by Clare Pooley
Julian knew that the logical thing to do was say yes. If they let the lease run out, their properties would be worthless. The leaseholder was prepared to buy them out now at close to the market rate. But he wasn’t interested in buying out all Julian’s neighbors if he was still left with the problem of Julian’s little cottage squatting in the middle of his proposed building site.
Julian knew that his neighbors were becoming increasingly desperate at the prospect of their life’s savings, which were—like most Londoners—bound up in bricks and mortar, disappearing, but, however hard he tried, he simply couldn’t picture living anywhere else. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask, to be allowed to see out his final years in the home he’d lived in for most of his life? A decade should easily suffice. And what use would the cash offer from the freeholder be to him? He had a decent enough income from his investments, he hardly lived an extravagant lifestyle, and what little family he had left he hadn’t seen for years. He had no qualms about their inheritance disappearing in a puff of legal paperwork and expired deadlines.
He knew, however, that refusing the offer was selfish. Julian had spent many years being unutterably selfish, and he’d been paying for that behavior for some time. He really wanted to think that he was a changed man—repentant, humble even. So he hadn’t said no. But he couldn’t say yes, either; instead, he was sticking his metaphorical fingers in his metaphorical ears and ignoring the problem, despite knowing that it wasn’t going away.
After five minutes or so of increasingly frantic knocking, and a final exasperated exclamation of “I know you’re in there, old man,” Julian’s neighbor finally gave up. Old man? Really.
Julian’s cottage was more than a home, and certainly more than a financial investment. It was everything. All that he had. It housed all his memories of the past and the only vision he could imagine of the future. Every time Julian looked toward his front door, he could picture himself carrying his new bride over the threshold, heart bursting, convinced that the woman he held in his arms would be all he’d ever need. When he stood at his stove, he could picture Mary in a pinny, hair tied back, stirring a giant pot of her renowned boeuf bourguignon with a ladle. When he sat by the fire, Mary sat on the rug in front of him, knees pulled up to her chest, the sharp bob of her hair falling forward as she read the latest of her romances, borrowed from the local library.
There were the uncomfortable memories too. Mary, crying silent tears, clutching a love letter she’d found pinned to his easel by one of his models. Mary standing at the top of the spiral staircase leading to their bedroom, hurling another woman’s stilettos at his head. Often, when he looked in a mirror, Mary looked back at him, her eyes filled with sadness and disappointment.
Julian didn’t avoid the bad memories. If anything, he encouraged them. They were his penance. And, in a strange way, he found them rather comforting. At least they meant he could still feel. The pain they caused gave him momentary relief, rather like drawing one of his artist’s scalpels across his skin and watching it bleed, which he only did on very bad days. Apart from anything else, his skin took so much longer to heal now.
Julian looked round the walls of his home, almost every inch covered by a jigsaw of framed paintings and sketches. Each one told a story. He could lose himself for hours, just staring at them. He’d think back to conversations he had had with the artist, advice and inspiration shared over carafes of wine. He’d remember how each had come to be here—a birthday gift, as payment for Mary’s endless hospitality, or purchased from a private viewing because he’d particularly admired it. Even their positions on the wall had meaning. Sometimes chronological, while others were thematic—beautiful women, London landmarks, peculiar perspectives, or a particular use of light and shade. How could he possibly move them all? Where else could they go?
It was nearly 5:00 P.M. Julian took a bottle of Bailey’s out of his drinks cupboard and decanted some into a silver hip flask, shrugged on his overcoat, and, once he’d ascertained that the coast was clear of irate neighbors, left for the cemetery.
He spotted that something was different about the Admiral’s grave from some distance away, but it took a while for it to sharpen into focus. It was another letter—black writing on white paper. Were his neighbors leaving notes for him everywhere? Had they been following him? He could feel his irritation building. This was persecution.
