on her. She fantasised about a time when she would be a famous artist too. They’d travel the world together, Paris, Venice, Buenos Aires, where he’d told her he had relations, painting, exhibiting their work, a bohemian life, far removed from her parents’ existence. But it was a stupid dream. Why would he want a young student like her when he was a brilliant sculptor? And anyway, it was Andrew she loved. Andrew with his thin bony body, floppy hair, mercurial eyes.

It was seven-forty five. There was a man on the opposite side of the road and he’d been staring at her for the last few minutes. Any moment now, he was going to cross over and proposition her. She felt ridiculously exposed in her crushed velvet trousers, her crocheted top. Fastening the bracelet round her ankle had seemed trendy and daring in the ladies at the tube station; now she remembered the girls at school laughing about prostitutes who wore anklets to identify themselves. Quickly she moved on up the street.

Half way along, she found the Lucy Fraser gallery. A billboard on the pavement advertised an exhibition of the work of Gerald Blackstone. Vanessa pushed open the door. A blast of heat, voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses. She heard her name called.

Carla Scott was pushing her way through the crush of people. ‘Vanessa, what are you doing here?’

‘Gerald … ’ she began, ‘Gerald invited me.’

‘Did he? Trust him!’

She shouldn’t have come. It was obviously the wrong thing to do. She started to back away. ‘I’d better go … ’

Carla’s mouth was set in a thin red line. Her lipstick was smudged and her eyes looked glazed. ‘Yes, that would be best.’

‘Vanessa Heaney, you’ve made it!’ Gerald was coming towards them, a glass in each hand held above the heads of the crowd. He thrust one at Vanessa. ‘Here, have some bubbly.’ His eyes flicked across the space behind her. ‘Where’s that boyfriend of yours?’

‘Oh … he had to go home.’

Carla grabbed the other glass from his hand. She tipped back her head and swallowed the liquid in one go.

‘Carla, my love,’ Gerald’s voice was silky, ‘that champagne’s got quite a kick.’

Vanessa saw the glare Carla flashed at Gerald. She held out her untouched drink. ‘Please, I’ve got to go. Would you like this?’

Gerald ignored the glass. He caught hold of her wrist. His hand was warm, his fingers thick and solid as they fastened on her skin.

‘Go? What are you talking about? You’ve only just got here.’ He put his arm round her shoulder. ‘All this hullabaloo. They only come for the free champagne. There’s just one piece here I’m proud of. See if you can find it.’

His touch made Vanessa’s shoulder burn. She looked across at Carla, who was swaying slightly.

‘Come on, you can forget about this room. Start through here.’ Gerald pulled Vanessa through the crush of bodies. People reached out to shake his hand. ‘Hello’ … ‘Yeah, I’m delighted’ … ‘Great you could make it’ … ‘Thanks’ … He greeted everyone, but his kept his grip on Vanessa. She saw several of the tutors from college but she was the only student there. They reached a smaller room. ‘Have a look round,’ Gerald said. ‘Let me know what you think. I’d better socialise.’

The room was saturated with talk. Some people to her right were shrieking praise at the exhibits. One man was wearing a turquoise waistcoat, another a pair of mustard yellow trousers, a woman in a red satin ball gown was talking to someone dressed in a violet smock over orange pantaloons. It was like being trapped in a room filled with peacocks.

There were four sculptures, each depicting a human figure. They were carved from wood and stone. In all of them the trunk was massive, while the limbs were thin and bird-like. Tiny heads, carved from a pale wood, topped the bloated bodies, the faces blank where their features should be, just deep holes for their eyes. The figures seemed to be undifferentiated sexually, apart from one that was seated. Its legs were spread wide and a penis of grotesque proportions hung towards the floor.

Vanessa tried to shut out the chatter around her. The massive bodies and sightless heads of the sculptures repulsed her. But the limbs, too fragile-seeming to support the burden of the bodies, made her want to put her arms round the poor creatures and comfort them.

She moved away and passed through a doorway into another space where there was only a handful of people. The pieces in here made from a smooth bronze were smaller and more naturalistic. There was a reclining figure, a couple embracing, a man standing. They were delicate and beautifully crafted, but they didn’t touch Vanessa in the way the others had.

She moved towards the last piece. It was a female figure, lying on her back, her hands behind her head. Her breasts were small, her belly a soft rounded mound. One knee was pulled up, drawing attention to the thin slit between her thighs. Vanessa felt herself growing hot. She glanced over her shoulder.

