Love Me

by Gemma Weekes

  She pushes me.

  PAK!

  It’s my fist and her face and it hurts but I know it probably hurt her more ’cause she stumbles back on those ugly heels and my ears ring and my fist throbs and oh my God that felt good but damn. Ouch.

  When she tries to rush me, Spanish grabs her from behind and tells her to calm down. ‘This bitch just fucking hit me,’ she says, eyes glistening. ‘She hit me! Who the fuck are you anyway? Spanish, let me go! Get off me! Hey!’ she screams at me. ‘If I see you in the streets, it is over, bitch! Do you hear me? Over!’

  She doesn’t stop shouting while he half leads, half drags her over to a seated area near the stage and deposits her in the care of a woman in a trilby.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s go before it gets uglier in here,’ and I finally uncurl my aching fingers. He throws his guitar on his back and makes various signals at his band mates and at an approaching bouncer. Wordlessly I manoeuvre my way to the exit amongst all the craning necks. His hand is steady on my waist.

  When we get outside I can’t look at him. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off and I can’t believe what I just did. He must think I’m bipolar or on crack or something. He probably brought me out here to call the police. I stare at the pavement cracks and the yellow circles formed by the streetlights. We walk to the corner.

  ‘Eden.’

  ‘Yeah. I know, I know, I’m sorry but she—’

  ‘Eden.’

  I look up and he’s staring right into me. He almost smiles and I almost do the same.

  ‘It’s uh. It’s good to see you,’he says. ‘But damn, Eden. Damn.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘Do you need me to tell you? You usually just guess what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Come on,’ he says, looking helpless suddenly. ‘I need you to be real with me right now.’

  ‘Well, you seemed like. Well, you were so angry at me the other day and I wondered why, you know? What I did. We were so cool and everything I thought we were gonna be friends.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Spanish. I don’t know how you want me to answer that.’

  His eyes are gold in the streetlights and he doesn’t blink. Then he runs his hand over his face and says: ‘Shit. You know what? Me neither.’ We stand there for a moment and then he asks me if I’m hungry.

  ‘Starving,’ I tell him.

  nobody ever wins.

  I’VE BEEN HERE before.

  Spanish and I arrive outside a spot call Joline’s, with gingham curtains and a neon sign that reads Open 24hrs. It’s the curtains I remember. And maybe it was only a place like this one. Me and Boy Toy came here once to wait for my mother who was, as usual, running late. I felt so grown up. He told me to meet him at Canal Street station because he wasn’t driving that day. He bought me a peanut malted milkshake and chilli cheese fries.

  Dominic looked distracted as he sat down. His hair was even longer than usual and matt rather than shiny. His leather-clad foot kept up a nervy tattoo on the linoleum but every time I caught his gaze he would smile at me. He was really trying. I thought he must really have loved my mother to try so hard.

  ‘Good huh?’ he said as I took my first sip of the malt.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, wondering what everyone must be thinking of us. He didn’t look old enough to be my father. And there was the shade of him, which meant he was unlikely to be my brother. I kept my eyes down, avoiding the questions in people’s eyes. I felt a stab of anger at how complicated my mum had made everything.

  ‘So what you been up to this week?’ he said, eyes darting every so often to the door. He checked his oversized nineties mobile for the millionth time.

  ‘I met a boy . . .’ I stammer. ‘I mean, I met Zed, Uncle Paul’s son. Zed and me. We went to Madame Tussaud’s.’

  ‘Zed and you, huh?’ he said and his tone shocked me out of my teenaged sulk. He laughed like he knew how it was for a name to have so much power you stumble on it every time. Tentatively, I laughed too. It was early days, long before I’d touched Zed at all. I was distracted, clumsy and firing with hormones. Just us two sharing a sentence was enough to give me mysterious twinges.

  ‘Yeah, it was cool,’ I said. ‘Zed got to dress up like Darth Vader.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I got some pictures. It was, like, a fake Star Wars audition thing.’