As he got closer, he realized that it wasn’t a message from his neighbors at all. It was an advertisement, and he’d seen it before, just that morning. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but now it became clear that it was designed specifically for him.
EIGHT
Monica
By Saturday, Monica was starting to lose faith in her brilliant plan. It had been several days since she’d put the poster up in the café window, but there’d been no sign of Julian. In the meantime, she’d had to politely turn down a whole slew of applicants for the position of art teacher, with ever more ridiculous excuses. Who knew there were so many local artists looking for work? She was also, as an ex-lawyer, painfully aware that she was breaking every employment law going, although part of her rather enjoyed the idea that, for the first time in her life, she was doing something not entirely by the book.
The other problem was that every time someone new walked into the café, Monica found herself wondering if they’d been the one who’d picked up the book she’d left on the empty table in the wine bar and read the horribly embarrassing ramblings of a desperate spinster. Argh. What had she been thinking? If only she could delete it, like a badly judged Facebook post. Authenticity, she decided, was totally overrated.
A woman came up to the counter, holding a tiny baby, not more than three months old, dressed in the most adorable, old-fashioned smocked dress and cardigan. The baby fixed Monica with her big blue eyes, which looked as if they’d only recently learned how to focus. Monica felt her stomach lurch. She recited her mantra silently: I am a strong, independent woman. I do not need you . . . As if the baby could sense her thoughts, she let out a piercing wail, and her face went tight and red, like a human version of the angry-face emoji. Thank you, Monica mouthed at the baby and turned to make the peppermint tea. As she handed over the mug, the door opened, and in walked Julian.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d looked like an eccentric Edwardian gentleman. Monica had assumed that his entire wardrobe was inspired by that era. It appeared not, because today he was dressed in New Romantic style, circa mid-1980s. He wore drainpipe black trousers, suede ankle boots, and a white shirt, with frills. Lots of them. It was the sort of look that would usually be finished off with a generous helping of eyeliner. Monica was relieved to discover that Julian hadn’t taken it that far.
He sat down at the same table in The Library he’d occupied last time. Monica walked over, rather nervously, to take his order. Had he seen her advertisement? Was that why he was here? She glanced over at the café window where she’d posted it. It was gone. She looked again, as if it might have magically reappeared, but no, just a few sticky patches left behind by the Sellotape she’d placed in each corner. She made a mental note to remove the marks with a bit of vinegar.
Well, so much for that plan. Her irritation quite quickly morphed into relief. It had all been a stupid idea anyway. She approached Julian a little more confidently, now that it appeared he’d only dropped in for a coffee.
“What can I get you?” she asked, brightly.
“I’d like a strong black coffee, please,” he replied (no fancy cappucinos for him, she noted) as he unfolded a piece of paper he was holding, smoothed out the creases, and placed it on the table in front of him. It was her advertisement. But not the original, a photocopy. Monica felt herself blushing.
“Am I right in thinking that this was meant for me?” Julian asked.
“Why, are you an artist?” she stammered, like a panelist on Question Time, scrabbling around for the correct answer, not sure wh
ether to tell the truth or to obfuscate.
He held her gaze for a while, a snake hypnotizing a small vole. “I am,” he replied, “which is why I think your advertisement was posted on the wall of the Chelsea Studios where I live. Not one single copy, but three.” He jabbed at the paper on the table, three times in emphasis. “Now, that might have been a coincidence, but yesterday, I went to visit the Admiral in Brompton Cemetery, at my usual time, and there, on his headstone, another copy of your advertisement. So I figured that you must have found my little notebook, and must be talking to me. By the way, I’m not sure about the typeface you used. I’d have stuck with Times New Roman. You can’t go very far wrong with Times New Roman, I find.”
By this point, Monica, still standing beside Julian’s table, felt very much like a naughty schoolgirl being told off by the headmaster. Or rather, she felt how she imagined that would feel, as she had, obviously, never been in that position herself.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing at the chair opposite Julian. He tilted his head slightly, in a half nod. Monica sat down and took a moment to gather herself. She was not going to be intimidated. She pictured her mother.
