‘Jesus.’
Paul sat on the sofa listening and frowning and nodding and asking all the right questions as I told him about Gould. In the end, he sat back, cradling his glass of wine and studying me thoughtfully.
‘Have you eaten?’
I nearly laughed.
‘Have I what?’
‘I bet you haven’t. I bet you’ve been too wound up. So show me your fridge and your cupboards.’
‘Wow! I’ve never had an offer like that!’
He stood, holding out his hand to help me up.
‘This is the thing. Gould gets his power from worming his way into your head.’ He tapped his temple. ‘Your job, my job, is to keep him out. Don’t let him in. Is there anything else you want to tell me about that conversation?’
I shook my head.
‘Then that’s it. He’s gone. He’s out there. We’re in here. This is now a completely safe space. There’s just you, and me and –’ he picked up my wine glass and handed it to me. ‘– a very nice bottle of St Emilion.’
‘Oh… Err… I don’t think I have a nice bottle of St Emilion. Sorry—’
‘Ah, but I do.’ He reached for his jacket. ‘Taa-dahh!…’
‘I didn’t see that!’ I laughed.
Paul pulled a mock serious face. ‘That’s the thing you’ll find with me. I am definitely full of things you’re not expecting.’
That Friday night turned into Saturday morning. Hours became an afternoon which became a night again. There was nothing but a tangled duvet, over-heated pillows and sticky skin. I loved it. Nothing I had ever experienced before even came close, I never wanted him to leave.
‘But that’s an ostrich!’
He was showing me how to make shadow puppets on the wall – first a rabbit and then a goat – while we ate Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers which he’d gone out especially for, because I said I hadn’t had them in years.
‘It’s actually a camel.’
‘Oh, you’re bloody useless,’ I laughed, slapping his hand. His fingers landed on my cheek and he let them linger gently there until it tickled.
‘Tell me about your scar,’ he traced the line on my cheek.
‘Are we comparing defects now?’ I pulled away slightly. ‘What about this one?’ My fingers ran lightly down a silvery long leaf-shape beneath his ribs.
‘You first.’
‘Rollerskating. A lamppost and I got close up and personal.’
‘My brother. Messing about with a kitchen knife.’
‘Wow!’ I shook my head in horror. ‘I thought you didn’t have a brother?’
‘I don’t. Not anymore. It was a car accident. He’d been drinking.’
‘My God.’
‘He was what people, including my parents, referred to as “trouble”. But “trouble” when you’re his kid brother, means being daring and exciting—’ he smiled sadly, remembering. ‘And nicking stuff. Christ, he was always at it. I used to skive off school and he’d let me tag along when he went off on his “jollies” as he called them.’ His smile clouded. ‘That’s how you get to be a psychologist: always trying to figure out how someone you love so much could ever leave you.’
My heart hurt for him.
He took a breath. ‘Yep, the moral of the story is: never nick a powerful car when you’re pissed, and don’t mess about with sharp knives.’
He gave a little smile and kissed me, but I felt his grief and his sadness. I had no idea how to respond. We made love then, quietly, intimately, and afterwards, we lay facing each other, sharing sweetened breath. For a moment I thought he was going to tell me that he loved me. Our intimacy had deepened. Some barrier had broken down. He didn’t say it, I didn’t say it but I knew the words hung there between us. We were both acutely aware of it right that moment, but neither of us said a word.
On Sunday afternoon we lay in the bath together in my echoing bathroom, his head against my chest. I’d lit candles, and we lay back in the steaming water, breathing in the scents of lavender and sandalwood. The oil bloomed in tiny golden circles on the surface, clinging to our arms and legs, the water running off us like droplets of mercury. The shivery coldness of his hair pressed into my cheek, and I remembered what being in love felt like.
‘Come on.’ He sat up suddenly in a wash of water.
‘Come on what?’ I stared at his naked back as he hopped over the side.
‘Let’s go out.’
‘Out? What do you mean, out?’
‘You know, that weird place with sky and pavements and people.’ He grabbed a towel and started sawing it across his shoulders. ‘Here you go.’ He pulled another off the rail. ‘What’s the matter? I thought you liked mad spontaneity.’
I half got up. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Umm… I dunno. How about Belsize Park?’
‘Belsize Park?’
‘Yeah. I want to show you where I live. Why don’t you bring some stuff and stay the night? You can go to work from mine. It makes sense.’
Sense or not, I wasn’t going to argue.
