by Wendy Clarke
There’s no welcoming voice, just silence. Maybe no one’s in.
I’m just wondering whether to press the buzzer again when the intercom crackles into life.
‘Yes?’
It’s a man’s voice. Fairly deep. Not particularly young. Could this be Joanna’s mysterious fiancé?
‘I’ve come to see Joanna.’ I pause awkwardly, wondering how much she’s told him about me. ‘I… we… arranged it on the phone.’
Even to my ears, I sound ridiculous, and it’s no surprise when there’s no reply.
‘Is she in?’ I hurry on. ‘I came by car and I don’t know where I should—’
‘Joanna? No, I’m sorry, but she’s not here.’ There’s a finality to his words that takes me by surprise.
My finger rubs at the brass button. ‘But she must be. She asked me to come.’
‘I rather think I’d remember if Joanna had told me she’d asked someone to stay. Who did you say you were?’
‘Alice. Alice Solomon. We were at school together. Uni too. She’s my oldest friend.’
‘That’s funny. She’s never mentioned you.’
I swallow, frustration growing. ‘Please… um…’ I stop, realising I don’t even know his name.
He sounds amused. ‘Mark.’
‘Sorry. Yes… Mark.’ I’m consumed with embarrassment. Why didn’t Joanna tell me his name? ‘Anyway, I’ve driven all this way, and it’s been a really awful journey. Could I at least come in and have a glass of water? You don’t know how difficult it is trying to explain myself to a metal grill.’
I think I hear him laugh, then there’s a buzz. ‘I’m sorry. You must think me terribly rude. Please… come up. It’s the sixth floor. Number thirty halfway along.’
In one smooth silent movement, the doors in front of me slide open. I step inside, and it’s only as they start to close behind me that I wonder how I’m going to get out again. Beside the door is a large silver square marked press. Leaning across, I thump it with my fist, closing my eyes in relief as the doors slide open again. I’m being stupid. A huge building such as this would be full of emergency exits and fire escapes.
Bypassing the lift with its shiny steel doors, I climb the stairs to their left. It’s only six flights, I tell myself, and then I’ll be able to find out what’s going on. The stairs are wide, uncarpeted, their walls painted the colour of hessian. Mindful of my recent injury, I take it slow, but by the time I reach the sixth floor, I’m out of breath and my ankle is aching. Leaning against the wall, I put a tentative finger to the flesh around the ankle bone. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear to be swollen.
A door brings me onto a wide corridor, its walls lined with black and white prints of the wharf when it was still in use. I recognise one as being the photograph used in the developer’s brochure. I’d expected the landing to be carpeted, but it isn’t. Instead, long boards of dark wood run down its length, presumably to stay in keeping with its industrial roots. On either side of the corridor are heavy wooden doors and, as I walk by, I find myself straining for a sound: a television, music, voices… anything. But there’s nothing but the echo of my footsteps.
The corridor seems endless, and it’s only as I reach number thirty that I realise how nervous I am. I’m about to meet the man Joanna’s going to marry, and she’s not even here to greet me. It doesn’t seem right somehow.
Seeing a spyhole in the door, I compose myself and smooth my hair before pressing the buzzer, half-expecting it to be ignored. It isn’t. Before my hand can return to my side, the door opens to reveal a dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard. Heavy-framed glasses draw my attention to his serious blue eyes. He’s very tall, and as he leans against the door, he appraises me, his gaze prickling my skin.
‘Hello, Alice. I’m very pleased to meet you. In fact, I’m intrigued.’
Mark holds out his hand and I shake it, feeling awkward at the formality. He says nothing more but continues to look at me, a quizzical expression on his face. Even though it’s Saturday, he looks as though he’s just come back from work as he’s wearing grey suit trousers, the jacket of which is hanging from a stainless-steel hook beside the door.
‘I guess you must be Mark,’ I say, to break the silence.
‘Yes.’ He loosens his blue silk tie and steps aside, gesturing me through. The door closes behind us with a soft click. ‘I’m Mark. Who else would I be?’
