Pillow Talk

by Freya North

  Petra's fingers go fast to Arlo's lips and she stares at him intensely. ‘That's enough,’ she says. He's had enough pain. She doesn't think she can absorb any further details. She can't believe there possibly can be any more.

  Gently, he pulls her fingers away, kisses the palm of her hand while he closes his eyes against the pain of the past and what he presumes to be his lost future – who is sitting on the bench next to him, staring him lovingly in the face.

  ‘For the last five years, I've been getting all this love which I just don't deserve. I'm seen as victim, not perpetrator. People want only for my happiness. They all think I deserve happiness, that I deserve to find love again. Hence me running away from everything I knew. Becoming a teacher. Making the North York Moors my home. Hence the celibacy. And then you. Into my life came you.’

  ‘But Arlo—?’

  Again he silences her. ‘No. Do you know something, Petra, when you left me over the Miranda stuff, I desperately needed some space to myself – so do you know what I did? I rang Helen's parents and said, Hullo, how are you, can I use your little place in Scotland and they said, Arlo, Arlo, how lovely to hear from you, of course you can. How are you, Arlo? How are you? Will you come and see us soon?’

  Tear-stained and tired, he turns to Petra.

  ‘That's me,’ he shrugs. ‘Nice, aren't I?’

  Petra daren't speak. She just hopes that her own tears, and her slow shake of her head will be read in the spirit they are meant: Don't say such things, Arlo. You poor poor man of mine.

  He turns his head and stares along the cemetery wall.

  ‘I haven't been back, Petra. I haven't been here. I haven't been in there. Not since the funeral.’

  Petra follows his gaze. She puts her arm around him, a slow and gentle embrace, like an adult soothing a child.

  ‘I've never said sorry.’

  ‘It's never too late,’ Petra tells him. ‘It's never too late. You're here now. Go. Go to Helen. Go now, Arlo. Take your time. I'll wait. I'll be here for you. I promise.’

  He looks at Petra as if she's an angel. He looks at Petra as if she's insane. He looks along the wall towards the entrance and whilst he's looking there, he starts to nod. And then he leaves the bench and walks away.

  Petra waits. Almost fifty minutes she waits. And while she waits she concentrates hard on things like the configuration of paving stones. She searches for tessellations in the cemetery wall. She tries to find a sequence in the colours of the cars that hurtle past her. She counts between lorries. Anything, anything. She'll think about anything else.

  Arlo is walking back to her. He looks desperately tired.

  He pulls her to her feet and holds her against him, kisses and kisses the top of her head.

  ‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘I have to go right now. I have to collect the boys from Columbia Records. Then on to Wigmore Hall. Then we have to pack. We leave at the crack of dawn.’

  He whispers thank you, and sorry, over and over again. He leaves her. Jaywalks over the A41. Disappears from view.

  Petra is left, sitting on Alfred Harold's bench, trying to digest but far too full to ruminate.

  Eventually, she decides she should make a move. She wonders whether to phone her father and say, Dad, can you come and collect me, I'm a bit stuck. But Petra has never turned to her father in all the times she's been stuck. And he'll be at work anyway. It's just a regular Friday morning in June. So Petra heads off down the A41 because she knows there are two huge supermarkets further on. And at ASDA, she takes a cab back to Watford Junction.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Petra did toy with the idea of phoning Felix's mobile and asking to speak to his teacher. She'd gone directly from Euston to the studio, staying long enough only to assure the others what a wonderful time she'd had the night before and to force an enigmatic smile to explain away her late arrival. She was unsure whether Watford was to be the making of Arlo and her, or whether it was the death knell which rang in her ears alongside Arlo's words. She did know she did not want to talk about it just yet. Politely declining her Studio Three's suggestion of Friday evening drinks, Petra left to spend the last part of the afternoon with Charlton discussing hinges and links and pivots. It was only later, sitting in her dank little flat passing her mobile from hand to hand, that she had an overwhelming desire to reach out to Arlo. The enormity of what he'd been through, the repercussion for the rest of his life, began to sink in. She knew he was somewhere in Swiss Cottage until dawn. But she also knew that a student's phone did not provide the best route. The tragedy was immense. She hadn't experienced anything which came even close. What on earth could she say? But she saved the boy's number anyway.