If you feel anxious, Monica, imagine you are Boudicca, Queen of the Celts! Or Elizabeth I, or Madonna!
Mother of Jesus? she’d asked.
No, silly! Far too meek and mild! I meant the pop star. And her mum had laughed so hard the neighbors had banged on the wall.
So Monica channeled Madonna and turned an unwavering stare on the rather imposing and slightly cross man opposite her.
“You’re right, I did pick up your book, and it was written for you, but I didn’t post it on your wall, or on the Admiral.” Julian raised one eyebrow in an impressive display of skepticism. “I only made one copy, and put it in the window.” She nodded over at the empty space where the poster had once been. “This is a photocopy. I didn’t make that. I wonder who did.” The question gnawed at her. Why on earth would someone steal her poster?
“Well, if it wasn’t you, it must be someone else who’s read my story,” Julian said, “otherwise how would they know where I live? Or about the Admiral? It surely can’t be a coincidence that the only gravestone sporting a copy of your poster was the one I’ve been visiting for forty years?”
Monica’s unease increased as she realized that if someone else had read Julian’s story, they must also have read hers. She mentally filed that thought under “too uncomfortable to think about for the time being.” She’d no doubt revisit it later.
“So, are you interested?” she asked Julian. “Will you teach an evening art class for me? In the café?”
Her question hung in the air for so long that Monica wondered if she should repeat it. Then, Julian’s face wrinkled like a concertina, and he smiled.
“Well, since you and, it seems, someone else, have gone to so much trouble, it would be rude not to, don’t you think? I’m Julian, by the way,” he said, proffering his hand.
“I know,” she replied, shaking it. “And I am Monica.”
“I look forward to working with you, Monica. I have a hunch that you and I might just become friends.” Monica went to make his coffee, feeling like she’d just been awarded ten points for Gryffindor.
NINE
Hazard
Hazard looked out at the crescent-shaped beach, fringed with palm trees. The South China Sea was a perfect, Tiffany blue, the sky cloudless. If he’d seen this on Instagram he’d assume it’d been photoshopped and filtered. But, after three weeks here, all this perfection was starting to get on his nerves. During his morning walk along the beach (before the sand became too hot to walk barefoot), he’d found himself longing to find a dog turd lying on the white, powdery sand. Anything to break up the monotonous beauty. Hazard often felt the urge to shout for help, but he knew that this beach was like deep space; no one could hear you scream.
Hazard had been to this island before, five years ago. He’d been staying on Koh Samui with some friends, and they’d taken the boat over for a couple of days. It was too far off-grid for him, and he’d been keen to get back to the bars, clubs, and full-moon parties of Samui, not to mention reliable electricity, hot water, and Wi-Fi. But, hidden among the endless grubby and sordid flashbacks of one-night stands, drunken inappropriate texting, and rendezvous with dodgy dealers in dark alleyways, the memory of this place shimmered, like an oasis of tranquility in the inhospitable desert of his recent history. So, when he’d finally made the decision to clean up his act and sort his life out, he’d booked a one-way ticket out here. Surely, this island was too far away from anything for him to get into any trouble, and cheap enough for him to be able to survive for months, if necessary, on his last City bonus?
At one end of the small beach was a café—Lucky Mother—and at the other end, a bar called Monkey Nuts (after their only bar snack). Strung between the two, like a row of pearls, but without the sheen, were twenty-five huts, erected among the palm trees overlooking the sea. Number 8 belonged to Hazard. It was a simple wooden structure, not much bigger than his father’s garden shed.
