by Mary Carter
Ava made a cup of tea and brought it into the living room. An emerald velvet stool sat in the center of the room. Ava scooted it to the center window. This would be her office. She sat, feet en pointe, as if she were a ballerina, her elbows propped on her knees so that she could lean forward, and imagine she was one with the windowpane. Maybe if she gazed out long enough, she would soon feel as if she was an integral part of the scenery, an inanimate object, no blood, no bones, no beats, no breath, no pulse. She was no more or no less than a latch on the window, one that would take considerable force to pry open.
Ava had lost track of what day it was. She was pretty sure it was Tuesday. People were going to work, starting their day. She could almost feel them as they hurried below. The windows opened like shutters. Before she could talk herself out of it Ava unlatched the set in front of her and pushed them open. The air was much warmer than Ava had imagined. Today, the skies were blue and the sun glinted off windows up and down the street. Beneath Ava’s window was a tiny ledge. It was only about a foot wide and three feet long. She could sit on the ledge and rest her feet on it. If she dared. Parts of her would actually be outside. In London.
Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t—
I can pull them right back in.
You’re going to die, you’re going to die, you’re going to die—
I’m already dead.
She stuck a foot out on the window ledge. The grates were cold and smooth on her bare foot. She stuck the other out. Her heart rate soared. She wanted to bring them back in; it felt as if she were holding them over hot coals. Keep them there. Your seventy-something-year-old aunt jumped out of a plane after being told she was terminally ill. Ava could manage to keep her feet out on the little balcony. Or whatever it was. Plant holder most likely. Would she be able to squeeze her entire body out there? Ava was petite, and flexible. She bet she could. She pushed herself out. There was barely room to sit, but she was technically outside. Totally safe, completely removed but still part of everything and everyone below. Her feet joined those on the pavement, as she grasped a shopping bag, hurrying to an exciting destination, answering her mobile, and juggling a dozen things before she had to rush across town to meet her lover for espresso. God, she wished she had an espresso right now. Any one of those Londoners below could right now, if they so desired, get an espresso. They had no idea how lucky they were.
Ava closed her eyes and just sat, feeling the air on her cheeks. Gratitude enveloped her. This was a surprise gift. Ava never imagined her life could have changed so dramatically. She wondered if her father was up there watching her, if he had arranged for this little miracle. No matter what, she was thankful. She sent a little prayer upward, thanking him, and saying hello and thank you to Aunt Beverly. Even if she had concocted that horrendous list.
When her face felt as if it was starting to burn, Ava crawled back inside and spent the rest of the day sketching. She read a few chapters of a murder mystery off Beverly’s shelf of books. She noticed how some words were spelled differently over here. “Colour.” “Harbour.” “Rumour.” It appeared as if the Colonists had dropped the u along with British taxes. Take that, England; we don’t need u. She laughed, then looked around as if Jasper were right there to laugh with her.
She made herself a turkey sandwich. And then another one. Thanks, Queenie. She would give her mysterious flatmate this: He was an excellent cook. When would he be here? Jasper said a few days. She didn’t want a flatmate. This place was way too small. Maybe if she told him he could have the flat in eighty-nine days he would find somewhere else to stay. Seemed like a small price to pay for stealing the flat from her. Why didn’t Beverly give him a list too? Not one like Ava’s, of course, but a list of things he would be terrified to do. Wasn’t everyone afraid of something? And even if he was only terrified of one thing then he should be forced to do that thing ten times. Fair was fair. She wouldn’t worry about it anymore today. Every second she worried was a second wasted. Ava napped. She showered. She tried on outfits, and shoes, and accessories from Beverly’s closet, modeling in front of the bathroom mirror each time, her own private catwalk. She made sure to put everything back where it was. The closet was so pristine she didn’t dare leave it any other way. Twice she had an official tea break. She liked the ceremony of it. Picking out a teacup, placing the little bag in the cup, waiting for the kettle to shriek. It gave one something to do. The day passed quickly. That wasn’t so bad. She could get used to this life. When night fell, she eagerly resumed her post at the window.
