by Ros Carne
It was a beautiful sunny day and a relief to get out of the flat, away from Luke’s relentless attention. How would he be if she was pregnant? Well, she would deal with that if it happened. She would take the test and there was still the option of termination. And if she did have the baby she could go straight back to work. Luke could be a house husband. He’d like that.
It was after four when the bus drew to a halt outside the gallery. Natasha walked quickly down the path towards the cafe. Jumping the queue outside she put her head round the door. No sign of Mel.
‘Try the pavilion,’ said the waitress, pointing across the grass to a wooden and glass structure where the overspill of customers was seated. Natasha scanned the tables for a woman alone. There weren’t any. Everyone was in a group or pair. Mel must be late. It was irritating, though not surprising. Natasha headed for one of the empty tables.
Then, just as she was about to sit down, she saw her. Mel was seated only a few yards away, facing Natasha, though her focus was elsewhere. She had made no effort to look presentable for the meeting. Her hair was wild and unkempt and her face pale and devoid of make-up, but for traces of smudged mascara below the lower rim of her eyes. And far from looking about for her expected companion, she was deeply engaged in conversation with the young man sitting opposite her. He had his back to Natasha, but she was close enough to take in the set of his neck and shoulders, the drape of his loose blue T-shirt, the thick chestnut hair, long on top and shaved at the side. He sat very still and her eyes traced the shape of his upright back, his head, his arms. Her throat felt dry, her heart was speeding. Even before he turned his head and she could see his profile, she had no doubt it was him. When he did, she found she was unprepared for his astonishing beauty. Acting came naturally to her, but this was taking it to another level. She breathed deeply and took a step forward.
‘Mel?’
Mel looked up.
‘Natasha!’ She sounded surprised.
‘I thought you were expecting me.’ Natasha grinned, avoiding Jacob’s eyes.
‘Of course. Forgive me. My son and I were chatting. Jacob, this is Natasha.’
‘Hi, Natasha,’
He turned his face towards her, pronouncing her name slowly, as if to convince himself of the truth of what he saw. And despite the strangeness of his delivery, which might have been enough to alert a more vigilant mother, Natasha was relieved to hear her name. She had feared he might say Lola. His eyes were wide with shock. She was ten years older than the most recent Lola picture, her hair was styled differently, her eyes today were green not blue, and though she was slim, her figure was fuller than that of her slender teenage self. But he knew. And he looked quickly away.
He shifted in his chair, looking as if he was about to stand up. Old-fashioned manners? But no, his shoulders gave a little jerk and he remained seated. She sat down between them.
‘Sorry I’m late. My bus was stuck in traffic.’
‘Don’t worry. It was a good opportunity for Jacob and me to have a heart to heart. He doesn’t often come out with his old mum. We’re going to meet his granny later. She lives nearby.’ Mel appeared not to notice anything unusual about the way her son was looking at Natasha. ‘Jacob darling, why don’t you get us all coffee and cake?’
Jacob glanced from his mother to Natasha. And for a moment she feared he might say something, blurt an embarrassing question, even tell her he recognised her. But his expression softened, a half-smile dissolved the tension in his features, and he said, ‘OK.’
And then she realised that though in many ways he was still a child, he too was an actor. All would be well. He was looking directly at her now and she returned his gaze, studying his long straight nose, arched brows and perfect full lips. The reality was so much better than the photos. Then she remembered what he reminded her of. A painting. Last time she’d been here it was hanging near the gallery entrance, a full-sized portrait of John the Baptist. Only his hair was different. No long Renaissance curls but a sharp contemporary geometry.
Mel had placed a £20 note on the table and her son stood up slowly, lazily, as if being dragged from a bed. As he reached for the note Natasha noticed the bandage on his right arm. She’d already seen it in the selfie.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Accident,’ he replied, staring at the table. He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask more. She would find out later.
‘Can you manage alone, darling?’ asked Mel.
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll help,’ offered Natasha.
‘It’s fine.’
Another quicksilver change. He reminded her of her teenage self. Yet so much gentler, so much more vulnerable.
‘Please. It makes sense for both of us to go. If you don’t mind being left alone, Mel?’
‘Not at all.’ She pulled a paperback out of her bag. ‘See you in a bit. No rush.’
It was all going well. There was no way Mel had been snooping into her son’s private online world.
They set off, Jacob striding ahead, eyes intent on the path. Natasha had to walk fast to keep up with him, conscious of his long-limbed youthful body beside her. As a teenager, boys of her own age had held no attraction for her. She had been uninterested in anyone under twenty. But the challenge of Jacob’s shifting moods intrigued her. It had started as a spot of internet flirting, but as she stood next to him in the queue, the space between them heavy with unspoken words, she found herself wondering where this might lead.
She said, ‘Let’s go and look at the pictures.’
‘We said we’d get coffee.’
‘We’ll come back for that. There’s something I need to show you.’
