The girl can’t sing. But my God, he thinks, she’s got guts.
There have been other girls since Cat, but none has intrigued him like Daisy, and he supposes part of the attraction is that they’re so different. If Daisy’s like looking at a gorgeous painting, a kind of clever and intriguing artifice, then Cat’s the subject, the real thing, with nothing hidden. But he wasn’t able to live up to her high standards. With her truth and her unwavering need to do the right thing, she obviously found him wanting. With Daisy, though, he thinks, he can just be himself. A bit selfish, a bit shit – in other words, a normal human being.
He takes Daisy back to the flat. They don’t bother with the pretence of coffee. They’re already removing each other’s clothes as he flings the door to his room open. He kisses her bare shoulder near her heart tattoo, buries his face in her hot neck, inhaling the patchouli she wears, the musky aroma of her skin.
She giggles, pulling his face down to meet hers, her lips parting for him. ‘Fuck me,’ she whispers.
Afterwards, she falls asleep, curled on her side, one hand by her cheek, snuffling gently. Sam gazes down, wondering at the vibrant lustre of her hair, the fullness of her lips. He touches one of her red corkscrew curls, threads it through his fingers, pulling it straight and watching it bounce back. She’s not just gorgeous, she’s smart and funny and brave. Hope flares in his chest that this woman could be the one to erase his memories of Cat, give him another chance at love.
‘Ocean Blue’ is a huge hit; it’s had the number one spot for weeks. And there are other songs he wrote for Cat on the album. When he sings them, his voice is raw with emotion. Every word, every note takes him back to her, scrapes out the void of missing her all over again. He was afraid that he’d never get over her if these songs were a success, that he’d be committed to singing them for the rest of his career. His worst fears have come true. It’s the music he wrote for her that’s propelled them into the big time, but Cat herself is lost to him for ever.
Sam rolls close to Daisy, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of her skin, the salty tang of sex. He puts his arm around her waist and pulls her in, fitting his body to the shape of hers. She murmurs and sighs.
July 1986
George and Sam are watching the Wimbledon men’s final. Daisy slips onto the sofa between the two men. ‘Becker’s pretty cute,’ she says.
She’s in a pair of cut-off denim shorts, her creamy legs smooth, her toes painted scarlet. Her knee presses against Sam’s thigh, a distraction from the brilliance of the game, as a ball flies over the net in a flash of yellow.
‘Whoa! Becker’s thrashing him,’ George says. ‘No way is Lendl coming back from this.’
‘Oh, I can’t watch,’ Daisy says, putting her hand over her eyes. ‘I hate it when people lose. I always feel sorry for them.’
‘Don’t waste your pity,’ George says. ‘These guys are sportsmen. They’re tough as nails.’
‘No.’ Daisy squints through a gap in her fingers. ‘It’s awful. Look at his face. He’s going to cry.’ She gets up and pads into the kitchen. ‘Tell me when it’s over,’ she calls.
George smiles at Sam. ‘You’ve got yourself the sweetest girlfriend, as well as the sexiest.’ He thumps Sam’s arm. ‘You’re a lucky bastard.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Sam shrugs.
‘Hey, Daisy,’ George yells. ‘Brace yourself – Becker’s about to win Wimbledon!’
‘You cannot be serious!’ she calls, doing a bad McEnroe impression.
A memory from his first date with Cat comes back to Sam in a rush.
‘You okay?’ George glances at him.
Sam nods, as Lendl’s ball fails to clear the net.
George leaps to his feet, cheering. Daisy is back with a tray. She’s made Pimm’s in a jug filled with ice, decorated with sprigs of mint and slices of cucumber. She sets it down carefully, giving them a spectacular view of her cleavage, and then stands up to pour them all a glass. ‘Cheers, Daisy,’ George says.
On the TV, Becker is raising his arms in jubilation.
Sam holds his glass, the sides cold and slippery with condensation. ‘Thanks, baby,’ he says, raising it to Daisy. ‘You’re the best.’