People led such fascinating lives at night.
I see London. Not France. Not anyone’s underpants. Although she saw a few women in short dresses and skirts, so perhaps she could see a few knickers if she cared to. Lights sparkled. Cars blared their horns. High heels clacked on the sidewalk. Voices rose and fell. Ava was almost giddy. A pair of binoculars sat on the shelf in the living room. Would it make her some kind of pervert if she watched people through them? No, she was simply an artist, an observer of life. She picked up the binoculars and set them on her emerald stool. More tools of the trade. She was hungry. She didn’t want to eat any more of Queenie’s leftovers. She wanted her own food.
She opened the drawer with the takeaway menus. Places that delivered. And everyone delivered. Indian, Chinese, pizza, Greek, sushi even. Imagine! Ava had never tried sushi in her life. She’d also never been to high school, or college. Homeschooled, and an online degree from Iowa State University. At least she did have some live discussions with classmates and professors over the computer. She’d also made some friends on Internet chat groups about art and, ironically, travel. Friends. Listen to her. She’d never met any of them face-to-face or even video chatted with them. And she never told them she was an agoraphobic. Although once she met Diana she’d made real progress. Diana was eventually successful in getting Ava out of the house. Once a month at least, down the street, and back at first with Diana by her side.
Then once every two weeks, trips to the market, and around the block, and eventually Ava made it to Diana’s office every week for her appointments. And finally after a year of this, and a portion of the nest egg from her father’s life insurance, Ava was able to move out of the house—God, the Xanax and support that had required. Then came the day she saw an ad online for the police department. A freelance sketch artist. It was like a gift from heaven. Thank God the local police department was still accepting sketches the old-fashioned way. Ava really felt like her father had a hand in that one. Ava glanced back at the menu in her hand. Funny, all the memories that Indian food could stir up in her. What choices. What an incredible city in which to be agoraphobic. She never wanted to leave.
Indian food was one of her father’s favorites. She actually made a mean curry if she did say so herself. Money. She needed money to order food. She only had American dollars. Should she call and ask Jasper for help? Where was he now? Having dinner with his ex? At a pub? About to do his stand-up routine? She wondered if he was any good. She hadn’t been very nice to him. It wasn’t smart to alienate anyone here. Maybe she should call him just to apologize. But first, she had to figure out how to get food.
Maybe Aunt Beverly had some cash somewhere. It was odd, going through her dead aunt’s flat looking for pounds. But surely Aunt Beverly would want her to eat? And where were all of Aunt Beverly’s family photos? Ava wanted to see baby pictures of her dad. Hell, she wanted to see any pictures of her dad. Either Beverly didn’t have any family photos or Ava hadn’t discovered her hiding spot.
Maybe she should just have another Scotch instead and worry about eating in the morning. She poured herself a Scotch and went back to her velvet stool. She took the shot, and picked up the binoculars. She maneuvered them over the streets, finally zeroing in on a couple walking arm in arm. The woman was wearing a red dress and heels. The man, a smart gray suit. They were probably going to the theater.
Ava sketched the couple. She guessed that they had been together for a long
time. Definitely not a first date. First dates didn’t normally link arms, did they? Really, how was Ava to know? But she could imagine. Come to my house, my sofa, my bed. She thought of Jasper, imagined him walking toward her as she walked backwards. He would walk her right up against the wall—any London wall would do—and kiss her until she was dizzy. He’d pick her up, carry her around. He’d carry her to every single place on the list. At a bench in Hyde Park he’d lay her down and crush his body on top of hers. She’d say, I never knew it could be like that. He’d take her in the Tower of London surrounded by ghosts of past prisoners. His mouth, and hands, and words would distract her on the London Eye so that she wouldn’t have to think about the ride; he’d ravish her in the London Underground; they’d ride bareback at Buckingham Palace. They would be dirty at every single tourist spot on the list. By the end of the eighty-nine days he’d march into court with his white wig and burning desire and declare the will unjust. He’d fight for her, do anything to keep her. Queenie wouldn’t stand a chance.