A man standing a few feet away was smiling at her. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Pardon?’

He gestured to the figure, moving closer. ‘The woman. You can see she’s just made love and she’s full up with sex.’ The man bent his knees, so that he could view the sculpture from a different angle.

Vanessa turned back to look again. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘yes, she is.’

‘I’m afraid I’m a bit of a dinosaur. Give me these lifelike forms any day rather than the ones through there.’

‘Didn’t you find them moving?’

‘Too experimental for my liking.’

‘There’s so much suffering in them.’

‘You one of his students?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ve put my name down for his class next term, but there’s a waiting list.’

The man laughed. ‘He always was a clever bugger.’

‘You know him?’

‘We were at college together. Wish I had a fraction of his talent.’ He glanced across the room. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. My wife’s over there. She’s beckoning to me.’

Vanessa’s eyes followed the man and then her gaze returned to the figure. She whispered the man’s words: ‘She’s full up with sex.’ Was this what lovemaking could do for you? Your body soft, fluid, pliant? I want to know what it’s like, she thought. I don’t want to hold back any more. I want to know the secret.

‘Here you are!’ Gerald was beside her. She breathed in the smell of cigars, overlain with something else, peppermint. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘Brilliant.’

‘What’s your favourite?’ He thrust his chin forward, clearly eager and excited. ‘Be careful how you answer. The future of our relationship could depend on this.’

Vanessa hesitated. She loved the reclining woman, but knew instinctively which one he wanted her to say. ‘The seated figure in the other room,’ she said, after a moment.

‘Good. Good. Now how are you fixed for dinner?’

‘Dinner?’

He was standing so close she could see the individual bristles of his beard, the pores on his cheeks. ‘I’ve got to go home.’

‘Whatever for? The night is young. There’s a French restaurant round the corner. A gang of us is going.’

She felt herself weakening. It would be exciting to have dinner with Gerald Blackstone and his friends, and she’d never been in a French restaurant before, come to that she hadn’t ever been in a proper restaurant – unless you counted Lyons Corner House in Tottenham Court Road. ‘Is Carla going?’

‘She’s over-indulged. Gone home to sleep it off. Now, say you’ll come.’

Vanessa thought of what she’d be going home to. The minute she got there, the claustrophobia would fold round her: her mother would be in the kitchen ironing, her father would still be at the pub. She’d look at the table in the hall to see if there was a note in her mother’s backward-flowing writing to say Andrew had phoned. But there wouldn’t be one, she was certain. He wouldn’t have phoned. What was the point of going back to that?

Gerald was smiling at her, his eyes bright and shiny. His black hair sprang energetically from his head as if it was growing as she watched, and his heavy eyebrows met in a perfect V above the bridge of his nose. When he smiled she glimpsed a gold tooth, half way along at the top. It made him look exotic and scary, like a pirate in a storybook.

‘Yes, I’ll come,’ she said.

‘Marvellous!’ He let his hand rest on her arm. ‘I’ll say goodbye to a few people and meet you by the door. The others have already gone.’

The restaurant was dark and smoky. A pianist and guitarist were sitting on a raised platform in one corner, and jazz music drifted across the room. A waiter came to greet them. ‘Monsieur.’ He bowed to Gerald. ‘Let me show you to your table.’ He turned to Vanessa. ‘And Mademoiselle.’ She immediately felt important, a woman of the world: her dreams were starting to come true. She’d seen a film where two lovers had a clandestine final meeting in a restaurant like this; it was incredibly romantic and so sad when they had to say goodbye.

The waiter led them between the other diners to a table near the rear of the restaurant. Vanessa felt Gerald’s hand in the small of her back, propelling her forward. There were shouts of welcome from the people round the table. ‘Gerald! What kept you?’ A cacophony of voices. ‘We’re famished!’ … ‘Who’s this you’ve brought along?’ … ‘Don’t let the success go to your head, Gerald, darling!’

Gerald put his arm round Vanessa’s shoulder and gestured vaguely in the direction of the table. ‘Let me introduce you … that’s Freddie, my agent, Felicity, who co-owns the gallery, James who’s over from New York, Sabina, my sister … ’ Vanessa felt the eyes of a beautiful dark-skinned woman, with elaborate piled-up hair, scrutinising her. The woman held a cigarette holder to her lips and smoke encircled her head. ‘… Henry … Julian … Francesca … ’ At last Vanessa was able to slide into the chair Gerald held out for her.

