by Jane Robins
At the end of the first year, Mum and I saw her play Ophelia in Hamlet, and we realized that she’d matured; her performance was subtle and beguiling. By now, I was living in Willesden Green, and Mum had moved to Wales, so merely being together made the occasion special, and afterwards Tilda introduced handsome Henry, who played Hamlet, and pointed, across a crowded bar, to a serious girl with dark plaits pinned up across her head—Lottie. She looked up and waved to us. It seemed that Tilda had found her tribe and was somehow settled. But, because of her teenage breakdown, we couldn’t ever take that for granted; we’d always have to look out for the signs. As I say, she is the damaged one.
I can’t believe that her letter makes no acknowledgment of this, that it’s so self-righteous and insulting, and I reread it hoping that I’ve missed something, that I’m able to find some positive message buried in the words. But as I read I feel even worse: battered and miserable and disbelieving. I pour more wine, gulping it down like water, and open up the dossier on the laptop in order to write down all my new worries. Tilda is becoming delusional, I type, and has formed the ridiculous, perilous belief that she is in control of her relationship with Felix. I note that her trust in him is misplaced; and I record the incident with the purple vase. What sort of person would do that? It’s such an angry, hate-filled act. And then to make sure that sex is excruciatingly painful for her, leaving her with bruises. The emotional and physical brutality is horrendous. I write also about the increased isolation Felix is forcing on Tilda, separating her from me and Mum, and from her work, her acting. I feel like telling him, You can’t do that! Acting is in her soul; you can’t take it away. Then I note that Tilda’s letter is so obviously and willfully incomplete. She hasn’t mentioned anything that truly explains her psychological state—the way she’s so nervy and jumpy, always seeming on the edge. Possibly on the point of another breakdown—brought on by Felix, and exploited by him too. I decide to go online, to discuss the situation with Belle and Scarlet. This time, it’s Scarlet who’s already there:
Hello Calliegirl. Have you seen the latest news on Chloey Percival?
No. What?
Her condition has deteriorated. They say it’s critical. Every day, another death, maybe Chloey, or Pink, or me. I’m burned-out, and tired of feeling frightened. And, Callie, I’m fed up with this stupid X stuff. I’m going to refer to my bf by his first name from now on—with you and Belle anyway—so let me introduce him: meet Luke. I’ve told you about the role-play sex games we like, but it’s become too violent. He stuffed a tie down my throat last time, and tied my neck, pretending to hang me. And sometimes he locks me in the house, tied up, knowing I won’t be able to get to the bathroom when I need to. He likes the mess when he gets home.
I’ve never known Scarlet to be so revealing, and I’m revolted. I stop her right there, and switch the conversation to Tilda:
Scarlet, I need your advice. There are some parallels between your relationship and Pink’s. Not the role-play sex games exactly. I just mean that her situation with Felix (following your lead) is becoming deeper and dangerous. I stole a memory stick from P’s flat, and on it I found a letter to me, saying that I’m right about Felix. He is isolating her, preventing her from working and sometimes being violent. He threw a vase at her head, and her arms are bruised. But she won’t listen to me. It’s hard to stand by and do nothing.
I wait, but it takes Scarlet a long time to reply. Then this:
Calliegirl, you know I’ve been working on a proposal, something that might help me escape from Luke and also save your sister from Felix. We’re both in life-threatening danger, and we need to act before it’s too late. I’ve already briefed Belle, and she’s helping me. I think now’s the time for you to be involved also, but I can’t give you all the details yet, and I don’t want to do it online. I’ve reconsidered, and think we’ll have to meet. Btw I know that you met Belle in York. She told me.
I knew Belle was incapable of keeping a secret. I write:
I loved seeing Belle, and would like to meet you too. But when? Do I have to come to Manchester?
No, I’ll come down to London, maybe next month. We’ll go somewhere anonymous—maybe a park, or a Starbucks. Luke about to come home—I have to go.
