She hesitates at the nurses’ station at the entrance to the ward. People stream past: everyone seems to know where they’re going.
A nurse is filling in little squiggles on a chart.
‘Excuse me … ’ In her own world, Vanessa travels extensively, gives interviews to journalists about her designs. She stopped being shy of addressing strangers long ago. But here … ‘Excuse me… ’
The nurse looks up. ‘Yes?’ Her voice is sharp as if she’s impatient to get back to her chart.
It should be easy. All Vanessa has to say is I’m here to see Gerald Blackstone … No, I’m not a relative … But he is expecting me. The words won’t come. Jake’s voice is in her head: ‘Don’t pretend it’s for his sake.’ She takes a step back, pulling at the scarf round her neck - why do hospitals have to be so hot?
The nurse taps her pen on the desk. ‘Can I help?’ Her blue eyes are cool and appraising. A memory slides into Vanessa’s mind, vibrant and clear like a picture in a gallery: a friend in hospital after surgery, her eyes closed, sunk deep within the sockets, the bones of her skull prominent under the skin.
‘I think I might have the wrong ward,’ Vanessa says.
‘Which one are you looking for?’
‘Er … ’ Vanessa searches for the names. ‘Frogmore.’
‘Next floor down.’ The nurse turns away to speak to someone else.
There’s a crowd of people waiting for the lift and Vanessa heads for the stairs. She clutches the handrail and starts down. The clatter of her feet on each step bounces back at her from the walls. One flight. Two. A group of nurses jostle past her. They’re laughing. Their shift is over and they’re free.
Vanessa arrives at the main doors. They open for her and she steps outside breathing in the cold air. She roots round in her bag for her mobile. She clicks on contacts and scrolls down to find the number. Her call is answered on the second ring. ‘Charles,’ she says, forcing her voice into brightness, ‘I was wondering if you’re still free for that dinner.’
Eight
Vanessa felt the mattress dip as Andrew rolled away. The sheet was wrinkled and her knickers were damp and clammy between her thighs. His kisses had made her nipples tender. Her limbs were heavy in the stifling heat of the small room, and a line of sweat ran between her breasts.
Andrew sat on the side of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands covering his face. The skin on his back was pearly white, translucent almost. His hunched shoulders were narrow and bony. Her eyes moved down to the fine golden hairs, just above the elastic of his underpants. Only a moment or two ago, his skin had been pressed against hers; drops of his sweat still clung to her body. She reached out to touch the knobbled ridge of his spine, but his back looked stiff and unapproachable. It might as well have had a ‘Keep Off’ sign on it.
‘Andrew.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Andrew. Talk to me.’
He kept his head buried in his hands, his fingers threaded through his blond fringe.
She leant up on one elbow. ‘Please try to understand.’
He looked round at her. They had lain together on his bed for hours, gazing into each other’s eyes – Andrew said he could see her soul twinned with his reflection – but she’d never seen his expression so flat and empty.
‘What’s to understand? This is killing us.’
She pushed herself on to her knees and curled her arm round his shoulders. Her breasts brushed against him, and she felt him tense. ‘Don’t say that. We love each other.’
‘Let’s make love properly then. You don’t know what it’s like for me. I need to be inside you.’
‘Andrew, it’s what I want. But I might get pregnant.’
‘I’ll buy something.’
‘Nothing’s one hundred per cent.’
‘It’s the Catholic Church, isn’t it?’ He pulled away from her arm. ‘It’s those bloody nuns who’ve got at you.’
‘You know I don’t believe any of that stuff any more. But I can’t risk having a baby.’ As soon as she said the word ‘baby’, she wished she hadn’t. Its sounds seemed to wind round her tongue and press against her lips.
Andrew’s eyes had softened. ‘We love each other. Would a baby be so bad?’
All Vanessa could see was nappies, the pram in the hall, and her head filled with constant crying. ‘I don’t want a baby for years yet. I want to finish the course, get somewhere with my art. Anyway, my father would kill me if I got pregnant.’