  Her phone rang almost immediately. She jumped. Felix? No, Lucy. Petra was strangely disappointed.

  ‘Hi, Luce.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well what, she says! Petra! Come on – I'm all ears. How was the concert?’

  It hit Petra that, despite Lucy being her oldest, closest friend, she couldn't, she wouldn't, betray Arlo's confidence. It was the strangest feeling. It no longer mattered that, historically, Petra told Lucy everything; that sometimes she felt unable to make decisions without Lucy's guidance, that she had so often depended on her friend to know what to do, to tell her what to say, to decide what was good for Petra, what was not. Though Petra mightn't know how it would all pan out with Arlo in the long run, just then she did know that she deeply respected him and felt his torment acutely. She didn't feel the shame he so obviously endured, nor was she embarrassed by the facts. They distressed her, of course they did, but for her at least their impact was positive. So, though it was Lucy on the phone – her beloved, trusted, revered friend phoning all the way from Hong Kong at two in the morning her time – just then Petra loved Arlo the most. In fact, she loved him with every fibre of her being. It was a feeling she had certainly not experienced thus far in her life. She felt exhilarated and exhausted.

  ‘Petra? God, come on, girl – it's like getting blood out of a stone. Oh! Ah! Hang on – he's there with you now, isn't he? That's why you can't talk – you dark, dark horse, you!’

  ‘Shall we speak soon?’

  Lucy laughed with delight.

  ‘Give the teacher an apple for me,’ Lucy laughed. ‘Bye, Luce. Speak soon.’

  *

  Soon after she'd finished speaking to Lucy, Petra dialled Arlo's folly. She knew that he wouldn't be there, but just the ringing was affirming. She could picture the place so clearly. She wanted to be back there soon. She'd speak to Charlton first thing Monday.

  * * *

  ‘Is that for me?’

  Arlo glanced in the rear-view mirror of the mini-bus at the sound of Felix's mobile phone. So far, on the journey, the boys' phones had rung often enough for Arlo to be able to now differentiate between their various ring tones. Felix had already had a couple of calls.

  ‘No, sir, sorry, sir – it's my,’ Felix mumbled, ‘it's my mum.’

  The other boys sniggered for a moment. Felix didn't take the call. The A1 was closed and they were being sent on a detour through the Fens; the flat landscape dull in places, desolate in others, exuding an overall loneliness, a solitariness which echoed how Arlo felt. He felt very flat. London seemed far away. If he couldn't be in London – and he really couldn't be in London – then he wanted to be way beyond the Fens. He craved the landscape to roll and clamber, to herald Yorkshire. To be back within the confines of school, where he was safe, where he didn't have to think, where life wasn't complicated and there were no reminders of how complicated his life had been. He put his foot down.

  ‘You've been flashed, Mr S.’

  ‘Flashed?’

  ‘Speed camera, Mr Savidge.’

  ‘Fuck it.’

  The boys grinned at each other. Even the Lower Sixth loved it when a teacher swore.

  ‘Guys, could you put your phones on silent, please – I find it distracting.’

  ‘C
an we listen to some music, then?’

  ‘Yes, Mr S!’

  ‘Of course.’ Arlo ferreted around in his bag. ‘This is a compilation I've done. I call it “Reverse Blasphemy” – it's songs by the great and godly which, in my opinion, were actually done justice in cover versions. However, be careful in whose company you say you prefer the Byrds' version of “Mr Tambourine Man” to Bob Dylan's, or St Etienne's version of “Only Love Will Break Your Heart” to Neil Young's – though it's probably very cool to prefer Johnny Cash's “One” to U2's. Ditto Ugly Kid Joe's take on Harry Chapin's “Cat's in the Cradle”. Or Jeff Buckley's “Hallelujah” rather than Leonard Cohen's. To me, Dylan is God, but I have to concede that Guns n' Roses do “Knockin' on Heaven's Door” better. And it's a fact universally acknowledged that Joe Cocker's “With a Little Help from My Friends” is far better than the Beatles' but that nobody will ever do Hendrix better than Jimi himself. Anyway, have a listen. And there's a competition for you to tell me who did the originals.’