The moment we walked down Belsize Park Gardens I knew I was going to love it.
It was a wide, peaceful street. Each side was lined with white stucco-fronted houses, with Italianate stone steps and impressive double-fronted doors. He pointed up at a glossy red front door with a polished brass lion-head knocker.
‘That’s mine. Top floor.’
He mounted the steps two at a time and the door juddered opened to reveal a beautiful black and white tiled hallway. White glossy panelled doors on either side denoted other occupants, but our footsteps carried on echoing as we wound our way up the richly carved staircase. I discovered I was panting. I shifted my bag uncomfortably. ‘Ever thought of having a lift put in?’
He gave me a withering look as he paused to unlock a door before pushing it wide and gesturing for me to go first.
The whole place was black and white: a wide expanse of stripped, pale wooden floors with two black leather couches in the centre, black and white leather rag rugs and an amazing ornate white marble mantelpiece and black arched grate. There was a glass topped dining table with scroll-backed chairs in front of a white granite breakfast bar with black and chrome stools. Everything sparkled and oozed quality.
‘Wow! This is amazing!’ I walked slowly into the room, gazing up. ‘Look at that ceiling! Oh my god!’ It was truly out of this world: great hanging swirls of plasterwork fruit and flowers garlanded the cornice and the centre rose was exactly that, a wreath of white flowers. ‘It’s original,’ he looked up with me. ‘I suspect there are very few people around who have the skill to do that kind of thing now.’
‘And the fireplace! My god! I’ve never seen anything like that!’ I went over and ran my finger down the stone columns of tiered acanthus leaves and scrolls.
‘It’s French, so I was told.’ He nodded. ‘Like the clock. It was here when I moved in. The couple who were selling the flat didn’t want it, so it got to stay. I think the two go together, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
Its impressive gold face mirrored my reflection as I peered to look closer. Its mercury pendulum, minutely etched and decorated, swung regally to and fro. Two white porcelain vases sat on either side of it containing rather sad-looking peacock feathers, and behind one of the vases was a whole slew of what looked like bills and tickets and bits of paper.
‘Not mine either, before you say anything.’
‘The bills?’
‘No, smartarse, the vases. I needed somewhere to stick them and they never got moved.’
Incongruously, tucked at the back, was a kitsch glass ornament filled with stripes of coloured sand with ‘Welcome to Colwyn Bay’ across the bottom. I laughed and went to pick it up.
‘Don’t!’
I jumped a mile.
‘Sorry…’ He came forward and went to take my bag from my shoulder. ‘It was something my brother gave me years ago, it’s just a bit sentimental, that’s all – Here, let’s dump this in the bedroom, shall we? I’ll find you somewhere to hang your work clothes in a minute.’
He manoeuvred his way through a half-open door. The room was huge too: floor-to-ceiling wardrobes filled one wall, with bedside tables, one on either side of the crisp white linen bed. He dropped the bag at its foot.
‘Gosh! This room is lovely too!’ I crouched to pull at the side zip pocket of the bag where it had come undone.
‘What’s so special in there?’ he winked. ‘Anything I’d like?’
‘Doubt it,’ I smiled. ‘A laptop, a few papers. You know, the usual boring work stuff,’ I patted, checking the phone I was going to give to Viv was safely tucked away.
‘Work is totally banned, by the way.’ He held out his hand. ‘So. Come on, the guided tour isn’t quite over yet. Let me show you the one overriding and singular reason why I bought this place.’ He helped me up and led me back into the sitting area and over to the window where a long unusual-looking sash went from floor to ceiling.
‘A win-door,’ he explained, undoing the catch.
A gust of chilly air hit me as he smoothly slid the whole thing up and clambered through. ‘It’s quite safe. Here, see for yourself.’ He extended his palm through the gap. ‘Come on, come and have a look.’
I faltered. ‘I’m not very keen on heights.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t let go of you.’ His face was grey in the evening light.
I couldn’t see his eyes.
‘Come on.’
My chest tightened. ‘It’s really not my thing.’
‘You’re missing out on so much.’ He let go of my hand and turned, gazing out into the skyline. His feet scuffed on the gritty roofing felt. ‘You’re not afraid of heights, you’re afraid of not being in control.’
‘Whatever, Mr-Bloody-Analyst. Would you come in now, please?’ I tried to laugh it off, but he only looked back at me. He wasn’t smiling.
‘All I’m asking you to do is take my hand.’
‘Paul.’