‘There’s no point, is there?’ Andrew stood up. He snatched up his trousers from the chair. ‘I’m suffocating in this room. I’m going for a walk if you want to come.’
They walked along the path to the small boating lake. A breeze rustled through the trees. Vanessa tried to match her steps to Andrew’s long strides. His hand dangled at his side, only inches away, but impossible to touch. The silence between them grew with each step.
In the months they’d known each other, they’d walked miles around north London, holding hands, chatting about their work, other students, their families and most of all, how they felt about each other. Used to her father’s unpredictability – the gift of the blarney, when it suited him, moody and aggressive, when it didn’t – Vanessa loved Andrew’s quiet steadiness. Until this afternoon, she’d never heard him raise his voice.
They reached the lake, and Andrew stopped to watch a couple of boys playing with a remote-controlled boat. There were some concrete islands in the middle of the lake that the boat kept hitting, and the boys were arguing about who should have the controls. After several attempts, the taller boy managed to manoeuvre the craft across the lake. Above the thin whine of the motor, Vanessa heard Andrew laugh and say something to him. The boat turned in a wide arc and began the treacherous trip back. When it arrived without mishap, the second boy snatched the controls and the boat set out again.
It hadn’t travelled far when it crashed, and the boy started crying. Andrew crouched down beside him. Vanessa saw him fiddling with the controls until the little boat was guided away from the island and set off again. She turned from the lake.
She’d only gone a few feet along the path, when Andrew caught her up. ‘You were kind to those boys,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I like kids.’
‘Oh.’
‘They’re not complicated.’
‘Andrew, can we – ’
‘I’ve decided to go home for a while.’
‘Home? What, up north?’
Andrew lived on the border between England and Scotland. The landscape was magnificent, he’d told her. Great for painting. He’d take her there one day.
‘Yes.’
She thought about all the things they’d planned to do over the summer. Picnics on Hampstead Heath, swimming at the open air pool. She’d even thought she’d risk him meeting her parents. ‘But what about – ’
Andrew kicked a stone on the path. ‘I think it’s best if we have a break.’
‘How long are you going for?’
‘A few days. A few weeks.’
‘You’re finishing it?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing then?’
‘I said – a break.’
The sound of her heart thrummed in Vanessa’s ears. It wasn’t fair that he was doing this, making it all her fault. ‘When are you going?’ she asked, pleased to hear the coldness in her voice match Andrew’s.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I thought we were going to Gerald Blackstone’s opening.’
‘Go on your own, or see if Judith wants to go.’
‘But you were pleased when he gave me the invitations.’
‘I know. I think his work’s amazing.’
‘He asked me if you were coming.’
‘I can’t think why.’ Andrew gave a sort of snort. ‘It’s you he wants there.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Come on
, Vanessa. You’re not blind. Even Judith’s seen the way he eyes you up.’
‘What’s she said?’
‘What does it matter? He fancies you. Anyone can see that.’
‘Don’t be so stupid! Why should he be interested in me?’
Andrew turned to look at her. The expression in his eyes was flint-like. Then he quickened his pace. With his long legs, he soon pulled ahead of her and she had to do an awkward little run to catch up.
‘Andrew, talk to me.’
He didn’t answer.
‘We were so happy – ’
‘Yeah, we were, weren’t we?’
Vanessa got off the tube at Leicester Square. It was a humid evening and she felt her hair frizz, despite the big rollers she’d put up with all day. She found the street and paused at the bookshop on the corner, pretending to be absorbed in the display in the window. It was seven-thirty, half an hour after the time stated on the invitation.
What was she doing here? She’d debated for hours whether to come. She had a bath, sorted out what she’d wear, finished a drawing she was working on, and all the time she was listening for the telephone. Surely Andrew would phone. He wouldn’t just leave it, would he? She shivered, in spite of the heat in her bedroom. She lay on the bed and pulled the covers over her.