As soon as I log off, I go to Curzon Street to return the memory stick. I hope to steal it again in a week or two, to see if Tilda has added anything to her letter. Then I clean the place, wiping dirty marks off the coffee table, putting clothes back in the cupboards, re–cling filming the crockery. Once I’m happy with my efforts, I leave, deciding not to take the bus to Eva’s house to return the key.
17
I’m at home, tidying, and my phone rings. It’s Felix, the soft tone of his voice meaning that I have to turn the radio off and concentrate on listening.
“We’re home from Martinique,” he says. “We should meet up for a drink. Champagne if you like, or cider. Or would you like dinner?”
“You, me and Tilda?”
“You and me.”
“What for?”
A quiet laugh. “To reestablish good relations. Remember how we used to get along so well? Let’s get that vibe back. I’d like to; and it would please Tilda. I’ll take you somewhere special. How about dinner at the Wolseley?”
“You’re joking. . . .”
“No I’m not. Come.”
I feel suddenly light-headed, overcome by fear, but also weirdly exhilarated. I sense he has an agenda, that this isn’t just a spontaneous show of friendship. But I don’t think I’ll manage to behave normally around him now that I’ve read Tilda’s letter, and I can’t imagine us getting through the evening without it ending with me losing my temper and in some catastrophic confrontation. At the same time, the more information I can extract from him, the better I’ll be able to protect Tilda. For ages I say nothing, then I agree to go, and the minute I put the phone down, I turn back to the dossier to make a list of questions to ask him.
• • •
The following day, in the bookshop, I’m packing up the returns and phoning customers to say their reserved books have arrived, but my mind is on Felix, and I find myself becoming absurdly fixated on the difficulty of fitting in at the Wolseley. I don’t imagine it’s a jeans and T-shirt sort of place, and before I know it, I’m seeking advice.
“Daphne, I’m going to the Wolseley, could you give me some advice on what to wear?”
She snorts in a way that Mum would call “unbecoming,” and puts her Virginia Woolf mug down.
“Bloody hell, sweetheart.” She’s bellowing across the shop, “How come?”
“My sister’s boyfriend is taking me. The one I don’t like—I think he’s trying to win me round.”
“Well, make the most of it. I’m not sure I’m the right person for style advice—but how about this—I’ll buy you a dress. I’ll close the shop for an afternoon and we’ll go into town together and choose something.”
So that’s what we do. She takes me to Fenwick department store on Bond Street, and I try on several dresses that each cost hundreds of pounds, all of them picked out by Daphne “to make the most of your shape.” She riffles through the rows of clothes, finger-walking through the hangers like an efficient filing clerk, saying, “No; no; God no; that’s frightful; yes, take this one . . .” And she follows me into the changing room, peeking round the curtain and commentating. “No, it’s squashing your bust,” or “Too droopy; you need fitted.” I surrender to her wisdom, recognizing that she’s picking out classic designs for me and is making me look stylish; although it’s odd that her own way of dressing—leather miniskirts and Cuban heels—is so different.
We settle on a royal-blue dress. At first I don’t think I can possibly wear it, I feel so exposed. Not that it’s too low cut, or too short, but the fact that it follows my curves is embarrassing. When I protest, Daphne says, “I’m not going to pressure you, Callie, but you do look quite lovely. You have a fantastic figure . . . and you have no sense of how gorgeous you
are, which makes you all the more lovely.” I feel my cheeks crimson, and I say, “Okay then, I’ll be brave.”
“Now for some shoes.”
“No. It’s too much! You can’t spend all this.”
“And you can’t wear that dress with trainers.”
“I think it would be fun with trainers.”
“Not for the Wolseley. Come on.”
So she buys me shoes. At least, a pair of ankle boots in smoky gray suede with a thin little heel. “I adore them,” I say. “But I feel guilty.”
“View them as your summer bonus, a reward for persuading Mr. Ahmed to buy all those P. G. Wodehouses and selling so many Get Well Soon cards.”
I laugh, because we both know that I’ve sold only one Get Well Soon card in the past three months.
• • •
At work the next morning I wear the suede boots with my jeans, and Daphne says, “Very nice. Dress them up; dress them down.” Wilf comes in, and I make a point of walking across the shop floor to put a cookery book back on its shelf. He doesn’t notice the boots, but he looks at me with a bemused face, trying to work out what’s different.
