The Glass Book - A London Love Story

by Christian Hayes

  She held the little paperback book up to the streetlight that streamed through the window and pushed her hair behind her ear. Opening the book at the very first page, she found an address and phone number that had been written there. She stared at it and read it over and over again, turning it over in her mind and in her mouth. She attempted to memorise it, first the address and then the phone number. She felt as though she had just about managed it when the room changed suddenly. She looked up and noticed that her wall had fallen silent.

  In this newfound quiet she found there was no real reason for her to be awake any longer and so she shut the book, placed it under her pillow, and slid herself deep into bed. She clamped the duvet between her thighs, which felt cool on her skin, and lying still for a moment she found her eyes wide open, staring right out into the darkness of the room. She forced them shut and with that came the trees and the pavement and the walls, and the path and the door and the letterbox, and with the smile and the embrace and the kiss came deep sleep.

  The next morning, strips of white light had replaced the glow of streetlight and Catherine found herself staring right out as she had been the night before. As soon as she realised that her hand was clasping the small paperback book beneath her pillow, her mind saw pavement, a path and a door. She also found that the phone number and address she had memorised were still planted firmly inside her head and fear suddenly gripped her as she realised this was the day that she was to take action. She lay in bed for a long time as she tried to soak up the morning, as she tried to delay the dialling of the number.

  She rose leisurely, making her bed methodically, eating breakfast slowly, and dressing with particular attention to detail. As she looked over all the boxes that lay around her room, she felt that the next day would be a much better day to unpack them. Today was a day of too great an importance. As she ate her cereal, she looked over the keys of her piano and dwelled upon which ones she would play later, finding a tune already forming in her head. And after all these morning activities and rituals had passed, she found herself sitting on her bed with the telephone in her lap. She read the phone number over and over, first from the book and then in her mind. She checked the dial tone a few times in case the phone was broken. Eventually, she found herself dialling.

  It was a careful dialling, each number checked, read out, re-checked and pressed carefully. And with the last digit came a silence, then two clicks, and then a ringing. Her heart grabbed her throat and she felt as though she would not be able to speak if anyone were to answer. And with every ring her heart gripped her tighter. But it rang and it rang until her heart began to sink from her throat and into her stomach. A cloud of disappointment came over her, and she replaced the receiver only after she had counted thirty rings. No one was home. She felt both relieved and terrified; relieved that she may not have to act today after all, and terrified because she may have to spend another few months trying to track down a new number. But she decided it best just to wait. She sat down at her piano but didn’t play; her mind was spinning with too many numbers to think about anything else.

  She waited and then she dialled again, but again she was presented with the empty ringing of a dead-end phone call. Then she waited even longer, and late morning turned to early afternoon. And she called, and she waited, and early afternoon turned to late afternoon, to early evening, but no one picked up. She did not know what to do; she ended up reading the address over and over, saying it, screaming it, singing it. She had never expected to venture out there so soon but the repeated ringing of the phone had pushed her forward. She had a long shower, did her hair carefully and dressed again. She lightly made up her face and made her skin look as clear as possible, and only when she was happy with how she looked, which was after much deliberation, did she leave her apartment. By that time it was already eight o’ clock in the evening. She kept her hand on the small yellow paperback book that she kept in her outside coat pocket.

  The journey to his house was not unlike the fantasy she had imagined the night before. The trees were the same, the pavement was the same, the walls were the same. As the bend in the street revealed more to her with every step, it was as though she was walking back into her own past. They used to walk together on this very pavement to and from the cinema. They used to perch upon the short wall across the street to pass the time. She imagined her younger self walking up to the bus stop and waiting there, the very bus stop where she and Oliver had almost kissed. And now she imagined Oliver as he slid his arms around her and moved his lips towards hers. But she remembered how foolishly she had smiled and pushed him away, enjoying the attention he gave her even after he had been rejected. Then she watched as she saw herself walk away, leaving Oliver to stare on after her until she disappeared from sight.

  The replaying of her past lasted only until she reached his house; instantly all memories disappeared. What she was presented with was a tall black metal gate, through which she saw his house across the driveway. It looked larger than it used to, and now it looked deserted, with light only glowing from a single upstairs window. It made the house look as though it was now only filled with ghosts and shadows. Catherine nonetheless unlatched the gate, listening to its clank and creak as she lifted the heavy metal pole out of the ground and pushed it open. She latched the gate behind her, effectively locking herself in to the drama that was about to ensue. She took a deep breath and walked anxiously up the path, observing her shadow as it moved alongside her over the gravel. She nervously observed the windows and the bricks and the door and the light and the door and the door and the door, and she hoped that with the pressing of the doorbell would come the unlocking of the door, and that with the unlocking of the door would come the unlocking of Catherine Lucia.