Was that the telephone? She lifted her head from the pillow. Silence bounced back at her. Her brother and sister were at school; her mother had gone shopping. If Andrew phoned now, she could talk to him in private. She pictured the black telephone on the table just inside the front door. Any minute now it was going to start ringing. It was silly to expect him to have phoned earlier. The journey up to Cumberland would take forever on the coach. He might not even have a phone at home … he might have to go to the phone box at the end of his street. At this very second, he could be pulling open the heavy door, sweat prickling his armpits in the hot enclosed space, his hand folding round the receiver, the coins in his palm …
If he phoned, she wouldn’t go to the opening. It was crazy to be flattered by Gerald Blackstone’s interest. Of course she’d seen him watching her in the pub. Sometimes it seemed whenever she turned, he’d be there, his eyes fixed on her. She fantasised about a time when she would be a famous artist too. They’d travel the world together, Paris, Venice, Buenos Aires, where he’d told her he had relations, painting, exhibiting their work, a bohemian life, far removed from her parents’ existence. But it was a stupid dream. Why would he want a young student like her when he was a brilliant sculptor? And anyway, it was Andrew she loved. Andrew with his thin bony body, floppy hair, mercurial eyes.
It was seven-forty five. There was a man on the opposite side of the road and he’d been staring at her for the last few minutes. Any moment now, he was going to cross over and proposition her. She felt ridiculously exposed in her crushed velvet trousers, her crocheted top. Fastening the bracelet round her ankle had seemed trendy and daring in the ladies at the tube station; now she remembered the girls at school laughing about prostitutes who wore anklets to identify themselves. Quickly she moved on up the street.
Half way along, she found the Lucy Fraser gallery. A billboard on the pavement advertised an exhibition of the work of Gerald Blackstone. Vanessa pushed open the door. A blast of heat, voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses. She heard her name called.
Carla Scott was pushing her way through the crush of people. ‘Vanessa, what are you doing here?’
‘Gerald … ’ she began, ‘Gerald invited me.’
‘Did he? Trust him!’
She shouldn’t have come. It was obviously the wrong thing to do. She started to back away. ‘I’d better go … ’
Carla’s mouth was set in a thin red line. Her lipstick was smudged and her eyes looked glazed. ‘Yes, that would be best.’
‘Vanessa Heaney, you’ve made it!’ Gerald was coming towards them, a glass in each hand held above the heads of the crowd. He thrust one at Vanessa. ‘Here, have some bubbly.’ His eyes flicked across the space behind her. ‘Where’s that boyfriend of yours?’
‘Oh … he had to go home.’
Carla grabbed the other glass from his hand. She tipped back her head and swallowed the liquid in one go.
‘Carla, my love,’ Gerald’s voice was silky, ‘that champagne’s got quite a kick.’
Vanessa saw the glare Carla flashed at Gerald. She held out her untouched drink. ‘Please, I’ve got to go. Would you like this?’
Gerald ignored the glass. He caught hold of her wrist. His hand was warm, his fingers thick and solid as they fastened on her skin.
‘Go? What are you talking about? You’ve only just got here.’ He put his arm round her shoulder. ‘All this hullabaloo. They only come for the free champagne. There’s just one piece here I’m proud of. See if you can find it.’
His touch made Vanessa’s shoulder burn. She looked across at Carla, who was swaying slightly.
‘Come on, you can forget about this room. Start through here.’ Gerald pulled Vanessa through the crush of bodies. People reached out to shake his hand. ‘Hello’ … ‘Yeah, I’m delighted’ … ‘Great you could make it’ … ‘Thanks’ … He greeted everyone, but his kept his grip on Vanessa. She saw several of the tutors from college but she was the only student there. They reached a smaller room. ‘Have a look round,’ Gerald said. ‘Let me know what you think. I’d better socialise.’