‘Trust me. It’s that easy.’ He offered his hand again. My whole body trembled as I looked down at it.
‘No. I don’t think so, thanks.’
‘Please. Just take it. That’s all. I’ll do the rest.’
Bizarrely, my fingers twitched and left the rigid comfort of my side. They hovered above his for a second and then our skin met. His grip was firm and solid.
‘Right. See? Just one step up. Don’t think, just do it.’
My foot lifted and suddenly I was out there, holding onto him. The pressure of his body was firm and constant. I breathed, my terror and his warmth mingling in the darkness.
‘Now lift up your head. Look out there!’ He slipped his arm around my waist and I managed a glance up. There was the cityscape, backed by a sky of deep blue carbon and alive with lights and the blare of cars streaming below.
‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’
He held me close as I followed his gaze across the rooftops. Ornate ridge tiles and turreted chimney pots stood sentinel against the orange-lit sky. I shivered and his arm tightened around me. ‘Just a tiny shuffle forwards. I’m still here.’ Both hands moved to my waist. My own came up in horror. ‘I’ve got you, Lucy. Just calm down.’ He inched me to where the edge of the balustrade slipped giddily away into a ten-foot gap.
‘No!’ I flailed automatically clutching at nothing and then my hands grabbed his forearm. He laughed. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not going anywhere.’
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of it. The panic thumped through me. My whole body wanted to dip and slide from his grasp, sink to my knees and cling to the roof felt, but that drop yawned beneath me. I froze, breathing hard and trying not to look.
‘You don’t trust me.’ He released me a little and I shrank back. His tone was tinged with disappointment.
‘It’s not you—’ My teeth were chattering. ‘I don’t trust myself. I could’ve dragged us both off… you don’t know what I’m like…’ I broke off.
‘That’s the thing,’ he was still smiling. ‘I know exactly what you’re like. And while you’re panicking about being out of control, and whether you should trust me or not, you forget to see things how they really are. You’re so busy being consumed by your own fear, you forget to look around you and see how beautiful everything is.’
I couldn’t think of a reply. I felt the weight of his hand in the small of my back, a soft breeze tumbling my hair from my forehead. I steeled the core of myself and swallowed. He’s disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me. I could try, couldn’t I? I could just… Dragging the cool air deep into my lungs, I managed to lift my head, slowly. My spine tensed a little but his hand was firm and solid. Letting out my breath, oh so carefully, I looked out at the vastness of the relentless city below. There it was: Primrose Hill, Canary Wharf and St Paul’s stretching out on the skyline.
‘See? I was right, wasn’t I?’
I didn’t say anything, but I knew, bizarrely, that the shaking had quelled and my feet felt firmer. I breathed in the night air and exhaled, allowing some of those fears to flutter off into the darkness. I was so tired of holding back, utterly worn-out with continually having to protect myself. The truth was I was sick of feeling scared.
My hand reached down for his and found it, bringing it up and placing it to lie flat on my stomach: my palm firm against his knuckles. We stood together, quiet and unmoving, gazing out, drinking in the writhing red and white snakes of car lights.
‘Well?’ I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Aren’t I?’
I didn’t look round at his gaze. I kept my face turned away but let him see the grin that was threatening my cheeks. ‘Actually, Mr Analyst,’ I said archly. ‘You might well be.’
The next morning came too fast. We lay there, my head on his chest, arguing amiably over who was going to get the tea. Paul was unusually quiet.
‘I have a question for you.’ The heat of his thigh against mine had adhered our skin. I didn’t want to pull away.
‘I really do think it’s your turn,’ I said. ‘I made it last time.’
‘What?’
‘The tea.’
‘No I didn’t mean that.’
‘Oh? What are you on about?’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘That first time, you know, in that wood you took me to.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, that wasn’t the first time you’d done that, was it?’
I paused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You were so precise, so insistent. You knew exactly where we were going and what we were going to do. Christ, you even knew the clump of trees!’ He wheezed a laugh but I could tell he wasn’t really laughing.
I frowned, blinking, staring at a crease in the duvet. ‘No, that was the first time.’
‘Bullshit.’ His voice was soft but with an edge.
I knew if I looked up, I wouldn’t like his expression. ‘Honestly.’
‘Don’t say honestly when you’re not being honest.’
‘But I am!’ I propped myself up to see his face. ‘I am being honest. I mean, you’re right, I’ve been there before, my parents took us there as kids, that’s all… In fact—’ I grinned. ‘My dad told me that was the place he first kissed my mam, so that’s quite sweet, isn’t it?’ I nudged him. His face didn’t change. ‘But I haven’t done that with anyone else. You were the first.’ I nudged him again playfully, wanting him to join in the game.
