Sinking into the hot bath, I closed my eyes. Blotting out the garish, orange tiles my landlord thought stylish back in 1972. There I lay. Perfectly still. My whole life, the power of a long soak in a steaming tub had never ceased to amaze me. There was something humanising about it. I fancied that being submerged in the warm waters was not unlike the feeling of being in the womb. Silent. Comforting. Secure. That somehow, something in our core connected the environment to a time before fear or pain or knowledge of anything but safety. This theory was the only way I could rationalise the sense of renewal I got from bathing; the feeling of being reborn.
My thoughts turned to the weird vortex of the last few days. Vodka. Media. Shame. Aggressive reporters. It was all complication I didn’t need. Boyle had written a hate piece in the Chronicle recounting the milkshake incident in a manner that made him out the innocent victim. I’d expected Bernie to jump off the deep-end when he discovered I’d poured a drink over a customer’s head but he was instead thrilled I’d managed to get The Starlight Diner a mention one of the city’s most-read publications. He insisted there was no such thing as bad publicity and certainly, the last two days had been busier than usual. I assumed this wasn’t because New Yorkers were a species keen to be showered in leftover milkshake but because, thanks to Jessie Marble’s write-up, people thought they’d get a glimpse of the next Hollywood hunk if they swung by for breakfast. I hadn’t seen Jack myself since the night of the vodka-thon which, given the level of unwanted attention that ‘harmless’ night out had created, was understandable.
Just as I started to let go of all the tension I’d been holding in my stomach, a knock came at my door.
‘Ugh,’ I said to myself, ‘no, go away.’ But the knock sounded again. I hung my head back and sighed before hoisting myself out of the water and pinching a towel off the stack.
‘Just a minute,’ I called, padding out of the bathroom and over to the door. I opened it just ajar: it was Jack. It was at moments like these I wished my door had a peephole like every other door in every other building in Manhattan. Cheapskate landlord strikes again.
‘Hi. Sorry to bother you.’ He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head.
‘That’s OK.’ I opened the door a touch wider and pushed my head through. I looked like a crazy cave woman with my hair piled up on my head. ‘I was just in the bath.’
‘Oh.’ He looked down at the sliver of white towel showing through the crack in the door. ‘Should I come back another time?’ His voice was quiet as though he didn’t want me to even hear the question.
‘Er…’ I looked at him a moment. The sensible thing probably was to send him away and ask him to come back when I was clothed but he’d come over for a reason and I was somewhat curious. Alright, crazy curious. ‘No. It’s alright, I’ll just get changed.’ I opened the door for him, grabbed some clean clothes off the shelf and scuttled into the bathroom before he could take in the full spectacle of me wearing nothing but a bath towel toga.
‘I’ve been meaning to get hold of you for a few days,’ he called through the door. ‘But there’s been a lot going on. One way and another.’
‘Oh I know. The last few days have been mad. Guess you read about what I did to Jimmy Boyle.’ I cringed. What would he think of that particular life choice?
‘Yeah.’ He was laughing. Then the laughing stopped. ‘But there’s been other stuff too.’ He paused for a second. ‘Me and Angela broke up.’ I pushed my head through the unflattering yellow T-shirt I’d managed to pick off the pile. The kind of garment you hang onto for decades even though it doesn’t suit you. Catching my reflection in the misted mirror, I noticed my eyes had widened but I tried to keep my tone casual.
‘Really? I only saw her yesterday at the diner. She didn’t mention anything.’ And if she had there was no way I’d have let you over the threshold, Faber.
‘It just happened this afternoon,’ he said. I took a deep breath. It was only five thirty now. Had he made me his first, post-break-up port of call? If so, he couldn’t be expecting anything to happen here, could he? I wondered how long I could delay coming out of the bathroom or if I should ever come out at all. Maybe we could conduct the entire conversation through the wall like two characters in a bad, off-Broadway play.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I managed to say. ‘Are you both OK?’ I pulled out the coral scrunchie that’d been holding my hair in the cave woman position and let it fall to my shoulders. Unable to find a brush, I cursed my inability to tidy anything into a logical place and ran my fingers through a couple of the more knotted strands.
‘Break-ups are never fun but luckily we worked out early on we weren’t a fit. And, you know, the age difference was always going to be a problem. Think she liked the idea of dating an actor but that isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’ There was a distinct downhearted note in his tone.
I stared at the bathroom door. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Women have a reputation for taking their time getting ready but there’s only so long you can string out putting on jeans and a T-shirt. Swallowing hard, I opened the door. He was lying on my bed clutching my copy of The Bell Jar – I’d had to go out and find a cheap edition after Walt reminded me of it with his crossword puzzle. Reading about an Esther in New York even more lost than me was more comforting than you might expect.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said, still stood in the bathroom doorway.