Enough! Thank God nobody could read her perverted mind. No more fantasizing. Ava picked up the binoculars and tried to find the couple out on their date. They were gone. She’d missed them. They were on their way to their very real life, while she sat up here, wasting hers on stupid fantasies about men she didn’t even know.
After the theater, or the dinner, or the drinks, or the movies, would the couple stroll along the Thames? They were probably meeting other friends. And of course they would go out for drinks. Talk about their jobs, their kids, the play. Not one of them would realize how lucky they were to be out and about. Not one of them would imagine someone like Ava, afraid to go out, worse than a vampire, for she was equally allergic to the moon. Maybe all that Scotch hadn’t been such a great idea. Ava was still hungry. She slipped on another nightgown of Bev’s and went to bed.
Ava had a difficult time falling asleep. Could she still claim jet lag? She glanced at the clock by the bed. Nine p.m.? It was only nine p.m.? She would’ve sworn it was after midnight. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. Had all her dirty thoughts about Jasper screwed up her biorhythms? Funny that she wasn’t thinking about Cliff. Her attachment to him had been more of a necessity than a real connection. Jasper had ignited something in her she didn’t even know existed. She’d never considered herself oversexed. Suddenly she was consumed by it, bombarded by lust for this total stranger. Seemingly overnight she had transformed into a pervert.
So what? London screamed sex. And sex was a pleasant distraction. Too bad it required another person.
Did it though? Did it really?
Fantasies didn’t require another person. Porn didn’t require another person. She wasn’t going to watch porn. She couldn’t. Could she? No, she could not. Why not? Because it was degrading to women. Maybe not to all women. Maybe some porn stars really enjoyed their job. Ava didn’t have to be a prude about it. Maybe a little adult entertainment distraction would help her sleep. It was a biological fact that an orgasm was relaxing. She was in London. Nobody would know. She certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone, would never send a postcard home: WATCHING A BRITISH PORNO, WISH YOU WERE HERE. She could at least see if she could get any porn on Beverly’s television. Just for a laugh.
Oh, God, that wasn’t cool. Using her dead aunt’s cable to watch porn? What kind of a person was she? But Aunt Beverly was outrageous, too, as far as Ava could tell. Aunt Beverly would have probably put it on the list if she had thought of it. Watch a British porno. It was research. It was either that or lie here all evening fantasizing about Jasper.
Ava wouldn’t watch very much of it; she would just see what she could find on the telly.
Aunt Beverly’s television was new. It was HD. There weren’t as many channels as Ava had in America, but there were enough. And there it was. British After Dark or BAD. That was funny. Ava would just have a look. She glanced around. Maybe, even though they were up high, she should put the sheets back on the window. Ava set about the task, hammering as quietly as she could, just in case any nosy downstairs neighbor would wonder why she was hammering again. It was probably impossible that anyone would put hammering together with porn—no pun intended—but they might wonder why she couldn’t make up her mind as to where to hang her pictures. Once the sheets were back in place, she turned back to the screen. She pushed the MUTE button just in case her neighbors liked to listen. They could get their own porn.
Just for a laugh, she’d watch a bit. There were so many titles. A Royal Pain—how tacky. She wasn’t going to watch whatever that was. London’s Coming. Piccadilly’s Sex Circus. Bucking the Ham at the Palace, The Tower of London. Guess that one worked as is. Going Down on Abby. Banging Big Ben. Maybe if she watched that one she could cross Big Ben off the list. Besides, she was only watching the free previews. That didn’t really count. Banging Big Ben, it was.
She glanced around before settling onto the sofa. This was insane. But kind of fun. Nobody would ever know. She pushed PLAY. The screen filled with two naked women and one man. The male actor indeed lived up to his name. His Member of Parliament was impressive, and it was definitely in working order. A working stiff. Ha! Maybe Ava should do stand-up comedy. Ava wondered if they had British accents, but she didn’t dare turn the volume up. Soon the women were kissing as Ben played with his impressive erection. Ava couldn’t believe she was watching this. Just a few more seconds.
