Friday nights are noisy. Especially in the part of town around the Bijou-Roxy. I guess it’s late – well, it’s just gone eleven-thirty at any rate – so the streets are bound to be full of weekend party animals. And now of course there is us; all of us who have just spilled out of the cinema.
I’m holding Sylvia’s hand and while people are filing past us and bustling around us, I barely notice them. We are not speaking. Sylvia is like me and she likes to savour the rich beauty of what we have just seen. Lawrence of Arabia. The blue sky. The golden sand. Peter O’Toole. I have to say that it’s taken my breath away to see it like that, up on the big screen. It really has.
There are a million cafes and bars around here and all with tables and chairs outside. It’s a very bohemian part of the city if you really want to know. It isn’t so long ago that it was totally seedy and run down. But over the years, it’s gentrified. The big old houses have gradually been bought up and restored, mostly by creative types and, inevitably, by lawyers. But it’s the creative types who give this area its character – advertising people, designers and so on. Lawyers don’t give character to anything; they just suck the soul from everything they touch. It’s a fact, it really is. Dad owns two properties around here that he’s had converted to apartments and rents out, so you see what I mean.
I don’t want to go home. It is great being with Sylvia. I just totally love the softness of her fingers closed gently around mine, and when I consciously think about it, I can feel my chest tighten and I can feel every individual beat of my heart, I swear to God. And even watching the movie, just feeling her pressed against me, and the times that her head rested on my shoulder – God that was amazing.
I’m sounding soppy, like some gushing idiot from those trash romance novels and TV movies and I’m not like that really, as you surely know. All the same, Sylvia does have an effect on me. She really does.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
I’m not talking; it’s Sylvia. I’ve just been luxuriating in how the film has made me feel, and the atmosphere of this part of town and the sights and sounds and smells.
‘Sure. Where do you want to go?’
‘There’s a little place down there, just off the main road.’
She’s pointing to a pedestrianised alleyway just off the main drag. It’s a little darker than here, but it’s not dingy, and the alleyway is broad and there are little coffee shops and restaurants on either side.
Sylvia takes me straight to a place that she’s obviously been to before and I find myself wondering if I’m the first boy to sit across from her at an outside table. The thing is, I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that, and I’m certain that you do too, right? Right. And I’m wondering if she was here last night, even, when I couldn’t get to speak to her on the phone.
Cindy, our waitress, brings coffee to the table and sets it down without spilling a drop. I’ll be giving Cindy a good tip when we leave for that. I absolutely hate it when you get coffee slopping out of the cup and into the saucer because some wannabe actress/waitress doesn’t take the trouble to care about the job she’s doing now. I guess guys can be as bad, but I’m a teenage boy – I tend to choose places where there are cute girls waiting on the tables.
Still, I only have eyes for Sylvia tonight. She’s wearing a cotton summer dress that hangs from her shoulders with two string straps. It’s white with a printed pattern of large, pink rose blooms. When she’s standing, you can see that it’s short so that only someone with long, toned legs would ever dare to wear it. And all night long I’ve noticed that Sylvia has long, toned legs. And she’s wearing these flip-flops that have been designed to seem like they’re sort of Japanese – all straw and black cotton – that make the cutest slap-slap-slap sound as she walks.
‘I tried to call you last night.’
I don’t know why I’m saying this. I guess it’s been bugging me that she wasn’t home and I’m driving myself crazy wondering where she actually was. I know, I know, that’s not the least bit cool. But I’m being honest with you, right? Actually, it’s not the thought of where she was; it’s who she might have been with.
‘Oh, I was out last night.’
And that’s all she says. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to say more than that and although I’m just dying to ask her for details, I manage to let it go. Instead, I pick up one of her hands and I’m inspecting her fingers. I can see the scars running up the inside of her right forearm. It’s great, the way she’s not self-conscious about them. Strangely, exposed like this, they don’t seem quite so dramatic. And I’m looking at her long slender fingers.
‘You’ve got beautiful nails. Don’t you ever wear nail polish?’
‘Do you think I need to?’
Normally, with a girl, a question like that would need to be answered very carefully, but I’m already comfortable enough with Sylvia not to be phased by it.
I shake my head.
‘You don’t need to. I just think that it would look good.’
‘I don’t have the money to waste on stuff like that. We’re not all Hathaways.’
Now that sounds like something of a rebuff, but it’s not. She’s smiling as she says it.
‘Well, I could bring you some. I know what would look really well on you.’