The room was saturated with talk. Some people to her right were shrieking praise at the exhibits. One man was wearing a turquoise waistcoat, another a pair of mustard yellow trousers, a woman in a red satin ball gown was talking to someone dressed in a violet smock over orange pantaloons. It was like being trapped in a room filled with peacocks.
There were four sculptures, each depicting a human figure. They were carved from wood and stone. In all of them the trunk was massive, while the limbs were thin and bird-like. Tiny heads, carved from a pale wood, topped the bloated bodies, the faces blank where their features should be, just deep holes for their eyes. The figures seemed to be undifferentiated sexually, apart from one that was seated. Its legs were spread wide and a penis of grotesque proportions hung towards the floor.
Vanessa tried to shut out the chatter around her. The massive bodies and sightless heads of the sculptures repulsed her. But the limbs, too fragile-seeming to support the burden of the bodies, made her want to put her arms round the poor creatures and comfort them.
She moved away and passed through a doorway into another space where there was only a handful of people. The pieces in here made from a smooth bronze were smaller and more naturalistic. There was a reclining figure, a couple embracing, a man standing. They were delicate and beautifully crafted, but they didn’t touch Vanessa in the way the others had.
She moved towards the last piece. It was a female figure, lying on her back, her hands behind her head. Her breasts were small, her belly a soft rounded mound. One knee was pulled up, drawing attention to the thin slit between her thighs. Vanessa felt herself growing hot. She glanced over her shoulder.
A man standing a few feet away was smiling at her. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Pardon?’
He gestured to the figure, moving closer. ‘The woman. You can see she’s just made love and she’s full up with sex.’ The man bent his knees, so that he could view the sculpture from a different angle.
Vanessa turned back to look again. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘yes, she is.’
‘I’m afraid I’m a bit of a dinosaur. Give me these lifelike forms any day rather than the ones through there.’
‘Didn’t you find them moving?’
‘Too experimental for my liking.’
‘There’s so much suffering in them.’
‘You one of his students?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ve put my name down for his class next term, but there’s a waiting list.’
The man laughed. ‘He always was a clever bugger.’
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br /> ‘You know him?’
‘We were at college together. Wish I had a fraction of his talent.’ He glanced across the room. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. My wife’s over there. She’s beckoning to me.’
Vanessa’s eyes followed the man and then her gaze returned to the figure. She whispered the man’s words: ‘She’s full up with sex.’ Was this what lovemaking could do for you? Your body soft, fluid, pliant? I want to know what it’s like, she thought. I don’t want to hold back any more. I want to know the secret.
‘Here you are!’ Gerald was beside her. She breathed in the smell of cigars, overlain with something else, peppermint. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Brilliant.’
‘What’s your favourite?’ He thrust his chin forward, clearly eager and excited. ‘Be careful how you answer. The future of our relationship could depend on this.’
Vanessa hesitated. She loved the reclining woman, but knew instinctively which one he wanted her to say. ‘The seated figure in the other room,’ she said, after a moment.
‘Good. Good. Now how are you fixed for dinner?’
‘Dinner?’
He was standing so close she could see the individual bristles of his beard, the pores on his cheeks. ‘I’ve got to go home.’
‘Whatever for? The night is young. There’s a French restaurant round the corner. A gang of us is going.’
She felt herself weakening. It would be exciting to have dinner with Gerald Blackstone and his friends, and she’d never been in a French restaurant before, come to that she hadn’t ever been in a proper restaurant – unless you counted Lyons Corner House in Tottenham Court Road. ‘Is Carla going?’
‘She’s over-indulged. Gone home to sleep it off. Now, say you’ll come.’
Vanessa thought of what she’d be going home to. The minute she got there, the claustrophobia would fold round her: her mother would be in the kitchen ironing, her father would still be at the pub. She’d look at the table in the hall to see if there was a note in her mother’s backward-flowing writing to say Andrew had phoned. But there wouldn’t be one, she was certain. He wouldn’t have phoned. What was the point of going back to that?
Unravelling Page 8