  ‘What's the prize, Mr Savidge?’

  ‘A copy of this compilation, Thomas.’

  ‘Cool.’

  And suddenly Arlo felt that all might be well in his world after all. This is what he did best, wasn't it: music, teach. Not love, not London.

  And see – the landscape is climbing now they have passed the Vale of York.

  With home tangibly close at last, Arlo switched off part of his heart.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  It was four days since Arlo had left London and though Petra was concerned not to have heard from him, an overriding sense of relief stopped her feeling too fraught and kept her spirit strong. However, she knew not to tempt fate by asking Charlton for the keys to the Old Stables just yet. She thought to herself, If ever someone needed a little unhurried time to themselves, it's now and that person is Arlo. Her response to her Studio Three's probing was to be non-committal in a carefully employed upbeat manner – so that suspicions were not aroused and she was spared further questioning. She was the same with Lucy. There was a part of her wishing she could say out loud to them all, See! I'm dealing with this by myself – something huge but I can cope – aren't you proud of me? But that would defeat the object somewhat. It was true; she was deep into an extreme situation yet she felt no need to consult anyone but herself. If she had confided in those to whom she was so close, she would have had to reveal her sense of relief. And though the feeling of it was good and encouraging, the source of it was slightly troubling.

  Would I be feeling this fine about things if Helen were still alive?

  It's always easier if an ex is no longer on the scene. Helen was certainly out of the picture but did this really mean Petra was relieved she was dead? Petra felt a surge of guilt and shuddered at such a heinous thought. The enormity of the situation, of Arlo's past, had enabled her to rate Miranda as inconsequential, to judge Miranda's venomous reaction to her as actually quite flattering. She didn't doubt the hierarchy in Arlo's affections, nor the strength of his feelings for her. In a warped sort of way, women – whether living or dead – were mad for a man who had eyes only for her. So, though she was itching to see him, to hold him, make love to him, to tell him everything was going to be all right from now on, she felt prepared to allow him time. He needed to be the one to say, I'm OK, I'm ready, I miss you, come.

  Though she told herself to be patient, to give him space, by the Thursday she rapidly justified that Arlo might appreciate a nudge in the right direction. She reasoned that though she hadn't heard from him, nor had he heard from her. And it was this thought that compelled her to dart from the studio, find a quiet doorway and phone Arlo. There was no reply from the folly. Of course not, he'd be teaching.

  Home from the studio, Petra was all set to grab the phone and dial Yorkshire again when, in her mind, she heard Mrs McNeil's vivid voice warning her against doing anything on an empty stomach. So Petra took a long look in the fridge, a pointless exercise considering how little was in it, heated the remainder of the carton of Covent Garden soup she'd had for her supper yesterday and poured it into a mug. She'd intended to buy a nice baguette but in her urgency to be home she'd forgotten. There was some pitta in the fridge too, slightly hard, but she sprinkled a little water over it and toasted it. She pricked the pitta with a fork and added butter just as an artist might use a palette knife to smear oil paint onto canvas or a bricklayer load cement onto a run of wall.

  ‘I like a bit of pitta with my butter,’ she trilled to herself as she took her supper through to the living room. She sipped soup, licked an ooze of melted butter trickling to her wrist and thought about what she'd say to Arlo, the tone in which she'd say it.

  Hullo, you.

  How's you?

  Hey, you.

  Hey.

  Oh, will you just stop bloody clomping around up there – I can't hear myself think!

  Her neighbours appeared to be dancing in clogs directly above her and, as Petra frowned up to the ceiling, she could have sworn she could see it bulge and bow as the family galumphed around. She took her mobile into her bedroom, muttering to Mrs McNeil that she'd finish the soup later. The clog dance was only slightly more muffled in her bedroom. But she dialled. And waited. Perhaps he didn't hear the phone. She dialled again. Still no answer. Demoralized, she returned to her soup.

  She tried Arlo's number again, an hour later.

  He's answering!

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Arlo! Hey you hullo it's me how's you!’