She held his gaze. His eyes were soft and dark like the painting, but after a few seconds, he blinked and looked away. It was hard to read him. He was holding something back. He was embarrassed, of course. But was he also excited? It was a warm day. She was wearing a sleeveless light green dress and the small implant was visible just below her left shoulder. She no longer worried about covering it up. It was not unattractive, and it marked her out, like a discreet tattoo. Luke liked to stroke it when they made love. The loose pockets at hip level gave access to her pump if necessary, but the bodice was closely fitted and cut low. Jacob’s troubled eyes avoided her breasts. In a recent message, he’d asked her to take her top off. Is that what he was thinking now?
‘Come on,’ she said, a light touch on his left arm. Without waiting for him she turned, setting off down the path towards the gallery, trusting he would follow. He did. But just before the wide portico that framed the entrance he took a long step forward and swivelled round to face her, blocking her path.
‘What’s going on?’ he snapped, his lovely face contorted with anger.
Behind them, visitors were bunched up, eager to get into the gallery. Natasha took a step to one side to get past Jacob, but he stretched out a hand to prevent her, so she stood back to let the group pass. An older woman with a kind face and cropped grey hair glanced back in sympathy. But no one said anything. Jacob looked old for his years, Natasha young. They would appear to be a normal couple in difficulty. Why would anyone interfere?
The path emptied and Natasha turned back to Jacob. His face was different, no more soft edges but a series of hard planes. The intensity of his dark eyes reminded her of Mel.
‘Jacob…’ She reached for his arm, but he shook her off.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he demanded. ‘Stalking me on the net. Taking me to see pictures. What’s it about?’
Natasha could usually read people. Naturally, Jacob would be apprehensive given their previous exchange, possibly regretful at sending her the pictures. But she was taken aback by the force of his reaction. He was taller than she was, standing motionless, inches away, close enough for her to smell the toothpaste on his breath. It was a warm, still day, tiny puffs of white cloud floating on an azure sky. The park was busy, families spread out for picnics on the grass, children skittering a
bout with footballs and frisbees. But they were indistinct figures against a blurred backdrop. Her focus was this boy.
Why hadn’t she foreseen this degree of burning outrage? He seemed to have grown several inches and his voice came out rough and urgent.
‘So what’s it about?’ he repeated.
‘Keep your voice down,’ she murmured. More people were approaching. ‘I’m happy to talk but we should move away.’ And she headed across the grass towards a spreading lime tree. He followed. When he reached the tree, he stood very close to her, hands in his pockets, breathing hard.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Must you be so confrontational?’
She threw out the tender smile most men found irresistible but which Jacob, it seemed, was able to resist.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I had no idea she would bring you.’
‘You knew who I was when you contacted me?’
‘Yes.’
His face which when she first saw him had been very pale had taken on colour and now he was speaking very fast. People continued to pass them on their way to and from the gallery.
‘You stalked me. You pretended to be someone called Lola.’
‘Please keep your voice down, Jacob,’ she said.
‘Oh, people might hear. You’d rather they didn’t know what you’ve been up to. I get that.’
She touched his arm. He stared at her hand but did not move away or try to shake her off. ‘I saw a picture of you,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I thought it would be fun to be Facebook friends. One thing led to another. I think if you reread the whole conversation you’ll see who was leading whom.’
‘What about those pictures?’
This was uncomfortable. A standing interrogation. He was inches away and there was no yielding, only uncompromising hostility. There was an empty bench nearby. She’d rather they were both seated than have him stand over her like this.
‘Let’s sit down.’ She walked to the bench and sat. He followed but remained standing.
‘OK so the Lola pictures were a few years old. I thought it might put you off if you suspected I was nearly thirty. Everyone does it. You know that.’
‘Cheats do it. Liars do it.’
His face was screwed up now and she wondered what was coming next. There was an earnest moralism in the outburst that she would never have anticipated from his flirty online manner. He was an innocent. And as an innocent he was shocked at having been exposed, even to himself. Though she hadn’t forgotten his other persona, the one that sat with a slip of towel around his loins like some seductive young god. Then that final one, the one without the towel. The seductive god was still there, albeit buried under the guilt and high principles. There was a battle going on. He could walk away but he didn’t.
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ she said, seeking to lighten the tone.
‘You made me send you stuff.’
‘I didn’t make you do anything.’
‘What about the photos of me?’
‘What about them?’
‘Where’s your phone? I need to see you delete them. And the chat. All of it.’
‘Oh Jacob, you don’t think I would do that. I love those photos. Like I said, you look beautiful. Anyway, they’re copied on my computer. They’re sitting on a cloud now. No way they’ll disappear.’
And suddenly he was grabbing her, shaking her.
‘Take your hands off me.’
He lessened his grip, but he didn’t let go. ‘You knew who I was. You looked for me. Deliberately. What the fuck were you doing? What are you doing now?’ His eyes were flaming with rage, even as they were pink with tears. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe you. Where’s your phone? In here?’
Her cream leather bag was lying on the seat next to her and he leant forward to pick it up. Furious, she snatched it back.
