‘WHAT’S THE MATTER?’
John pushed the loaded shopping cart to one side and focused his attention on Helen. She was in shirt-tails and jeans, what she called her ‘shopping outfit’, standing in the middle of the aisle, thoughtfully watching him. Behind her, Josh was attempting to eat a family-sized box of chocolate raisins before they reached the checkout.
‘Nothing’s the matter,’ he replied. ‘Why?’
‘It’s as if you were frozen to the spot. People can’t get past.’
His mind had been far away. He looked up at the fluorescent panels chequering the barn-like steel roof of the supermarket. The easy-listening version of ‘Message In A Bottle’ was playing on the Muzak system. He hated this place, its vastness of choice, its impersonality, its cheery brightness. He pointed into the cart. ‘Have you noticed they’ve even got ingredients listed on fresh pineapples?’ he said with a sudden smile.
‘Buy the tinned ones,’ suggested Josh. ‘More additives, but less chemicals.’
Helen slipped an arm around his waist. ‘You’re terrible at false bonhomie, John. Stop thinking about work so much and help me figure out what we’re going to give Howard and Angela to eat tonight. It’s bad enough that you have to go to this photo session this afternoon. I could have done with your help.’
And so they walked on from one aisle to the next, packing ravioli and trout and lemons and bottled capers, choosing from racks of Chablis and Chardonnay while somewhere far away the red dress swirled and lifted in the warm shadows of the dressing room, and blossomed like a rare sea anemone beneath the studio lights, and John became a prisoner of his unrecognised desire.
‘Put that back, Josh, it’s all sugar.’ Helen removed a packet from the cart and thrust it back at her son.
‘Your chance to win a brand new Toyota truck,’ he said, temptingly waving the box back and forth before her.
‘Tell him, John,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s bad for you.’
‘Christ, Helen, everything’s bad for you.’
‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’ She slapped at him.
‘Helen, John! I didn’t know you shopped here. How are you both?’
They found themselves facing a smiling, pear-shaped woman in a shiny blue jogging suit. Sue Cavarett turned to John and appraised him. ‘I’m surprised to see you helping Helen. I imagined the glamorous PR life would keep you away from such mortal chores.’
It was instantly obvious to John that she resented the success of her husband’s former colleague. The expression on her face failed to conceal her jealousy. He suddenly remembered that Lee Cavarett had spotted him with Ixora at the café yesterday. A chill began to spread in the pit of his stomach.
‘Isn’t it typical?’ Sue was saying. ‘None of us see each other for ages, then it’s twice in two days.’ She waited for a quizzical look to appear on Helen’s face. ‘Because Lee bumped into John just yesterday afternoon, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right, yes.’ John shifted from one foot to the other. This was absurd. He had done nothing wrong, and yet his palms were starting to sweat.
‘You never mentioned you saw Lee. Where were you, darling?’ Helen smiled at him. He looked at her sharply, but it was an innocent question.
‘Oh, at a café. I was with a client.’
‘Really?’ Sue Cavarett seemed surprised. ‘Lee said you were by yourself. Sitting all alone with your coffee, poor thing. He thought perhaps you’d been stood up for a date.’ She flashed a wide, bitchy smile at Helen. ‘We really must have dinner soon. I’d better get on – if I forget the kiwi fruit my name will be mud.’
She fluttered her hand at them and drifted on with her trolley. John stared after her. Could Cavarett have actually failed to tell his wife about Ixora, and the strange intensity of their behaviour together? Perhaps he really hadn’t noticed her. Perhaps she didn’t exist in this mundane world, or could only be seen by certain people, those prepared to believe in something other than everyday reality. His thinking was becoming paranoid – and over what? He reminded himself that nothing had happened. And nothing was going to happen. He studied the woman beside him, guiding the cart around the end of the aisle, checking her list against the shelves, and knew that he could never do anything to hurt her.
The photographic studio was situated beside an abandoned cinema on a corner of the Edgware Road. As in the case of many such businesses, it occupied the most unlikely location imaginable to be involved in the manufacture of dreams.
One of the Dickie Feldman’s assistants pulled the heavy black drape along its rail and turned off the rear wall lights of the studio. Feldman, the man who was about to step behind the camera, had requested that Ixora bring two outfits from the film in addition to the clothes that had been provided for her by the magazine. The group shots featuring the other stars of the film, minus Scott Tyron, who was filming inserts in the Derbyshire countryside, had taken place two hours ago against a curving blue-skied cyclorama. For a moment, the sawing of police car sirens brought the outside world into the studio, penetrating the thick blackout screens which covered the only window in the room. John was bored. Despite the presence of several large electric fans the air in the studio was stifling. The session had already overrun by an hour due to technical glitches, and Ixora had seemed on edge and uncomfortable, barely able to follow the photographer’s instructions as he ordered her from one pose to the next.