  Had she just imagined he'd answered?

  ‘Hullo? Arlo? Are you there? It's Petra!’

  She could hear him clear his throat. Maybe he'd been eating his supper too!

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hey!’

  An unnervingly long pause. Blether blithely on, Petra told herself. ‘I thought I'd give you a call. I've been thinking about you – all the time. As you can imagine. And I just wanted to say I miss you, Arlo. So I thought I'd jump on a train tomorrow afternoon – be with you early evening. Even if you have Saturday morning school – I don't mind. I just want to – you know. Be with you. Again.’ Honest yet effervescent. Good. ‘Arlo?’

  There was silence. She thought of Helen. Miranda. ‘Arlo,’ she soothed, ‘I love you. Everything's going to be OK.’ But the silence was even thicker. ‘Arlo?’

  ‘Petra—’

  ‘It's OK, Arlo, everything will be all right. I'm here.’

  ‘Petra – I. This isn't going to work. I'm sorry.’

  Now the silence was Petra's. She couldn't have said a word anyway, not with soup creeping back up her gullet.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ he was saying, his voice sounding distant in comparison to the heartbeat thundering in her ears. ‘It's me. I can't do this. I'm sorry.’

  She sensed if she didn't say something, he'd hang up.

  ‘But Arlo—’

  ‘I'm sorry, Petra,’ he said. ‘It's better this way. Believe me.’

  ‘Are you going to hang up on me?’

  ‘Goodbye, Petra.’

  And she said, But I love you, to the dialling tone.

  If I'd phoned him on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday – if I was up in Yorkshire by now – could I have prevented this?

  Petra had felt quite happy allowing Arlo all the time she assumed he needed. But it had never crossed her mind that when she finally spoke to him, he'd say, Sorry, goodbye.

  He was meant to say, Will you come, will you be here, I need you.

  Those sodding bloody elephants clodhopping about upstairs. How can a girl think.

  She couldn't sleep. At least that meant she wouldn't sleepwalk. And her insomnia made her feel closer to Arlo. What's he thinking? she wondered. What's he thinking right now? What's he feeling?

  And then it hit her that Arlo probably didn't know what to think because he hadn't visited Helen's grave since he buried her and the day he buried Helen he also buried all thoughts of her. Celibacy. Insomnia. Anything to keep thoughts and memories at bay. For five long yea
rs.

  Oh my God, oh Christ. A young life violently extinguished. Arlo believing he is to blame. How can I have been so glib as to think my future with Arlo could be the rosier, easier, for Helen's death? It will mark Arlo's life forever. It makes everything far more complex. What can I do? I have to do something.

  How can I soothe?

  Can I save?

  I'm sure I can.

  A single voice started to filter through the whirr in Petra's mind. It was Mrs McNeil's, with one of her favourite dictums.

  Pursue your dreams – especially when you think they're getting away from you.

  Petra felt sleepy at last.

  I will soothe. I will save.

  But she awoke very early feeling dispirited. Women always think they can save men – it's our greatest failing. These weren't Mrs McNeil's words, they were Petra's. She showered for a long time. What can I do? Perhaps the only thing I can do is just try to accept the magnitude of what happened to Arlo. See if I can simply help, rather than save. Because I do so love him. And he's hurting and I want to soothe.

  She packed a holdall and set off for Hatton Garden. She didn't go to the studio, she went directly to the Charlton Squire Gallery only to curse Charlton in his absence for being so successful that he didn't need to open until ten bloody thirty. So she went to the studio and filled two hours working intently on the system of hinges and pivots that were not far off enabling a purple boiled sweet to rotate in any direction. When Gina and Kitty and Eric arrived, Petra said as casually as she could manage that she was just popping over to Charlton's and did anyone need anything. She wished she hadn't added that last part as she was given a long list of coffee particulars from the others.

  ‘Hullo, darling,’ said Charlton. ‘How's it hingeing?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Petra said, adding to herself that an awful lot hinged on Charlton too. ‘Charlton – I don't suppose I could use the Stables this weekend – spur of the moment, I know, but I have my ticket and my bag is packed.’