She squinted at the menu the waiter placed in her hand. It was all in French. She ran her fingers over the thick white card with its gold embossed writing. Gerald leant over. He wanted her to try the pâté, followed by duck, he told her.

The waiter filled her wine glass and she took a large gulp. The others were toasting Gerald, the show: ‘A fantastic success,’ the man called Freddie said. ‘I can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘Spectacular!’

‘You’ve pulled it off this time, Gerald!’

Conversation bubbled round Vanessa. She finished a second glass of wine. She nibbled at the food. She liked the taste of the duck, but she couldn’t be bothered cutting off all that fat. The waiter filled her glass again. The inside of her head felt warm and fuzzy. She smiled until her face ached. This beat sitting in Andrew’s bed-sit.

Some of the others said they had to go. It was too soon. Vanessa wanted to eke out every last moment – she was going to remember this evening for the rest of her life. Julian and Francesca suggested going on to a club. That sounded more like it. Gerald might ask her to dance.

‘We’ll hang on here a bit longer,’ she heard him say. ‘Vanessa’s got a problem with her work she wants to talk through.’

She looked across at him. What was he talking about? He gave a little shake of his head. Don’t say anything. She smiled. They already had a code only they understood.

Gerald ordered two brandies.

‘Nice to have you on my own at last.’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s drink to you, Vanessa.’

She tilted the glass towards her mouth and felt the liquid burning her throat. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

He reached across the table and put his finger to her lips. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Your face, your body, your wonderful hair, do your talking for you.’

Vanessa glanced round. The woman at the next table was looking at them. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

Gerald laughed, a loud gravelly noise that seemed to come from deep in his chest. ‘You’ll have to learn to take praise, you know. But come on … ’ He paused to break off a piece of bread from the basket of rolls that remained untouched in the centre of the table. He held it out to her. ‘Have some of this. Soak up the alcohol.’

Obediently, she took it from him.

‘It wasn’t a complete fib,’ he said. ‘I want to hear about your work. I was taken with those drawings of yours that Carla showed me.’

‘Really?’

He laughed again. ‘Really. Great sensitivity and attention to detail. Are they of someone you know?’

‘My parents.’

‘They must be proud.’

Vanessa thought of the battle she’d had to get to college in the first place, the way her father shouted if he saw her ‘doodling’ as he called it. ‘Not proud exactly, no.’

‘Tell me,’ Gerald said. ‘I want to hear all about you.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything about Vanessa Heaney, the beautiful butterfly.’

Vanessa had never had such a conversation. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

‘Tell me … tell me … ’ Gerald picked up his glass and swirled the brandy round. ‘Tell me your dreams. Those things you think about when you’re in bed at night.’

Vanessa found herself talking, as she’d never talked before, about her plans for the future, her designs, how she loved her parents but felt at odds with them.

‘And who is this blond boy you’re always with?’ Gerald said. ‘Do you sleep together? Are you in love?’

The lie was out of her mouth before she’d even thought about it – yes, she had slept with Andrew, she told him. Sitting here in the restaurant, candlelight casting its glow, it seemed too coy, too schoolgirlish to admit she was a virgin. And now she’d said it, it was almost as if she had done it, as if that hurdle of her virginity was behind her.

Gerald took out a cigar from the pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Do you smoke?’

Vanessa shook her head.

He broke the gold seal on the cellophane and slowly unwrapped the cigar. ‘These are my indulgence,’ he said, running his finger along the length. ‘I picked up the habit in Argentina.’ His lips pursed as he pulled on it several times and a cloud of smoke emerged. ‘Mmm. Nectar.’ He threw his head back, his eyes closed.

‘Can I try?’

He opened his eyes. ‘A cigar? Are you sure?’

She nodded.

He reached into his pocket.

‘No, can I try that one?’

He passed over the cigar he’d been smoking. She felt his eyes on her as she placed it in her mouth and closed her lips round the moist tip. She sucked cautiously. Smoke filled her mouth, making her gums tingle.

She felt a cough rising up in her chest and filling her throat. She forced it back. Slowly, she breathed out. A trickle of smoke escaped from between her lips. She grinned at him.

He smiled back. ‘A natural.’

She took another tentative pull on the cigar and handed it back to him. His fingers brushed against hers as he reached out to take it. ‘I think it’s time to go, don’t you,’ he said softly.

‘Go?’ Vanessa didn’t want to go. This was the most exciting romantic evening of her life. She felt as if her head would burst. It couldn’t all come to an end yet.