  I suppose that was the first real conversation he and I ever had. I told him about all the fun we’d had and what we planned to do next. My ever-present urge to say Zed’s name would broaden that small moment of empathy into an unexpected friendship. And truth be told, I didn’t really care if Boy Toy was being genuine or not as long as he didn’t interrupt.

  ‘You guys should come and see the musical I’m starting next month. I’m rehearsing at the moment. You can come meet me at the theatre sometime if you’re at a loose end,’ he said with that crisp, fragile smile of his. Always he had the air of an abused pet. It amazed me that he cared what I thought of him. ‘I’ll buy you lunch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That would be nice. You know Zed?’

  ‘Not really, but his dad brought him over a few times. Katherine and Marie are really close to Paul ’cause they all grew up together back in Saint Lucia but,’ he laughed with a touch of bitterness, ‘I think the guy’s kind of dull, to be honest. It’s strange that Zed turned out so creative.’

  ‘He is really creative,’ I gushed, despite myself.

  ‘I introduced him to some young producers and musicians I know, actually. He’ll go far if his parents let him. His mother wants him to go back and live with her in Atlanta when he’s left boarding school, and his dad wants him to go to NYU, so I think it’s a little confusing for him right now. I know how he feels; my parents were the same. My dad wanted me to manage his pizzeria – can you believe it? That’s as far as his ambition went for his son.’ He shakes his head. ‘I told Zed I’d be happy to help him pursue his dreams. His poetry is amazing, especially for his age.’

  ‘I know he’s a rapper but . . . he writes poetry?’

  ‘You should ask him,’ said Dominic with a smile. And then he checked his mobile again. The smile faded. A couple of beats later he said, ‘Hey, Eden . . . Did your mother make it down to see you on Tuesday?’

  ‘No,’ I said, dumb as an empty plate, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but my own thoughts. ‘Was she supposed to come over? That’s the day I went out with Zed, I think.’

  ‘Right. OK,’ he said with a weird, artificial laugh. I’ll always remember it. Always. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘What time is she coming?’ I asked.

  ‘Soon,’ he said.

  Then, just as if he’d conjured her, she appeared outside the glass. She waved at us and mouthed an exaggerated ‘Sorry!’ On her red-painted lips was an only mildly apologetic smile, one that already assumed she’d been forgiven.

  ‘And here she is,’ said Dominic.

  ‘So what do you think of us?’ Spanish says, nursing a glass of mineral water.

  ‘Reckless Gods?’ I reply, dragging myself into the present.

  ‘No. The White House.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I say and he smiles. ‘You guys are really original. I dunno. Full of rage and innocence at the same time.’

  ‘All of that, huh?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Sometimes anger is the purest and most innocent emotion going.’

  ‘Anger when it’s hot, maybe. Not when it’s cold.’

  He begins to shred one of my napkins into a little pile on the table. We’re at a corner booth. Laminated menu. Fluorescent lights. All we could manage on the walk over was a staccato rhythm of awkward glances and sparse chat about the weather and New York rats the size of Yorkshire terriers.

  I look at the hollows in his cheek and fork some lemon meringue pie into my mouth. ‘Eat some pie.’

  ‘I’m fasting,’ he says defensively. ‘Plus what you’re eating
has no nutritional value whatsoever; it’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. Lemons are fruits, right? Plus, you’re the one who recommended I get this!’

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Do you see the crumbs all over my face? Of course I am.’

  ‘Well, that was the point. I don’t think everyone has to be like me.’

  ‘’Cause you’re special, right? Not like the rest of us poor fat slobs?’

  He shrugs again. I laugh and ask him when the fast is over.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Wow. Bet you can’t wait, huh?’

  ‘I can wait. I try not to get sensually involved with food.’

  ‘Right . . .’ I stop eating for a second. ‘So who was the girl? At the Knitting Factory?’