Now, while John waited for Ixora to appear in her final outfit, the assistants pulled the dustcloths aside and lit the set to obliterate shadows. He was surprised by the ability of these professionals to create such potent illusions within such a minuscule space. The studio was cramped and cluttered. Its floor was covered in scraps of silver tape, arranged to mark out camera positions. Its hardboard-covered walls seemed in imminent danger of collapse. But then the lights were switched on to the set, and there stood a miniature masterpiece of illusion. A circular plastic jacuzzi was filled with water that had been dyed a brilliant shade of crimson. Behind this, paper ivy was stitched to a wall of fake stucco, emerald green clinging against shocking pink.
The cost of the session was being shared by i-D magazine, who had planned the fashion spread. Their designer was seated in a corner with the props boy discussing pastry casings. Feldman, the photographer, was impatiently pacing the edge of the set.
‘You want to go and check on her?’ he asked. He clearly saw John as little more than a paid minder. ‘It can’t take that long to put a fucking swimsuit on.’
John rose from the edge of the table and crossed to the small dressing room behind the cyclorama. The fans blew warm air against his damp shirt as he slipped behind the shifting wall. A linen curtain screened the dressing room. He felt for the edge of the cloth and tentatively lifted a corner.
‘Ixora?’
The makeup girl was applying a final dusting to Ixora’s shoulderblades. ‘I’m just taking the shine off her skin,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’ She took a step back and turned her charge to face him.
Ixora’s brilliant emerald eyes shone darkly beneath heavy black mascara and a glitter-sprayed fringe. Her lips had been wetly frosted with crimson. The bikini cut deeply across her small breasts, pushing them into a cleavage, the bottom half scything between her legs in a tiny triangle. John’s mouth fell open. She had been made up as some kind of Penthouse Pet, an image of whorish adolescence.
‘John, I don’t feel comfortable in this outfit . . .’ she began.
On the other side of the lights, Feldman was calling, ‘Ixora, we’re running late, honey. Just come out here and let me see you.’
‘Wait, you should change.’ John pushed her back and turned to the stylist. ‘You can’t expect her to go out there looking like this.’
The stylist, a small Jewish woman with tinted red hair, looked bewildered. ‘You don’t like this look?’ She raised the back of her hand beside Ixora’s face. ‘It’s all the fashion now. So the man out there tells me.’
John slipped a dressing-gown over Ixora’s shoulders. ‘You understand that if any shots of you dressed like this got out, they’d wreck the image we’re trying to create.’ He turned to the stylist. ‘Whose idea was it for her to look like this?’
The stylist pointed beyond the curtain. ‘Speak to Mr Ponytail sitting in the corner.’
‘John, if he says it’s the fashion—’ began Ixora.
‘No, absolutely not. Stay here a minute, I’ll sort it out.’ Howard had warned him not to interfere in situations like this, but what else could he do? He climbed around the edge of the set and called to the designer. ‘The outfit’s all wrong. You’ll have to go with what Mr Feldman has already taken.’
‘Now, wait a minute,’ said the designer, raising an accusing finger. ‘This has nothing to do with you. You’re here to drive your client home, nothing more. Deciding what she wears is a creative decision. You have no—’
Behind them, Ixora suddenly cried out. She had stepped forward through the curtain and was staring at the set, her eyes widening at the sight of the swirling crimson water. As her legs gave way she suddenly fell forward. John ran on to the set, just in time to break her fall with his outstretched arms. They laid her on the couch and moved a fan close to her face while the props boy ran to fetch a damp cloth.
‘It’s all right,’ said Feldman, ‘it’s just the heat. It’s happened before in here.’
John crouched at her side and bathed her forehead with a wet flannel. Moments later, her eyes slowly opened and she started from the seat.
‘Lie back,’ advised John. ‘You passed out. The heat . . .’
‘No, I saw—’ She closed her eyes.
‘What did you see?’
‘The pool. It’s filled with blood.’
‘No, it’s just water, water with red dye added. They were going to ask you to stand in it.’ He smoothed her fringe away from her eyes. She looked up at him.
‘I can’t stand the sight of blood. Never have been able to, not since I was a child.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s no need to do any more shots. Just lie back and be still for a while.’
The stylist coughed behind him. He suddenly became aware that he was stroking her hair with the backs of his fingers. Embarrassed, he rose to his feet. ‘The pool,’ he said lamely. ‘She thought it was full of blood.’