He finds himself saying things like that: you’re the best; you’re the sweetest; I love the way you do that; I love your laugh, your eyes, your smile. But he knows Daisy is waiting for him to tell her that he loves her. Only he can’t. Sometimes he feels as though he’s going to say it, but then she’ll do something that only a few weeks ago seemed adorable or clever but now feels too knowing. To make up for the lack of words, he leans across and kisses her on the mouth. She kisses him back, immediately warm and generous, her lips full of forgiveness.
‘Hey, you two,’ George says. ‘Get a room, can’t you? Have pity on the single man.’
They break off, laughing. Daisy ruffles George’s hair, and suddenly it feels so easy that Sam thinks those elusive words might be sayable after all. Soon, he thinks, when the moment is right.
TWENTY-NINE
Cat, July 1987
Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ plays in every shop and café that I go into. The song drives me crazy. It’s impossible to shake off, and I find myself humming it before I’ve realised.
‘We’re getting you a new outfit,’ Dougie says, marching me through Covent Garden. It’s like our old Knightsbridge game, but this time we’re in the business of buying. At least, I am. Dougie seems to get most of his clothes for free, or with a fat discount, since he started his new job as junior fashion assistant at Harpers & Queen. ‘You need something without polka dots for a change,’ he’s saying. ‘And you never show those legs of yours off. You won’t be young for ever, you know.’
‘You’re sounding disturbingly like my mom,’ I mutter, as he thrusts items of clothing at me through the changing-room curtain. He tells me that I look a bit like someone called Tatjana Patitz, and that when he was on a shoot with her the other day, he noticed her knees didn’t even wrinkle in that place just above the bone and before the thigh where everyone else’s knees do. They are the legs of a goddess.
I step outside the booth and twirl before him. He claps his hands together. ‘Just needs a narrow belt to set it off.’
‘But where am I supposed to wear this?’ I ask, as he threads a belt around my waist. ‘I never go anywhere.’
‘Exactly. With the right outfit, you might change that.’
I’m looking at myself in the mirror, uncertain of the new me. Maybe this girl could sign a publishing contract, live her dreams. Except I picked up another package from the doormat this morning, my typed stories returned from a different agent with a rejection note. Reading the brief lines, I felt very far from achieving my dreams.
Dougie’s holding up a white blouse against me. He stops for a moment and sighs. ‘I love this song. So romantic.’
It’s him. I know before I can voice it in my head. Before I can bring his name to my tongue. The music goes right to the core of me, enters me like a drug, spinning me back to my bench on the boardwalk; shivering in his arms on the beach; the itchy tiles at the funeral home, his body over mine, inside mine; his smell, his breath, his voice. Him on the stage at Ally’s, looking at me in the wings and winking. This one’s for Cat.
‘Are you all right, hen?’ Dougie’s saying. ‘Here, sit down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I’m in a chair, head between my knees, blood hammering at the walls of my skull, blood leaping out of my heart. I am drowning in memories. I struggle to the surface, put my hands over my eyes. ‘It’s him,’ I whisper. ‘It’s Sam. The man I told you about …’
‘What? Where?’
The song is ending now, the chorus washing away, and I want to run after it, drag it back. I want to hear his voice again. ‘Sam Sage. The man I met in Atlantic City. That was him. Singing that song.’
‘No! He’s all over MTV. He’s a star, darling.’ He pouts. ‘You said he wasn’t famous.’
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‘He wasn’t. Not then.’
Dougie bends down and raises my chin to look into my face. ‘Well, now you’ll be able to find him, right? He’s in that band, the Lambs.’
I break free of his grip and glance away. ‘No. No. It’s over between us. He never wrote. Never contacted me. He had the chance, and he didn’t … he didn’t want to see me again.’ I swallow. ‘Anyhow, it was years ago. There’s no way I’m going to try and contact him now like … like some deluded fan. What would I say? Hey, remember me? Can you imagine if he didn’t?’
Dougie sucks in his breath and looks at me disapprovingly. ‘If an old lover of mine made it big, I’d make damn sure they did remember me.’
‘I’m not like you, Dougie,’ I say quietly, looking down at my exposed legs under the short skirt. ‘I’m not gonna buy these things. I feel kind of sick. I want to go home.’
‘Well, I’m going to buy them for you. One of these days, you’ll want to look like someone other than a nanny.’ He holds up his hands. ‘You can thank me later.’