  ‘Ivy? She’s a guitarist.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Pretty good. Unspectacular.’

  ‘Why was she eyeballing me? Is she a girlfriend or something?’

  ‘No. I told you I don’t do that. She just,’ he looks uncomfortable, ‘has stuff going on in her head. She has this image built up of me that’s not real.’

  ‘You never defined exactly what it was you “didn’t do”. What are you? Gay?’

  ‘No,’ he cuts his eye at me. And then from nowhere he asks me how I know Zed and where I met him.

  I look down at the table and up. ‘Our families know each other from back in Saint Lucia,’ I tell him, slightly less than the truth and as much as I can bear to say. ‘How about you?’

  ‘We went to the same high school.’

  ‘But he went to a private boarding school . . .’

  ‘Right.’ He looks at me. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you get in on a scholarship as well?’

  ‘No.’

  Neither of us says anything. The kind of fees charged at a school like that mean he must come from money. He silently dares me to question him further, but then the waitress comes along with that fantastic knack they all have of being able to smell tension. She asks if everything’s alright. We say: ‘Yeah.’ And I decide it’s as good a time as any to change the subject.

  ‘So . . . you still haven’t told me what exactly it is that you “don’t do”.’

  He drinks some water. ‘I’m celibate.’

  ‘No sex for the rock star?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what the word “celibate” is commonly thought to mean.’

  I give him a look. ‘I’ve been trying that for a while too.’

  ‘You have?’ Spanish flushes slightly pink in the cheeks, gives me a look of suspicion and gut-wrenching hope. To be understood. ‘Really?’

  ‘Everything’s so fast and convenient and empty,’ I tell him, heart beating fast. I take a breath. I never even told Juliet. She wouldn’t have been able to help shrinking it. ‘There’s no sacrifice. It’s hard to get a grip on anyone, really. It’s hard to feel anything real.’

  Spanish nods slowly, his golden eyes harbouring a deep, unknowable glow.

  ‘It’s not that I never want love. It’s the opposite really. I think I’ve been celibate because I want love so much. It wasn’t really a conscious decision. I just got tired of feeling nothing. I need the kind of relationship that—’

  ‘Why would you want any kind of relationship?’ he says, looking down at the table. The napkin is now almost as fine as grains of salt. ‘Relationships are a war that nobody ever wins. There’s a Chinese proverb that says not caring for anyone in particular is caring for all mankind in general. Have you ever been in love before?’

  I consider lying but: ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did that ever do for you? It make you happy?’

  I look down at my pie. Finish it. Tap my fork against the side of the bowl. ‘My aunt says,’ I tell him slowly, ‘that it takes divine strength to be soft when the world is hard.’

  He sweeps the pile of torn paper into his hand, making sure he gets every piece. ‘Are you finished?’ he says.

  For a moment I’m confused, then I nod and he calls over the waitress, asks for the bill. When I reach for my bag he says, ‘I got this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Are you gonna see me home safely?’

  He stares at me and finishes his water.

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  water.

  MY SEVENTH OR eighth year, I had a thing about digging holes.

  I would get down on my knees in our little back garden, in the watery sunshine, take my rusty spade and chip away at the surface of the world until the soil grew moist. Sending up its metallic smell of growth, earthworms and secrets.

  When I’d made the hole as promisingly round as I could, I’d go back in the house, through the utility room, into the kitchen. There, my mum would be sitting at the table reading a magazine, Cosmopolitan or Vogue, drinking a glass of wine, ankles delicately crossed. She’d barely look up.

  I’d go to the cupboard where all the miscellaneous kitchen bric-à-brac was, and proceed to take out the black roll of bin-liners, turning it over in my small, dirty hands, searching for a perforation.

  My dad might come in then and glance suspiciously at me over the rim of his glasses. He knew about me and my tense little projects.

  What’s that for? You can’t just waste those things, you know! They cost money! Gently he would say this.