She laughs out loud – that tinkling, sweet laugh that sends tingles down my arms – and she pulls her hand away to cover her mouth so that my heart jumps at the sheer loveliness of the gesture.
‘Are you gay or something?’
She doesn’t mean anything by it and I realise that it’s a fair question. I mean, how many boys do know anything about girlie make-up and stuff and aren’t gay? I doubt there are many. So I smile right back at her, shaking my head.
‘I have an older sister. We’re always looking at fashion and make-up and stuff. Sometimes I even paint her nails for her. I’m actually quite accomplished at it.’
This is true, and I can see that Sylvia is genuinely fascinated.
‘I could paint your nails if you want.’
She thinks about this for a moment.
‘Sure. Why not? You could come back to my house tomorrow if you like…’
She’s gone all coy and hesitant, the way she does when she’s fishing for something she’d really like but not sure that she’s going to get it.
Tomorrow is Saturday and I’m not doing anything in particular. And I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than spending time with Sylvia.
‘Sure. That would be fine.’
At least I know that tomorrow she’ll be with me.
We’re drinking our coffee some more, and I pick up her hand again. I look up and I can see that she is aware of me looking at the scars on her arm.
‘Aren’t you ever going to ask me?’
I know what she is talking about, and I shrug.
‘I don’t suppose I was, no.’
And that’s true. I’m aching with curiosity for sure, but it’s her business and I can imagine that it’s something very personal and serious.
‘But since you’ve brought it up, then tell me. I won’t pretend that I’m not interested.’
She pulls back her hand and she’s looking me right in the eye and she holds me with her gaze, like the Ancient Mariner, so that I momentarily stop breathing.
‘I cut myself.’
I think I’d guessed that for myself. You don’t get track scars like that by accident. But she doesn’t say anything more than that.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Stress. Boredom.’
She’s gazing past me now. She seems distant somehow, like her mind is altogether elsewhere. People can do that – I’m sure that we’ve all done it at sometime. But I’m engaged in this conversation now, so I bring her back.
‘You’re too smart to be bored. Only idiots allow themselves to be bored.’
That brings her back alright.
‘Are you saying that I’m an idiot?’
‘Not at all. I just can’t imagine you letting yourself succumb to boredom is what I mean. I just think that you’d always be able to find something to occupy you.’
She’s holding me with that gaze again. God, it’s so intense when she does that.
‘I did find something. I cut myself.’
I shrug and say nothing. What can I say? We’re in territory that I don’t understand. I could jabber on and dig myself into a hole, but I’m smart enough not to travel down that particular path.
‘Doesn’t it hurt?’
I can’t imagine that it doesn’t, so I truly want to know. I mean, let’s face it, most of us would run a million miles to avoid pain. I really can’t see why anyone would bring it upon themselves. I really can’t.
‘You feel it at first. When the blade begins to slice through the top layer of your skin.’
You know, I can’t believe I’m really sitting here listening to this. She’s sitting there, saying these words and you can bet your life that anyone just passing by and seeing us would imagine that we’re just making innocent small-talk. But she’s just rubbing her fingertips, slowly and gently along the length of one of her scars while she fixes me with that gaze and continues to explain. And I’m just thinking of biology lessons with old Jackson. I’m thinking of those diagrams in the books where you see a cross-section of the skin – epidermis, dermis and all those nerve cells. And I see those nerve cells shrieking out to the old brain up there to put a stop to it all.
‘It’s when you see the blood oozing out and that’s all you can look at. You see it trickle over your arm. You watch where it runs. And you don’t feel anything after that. You’re just watching these little rivers running slowly over your arm and you’re trying to predict the patterns that they make. It’s like some psychedelic show that consumes your attention. And before you know it, you’re moving the knife, deeper and further, until that’s all there is. You’re just seeing red.’
Well, she’s saying it and I’m hearing it and I don’t know if I can quite comprehend it without feeling a little bit sick. I take her arm and I’m still held by her gaze as I gently trace the path of these scars with my fingertips.
‘I haven’t done it for more than a year now.’
I ask because the way she’s describing it, it sounds like an addiction, like smoking or drinking or God knows what else. She shakes her head.
‘No. I just haven’t done it in over a year is what I’m saying.’
‘So life has been fulfilling and stress-free for this last year then. That’s good.’