There was a bedroom, almost entirely filled with a double bed, draped in a large mosquito net riddled with holes large enough to admit whole coach parties of hungry insects. A small bathroom with a loo and a cold-water shower was tacked on to one side, like an escape pod clutching on to the mothership. The windows were little more than hatches, lined with more mosquito netting. The only other furniture was a bedside table made from an old Tiger beer crate, a single bookshelf, housing a motley and eclectic collection of books bequeathed to Hazard by travelers who were moving on, and a few hooks on which Hazard hung the assortment of sarongs he’d picked up in town. He wondered what his old mates would think of him parading around all day in nothing but a skirt.
Hazard was swaying gently in a hammock hanging between two supports at either end of the wooden deck that ran the length of his hut. He watched a small motorboat moor up on the beach, collecting the fifteen or so day-trippers from Samui, leaving only the residents behind. The sky was turning stunning shades of red and orange as the sun dipped to the horizon. Hazard knew that in a matter of minutes it would be dark. Out here, so close to the equator, the sun made a hasty exit. There were none of the drawn-out, showy, and teasing good-byes he was used to back home—it was more like lights out in the dorm at boarding school.
He could hear the Lucky Mother generator crank up, and he caught the faintest whiff of petrol along with the sound of Andy and Barbara (a Westernized approximation of their Thai names, Hazard assumed) getting ready to produce the evening meal.
It had been twenty-three days since Hazard had last had a drink or a drug. He was certain about this, because he’d been carving a tally on the wooden base of his bed, like a prisoner of Alcatraz rather than a tourist in one of the most beautiful corners of the earth. That morning, he’d counted four little batches of five, and three extras. They had been long days, punctuated by waves of headaches, sweating, and shivering, and nights of the most vivid dreams, during which he relived his wildest excesses. Just last night he’d dreamed he was snorting a line of coke off Barbara’s taut, tanned belly. He could barely look at her at breakfast.
Hazard was, however, starting to feel better, at least physically. The fog and tiredness had begun to recede, but they had been replaced by a tsunami of emotions. Those pesky feelings of guilt, regret, fear, boredom, and dread that he’d always magicked away with a shot of vodka or line of coke. He was haunted by memories of secrets spilled for the sake of a good anecdote, of girlfriends betrayed for a quickie in a nightclub toilet cubicle, of disastrous trades made off the back of a chemical sense of invulnerability. And oddly, in the middle of all this horrible introspection he’d often find himself thinking about the stories in that green notebook. He had visions of Mary trying to ignore Julian’s models, Julian shredding his canvases in the middle of the night, Tanya splattered over the pavement, and Monica h
anding out muffins and dreaming of love.
When he’d turned up at Monica’s Café to return the notebook, Hazard had realized, to his horror, that Monica was the same woman he’d collided with the night before he’d resigned from his job and turned his back on all remnants of his previous life. He’d backed out quickly, before she spotted him. So he still had the notebook, and the longer he held on to it, the more the secrets it held lodged in his brain and refused to budge. He wondered if Monica had managed to persuade Julian to teach her art class, and what sort of bloke would be right for her.
The sound of a bell ringing traveled along the beach. Seven p.m. Time for supper. Lucky Mother served just one evening meal. It was the only place in walking distance to eat, and you ate what you were given. After decades of endless choice, of every decision having subsections—Tea or coffee? Cappuccino, Americano, latte? Regular milk, skimmed, or soya?—Hazard found the lack of options curiously refreshing.
The open-sided restaurant, with its wooden floor and thatched roof, was laid out with one large table stretching its whole length. There were a few smaller tables dotted around, too, but new visitors worked out pretty quickly that the accepted thing to do was join the group at the communal table, unless you wanted everyone to look at you suspiciously, wondering what you had to hide.
As Hazard watched the other residents of his beach walking toward Lucky Mother, he had an idea. So many of the people he’d met here were from London or had a visit planned on their itinerary. He could check them all out, and find a boyfriend for Monica. He did know a fair bit about her, after all. More than he’d ever bothered to find out about most of his girlfriends. He could be like her fairy godmother, her secret matchmaker. It’d be fun. Or, at least, it’d be something to do.