‘I’m sorry. For all the stuff in the Chronicle. I’m not used to anyone giving a damn about what I do on a Friday night. Don’t know what’ll happen in the long-term but if this fame thing does come off, I don’t want it to hurt the people I care for…’ He trailed off and looked at me. There was nowhere else to sit in my room except the bed so I remained near the bathroom door. Pushed my hands into my jean pockets. Shuffled my feet around, looking at them. Looking at anything except him.
‘I don’t even remember anything about our little Vodkageddon,’ I said. ‘Maybe I should read the papers so I can fill in the blanks.’
‘You don’t remember anything?’ Jack asked, sitting up, staring at me hard.
‘No. I black out when I drink that much vodka. Well, that much of anything really. Kool Aid would probably have the same effect in that quantity.’
‘Oh.’ He rubbed along his eyebrows with his left hand and looked down at the bed. Was that disappointment? I didn’t remember anything but I’m far from suave after the second drink hits. A blank in the memory was surely for the best? Maybe he was disappointed he didn’t have a blank in his memory.
‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ He patted just in front of him. I looked at the bed, then at him.
‘I’m alright.’ I couldn’t think of a worse idea than getting cosy on my bed with a freshly-single Jack Faber.
‘Come on.’ He gave me that same roguish smile I’d seen the day we met. ‘I’m relatively trustworthy.’
‘Relatively.’ I gave into the small smile, tugging at the corners of my mouth. He gestured again at the bed. I rolled my eyes at his insistence, meandered over and sat in a sort of lolling position. Propping myself up on my elbows. He sighed. I presumed because I’d sat as far away from him as I could without sitting on the floor.
‘That reporter claimed the milkshake-related attack was unprovoked,’ said Jack.
‘Ugh.’ I threw my head back on the bed. ‘Unprovoked, sure, because every waitress in Manhattan is just waiting to pour milkshake over a customer’s head for no reason.’
‘Actually, I think some of them might be,’ said Jack. I smiled up at the ceiling, looked at him out of the corner of my eye and then diverted my gaze back to the yellow coving that had moulded at the corners.
I frowned. ‘He was going on and on about this investigation he was doing into your life.’
‘Investigation? About what?’ The bed shook. Jack edged closer.
‘He didn’t say. It was probably just a way of trying to get information out of me. You’re lucky I’m not as cheap as Walt when it comes to being paid off as a source.’ I raised an eyebrow at him and for the first time since we met I saw a look of genuine horror on Jack’s face. I smothered a chuckle.
‘Walt…er. Walt told you about that?’
‘Discretion and diner customers aren’t exactly compatible concepts, I find.’
‘Well, if you weren’t so evasive maybe a man wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to get some answers.’ Jack looked hard into my eyes.
I resented that comment but tried not to show it. ‘Well, if perfect strangers weren’t so pushy maybe I wouldn’t have to be so cryptic. Boyle found out what happens to men who can’t take “no” for an answer,’ I said, again remembering how he’d looked when I gunged him in milkshake. A wry smile formed on my lips.
‘What do you mean?’ Jack was sat cross-legged. Right next to me.
‘Oh. It was weird. When I wouldn’t answer his questions he sort of started coming on to me.’ I rubbed my wrist where a small, purple bruise told the story of a struggle.
‘What? What did he do?’ Jack’s voice was fiercer than I would’ve expected.
‘It was just creepy. He kept asking me to go to dinner with him and wouldn’t shut up about it. He grabbed hold of me at one point.’ Jack was silent. I held my wrist up and showed him the bruise. He ran his finger along the blue mark, pushed his lips together tight and then jerked away as though my skin had delivered an electric shock. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I just hate men like that.’ He flexed his fists. ‘He’s lucky I wasn’t there. If I’d seen him doing that I’d have punched him.’
‘That would’ve been great for your career. Boyle’s already out for dirt on you. I’m not sure punching him in the face would have been the most stellar idea,’ I said. And whilst we were on the subject of punching, was now the time to ask why he’d punched a wall the day we’d first met? It was an act that had long puzzled me but if I asked him a question he might expect me to answer some in return.
‘I wouldn’t let anybody hurt you,’ he said, ‘nobody.’ I held eye contact with him for a moment before looking back up at the flaking, beige paint above. It was too late for that, Jack. Far too late. Of course, he didn’t know that. He was busy, stroking through the ends of my tangled hair. My breathing deepened. He inched closer but I kept my eyes fixed upward. If I turned my head our faces would be so close. Too close.
‘Esther.’ His voice was a low murmur. I moved my eyes in his direction but not my head. ‘I’ve tried so hard not to want you. Don’t think I haven’t tried.’ My eyes widened. He laid his head down next to mine. His breath warm against my cheek. ‘Esther.’ I tilted my head towards him.