He laughed. ‘Don’t worry. The night is young.’

‘What are we going to do now?’

‘Do? There’s no doubt about what we’re going to do next.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m going to make love to you as you’ve never experienced love before, and after that … well, we’ll see.’

She managed to smile. She managed to stand up and walk to the door of the restaurant without her legs giving way beneath her. But she could feel them shaking uncontrollably. This was it. It was going to happen. For a second, she saw Andrew’s blond hair and grey eyes. She pushed the thought of him away. He’d gone off, hadn’t he? He’d decided. One stupid petty argument and he’d gone off in a sulk, like a child. Gerald was a man.

She asked the taxi driver to drop her at the end of her road. It was gone one o’clock. The houses were all in darkness. Except hers that is. The lights were on in the front room. Even if they were waiting up for her, her parents wouldn’t sit in the front room. Her mother kept that for best. The overhead light in the hall was shining as well. That was seldom switched on, a waste of electricity, her father said.

Vanessa opened the door. Mrs Cochrane from number fourteen was sitting in the armchair, knitting. Two bars of the electric fire were on and the room was sweltering hot. Catherine and Daniel were in their pyjamas and were curled up asleep at either end of the sofa.

Mrs Cochrane looked up from her knitting. ‘You’re back.’ She had a large mole on her right cheek, and vertical lines furrowed her top lip as if her mouth was permanently full of something sour.

‘Is everything all right? Where’s Mammy?’

‘At the hospital.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with her?’

Mrs Cochrane folded up her knitting. ‘Your daddy’s had an accident.’

Vanessa forgot her sore lips that felt swollen from Gerald’s kisses, the pounding ache between her thighs where he’d pushed his way inside her. ‘What happened? He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’

Mrs Cochrane puckered her lips. ‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the little ones.’

‘Tell me,’ Vanessa insisted. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Your mammy didn’t know. She got a telephone call. Course she thought he was at the pub as usual. What that poor woman has to put up with, it’s a wonder – ’

‘What happened?’

‘She came round about nine o’clock. In a right panic, she was. Asked me to sit with the little ones – seeing as you were out gallivanting – the hospital had phoned to say your daddy had fallen off some scaffolding.’

‘No! Is he hurt?’

‘Shouldn’t think he’d be at the hospital if he wasn’t.’

‘How badly?’

Mrs Cochrane shrugged. ‘I told you, your mammy didn’t know. Said she’d telephone when she got to the hospital.’

‘And?’

‘She hasn’t yet. And just as well, or I’d have had to tell her you – ’

‘Which hospital is it?’

‘She didn’t say. Just went off in a taxi.’ Mrs Cochrane gathered up her belongings. ‘I’d better be off. Tell your mammy I’ll come round in the morning, to make sure everything’s all right like.’

Vanessa closed the door and went back into the front room. She turned off the electric fire. Catherine and Daniel’s cheeks were brilliant red from the heat. The only sounds were their breathing and the ticking of the clock. It was nearly two o’clock. Why on earth hadn’t her mother phoned? If her father had had the accident at work, it must have happened hours ago. Surely, there should be news by now?

She went out into the hall and picked up the telephone receiver to make sure it was working. The dialling tone hummed in her ear. She felt sick. She’d been drinking champagne, lying in Gerald’s bed, letting him kiss and lick that place that she’d hardly even touched herself, no, not letting him, encouraging him, pleading with him, ‘Again, please do it to me again’, and all the time Da had been lying injured and Mammy frantic with worry.

She knelt down and clasped her hands, cradling the telephone in her arms. She hadn’t prayed since she was about thirteen and confessed to missing Sunday Mass. But now she closed her eyes and the words poured from her lips:

‘Dear God, please keep Da safe. Don’t let anything happen to him. He’s a good man. He gets angry but he doesn’t mean it. Mammy told me he misses Ireland. It’s not his fault. Please don’t punish him. I’ll do anything if you make him well. Anything. I’ll go to Mass every Sunday. I’ll look after Catherine and Daniel. I’ll never see Gerald Blackstone again, I promise. I’ll leave college. I’ll get a job at Haversham’s. Please God, I’ll make a bargain with you – ’

The telephone shrilled in Vanessa’s ear. Its ringing echoed round the narrow hallway. In the room behind her, Catherine and Daniel began to cry. Vanessa picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Nessa.’ Her mother’s voice sounded old and tired.

‘Mammy, what’s happened? How’s Da? Is he all right?’

‘Nessa, your da died half an hour ago.’