He stayed staring blankly at the ceiling.
‘It’s just I hate being lied to. Even something inconsequential. I can’t stand it.’ He looked genuinely upset.
‘I’m not lying. I’m absolutely not lying. That. Is. The. Truth.’
‘I’ve got a thing about it.’
‘Well that’s good, because I’ve got a thing about you.’ And I eased myself closer, sliding my hand down his chest feeling the heat of his belly as I moved onto the stickiness of his cock which responded almost immediately. He turned to me and we kissed, not passionately, and we began to make love gently and slowly, in that kind of exhausted way that you do when it’s not about sex, it’s about comfort, and saying sorry for being on the brink of something you might be really sorry for.
Afterwards, we dozed a little, knowing, with that awful pull, that it could only be for minutes. I allowed my eyes to drift and close. But you had been there with Dan. My eyes sprung open, staring into nothing. I swallowed. It hadn’t been the truth exactly, but it was the truth as to how I felt about Paul. Dan didn’t even come close. The intensity of his reaction had shocked me. What did he mean, he’d got a thing about it? Was it some traumatic past relationship that had made him so hyper-vigilant?
‘I’ll put the kettle on and jump in the shower while I’m waiting shall I, oh slothful-one?’ He suddenly threw the covers back.
I yawned and stretched into the warmth of his side. ‘I told you it was your turn.’
I waited, snuggling languidly into the pillow as though on the brink of going back to sleep, watching the dimples above his buttocks roll as he staggered a little around my mess of clothes on the floor before disappearing into the hallway.
So this possible relationship – was this the near ‘marriage-job’ he’d mentioned? I lay there for a moment, listening to the sound of the kettle being filled and the chink of mugs, feeling the thing I was about to do itch at me, waiting to hear that movement in the bathroom, the reassuring squeal of the tap and the drumming water telling me he was in the shower and it was safe. I so wanted to find out.
It was like a compulsion.
I knew it was wrong. Why didn’t I just ask him like an adult, like an ordinary person would?
I don’t know. Insecurity maybe? A lack of belief I could trust what he told me?
I’d seen the drawer in his bedside table. I knew, even as my hand reached forward, this could be the end of something.
It was the kind of drawer that holds all kinds of rubbish. He’d gone to push it closed last night, and I thought I’d caught a glimpse of a photograph.
I watched my fingers pulling gently on the wooden edge. It opened silently and then, there it was. A photograph of a girl.
It was one of those small, passport-style ones. It was standing up, wedged in beside a whole muddled mess of papers and old tickets and dried up biros. I looked at it feeling suddenly scared and slightly sick.
She was very young: twenty at the most, and very pretty.
Picking it up very carefully, I stared and stared at it, imprinting her face as though any moment the image might dissolve and disappear. She had curly dark hair, like me, and was smiling. It was clearly someone from a long time ago. I imagined him with her, their young love, puppy-like and happy. A pang of jealousy suddenly caught me. I was bothered, I realised: stupidly, ridiculously. It was years old.
Somewhere off in the background the splash and wash of water drummed and I knew I didn’t have too much longer. Sliding it back into the gap in the joint, I shoved the papers and tickets and maps back on top. Then, scooping up a baggy T-shirt from the floor, I pulled it on, tiptoeing quickly into the bathroom where he was just about to turn the shower off.
‘Did you finish making the tea?’
‘Don’t know where everything is,’ I smiled disarmingly.
‘Hardly difficult.’ He rolled his eyes, pulling the towels from the rail, and slinging one low around his hips before starting to rub the other though his hair. He paused and touched my shoulder. His fringe stood up comically.
‘Happy?’ he queried.
‘Very,’ I smiled back.
‘Sure?’ He scrubbed a corner of the towel across his forehead so that I couldn’t see his eyes.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Because you suddenly look… Hmm…’ The scrubbing paused. ‘I don’t know. Different, somehow.’
‘I was lying in bed, just thinking—’
‘Dangerous. Always dangerous.’ He flapped the towel out in front of him. His hair looked like Coco the Clown.
‘You know what you were saying before?’ I reached up and smoothed one of the ruffled bits over his ear.
‘When before?’ He moved away to the mirror.