“Can I help you?” I say.
“Yes, I think you can.”
“How?”
“Are you free this weekend? Do you want to come and do some gardening?”
“What? With you?”
“Of course with me. . . . Do you have Wellington boots?”
“Yep.”
He leaves and I’m astounded by the turn of events, amazed that Wilf hasn’t written me off. I look at Daphne, and she looks at me. “Don’t get excited,” I say. And she starts whistling the tune of “Love Is in the Air.”
“I had no idea that you can whistle.”
“I had no idea you could garden.”
• • •
On Saturday Wilf drives to my flat and picks me up. His car is a beaten-up Volkswagen, splattered with mud. He removes some old newspapers, cardboard coffee cups and other detritus from the passenger seat and tosses them into the back, where gardening equipment is piled up—spades, forks, trowels and bags of compost and gravel—and I get into the passenger seat. It’s a hot day, and I’ve dressed for gardening in an old cotton shirt with faded blue flowers on it, and shorts that used to be pink but have faded in the wash so that they’re kind of pig-colored. And, as instructed, Wellington boots.
“I like the way the car smells of dirt.” I smile, so he knows I’m not being sarcastic.
“I love dirt.” He grins back and glances down at my pale thighs, which are very much on show in the passenger seat. I look at them too, and wonder whether they could conceivably be thought luscious, rather than just big.
We arrive at the gates of a whitewashed mansion on Bishops Avenue, all pillars and portico. Wilf has to tap in a code for the ironwork gate, which opens electronically.
“I reckon the inside is made of marble and gold,” I say.
“You’re not far wrong. Big marble floor.”
“Russian oligarch?”
“Nope . . . Middle Eastern diplomat.”
Wilf says the garden is in the “preparation stage,” which means that we should spend our time cutting and clearing and digging. It’s heavy work, and I enjoy the physicality of pushing the spade in deep and shoveling out great mounds of black earth, which I sift with my fingers, pulling out weeds and bits of rubbish, and I’m reminded of the day, long ago, when I found the sheep skull buried under the bush. I want to tell Wilf about it but can’t find the words, and all I manage is: “There’s a whole world down here. Weeds and roots and snails—actually I’ve got a monster of a weed here, I’m not sure I can get it out.” Wilf comes over to help and digs all around my horrendous weed, then together we pull on it as hard as we can until it comes loose. Wilf throws it onto our pile of debris, takes a deep breath and says, “There’s nothing more sexy than a gorgeous woman covered in dirt and sweat, wrestling with the undergrowth.” I smile, and he goes back to his area of the garden while I watch a robin alight on a branch next to me, then dart down to snatch a worm.
Mostly, Wilf doesn’t talk while he works; he just stomps up and down the garden with bundles of sticks and branches, clearing out a corner in preparation for planting, and I’m struck by how, in life, he resembles so closely my daydreams of him: long strides, rolled-up sleeves, beads of sweat on his forehead. When we stop for a break, we sit on a low wall, passing his flask of tea back and forth, and he’s brought a packet of Hobnob biscuits. He congratulates me on my digging and talks about his plans for the garden, showing me a design sketched out in pencil on a creased piece of paper that he keeps in the back pocket of his khaki shorts. Somehow our conversation turns to Tilda.
“Are you still worried about her?”
I start to say no, but then spoil it: “Do you know how many women are murdered by their partners? It’s two a week. It’s normal.”
“You can’t seriously think Tilda’s going to be murdered?”
“No . . . but . . .”
He gives me no chance to elaborate, saying: “Grab your spade and get digging.”
Everything is fine in Wilf-world, and I go along with his positive mood, digging madly. I work up a rhythm for breaking the soil, forking and raking and sifting, and become immersed—enjoying too the sideshow of the robin, endlessly looking for something to kill. But after an hour I’m exhausted, and Wilf tells me to rest while he finishes up. “Let’s adjourn to the pub,” he says. “As a reward.” So we drive to the Albany.
