AWAY FROM THE EDGE

WHEN SHE OPENS HER eyes she’s in a different city. Low solid buildings are ranged around her. It’s Sunday morning. The streets are empty, bathed in sunlight. If she looks over the rooftops she’ll see space. Soaring, limitless, cup-runneth-over space.

Remember the city where we first met Lace? This one is nothing like it. Here there are no splintering glass walls, no elevators falling like guillotines, no ego-driven high-rises or malls pumping out loud music and desperation.

‘Home?’ She tests the word softly, reaches out for the nearest building and touches its blue-toned face. ‘Home.’ Carefully, to avoid any toppling, she removes the top storey and opens the cover.

tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And one fine morning —

‘So we beat on,’ murmurs a familiar voice behind her, ‘boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

She doesn’t turn around, closes her eyes against the light, the sudden delight. ‘Do you know the end of The Great Gatsby by heart?’

‘The last page of a book always has the greatest impact on me, because that’s where I begin.’

She opens one eye and looks at the thin wiry arm close to her face. The freckles are scattered so thickly there’s only the occasional glimpse of pale skin. ‘Reading the last page first! Isn’t that forbidden?’

‘It means I can relax. Surprise endings aren’t as bad if you’re prepared for them.’

‘Does that apply to real life?’ She strokes his hand: long fingers, bitten nails, callus on the middle finger from holding a pen.

‘Not at all, that’s why I live in such a state of high agitation. Real life’s a bastard. You never know what’s going to happen on the next page. Considering we’re always on the edge of a precipice, I’m surprised the whole world isn’t raving mad.’

Lace closes the book and trails her hand off the mattress, strokes the floorboards. ‘Why did we sleep down here?’

‘The bed’s too narrow. I didn’t want you falling out, or squished against the wall. I wanted to keep you safe.’

Safe. First Gibby, now Bright. She tries on the word for size. Feeling Bright’s feet moving against hers under the sheet, sensing his body at her back — yes, safe is definitely possible.

‘If we’re asking “why” questions —’ Bright’s arm is gently extracted from under her neck — ‘why haven’t you looked at me yet?’

‘Delayed gratification. The opposite to your reading techniques. I’ve been saving you till last.’ Now, finally, she allows herself to roll over. He’s raised on one elbow, looking down at her — and it’s the best kind of fall, her body loosening, limbs relaxing, mind letting go at last.

He’s half-smiling, his left cheekbone higher than his right. The skin around his eyes is stretched. Is he tired, or happy?

‘I’m both,’ he tells her. ‘I haven’t slept. I didn’t want to waste being with you. Not a single moment.’

‘Funny, because it was only after we — afterwards, that I could fall asleep. Properly asleep. At last.’ The night hours are folded quietly inside her like dark wings. When she closes her eyes she hears again the soft closing of the door. Then had come the laying down between the quiet stacks of books, fully clothed, shivering, her face against Bright’s chest, his arms holding her close but not too tightly. The thawing of black ice in her head, the slow return of blood into her hands and feet, the almost painful throbbing, the gradual undressing, the kissing, the touching. ‘It was like nothing I’ve ever known before,’ she says, laying her head once more against his chest.

‘It was new to me,’ agrees Bright, smoothing her hair back from her face.

It’s still early. The shadows are pulling slowly out of the corners of the room. She lies still, listening to his heartbeat, while he strokes her all over: her spine, shoulders, breasts. ‘I never liked the word succumbing,’ she says. ‘But that’s what I’m doing.’

‘When it’s mutual,’ he says quietly, ‘it’s a different thing.’

Remember that fairytale in which the fire princess steps from the glowing embers and into the rain-drenched room, simply to be with the water prince? Here it is happening in real life. Lace is meeting Bright halfway, and vice versa — only this time it’s not in the blind midnight hours but under the clear gaze of morning. ‘Is this okay?’ murmurs Bright. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Very okay.’ She pulls the sheet over their heads. It covers their nakedness with a rough but soft touch, hiding them from the world. Lace may or may not be lying under Bright, feeling his ribs against hers, arching her back in a slow luxurious way. Bright may or may not be whispering to her, pressing close against her with a tender but insistent force. A succumbing? Certainly it’s that — but for their eyes only. The book-buildings turn away, the walls maintain a respectful distance, the drowsy shadows keep their eyes half-closed for just a little longer.

AFTERWARDS, AS LACE LIES facing him, she touches his face. Her fingers are exactly the same temperature as his cheek: the perfect temperature, neither burning hot nor numb with cold. And her feet feel the same way. As she stretches her legs and entwines them with Bright’s, she realises that her whole body is warmed all the way through, free of fevers or chills. It feels — it feels cured.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ she says, ‘but being with you makes me feel different. Do you think it’s possible —?’

He covers her mouth with his hand. ‘Yes, of course. Anything’s possible. You just need to believe in it.’

‘That’s not Fitzgerald.’ She speaks into his palm, then kisses it.