Hearing Sam’s voice has broken something inside me, untethered me, made me restless and heartbroken and angry. I don’t understand my feelings. I didn’t think it would hurt this bad. The comforting ritual of my days has been upended by one song. One song.
I want it to be about me. I push the idea away. Impossible. Ego-driven. After all, it’s years and years later. He’ll have new loves to write about.
Soon as I can, I buy the album, smuggle it into the house and shut myself in my room. I read and reread the lyrics printed on the inside of the CD. And I’m totally confused, because ‘Ocean Blue’ does seem to be about me. But if he felt those things, why the hell didn’t he write? I sit staring into space, listening to his voice, pressing play over and over. I’m going to wear the CD out soon, and however many times I hear it, it won’t answer my questions. But whatever reason he had for walking away, the song’s a reminder of our time, and it makes me feel better knowing I didn’t imagine it.
November 1987
Grace is doing her homework upstairs. Leo is late home. He has a game of squash on a Wednesday, but he’s usually back by eight o’clock. His food is congealing under tin foil in a warm oven. The radio is on in the background, and as I shake out kibble for the cat we’ve recently acquired – a bossy stray that in truth has acquired us – a news bulletin comes on. There’s been a fire at King’s Cross underground station. Multiple casualties, the newsreader is saying.
I stand still, my fingers pressed over my mouth. Leo always rings to tell me if he’s delayed. There’s been no word from him. He plays squash in a sports hall in King’s Cross. It’s the station he’ll use to get the Northern Line to Hampstead. Fear skims my skin with ice.
I go upstairs and find the CD player turned up loud, and Grace singing along to ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’, doing the walking dance around the room, chin jutting in and out, arms bent. She sees me and sings louder, her cheeks flushed: ‘Slide your feet up the street.’ She gestures for me to join in.
I can’t let her see my fear. I manage a few steps, stretching my lips into a smile. The song ends, and I switch off the machine with shaking fingers. ‘Time for bed,’ I tell her.
I try to appear normal as I kiss her goodnight. She doesn’t ask where her father is. She’s used to him missing her bedtime.
The cat jumps onto her bed, purring. I go to pick him up.
‘Oh, let him stay,’ she says.
She’s got one hand on his furry belly, her thumb in her mouth. I want her to have all the comfort she can.
‘Just for tonight,’ I say. ‘You two do look pretty cute together.’
She grins and rolls her eyes, lifting up her arms for a hug. ‘Can I read for a bit?’ She reads my stories for herself now. Her enthusiasm makes me determined not to give up. She smiles. ‘I want to know what happens at the end.’
‘Fifteen minutes.’ I squeeze her tight. ‘School tomorrow.’
I close the sitting room door and turn the TV on, keeping the sound low. I sit on the edge of the sofa, hunched over, staring at the screen. There’s footage of injured people being brought out of the station by firemen in gas masks and yellow helmets. Bodies on stretchers covered in red blankets. Could one of them be Leo? My stomach churns. A woman is interviewed. She talks of smoke, a ball of fire, panic, a desperate rush to safety. There are tears in her eyes. An emergency number appears on the screen, and I scribble it down.
When I eventually get through, a voice on the other end tells me which hospitals the injured and dead are being taken to. I pace the room. I’m too scared to ring the hospitals. I can’t face the worst – can’t face someone telling me he’s dead. I feel sick. I might have lost him. We’ve been holding back out of fear, and I realise how stupid we’ve been. We’ve been doing a kind of dance around each other for months, careful not to touch each other, careful to be careful. What was the point? Life is short. Too short to be sensible. I wish he was here right now so that I could show him how much I care for him, how much I want him. I dig my fingernails into my palms. ‘Please let him be okay,’ I say aloud. ‘Please.’ And I’m not sure who I’m begging a favour from, what god or deity or element of fate I’m making bargains with in my head.
When the news finishes, the adverts continue as if nothing has happened. I switch the TV off.
I wake up, confused, my mouth stale. The room is dark. But there’s movement inside the darkness, an acrid stink of smoke.
‘Leo?’ I gasp.
‘Cat? You gave me a fright.’ His voice is hoarse. ‘What are you doing on the sofa?’