‘Like before, before – about that one girl, the serious relationship… the woman you went out with—’
He blinked, puzzled. ‘I’m trying to think what I might’ve said.’ He picked up a comb and started to rake his hair into thick furrows.
‘You know, the almost-marriage-jobbie—’
‘Me?’ He looked at my reflection. ‘Marriage? Are you sure?’ He chuckled and started combing again.
‘Yeah, you said you’d had a few, kind of serious living-together relationships but one almost-marriage.’
‘Don’t think so. Wrong bloke. You must be getting me confused with one of your other boyfriends… Are you getting in that shower? I would, while it’s still warm.’
‘Oh. Okay. Right.’ Puzzled, I pulled the T-shirt over my head and stepped into the cubicle, twisting the tap and hopping out of the way of the sudden blast of cool water.
My phone jangled in the bedroom somewhere.
‘I’ll get that for you, shall I?’ He darted out before I could answer. He had said that though, hadn’t he? I tried to remember the conversation when I became aware of his voice in the hallway, querying whoever it was on the phone. I had this sudden and appalling realisation. The ringing tone… It was my old phone. A shot of adrenaline banged into my heart.
Simon.
The water went suddenly hot but a tingling chill crawled into my neck. What if it was?… It doesn’t have to be, I told myself. You’re being paranoid, it could be anyone.
I stood, straining to listen to the conversation over the torrent of splashing water as Paul reappeared in the doorway waving my phone.
‘I picked it up and my thumb pressed the answer button by mistake. I didn’t mean to. Sorry.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I pretended to be soaping my hair, half-heartedly rinsing it and reaching for the shampoo again. ‘Who was it?’
‘Some bloke. I thought I recognised the voice.’
The bottle slid from my fingers and crash into the shower tray. I bent to retrieve it, my thumbs and fingers fumbling.
‘But not Gould?’ My voice sounded weird as I straightened.
‘No. I think I’d recognise Gould. The bloke said he wouldn’t leave a number or a name. But he did ask me to say hello to you. Bit odd, don’t you think?’ He placed it precisely on the edge of the basin.
‘My whole life is full of odd people.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘I shouldn’t worry about it.’
‘I wasn’t worrying, but do you normally give out your number to random men?’
There was something in his tone. I turned to face him but he was looking in the mirror and running his fingers along his jawline, his chin tilted, his eyes lost.
‘No I don’t. As you say, very strange.’ I kept my pitch bright and stupidly cheerful as I turned off the shower. The whole room went quiet. He seemed stiff and unfriendly suddenly.
‘So, more importantly, would you like to meet for dinner tonight. Does that fit with your plans?’ I opened the door and scouted for a towel.
But he only shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I might need to work.’
‘I can rustle up something at mine as long as you’re not too worried about food-poisoning.’ I chuckled.
‘I’ll have to see.’ He busied himself, not looking at me and then glanced at his watch next to the basin. ‘I really need to get going.’
He wandered away into the kitchen. Something was wrong. The ground beneath me was shifting. Wrapping the towel around me and picking up the phone, I padded cautiously after him, aware that he was now opening and closing cupboards a little too loudly and clattering plates onto the granite. He didn’t look up.
‘You okay?’
‘Yep. You want breakfast?’
‘That would be nice. Are you sure you’re okay?’
From here I could see the muscles in his temple working, wrestling and fighting under the skin. He looked up and his face suddenly smoothed. He smiled. ‘You look lovely.’
My hand automatically came up and touched my unbrushed hair.
‘Shame you have to tie it back.’
I hadn’t thought about tying it back.
‘Is toast and marmalade okay? I’m not sure what else I’ve got… Proper coffee too. Will that do you?’ Whatever his mood was, it had now disappeared.
‘It all sounds perfect.’
‘You’ve got ten minutes then.’
He busied himself with the breakfast as I slid into the bedroom. Unhooking my work clothes from their hanger on the back of the door, I crouched down to find my clean underwear and realised something that hadn’t dawned on me before: I hadn’t taken this phone out of my bag. I purposefully had checked it, hadn’t I? But now the zip of the side pocket was open.
I looked down at the black rectangle in my hand and opened the ‘call log’ screen. Seven minutes ago I had received a call from a ‘withheld number’ that had lasted for two minutes and twenty-four seconds. I couldn’t think of anyone who would ring at seven in the morning and withhold their number. But then again I couldn’t think why Paul would speak to a complete stranger for two minutes and twenty-four seconds either.
Unless it had been Simon Gould.
And if it was, why didn’t he just say?