It wasn’t long before the women stopped kissing and started servicing Big Ben. It reminded Ava of the job she did on the turkey leg. And then, she imagined Jasper standing in front of her. She imagined unbuckling his belt, unsnapping the button, unzipping his pants. She didn’t expect Big Ben, but she had the feeling Jasper would be nicely staffed as well. She laughed. Since when did she become a walking romance novel? Penis. There, she could say it. It just sounded a bit odd. Cock. That wasn’t much better. Lady parts weren’t great either. “Vagina” or “pussy.” The British sometimes said “quim,” didn’t they? That was a strange one too. Maybe she’d stick with “Member of Parliament” for him—and what? “Victory Gardens” for her? She was insane. She shouldn’t have skipped dinner.
Jasper could be dinner. It would be nice to make him feel good. She never fantasized about giving Cliff blow jobs. She did it, of course; they all expected it. But with Cliff, she did her best to make sure it would be over quickly. He wasn’t that big, so it wasn’t like she was ever gagging on it, although it turned him on if she pretended like she was. God, men were such strange creatures. Luckily, it never took him long to climax. But that was hardly a glowing endorsement. Ava thought she just hated doing it, that all women probably hated doing it. But here she was fantasizing about going down on Jasper. What would it be like to put her mouth on him, make him moan? What was wrong with her? Maybe it was London itself. She was so sexed up on this side of the pond.
Stop it. Do not fantasize about Jasper. He’s in love. He told you so himself. Watch Big Ben, instead. He was a beautiful man, really well developed all over. Bet he comes right on time too. No wonder he was such a tourist attraction. When you thought about it, most porn was either boring, or downright funny. This was no exception. The women were both on their hands and knees now, and Big Ben looked like he was trying to decide whom he was going to introduce his member to first. She was surprised the trailer was this long. She hadn’t accidentally bought the darn thing, had she? What if she had? Or was British porn free like health care or certain museums?
What if it got charged to the cable bill? What if her new flatmate got the cable bill?
Somewhere a door slammed and suddenly the volume was on full blast. Definitely British accents, sounded more like two male voices and a female—but Ava hadn’t touched a single button. Suddenly the voices came to a dead halt. She pushed the MUTE button, still confused. Immediately moaning filled the air as Big Ben mounted the girl on the left—funny, Ava thought for sure he’d start with the one on the right—
And then someone cleared his or her throat. The d
oor slamming, the voices. It hadn’t come from the television. Ava froze. She tried to shut off the television. Instead she froze the threesome in place, whirled around, and saw three people standing in her living room.
She recognized Queenie right away. The round body, the bald head, and despite the pudgy face he somehow still had high cheekbones that suggested he could definitely pull off dressing as a woman. The only difference was his facial expression. Always smiling in the pictures, now he stood with his mouth open like a living rendition of The Scream. Next to him stood a beautiful woman about Ava’s age. She was tall, with long black hair. Her face was pretty, although truth be told she looked a bit pinched. She, too, had her mouth hanging open. And behind them stood Jasper. Ava found the POWER button on the remote and shut the porno off. She stood, heart hammering in her chest, face absolutely hot with shame. This could not be happening. How could she make this not be happening? Nobody spoke. They were waiting for her to speak.
“I—I—”
“We knocked,” Jasper said. “Several hard raps on the door.”
“That’s what she said,” Queenie said. Before she even processed his comment, Ava held out her hand for a shake. Queenie just looked at it and smirked. “Sorry, doll. We don’t know where that hand has been, or do we?”
“What?” Ava looked at her hand. Oh, God. “No. I was just—it was a laugh. Your list. It said ‘See Big Ben’ and I was flipping through channels and that one was called Big Ben.” She left “Banging” off the title, hoping every little bit of decency would help. From the looks on their faces, she was wrong. “I just turned it on for a laugh.” Thank God she didn’t pick Going Down on Abby, thank God.