‘Are you crazy? If you touch me or any of my property again, I’ll get someone to call the police. Is that what you want?’
At the word ‘police’ he retreated into himself. For a moment he was quiet. But he wasn’t giving up. She could see him take a breath to calm himself as, in a low voice, he said, ‘I want to see you delete them.’
A middle-aged couple was walking by across the grass as he spoke.
‘Like I said, I’ve already saved them.’
The couple had stopped now, a man and a woman, and they were standing in front of them. Jacob neither moved nor spoke, but it would have been impossible to miss the fury behind his frozen features.
‘Is this young man bothering you?’ the woman asked Natasha as the man stood by.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Natasha mildly. ‘We were having a silly argument. I’m sorry if we troubled you.’
But as soon as the couple had moved on the mildness fell away. She struggled to get up off the bench, but Jacob’s hand on her arm prevented her, holding her down.
‘Let me go,’ she said.
‘Give me your phone.’
There was a new cold determination in him, and she did not like it. She would not let him bully her. She had shocked him, angered him, teased him. Until now she had not deliberately tried to hurt him. But his attempt to control her touched a nerve and she lashed out.
‘You wouldn’t want your mum to see those photos, would you?’
He didn’t reply but he looked at her with such hatred that she wondered if despite the passers-by, despite the threat of police, he might in fact hurt her. Did he have a knife? Friends with knives?
‘Anyway, your mum’s got secrets of her own,’ she added.
‘What secrets?’ he stammered, grabbing her arm. There was a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
‘I’ll tell you if you take your hand away.’ His hand dropped. ‘You know, the usual sort of secrets, sexual secrets.’ She could have stopped there but he was standing very still, waiting for her to continue.
‘There’s this bloke,’ she began. His eyes were locked on hers in furious hostility. The look was familiar. She had seen it before on men she had toyed with. Though never in a boy. It was both horrible and strangely thrilling, a sharp goad, and she couldn’t stop.
‘Don’t you want to know? About your mum’s bloke?’
At that he started to back away as if her presence was a disease he needed to avoid on pain of death. When he spoke, it was in a whisper.
‘You’re evil. Pure evil.’
The words were savage. A snake spitting venom. And they would not go unanswered.
‘His name’s Paul,’ she responded lightly. And with that she stood up, turned away from him and set off for the gallery.
Of course, he wouldn’t follow. When she glanced back, he was running off across the grass, not towards his mother, who could shelter him no longer, but to the main park gate and the great, terrible, adult world.
* * *
She looked at her watch. They had been away almost twenty minutes. Mel would be worried, annoyed. But Natasha was too unsettled to go back to the cafe immediately. She would give herself five minutes in the gallery.
People were making their way out and she squeezed past them, heading for the painting of St John the Baptist. She knew exactly where it was and for a few minutes she stood in front of it, letting the turmoil of the meeting with Jacob subside. She marvelled at the likeness. Even the pose, the outstretched right arm, was a dead ringer for Jacob’s half-clothed selfie. And though the sweetness of the face before her was a taunt after the ugliness of Jacob’s distress, its seductiveness called out to her. This was how it should have been. But Jacob had run away in anger and distress while this painted boy stood radiant, untouchable. And for the first time she understood why people needed to destroy works of art. How satisfying it would have been to pick up a razor blade and slice the precious canvas from top to the bottom.
She turned away. She had thought the lovely John the Baptist would relax her, but her heart was pounding, and she was weak and dizzy. But it wasn’
t just Jacob; it wasn’t just the painting. She needed sugar.
She walked quickly out of the gallery to the cafe. They were about to close, but she explained she was diabetic and needed food and they agreed to serve her two coffees and a cake. While waiting, she pulled out a cereal bar. Stupid. She had been so preoccupied with her pretty boy, she had forgotten about her blood glucose level. Familiar black dots were already crossing her vision. She swallowed a chunk and waited as her body settled.
The waitress returned with her order and Natasha reached into her bag for the money. Bloody Jacob had gone off with the £20 note. She paid with her own money, and, with renewed strength, set off towards the pavilion with the tray.
Everything would be OK. The kid was mortified by his behaviour. There was no way he would say anything to his mother. It would all die down. As if it had never happened.
Chapter Twenty-three
Mel
Where were they? Mel glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes to buy a coffee was ridiculous. She reverted to her paperback, abandoning it in seconds and calling Jacob for the second time. He wasn’t picking up. Perhaps he couldn’t hear the ringtone in the clatter of the cafe.
She raised her face to the sky, and for one unthinking moment enjoyed the unfamiliar warmth on her skin. How little time she spent out of doors. Exercise was a quick trip to the gym or the swimming pool. When Jacob was small she used to take him to parks, playgrounds. But you didn’t take a sixteen-year-old to a park. Today was different. He was in trouble and had come with her willingly enough. She suspected he didn’t want to be home alone. As for Natasha, Mel would talk shop for a bit, get some material for the reference and her supervisor report, and then set off for her mother’s. She would have done her duty.