‘Jack?’ He didn’t respond. I felt his eyes on me but he said nothing. He was waiting for me to look at him. I turned my head again, staring at his beard and the lips part-hidden beneath. My gaze followed the path along the bridge of his nose until our eyes met. He must have seen in them everything I didn’t want him to see. Dread. Desperation. Desire. I couldn’t hide it any longer.
‘Esther,’ he whispered. His fingers traced the outline of my mouth. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of bergamot radiating from his body, trying to zone in on how it felt to have his hands on me. A moment later, his mouth followed the lead of his fingers, pressing first against my upper lip, and then the lower. The breath I’d taken in, quivered out. I looked into his eyes. Opened my mouth wider. Again, he kissed my lips one by one but this time our tongues merged, dredging a moan out of both of us. And then, something wild was awakened, triggered by his beard brushing against my skin.
‘Jack, oh God,’ I managed to whisper as he kissed down to my chin, along my neck. Running my hands from his shoulders, down along his chest, I began to pull at his shirt. My hands in tight, tense fists, clinging to the material. Holding on to him, and the moment. His fingers journeyed from my hair down to my shoulders before skirting the perimeter of my curves. He then took my hands in his and stretched his arms above us. Pinning me down. Our fingers interlocked, and squeezed as I clinched my legs around his waist. The feeling of his weight on top of me was incredible. His body pressed close against mine. Jack paused just for an instant, gazing deep into my eyes. At first I was as lost as he was in the moment but it was thinking time he probably shouldn’t have given me.
A memory roused.
An image of other, crueller hands pinioning my wrists to the bed. The acidic reek of his sweat. Her stiff corpse lying beneath him. Silent. Still. And then, out of nowhere, my voice screamed, ‘No. No. Wait. We can’t!’ I struggled to get free.
Jack, startled, tried to steady me.
‘No, I said no!’ I scrambled to my feet, stood at the end of the bed and folded my arms around myself tight.
‘Are you…I mean, did…did I do something wrong?’ Jack was still breathing hard, as was I.
‘No.’ I shook my head. Tears filled my eyes. The last thing I wanted was for Jack to think he’d done something wrong when in truth that kiss had been far too right.
‘I just. I can’t do this, Jack.’
‘But it was…I mean, we were…’ He reached out and put his arms around my waist. Looking into my eyes, he kissed along my hand and up my inner-arm. My shoulders began to loosen again at the softness of his lips but Mr Delaney leered at me from some hidden nook only I could see. I took a step backward. Jack’s whole upper body dropped.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let that happen.’ I could feel myself congealing on the spot. Jack looked at me, those wrinkles on his forehead knitting together again. ‘The thing is… The thing is…’ I frowned. If I told him the new life I’d hoped for could never be. Not here. I’d live in Mrs Delaney’s mute shadow forever. Or worse, beneath the steel grey of Mr Delaney’s stare. ‘The thing is, Angela’s a friend to me and you guys have just broken up. It’s not right.’
‘But it was never serious between me and Angela –’ he narrowed his eyes ‘– and you’ve known her less than a fortnight.’
‘I haven’t known you any longer than I’ve known her,’ I said, trying my hardest to present logical arguments. ‘Isn’t it right I show you both equal courtesy? I mean, aren’t you both human beings?’
He nodded.
‘Well, if you feel that strongly I respect that of course.’ He ran a hand through my hair. ‘I’ll wait for you. But I don’t think Angela…’
‘You shouldn’t wait,’ I said, shaking my head at the grey, balding carpet.
‘Why not?’
I didn’t answer.
‘You know, if I hadn’t kissed you just a minute ago, I’d suspect you didn’t like me. Certainly you’ve given me enough reason to believe that. But you can’t fake what we just shared, Esther. What am I supposed to think?’ He looked at me and his voice dipped in volume. ‘What are you afraid of? Whatever it is, you can tell me.’ I shook my head. There was a weighty pause. ‘Why are you afraid of happiness?’ Jack said at last.
‘I’m not. That’s not true.’ That was true alright but I hated the fact he’d worked it out. I hated that he understood things about me without me even opening my mouth.
‘Really? Because potential happiness is right here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But you … you push it away. Why? Just, talk to me. That’s all I’m asking.’
‘I think …’ I looked at him square on. My eyes awash with tears. ‘You need to go now.’
‘Esther, wait. I don’t want to leave you like this…’ he said, a note of panic in his voice.
‘Oh God, Jack you just need to go. I need you to go. Please.’ I could feel the heat in my face. Any second tears would start falling. And I’d throw myself into his arms and blurt out the whole wretched story. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. ‘Go. Please,’ I begged again.
He stared at me for what felt like an eternity before standing up from the bed and walking over to the door.
‘This is a mistake,’ he said, his hand resting on the door handle. He didn’t look at me. He just stood there. Waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to change my mind. And when I didn’t he hung his head and let himself out, closing the door behind him.