Eight
It wasn’t how I imagined our first meeting to be. In fact, I hadn’t imagined Mark being here at all. Did he live here at New Tobacco Wharf with Joanna? Yes, of course he would. They were getting married; why would I think they lived apart?
Suddenly, I feel nervous. What if Mark doesn’t like me? What if he’s wondering what on earth his fiancée is doing with a friend who can’t even be bothered to check the details of her visit before turning up unannounced?
I’d pictured Joanna at the door, greeting me with her infectious laugh. Maybe a bottle of Prosecco chilling in the fridge to toast her engagement. But she isn’t here, and in her place is this man with his serious expression and impeccable manners. He’s older than I thought, in his forties and not a bit how I imagined a future husband of Joanna’s to be. When we were younger, she’d favoured guys with a past, an edge to them that would sometimes concern me. But this man, in his fitted shirt and cufflinks, couldn’t look more conventional. How on earth did she meet him?
Since I saw her last, her taste in men has certainly changed. Maybe she’s changed too.
Mark turns and gives an ironic smile. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’
I drag my eyes from his intense gaze, and it’s only now that I look properly at the room we’re standing in. And when I take it all in, I have to stop myself from gasping out loud. For the area is huge: a combined sitting, dining and kitchen area, one flowing into the next, that takes up the whole of the front of the apartment. Sunlight streams in through the small panes of the four tall, arched windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, through which I can see the river. Between these are industrial-looking black wooden doors that I presume lead out onto a balcony. Beneath the Farrow and Ball paint, the tasteful furnishings, I can almost smell the old warehouse. A faint musty smell that’s slightly unpleasant.
The impression the living space gives is one of openness, the polished wooden floorboards taking the eye from one area to the next. The windows, the exposed brickwork of the walls and the glossy black iron columns that support the ceilings make me feel as though I’ve gone back in time. Yet, despite the authenticity, the apartment has a foot firmly in the present. As I follow Mark through the dining space towards the kitchen area, I take in the slim metal up lights either side of the settees, the tiny recessed lights that twinkle in the bright white ceiling, despite it still being daylight outside. Did Joanna choose these things or did Mark?
Feeling like a prospective buyer being shown around by an estate agent, I compose my face so as not to look too in awe. Not that Mark looks like an estate agent. Or a man who’s just got engaged, come to that. From his slightly stooped posture and the lines between his eyebrows, despite the effort he’s making, he looks more like a man with the troubles of the world on his shoulders.
‘Won’t you sit down?’
Four high chrome stools, with white plastic seats, are neatly arranged under the white wooden kitchen island. I pull one from under the overhanging stainless-steel worktop, but as I do, something catches my attention. On the sleek door of the fridge is a photograph fixed with a magnet in the shape of a champagne bottle. I can’t tear my eyes from it.
‘That’s not me, is it?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ Walking over to the photograph, Mark lifts the magnet and slips it out. ‘I hadn’t noticed it before. I’m not sure when Joanna put it there. I’m not very observant at the best of times, but I’ve got a lot on at the moment.’ He hands it to me. ‘Now you mention it, I can see the likeness. I’m guessing it’s the two of you when you were kids.’
<
br /> In the picture Joanna and I are sitting on the wall outside the art room, laughing at something I can’t remember, Joanna’s arm around my shoulders. We look happy.
I put the photograph down on the worktop. ‘You never said where she was.’
‘Who?’
I frown. ‘Joanna.’
‘No, sorry, I didn’t. Tea? Coffee?’
Mark turns his back on me and fills a shiny silver kettle from one of the slim taps above the butler’s sink, then stands looking at it as though forgetting what it is he’s supposed to be doing. Eventually, he puts the kettle down and opens the stainless-steel fridge instead, pulling a bottle of white wine from its depths. ‘Or maybe something stronger after your drive.’
I nod.
‘Joanna,’ I say encouragingly. ‘Where is she?’
Mark studies the label on the bottle, then, frowning slightly, returns it to the fridge and brings out another one. ‘She’s on a course.’