Light floods the room, making me blink. He’s put a lamp on. He’s soot-smudged, his clothes filthy. His glasses are greasy, his face hollowed out with exhaustion.
‘The fire. You were in the fire.’ A sob breaks through me.
He sinks onto the sofa next to me, nodding. He takes off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. I put my arms around him, or perhaps it’s the other way round. I’m not sure how it happens, but we’re holding each other tightly, not letting go. A shudder goes through him. I clasp him closer, as close as I can. ‘I thought you were dead,’ I sob.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to call,’ he says. ‘I got there after it’d happened – the fire ball in the ticket hall. I just missed it. But the injured … they were everywhere.’ He stops, takes a gulp of air. ‘It was carnage. I’ve never seen anything like it. I had to stay and help. I wasn’t thinking about you and what you’d think. I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ I wipe my nose with the edge of my sleeve. ‘I’m just … I’m happy you’re not hurt.’
‘Cat,’ he says softly. ‘Darling.’
Then his mouth is over mine. His lips taste of charcoal. He is trembling. I put my hands either side of his face and hold him steady, our mouths pressed together. His glasses tumble from his lap with a quiet clatter.
In his bedroom, he switches off the light as we tug at each other’s clothes. The last man I slept with was Sam. Leo’s body feels different – his bones narrower, his muscles more sinewy. The differences are disorientating. I force the thought of Sam out of my head as Leo touches my breasts, as he lowers me gently onto the bed. His mouth is moving over mine. I inhale the bitter stink of smoke, the acrid remains of the fire in his hair, on his skin. I hold him tighter, knowing how close I came to losing him. His fingers are skilful. He makes me come quickly, a flare of hot brilliance bursting through me. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur into his neck. ‘I didn’t do enough for you …’
‘I loved giving you pleasure,’ he says. ‘I’ve been dreaming of this for a long time.’ He sniffs his arm. ‘God, I smell of ash, don’t I? Sorry. I’ll have a quick shower.’ He sits up. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
I kiss him gratefully, and lie back in his bed, missing him, listening sleepily to the distant sound of running water. When he climbs in next to me, lemony and clean, his hair damp, I fall asleep in his arms, exhausted, and at peace.
*
Leo is snoring. It’s still dark outside. I check the digital clock on the bedside table. Six o’clock. I push back the covers quietly and sit up, my bare skin prickling with cold. Leo stirs and wakes. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I should go back to my room. If Grace wakes early …’
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘But I should.’ I smile, and slip my feet onto the floor.
He catches hold of my hand. ‘Wait,’ he says, his voice urgent. ‘This isn’t how I want it to be, Cat. I don’t want to hide this. Not from Grace. Not from anyone.’
I turn, squinting through the dimness at him.
He switches on his reading light; a pool of light floods his face. ‘This might seem … sudden. But I think you know what you mean to me now. I can’t imagine my life without you.’ He pauses, fumbles on his table and finds his glasses. He puts them on. ‘I need you, Cat. We both do. Would you … would you consider marrying me?’
I stare at him.
‘We already live together,’ he says earnestly. ‘And I think, with Grace, we should make our relationship clear, official. No confusion. I’d like to make you happy, Cat.’ His voice is low, our faces nearly touching. ‘I’d like to have that chance.’
‘I just … It’s so unexpected. I need to think.’
‘Of course.’ We sit back, gazing at each other. He looks as stunned as I feel. ‘Thank you for last night,’ he says, kissing my cheek.
‘Leo.’ I smile. ‘You don’t have to thank me. I’ve wanted this for as long as you have.’
The winter morning is dark behind the curtains, just a faint wash of yellow beginning to erase an inky sky. I gather my clothes up in a bundle and hold them to me as I leave the room. I can feel his eyes on me, know that he’s looking at the curve of my spine, the dip it makes before my bottom, the roundness of my buttocks. And I walk slowly, his gaze like a torch at my back, illuminating me.
It doesn’t take me long. Two days later, I’ve made up my mind. I trust Leo not to break my heart. ‘I’ll marry you, Leo Dunn,’ I tell him. ‘As long as Grace is okay with it.’
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