  Nothing, I would reply, ripping a bag carefully off the roll. I’d scurry outside where it was getting chillier by the hour, and go to work, lining my hole with the plastic bags, which I kept in place with rocks. I’d be so excited. Pushing my sleeves up every five minutes and grinning to myself.

  Then I’d go back inside and my mum would be gone from the kitchen, and I would hear her voice in the hallway, laughing conspiratorially over the phone. Perfect opportunity to fill the biggest jug I could find with water, then bring it back and forth to the garden and pour it out into my plastic-lined hole, watching the water catch the light and glisten against the glossy black bin-liners. It made me feel the way I did in church the first time I saw the stained-glass windows.

  I imagined the little fish I was going to put in there and the plants I was going to plant around it and how special it would be and that gave me the strength to keep adding layers of plastic, and more rocks, getting dirt on my face, scratching my head, pushing my sleeves up and itching inside my clothes. I’d squat in the dirt and anxiously watch the levels, filling quietly with hope and nerves. Desperate to get beneath the surface of my grim little city back garden, make something beautiful out of something ordinary.

  After countless trips to the sink, I would have to admit the truth to myself – one that put me in an inky-black sulk. The soil kept stealing all my water.

  I was helpless against it. No matter what I did, my water drained away. Nothing worked. I would chuck my spade in the dirt and go inside, full of childish grief and sudden hunger.

  Water was a slippery, beautiful, tricky thing.

  in the dark.

  OUR CONVERSATION HAS dried right down to the crust. We stand in the basement, in the dim lamplight, electrified by a fear that seems bigger than the moment. A man and a woman together on the cusp of something . . . somewhere. It happens all the time, right? It’s so common that there are six billion people on the planet, almost all of us made the same way.

  I sweep all the assorted debris from the little sofa so he can sit; notepads, magazines, CDs, a bra, a pencil and a novel. Then he perches on it like he’s at the edge of a high diving board, looking down into the blue, calculating the odds of him not making it to the water alive. I offer him some to drink. He takes the glass and turns it around and around between his fingers.

  ‘I’ve never had a girl,’ Spanish says eventually, ‘track me down and beat up some chick to get to me before.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s just how we do it in the LDN, rock star.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘London town. Centre of the universe.’

  ‘I see.’

  He beats a rhythm out on th
e glass, all the music in his head emerging in spurts as a random humming. And then silence. I could cry, looking at the little baby curls at his hairline, the self-protective set of his narrow shoulders, the pale skin on his arms etched with dark tattoos. All it’s going to take is for one of us to say something – make one move

  – and the space between us will catch alight and burn to ash.

  ‘Seriously though, that Ivy – or whatever her name was

  – she was just annoying, that’s all. I hate to disappoint you.’

  ‘You did track me down, though. I was shocked to see you.’

  ‘Just shocked?’

  ‘Happy,’ he says slowly. ‘I was happy too, I guess. And a little worried. Why did you come tonight?’

  I see right through to the core of him, sitting here. All the tics, the eccentricities, all the moods of him are a clear map I could read blindfolded.

  I don’t know if I’m going to be able to help myself.

  ‘Why were you worried?’

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I told you that already,’ I say, breathless, feeling spun about. ‘You didn’t call me and I thought you were mad or something. I thought we were gonna be friends.’

  ‘But why did it matter so much?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You know, the first time I met you and we were introduced, I felt something click into place when I heard your name. Eden.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The garden . . .’ He gives a tense shrug. ‘The snake. It doesn’t take a genius, right? I knew someone like you would come along.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come here,’ he says.

  I stare at him. The lamp throws his features into chiaroscuro and the room behind him is completely black. I’m simultaneously magnetised and repulsed.

  ‘Come on. This is gonna happen, right?’ he says.

  And when he says that, it’s like when they switch all the lights on at the end of a house party and you’re scared to look up ’cause you were dancing nasty with someone in the dark but now you’re scared to see their face for real in case they’re ugly. Or really, really beautiful.