‘A day course?’
‘No, it’s a weekend one.’
I watch him, my mind in a whirl trying to work out why Joanna has gone away on the day she knew I was coming to stay. When she’d invited me.
‘And you’re sure she didn’t say anything about me? That I was coming?’
‘Didn’t say a word, no, but we don’t tell each other everything. In fact, we try not to live in each other’s pockets. I think it’s healthier that way, don’t you?’
Live in each other’s pockets. It’s an expression people used to use to describe Joanna and me. I didn’t mind it. In fact, I liked it. Why would I have minded if people thought I was close to my best friend?
‘I suppose so.’
Mark takes two glasses from a glass-fronted cabinet and places them on the island. ‘You don’t have a bag with you. I thought you said Joanna had asked you to stay.’
‘She did. I left my things in the boot of my car.’ I think of my Mini, abandoned by the graffitied building. ‘Joanna didn’t get back to me with details of where to park or anything, so I left the car further along the quayside. Thought I’d better check what was going on first. Only, of course, she’s not here, is she? When did you say she’d be back?’
I’m not sure what to do now. I hadn’t exactly planned somewhere else to stay if Joanna wasn’t here. Where is she?
‘I didn’t say. I’m not sure myself. Look, she must have just forgotten she’d invited you. I apologise on her behalf.’
‘You don’t need to apologise, it’s not your fault.’
I watch as Mark twists the corkscrew with long slim fingers. As he puts the bottle between his knees and pulls out the cork, I try to remember when I last had wine from a bottle that hadn’t had a screw top.
‘So,’ Mark says, pouring the wine into the glasses and handing one to me. ‘Have you come far?’
‘Not really. I live in Brighton, but I timed it badly… hit the worst of the traffic. It’s taken forever.’
‘I can believe it. Traffic’s a bugger… gets worse every day, I swear.’ He leans forward, his elbows on the counter. ‘Sometimes, I think it would be nice to live in the country. Fresh air. Open spaces. Can’t see it happening, though – not until I retire at any rate. Have you always lived by the sea?’
‘Yes, though I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have when I was a child.’
‘I’m not sure any child does.’ He looks wistful. ‘And adults can be as bad. Sometimes, we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s too late.’
I stare into my wine glass, the truth of his words hitting home. ‘No.’
Mark lifts his glass and holds it up to the light, swirling the wine a little before putting it back down on the counter. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’
‘Do?’
He smiles. ‘Yes, now that you’re here and Joanna clearly isn’t.’
‘I’m not sure.’ I take out my phone. “I’ll give her another call.”
The number rings and then, just as before, it goes on to voicemail. Deciding I’ll try again later, I sip my wine, and as the chilled liquid slides down my throat, I look around the kitchen, taking in the smooth black circles of the induction hob and the stainless steel American fridge freezer that sits flush with the brick wall. Above the hob is an industrial-looking extractor fan that could grace any celebrity kitchen, the white squares of the windows opposite reflected in its shiny surface.
I imagine myself driving back through the heavy traffic. The red lights. The roadworks. The tunnel. The motorway. The thought makes me want to cry. Did Joanna really forget, or did she just change her mind? But if she’d had a change of heart, wouldn’t she have let me know? I think of the times in the past that she’s let me down when a better offer has come her way. No, maybe she wouldn’t.
Straightening up, Mark puts his hands in his pockets. Despite the suit, the striped work shirt and the loosened silk tie, he looks strangely out of place in this cavernous room. I try to picture him and Joanna snuggling up on the purple crushed velvet settee that faces the windows on the other side of the living area, or on the button-backed leather chesterfield that’s placed opposite, and fail. Mark doesn’t look the type of man to snuggle up with anyone.
‘Then I think you should stay,’ he says.
‘Stay?’ I put down my wine, my cheeks reddening. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘But of course you can, Alice?’ His tone is formal. Polite. ‘I couldn’t possibly expect you to drive back tonight.’