  Catherine was turning to leave when she heard the lock click and the door open. She was presented with an inquisitive stranger, a short, aged woman with silver hair and a bulbous nose. Catherine had always planned on greeting Oliver himself and when the door opened she could feel her nervous smile dropping uncontrollably from her face. There was a silence in which Catherine just stared at the woman in front of her, not realising that the expression she was wearing was one of mild terror.

  ‘Yes?’ the woman asked, clearly annoyed by the disturbance.

  ‘Hi,’ Catherine found herself saying, ‘I’m looking for-I don’t know if this is the right house... I’m looking for Oliver...’

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oliver who?’

  ‘Oliver Eden.’

  ‘There’s no Oliver here..

  Again there was a silence. All Catherine could bring herself to ask was, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain!’ snapped the woman.

  ‘It’s just that, well, he used to live here, and...’

  ‘There is no Oliver here.’

  ‘Well can you tell me if this number is correct? I’m sure this is the right house.’ Catherine removed the paperback from her pocket and showed the woman the telephone number written inside. The woman’s face dropped.

  ‘So you’re the one who’s been calling all day!’

  ‘Oh, I-’ Catherine decided the best thing to do was lie: ‘No, that wasn’t me.’

  ‘Where’d you get that number then?’

  ‘I’ve had it for years. It used to be his number, you see. Do you have any idea where I could find him?’

  ‘Find who?’

  ‘Oliver.’

  ‘No, I can not. There is no Oliver here. I do not even know anyone called Oliver!’ The door was already half-closed.

  ‘Okay, thanks anyway,’ said Catherine as the door shut abruptly. Catherine took another look at the front of the door with its old-fashioned doorknob and vertical letterbox before turning back towards the path. She again watched her shadow as it floated alongside her, the shadow of the tall metal gate enslaving it as they merged. She unlatched it, pulled it open and stepped out onto the pavement. Turning back towards the house momentarily she was now co
nvinced that it was filled with ghosts and shadows and that her beloved Oliver could no longer be found there.

  She resigned to sitting at the bus stop where she observed the house from afar. There she felt a ghostly chill blow over her that brought Oliver vividly back; she found him sitting right beside her. But just as soon as he had appeared did he disappear; the whirring of the bus that came around the corner drove him away. Catherine absent-mindedly stepped onto the bus as its doors opened in front of her, allowing it to take her wherever it went.

  She felt utterly alone. Indeed, the bus was empty. The evening had never meant to play out like that. She thought, at worst, Oliver may have been out and that a member of his family would have answered instead. At worst. His younger sister would be older now, his parents would be greying; Oliver too would now look different. She imagined how much older he must look, how he must have matured, how his fresh face must now be handsome. And again, she felt as though he was sitting on the seat right next to her. He was the only thing keeping her from feeling truly alone.

  The high street was empty, littered by the remnants of a busy day. Catherine wandered from restaurant to restaurant, searching for somewhere to eat. She was hungry but had little money in her pocket. Staring at the menu of a small Italian restaurant, she figured she could just about afford it. It was already so late and there was little chance of her finding anywhere else to eat at this hour. From the window it looked empty enough, and so she entered. But as she walked in her heart sank as she realised how busy it actually was. She was just about to walk right out again when a waiter approached her suddenly and asked, ‘How many?’ The waiter lifted up onto his toes to see if anyone was following her in.

  ‘Just one,’ said Catherine quietly.

  ‘Just one?’ the waiter asked, a thin film of ridicule upon his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Catherine, already feeling a faint humiliation seeping in. The waiter cleared his throat, took a single menu from the counter by the door and stormed to the back of the restaurant.

  He led Catherine to a table for two. It was amongst the shadows, the last in a whole line of tables for couples that ran right along the wall. All the other tables were taken up by boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands and wives, friends and lovers, each one engaged intently with the other. Catherine eventually took her seat, her back to the restaurant.

  She tried not to look too often at the woman sitting at the adjacent table; instead she stared fiercely at the menu. She was glad that the table was covered in shadow, the light above seemingly broken. At least she was not exposed, at least she could hide her bad skin.

  Catherine ordered a small pizza and a glass of tap water before sitting still as she waited for the waiter to bring it over. There was nothing she could really do but shift her eyes around the room, from ceiling to table, to the wall, to the cutlery. She wished so desperately that she was there with someone, even if it only were an acquaintance; at least then the other people in the restaurant would have proof that she was not entirely disliked. From time to time she would dip into the couple’s conversation at the table next to her, catching fragments of their relationship.

  ‘I told you not to tell me what it was before I opened it!’ said the man.

  ‘I couldn’t help it, I was just so excited,’ said the woman.

  ‘It spoiled the surprise.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it... I knew what it was anyway.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I took a peek when you were out.’

  Catherine was trying to discover what this present was, hoping they would mention it, but they soon shifted the topic of conversation and left Catherine dissatisfied. When the food finally arrived she ate quickly. It was only when she took the first mouthful that she realised how hungry she was. She ate without thinking, unable to breathe until her plate was empty. She knew she should be savouring every bite, but she just could not help herself; tasting all these flavours made her feel a little alive. And when it was over she was exhausted and quite sure she was ill: her head throbbed. In her mind she decided to eat more frequently and not wait for the hunger to become unbearable. She left as soon as she could.