I don’t believe that myself as I’m saying it, but I want her to tell me more. I think she’s holding something back. She shakes her head again, but she’s not smiling or making light of it like you’d think she might if she wanted the subject to change. There’s more to her life, that’s for sure. And right now I just want to reach across the table and hold her and tell her that everything will be alright, even if I don’t know how I can possibly guarantee such a thing. But I continue to stroke the scars on her arm, limp in my hands, until I’m tracing the scars that spell out Tom.
She’s all attention and there’s a hint of a smile in her eyes again, which pleases me no end.
‘What made you do this?’
She’s puzzled for a moment until she realises that I am referring to the letters that spell out my name in pink scar tissue. Then she pulls back her arm and laughs, covering her mouth with her hand – God, am I ever going to stop loving the way that she does that?
‘Oh my God, you didn’t think…? You did didn’t you?
She’s laughing even more now and I still love that laugh even though it’s obvious that she’s laughing at me. I can handle being laughed at by a girl; I have an older sister, don’t I?
‘It’s okay, Tom. I haven’t been holding a secret torch for you.’
She laughs again. Why would she think I wouldn’t have been pleased to hear that she’d been carrying a torch for me? Makes me more convinced than ever that I am right not to tell her that I’ve secretly fancied her for years.
‘So who’s Tom then?’
She takes my hands in hers and leans towards me.
‘Tom Cruise. I did used to have a crush on him.’
Tom Cruise. Well that’s not so crushing; I mean, how could I compete with a movie star?
And then we’re walking down the suburban streets of a suburban neighbourhood and the coffee shop is far behind us. I did leave Cindy a good tip, just in case you are wondering.
We’re walking slowly, hand in hand beneath the street lights, and it’s quiet. All you can hear is the click of my Armani shoes on the pavement and the slap-slap-slap of her sweet little flip-flops. This is a part of town where Sylvia lives and while it seems okay enough, it’s a million miles removed from the suburbs where I live. The houses are smaller and closer together and they all look the same. It all seems pleasant enough though, I suppose. We reach a small gate where a short path leads from the street to the front door.
‘This is me.’
We stand by the gate for just a moment and I wonder whether Sylvia is going to invite me in for a coffee or something. I really truly hope that she will. I’m kind of sad that the evening is coming to a close, if you really want to know.
But she opens the gate and she doesn’t let go of my hand as she starts up the path. I walk with her, still hoping.
We’re standing on the doorstep, facing each other for a moment that is not in the least bit awkward but is – to use a trashy romance novel cliché – pregnant with expectation. I can’t believe I just said that, I really can’t. All the same, I’m just standing here and wanting nothing more than to hold her and kiss her. I swear to God, if that could just happen it’s all I want in the whole world.
‘Did you have a good time tonight?’
She’s asking me.
‘Sure. Yeah, I had a great time. It was a great choice of movie.’
‘It was just the movie that made it good?’
She’s fishing again, but she’s not hesitant and coy this time. And it’s like some magnetism is pulling us together and we’re in each other’s arms and I feel her soft lips pressing gently against mine. This is what I truly want and it is a beautiful moment, it really is. I mean, truly wonderfully beautiful. Her lips are slightly moist and warm and I can taste the coffee on her breath. She’s giving herself to me in this kiss, in this moment, and she kisses like this kiss is all that matters in the entire world. And for me, it is.
And then there is a shouting and a yelling coming from inside the house, a man and a woman. Sylvia breaks away from me and for a brief moment I see fear in her eyes. I am bewildered for a second as I get my bearings – I was totally lost in that kiss.
‘Christ, I’d better go.’
Sylvia says this even as she turns from me and fumbles in her bag for her key. Before I can say anything, she has the key in the lock and she’s swinging the door open so that the yelling is clear and present. Sylvia starts to step inside then turns quickly back to me.
‘I’m sorry, Tom. It’s been a lovely evening but I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
And next thing you know, I’m stood on the doorstep looking at the door that has slammed in my face. The yelling continues and now I hear Sylvia’s voice and she’s obviously trying to calm things down in there.
I want to bang on the door; I want to be in there, making sure that Sylvia is okay. But I don’t do anything. I feel like a snooper listening in as I stand there. And I do stand there for a full minute or two until it seems that things are calming down. And I realise that I can’t just stand there all night, so I turn and head for home.
Now there is only the click of my shoes on the pavement, though in my head I can hear the slap of Sylvia’s flip-flops. All I can think of is Sylvia. And more than anything, I’m thinking of what she told me, about her cutting herself. And I’m imagining the blade in her hand. I’m imagining the skin parting and the blood beginning to flow along her arm. And I can’t stop thinking about this until all I see is the blood; and I’m seeing red.