I’m unsure. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might stay without Joanna being here. Seeing my discomfort, Mark points to a door on the other side of the living space.
‘We have a rather nice spare room with an en suite. Joanna would never forgive me if she knew I’d sent you back home after you’ve made the effort to come all this way.’
Any awkwardness I felt is pushed aside by my relief at not having to join the traffic again. ‘Thank you, but don’t feel you have to entertain me. I’ve got a book with me and am more than happy to just sit and read.’
Mark nods, although I can’t imagine him reading books. ‘That’s settled then.’
My glass is half-empty, the wine helping me to relax. The whole reason I came here was to get to know Mark, and it seems like I’m going to get the chance. When Joanna comes back tomorrow, I’ll be able to tell her what I think. I look at Mark, taking in his thick-rimmed glasses, the well-cut suit, the neat beard. Despite his kind offer of a bed for the night, he seems a little on edge.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ll be wanting to park your car.’ Going over to one of the kitchen drawers, Mark rummages inside and pulls out a key fob. He tosses it to me. ‘It’s a spare remote for the underground car park. The entrance is round the back of the building. You can’t miss it. Park anywhere. It’s not as though you’ll be fighting for a space. You’ll find the lift on your left near the back, so it might make sense to park near it. It’s what I do. The lighting’s on a motion sensor, so don’t be alarmed if it seems dark when you first drive in.’
My heart gives a double thud at the mention of the lift. ‘I presume there are stairs too?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘There are, but it’s a bit of a climb. I wouldn’t bother if I were you.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve been sitting a long time. I could do with the exercise.’
‘Please yourself. I’d do that now if I were you. You don’t want to leave your car outside for any longer than you need to.’
I want to ask why, but Mark is pulling at his tie again. Sighing as he undoes the top button of his shirt. ‘God, I hate these things. I’m going to get changed. I’ll leave the door on the latch for you.’
Downing the last of his wine, he hangs his tie over his shoulder and makes for a door on the far side of the living area. It must be their bedroom. I watch him as he pushes open the door, catching a glimpse of more wooden flooring and a king-sized bed with a large ceiling fan suspended above it. On the wall behind the bed
is a painting of a reclining nude. It takes a moment to realise it’s Joanna and, when I do, I dip my head to my glass, my cheeks burning. Hoping Mark won’t turn and see.
Letting myself out, I take the stairs as quickly as I can without turning my weakened ankle and come out into the sunlight. As I make my way back to the car, I’m hit once more by the strangeness of the place – the contrast of old and new. Ahead of me, the glass and steel walls of the Calypso Wharf apartments tower above their blue hoarding, but when I turn and look behind me, all I see are dismembered buildings, rusting cranes with nothing to lift, rubble and broken asphalt. And, beyond it, New Tobacco Wharf rises from this apocalyptic wasteland like a phoenix from the ashes. The place where Joanna lives. The place where Mark is waiting.
As I walk along the quay, I consider my first impression of him. He’s been warm and friendly, there’s no denying that, and when he smiles, his serious face is transformed, but there’s something else about him… something that contradicts what I see. Maybe it’s that he’s tired or simply that he’s put out having a strange woman arrive at his flat out of the blue.
Reaching my car, I’m glad to find it’s just as I left it. I get in and start the engine, then turn the car round and follow the narrow road past the front of Joanna’s building and around to the back. Here the arched ground floor windows have been bricked in – all except for the furthest one where a sloping driveway leads to a shiny metal door.
Stopping in front of it, I press the button on the key fob Mark gave me and wait as the door rises to reveal a cavernous darkness. I don’t drive straight in but wait, breathing deeply while I tell myself there’s nothing to be afraid of. Mark said that the lights were on sensors and there’s no reason not to believe him. Screwing up my courage, I drive in, relieved when the overhead lights immediately come on to reveal a vast, empty space – the vaulted brick ceiling, and the warehouse above it, supported by wide brick pillars. Apart from my own Mini, there are only a handful of other cars. Expensive-looking ones. A silver Mercedes. A red Mazda convertible, its black roof up.