  Walking home, as she dwelled upon the events of her evening, she found a tune forming inside her head. It seemed to catch up with her as she walked along the street, taking hold of her so tightly that she could not shake it. Whatever she tried, every corner she turned, every road she crossed, it stayed with her. It had dug its claws into her, had followed her home; it compelled her towards her piano.

  The final note left an echo in the room. But the music she had played did not match the music in her head. She was too concerned with the evening’s events to think clearly. She stared at the keys, the white and the black. She was breathless; she still had her coat on. She had just stormed into the room, sat at the piano and let the chords out. But they were too big, too angry, and they came out all muddled.

  She turned and looked at the room. It was all grey and shadow. The walls were bare bar a full-length mirror that leant against one wall. The boxes drained any space the room once had. She thought she should better unpack them, but not before she removed her coat. But when she had taken off her coat she thought it best to change her clothes before she unpacked the boxes. But half way through changing, she stood naked in front of the mirror and observed herself. She pinched her stomach, and although she felt skinny, she could still pinch some fat on her belly. She wondered if she’d ever get rid of it. She turned sideways and looked at her bottom, how it seemed to stick out too far. She pulled her hair up and held it over her head, wondering what a different style would do for her. She cupped her breasts and pushed them together, wondering whether they were the kind of breasts men would find attractive.

  Then she leant up close to the mirror and looked intently at her face. She looked at her eyes, her eyebrows, her lips, her skin. She wondered if her skin would ever be perfect and proceeded to stretch it out and make faces so that she could feel and see parts of it more clearly. She came to the conclusion that she was nothing special, possibly verging on unattractive. She wondered if there was anything she could do about it but was disheartened by the thought that there wasn’t, at least not tonight. As she stared into her own eyes, the tune began to form in her head again. It began to run through her body, up her legs, through her chest, into her head and down her arms. She was compelled towards the piano where she again took her seat. She closed her eyes and placed her fingertips loosely over the keys. She removed all thoughts, relaxed her body and allowed the music to take over her; and when she felt as though it was about to overflow, she pressed her fingers down and let the music play.

  3.

  When Edward Glass awoke the pain was so intense he thought his head was on fire. He forced his eyelids open and peered through his eyelashes, only finding a hazy darkness surrounding him. He forced himself up onto all fours, then to his feet, but he fell over. He forced his eyes wide open, only serving to make his head throb louder. Yet he could see his legs, his trousers wrapped around them. Only then did he recall the unbuckling of his belt and the staring in the mirror; even the throbbing of his head seemed familiar.

  It took him a long while to adjust to his surroundings. He lay still as scenarios formed in his head. For a moment he believed that he had passed through the mirror and was now lying on the other side. For a moment he thought he was dead. But he slowly came to recognise the imitation white marble that lay by his head. His heart sunk a little, disappointed to be back where he had started, to have made no progress. As time passed, he found the energy to sit up against the wall. From there he had a view of the room. He focused upon the sunken sofa at its centre, its dull greys even duller in this light. He observed it as though through a screen, as though it were a memory from a distant past. He saw how dirty it was, how worn he had allowed it to become. He observed the walls. Where the wall met the ceiling he saw the brown damp pa
tches where water was dripdropping through from above. He saw the paint falling away with the plaster. He saw the cobwebs growing thick and dark. The more he saw, the more he wished he had never woken up.

  After all the writing, the waiting, not eating, not sleeping, the story of Edward Glass had not come to an end. He could not understand it. He did not know what else there was to do. And as he remained between the floor and the wall, a theory formed in his head: that the end had not come because his task had not been completed. His eyes locked on the sofa, and as he dwelled upon this, he became more and more certain that the end was still in sight. Never before had anyone felt so exhilarated by the anticipation of their own demise. And then the days, the nights, the months over which he had become certain of the ending of Edward Glass came into view. It was over those one thousand three hundred and seventy days that he had come to realise that when his task was finished, when the words had run dry, Edward Glass would come to an end. The manuscript had become such an integral part of him that when the pages were complete he would no longer exist. He anticipated the throbbing of his head, a pain that would be unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Yet he understood that the end would be entwined with pain and that this pain would set him free.

  He had come to visualise how it would end: naked at the centre of everything. So he pushed his trousers further down his legs and off past his feet, followed by his underwear, and as he did so the ache of his stomach took him over. In the next room Catherine Lucia was taking off her coat. He squinted into the darkness and stared at the sofa. After a moment’s breath he slowly lifted himself up. With every movement he felt each joint creaking. With all the aching strength he could manage he straightened his arms and lifted himself up onto his feet. But as soon as he was standing, he toppled forwards, his naked body again spread out over the carpet.