‘No, nor a last page. Think of it as a beginning.’

She wants to. She will. Can it be true that loneliness is nothing but a state of mind?

Somewhere down the corridor a door slams; the floor shudders, the shudder works into her spine, merges with her blood. The whole world is gathered here, all energy concentrated in this bed, this body.

‘Do you want to come to breakfast?’ Bright’s red hair is slightly quieter this morning: no longer ablaze, more a steady russet colour. And perhaps Lace has also lost a little of her sparkle? It would be unlikely, after the past weeks, that she looks at her Lace-ish best. There are dark hollows under her eyes. Her cheeks are concave, as is her stomach; her thighs are thin, her fingers like sticks. And, after last night, there’s probably debris in her hair from the dirty floor of the refrigerator room, where she’d lain in a desperate bid to stop her veins, spleen, stomach, heart from bursting into flames.

But the way Bright looks at her — oh! it’s as if he’s seeing everything beautiful. Curved marble statues, soaring cathedral arches, a patchwork landscape touched with the brilliant longed-for green of spring. It makes her feel almost shy. ‘I think I’ll stay here,’ she says. ‘I need some time to — to relish all this. I’ll meet Geoffrey a little later.’

‘Yes, about that…’ Bright takes hold of her hand. ‘Gibby and I thought we might come with you.’

Her stomach flips. ‘He’s going to send me away, isn’t he.’ She knows it, but nonetheless her brain shies away from the moment when she’ll hear Geoffrey say that she’s not getting better. ‘I feel better,’ she says almost mutinously. ‘I feel like a whole new person.’ The problem is, Geoffrey’s heard her say that before. How can she convince him that this time it’s real?

Bright squeezes her hand. ‘Gibby and I will tell him that you simply need to be back in England. Back there, with us. Hell, we can leave tomorrow! If we all stick close to each other, it’ll be fine. We can look after each other. We’ll be each other’s Geoffreys.’

‘You don’t look like you need a Geoffrey.’ She looks at him narrowly. ‘To be honest, you look as if you’re doing really well.’

‘For now!’ He shrugs, glances away. ‘For some reason this freakish place has kick-started my writing, as well as lowering my expectations. Right now, sure, I could be the poster boy for open psychiatric clinics! But who knows what will happen? I might end up needing the edge of a roof again — in which case you will make all the difference.’ He tugs her hair very gently. ‘Everyone can do with having a close eye kept on them.’

‘Do you think Geoffrey will let me go home?’ She bites her lip. ‘I’m not so sure.’

‘He’s not in charge of you. You can walk away at any time. Anyway, he may be highly trained but he doesn’t always know what’s right. In the end we have to decide what’s best for ourselves.’

‘Living by experience? By educated guessing? It’s not exactly a foolproof plan.’ But right now, in this moment, she’s certain of what’s best for her. ‘Lying next to you. Always being close enough to touch you. We should stay here forever.’

‘Assuming you’re speaking figuratively,’ says Bright, ‘I agree. Let’s stay in this place forever.’

Lace’s bones, however, are speaking more literally. Shoulder blades, ribcage, pelvis, knees, ankles — all are exhausted. Don’t make us leave this bed, they whisper. We’re finally at rest. Her tired brain and heart echo the plea. Please let us stay. We’ve only just remembered how peace feels.

It’s true, the future seems hard to picture. In spite of Bright talking about familiar surroundings and new beginnings, plans for the next day and the journey home, Lace squints — dazzled, blinded, when she tries to look beyond this hour. See what love does to you! Her old self speaks challengingly to her new one. It makes you complacent, lazy; you want to lie around in the moment and never go anywhere!

Nonetheless she feels as if she’s been let in on a great secret, one that’s been kept from her all her life. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs, simply so Bright will keep talking. ‘Yes, yes.’ She’s no longer listening to what he’s saying, only to his voice. Existing in the moment is all-consuming. Her racing heart has steadied. She’s no longer running away.

‘Shall I bring you back some toast?’ Somehow Bright is up, out of bed, dressed and standing by the door: a thin streak of red and turquoise, like a horizon line stood on end.

‘Yes, please. And a banana.’ She stretches out on her raft-mattress in a sea of scratched floorboards and second-hand books.

‘Okay. After that we’ll tackle the powers that be, all three of us. An unholy triumvirate to conquer all.’

Suddenly she has a vivid image of Gibby, tying his long shoelaces in double knots, stooping in his room just along the corridor. ‘Give him my love,’ she says.

Bright doesn’t need to ask who. ‘Of course I will. We’ll be back in about half an hour, with carbohydrates and paper serviettes.’

‘I’ll be here.’

As he stoops to kiss her his green eyes are so bright that they outshine everything: the glinting mirror, the sparkling bowl of marbles on the desk — even the sun.

‘I love you,’ he says — and so does she. They say it at exactly the same time, and their words meet halfway across the room and merge in a bright indistinguishable flare.