It’s less crowded this time, and we sit side by side on a bench at a corner table, two manual workers with soil everywhere, under our nails, in our hair, all over our legs—it even feels gritty inside my mouth. “Is that it until next weekend?” I ask. “Or do you go back in the evenings?”
“I have a team.” He shrugs as if to say, It’s no big deal. But I’m amazed.
“A team! Like you’re an employer? Already an entrepreneur . . .” I feel myself shrink inside. If he’s this successful, why is he interested in me?
“Well, it’s two Romanian guys who work on contract,” he says. “And I go there most evenings to check that we’re on schedule, and to set the program for the next day. It’s a competitive environment—too many people doing what I do, and too few customers. But if you’re good, you can make it work.”
“How do you convince people to take you on?”
“Word of mouth mainly. I’m bad at the admin side, though, following up payments, sorting out the contracts . . .”
As he speaks, I’m aware that, because of our rolled-up sleeves, our bare arms are touching, lightly brushing each other. The sensation makes my chest feel tight, and my hands are shaking slightly. I hope he doesn’t notice, and I say, almost under my breath:
“I could help . . . if you like, with the paperwork.”
His face contorts, like he finds that funny.
“What?”
“Who knew that the word paperwork could sound so . . . what’s the word? . . . alluring.”
He leans over, puts one hand round the back of my head, and pulls my face towards his. And we kiss—first, little kisses on the lips, then a proper full-on kiss, me taking in his woody smell, the roughness of his lips. We pull apart, and Wilf says, “Would you like to come and see my flat?”
“Oh no! I have to get home. . . .” I pull away, stymied by a blast of fear.
“Oh, okay.”
He gulps down his beer, putting the glass down with a thump of finality, and I summon up my courage:
“I didn’t mean to say that. What I meant was, I’d like to see your flat.” I try to smile at him, but my mouth is dry and the smile won’t come.
“Good!”
He steers me out of the Albany and we walk to Kensal Rise, his arm around my waist, stopping twice to kiss, then speeding up, in a hurry to be inside.
18
I’m preparing for dinner at the Wolseley and reflect that I’ve become suddenly grown-up. This dress, these b
oots, and the fact that I’ve acquired a boyfriend. I make up my face, taking Daphne’s advice to go for smoky eyes, and follow a method I found on YouTube. I use a “natural” shade lipstick, sort of creamy and glossy, and think it’s possible that I actually look sexy and sophisticated. At one point, I skip around the flat singing the “I Feel Pretty” song from West Side Story, but come to an abrupt stop when reality hits. An evening with Felix, just the two of us. Now I feel sick. Before I leave home I log on to Controlling Men and have a quick chat with Belle.
I’m so nervous. How will I be able to talk naturally? My instinct will be to insult him and walk out.
Stay focused. It’s important that u use ur time well, to find out as much as poss. Be strong!!
I take the bus to the Wolseley and, although I’m five minutes early, I find that Felix is already there, sitting at the bar, sharp shoulders, straight back, drinking something clear—gin or vodka or, knowing him, fizzy water. He glances up and stands up, surprise in his eyes. “You look beautiful.” He’s kissing my cheek, placing his hand on my back as he leads me to our table, making me think of those long cold fingers. As we sit down he explains that he has already ordered champagne, and I’m not surprised when he goes through the menu, advising me what to order. The roasted sea bass is “excellent,” the calf’s liver “very acceptable.”
“Do you like oysters? I recommend the oysters here.”
“Not really. I like beluga caviar, though.” I had read 50g for £255.
He laughs. “If you like. This is my treat.”
“Just testing.” In fact I order a lamb dish, reasonably priced, and I look round the restaurant, at the self-satisfied men and wealthy women, jewels hanging in clusters from their necks and ears, like fruit. I say, “Do you come here often?” I’m trying to sound natural. At the same time, I’m examining Felix, his white wrists and knuckles, his composure, his eyes. Scanning him for clues—but it’s hard to get beyond the veneer, the slight smile, the perfect teeth.
“Oh, we only come here on special occasions. . . . Tilda likes it.”