On Friday, the shop was unusually quiet and Zoe spent the day in a state of restless anxiety, which intensified with each unused hour. She was dreading the party – certain that it would be humiliating in an unspecified way – but she couldn’t face another evening in the basement, or telling Laura that she’d been too scared to go. Besides, if she didn’t go, nothing would happen. Maybe nothing would happen if she did, but then: something might.
By the time the shop shut, she was so wound up and understimulated, she didn’t know what to do with herself: she thought she might arrive at the party and grab Adam’s crotch or punch him in the face. Back at Litchfield Road, she tried to wash off her nerves in the shower. She hadn’t shaved since the end of the summer and was only half aware of the hair on her legs. Looking at them properly, the hairs were startlingly thick, black and delineated; under her arms, it was dense and springy. She got rid of it all, soaped her armpits and the backs of her knees three times, cleaned between her toes, cut her pubic hair with nail scissors till it was just a shadow. When the shower drained, the foam was grey with clumps of hair, like dirty snow. She still felt jangly; she wondered if she should make herself come before she went out.
She tidied her bedroom, even though she knew no one was going to see it – however well the evening went, it was unlikely that Adam would leave his own party to come back to London Fields to have sex with her. She tried to find something to wear that was glamorous, unconventional and understated, and when that seemed impossible, she decided that understated was the most important quality and put on a black T-shirt dress and Doc Martens.
As she’d got older, she’d got less interested in what she looked like, gradually shedding hair straighteners, natural highlights, fake tan, padded bras, thongs, tops that were low at the front and high enough to show her flat stomach and the jewel in her belly-button, now also long gone. It was mainly a relief to lose all these things: she’d got a kick out of going out and knowing that she looked good, but it never felt entirely real – like she was dressing up as a good-looking woman and getting away with it. Eventually, pleasingly, it started to matter less. She supposed it was partly to do with being with Rob for so long. Now, she wondered if she ought to have been more vigilant. Maybe her appearance looked strange or inappropriate outside the context of a six-year relationship, like a family nickname or a private joke.
She walked to the party, winding through the streets behind Kingsland Road, her heartbeat getting louder, repeatedly asking herself what she was doing. Eventually she came to the yellow doors opposite the kebab shop. She forced herself to press the buzzer and a distorted voice that could have been Adam’s, or anyone’s, answered and the door opened. Zoe made her way up the stairwell and saw a small, morose-looking man standing in the door frame. He looked older than her, with dark, close-cropped hair and large glasses. He didn’t smile. She introduced herself again and told him she was a friend of Adam’s. He nodded and let her in.
She realized immediately that she had made a mistake. There were a few gestures to a party – low lights, music, a strand of fairy lights half-heartedly draped over one of the studio partitions – but it was not a party, yet. The room was empty apart from six or seven people sitting on the sofas, none of whom was Adam.
She took them in, with an increasing sense of dread. Their collective look was severe and deliberately unfashionable, as if they were trying to trick you into dismissing them before they revealed their inherent social value. They were a mass of shirts buttoned up to the top, cardigans, large glasses; everything was bottle green, navy or check. The girls wore items of intimidating ugliness, like tartan slacks or a black velvet jumpsuit. Zoe felt naive in her black dress and eyeliner. They smiled nervously, as though her presence was slightly embarrassing, which she supposed it was. The man who’d let her in muttered, ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’ and she repeated it loudly, addressing the group on the sofa, smiling fiercely. They introduced themselves guardedly, as if they were prepared to retract this small gesture at any moment. She was wondering what would happen if she just turned around and walked out, and then Adam appeared from the back of the room. He saw her and smiled, and it was intoxicating. She knew then that she would stay.
*
She thought it would impress Adam if she got on with his friends, so she attached herself to the group on the sofa and applied herself to the task. She talked to Oscar, who made drawings: he’d tried to paint, but just found himself stabbing the canvas. (‘I mean, sure, there is some creativity in destruction, but . . .’) She talked to Ursula about the experience of making your own felt and what she thought neon colours signified and to Anna about her performance piece involving junk food. She didn’t particularly want to talk about herself, so she questioned them vigorously and they seemed happy to talk. After an hour of smiling, sympathizing and praising, she realized she was exhausted. It had finally become a party: it was crowded, the music was loud, and she was drunk. Adam was on the other side of the room; she got up and walked towards him, unsteady and determined.
He caught her eye and smiled at her, as if she were the best thing he’d ever seen and for a moment, she believed that she was. He introduced her to the person he was talking to but she and Adam quickly discarded him, drawing closer, talking intently, ferociously, about nothing much. She said things she’d said thousands of times before, about London, her job, university, but when she spoke to him, all the words became vivid and new. He kept finding ways to touch her; when he did, it felt like his fingers left marks on her skin. The party swelled and coursed around them, and she realized people were dancing.
After a while, she started to feel frustrated. There was a strange eddying between them: he would touch her hand or the small of her back, and abruptly remove his hand. They would move closer again, and he would pull away. She didn’t want to talk all night. But she had no idea how she was going to get him to fuck her at a party in a warehouse where all the rooms had MDF walls.
‘Hey, you never sent me any of your writing,’ he said.
‘I don’t know, I’m not sure if I can . . .’
‘Come on, I sent you that picture of my sculpture.’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
Because you’re a real artist.
‘Come on, just tell me a couple of lines of something. You must be able to remember something.’
Something was forming in her mind; it was stupid, she was drunk. ‘Just a sentence,’ he said. ‘Anything.’
‘I’ll write it down for you, OK?’
She found a receipt in her bag and he found a pen. She carefully wrote down part of a poem she’d written six years ago.
He took it and read it in front of her. It was excruciating and sublime.
‘I really like it, Zoe. Can I keep it?’
‘Hey Adam, where’s Kathryn?’ A bearded man in a plaid shirt appeared out of nowhere. Adam introduced him to Zoe, but all she could think was: Kathryn. The way he’d asked. Adam looking mortified, pulling his hand away. It was all so obvious.
‘She’s in Edinburgh.’
‘Oh, right. Is she just visiting uni friends?’
‘She’s moved back. She’s doing a Master’s.’
‘Seriously? Anna never told me that.’
‘No, well, she has.’
‘And are you OK with that? The whole long-distance thing?’
He grimaced and did an exaggerated shrug. ‘I don’t love it. But you know.’
Zoe stopped listening. She felt foolish, flattened. She’d got it wrong; of course she had. She wanted to snatch the poem out of his hand. She interrupted and told Adam she had to go. He followed her through the crowd and down the dark grey stairwell, not speaking. When they got to the front door, they just looked at each other.
He took her hands, tenderly, apologetically. His skin still felt like nectar and she wouldn’t see him again; maybe she should just enjoy this feeling while she could. And then there was that moment, that exquisite moment: their mouths almost touching, an inch apart, as if they were attracting and repelling each other at the same time, rapidly evaluating the consequences of going forward or back – and then plunging and kissing. Zoe felt both transported and utterly grounded; his mouth tasted curious and exotic, like nothing on earth, and also like beer.
She pulled away. ‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
He pushed her up against the concrete wall. It was cold and uncomfortable, and Zoe thought this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. She was kissing him ferociously, not sure what she wanted from him: just more; more something, more everything. But he was saying goodbye.
‘Zoe,’ he said hopelessly, and something happened to her when he said her name. ‘I really like you.’
‘Me too,’ she said. And then it was over, the heavy door closed behind her and the air was biting and damp. She walked to the bus stop in the rain, drunk, desperate, sad, happy.