Suddenly, she rifled through the contents of her handbag again.
Third time's a charm.
Her keys were missing.
They too would be at the gallery.
She knocked on the plastic divider between the driver and the back of the cab.
“Change of plan,” she said. “I need to go the Tate Modern.”
“It'll be closed by the time we get there.”
“Then hurry! Please!”
It was almost ten. She wished that she had borrowed more money from Peter, because she wouldn't have quite enough to get to the gallery and then home again.
She considered what she would do if her stuff wasn't there. Where would she go?
Peter's place?
She didn't have a phone to call him and he'd made it clear that he wasn't interested. Turning up on his doorstep would seem like a ruse. She'd thrown herself at him once; she didn't want to appear to be wheedling her way in even after rejection. It had been a clean ending. Best to keep it that way.
She thought that perhaps her neighbour, Lisa, would put her up for the night, unless she had a hot date, which was likely, in which case staying there would be impossible.
One thing at a time, she told herself. You wanted excitement and you got it.
* * * *
She reached the gallery minutes after closing time. After a mad dash around the building, she found that one secondary entrance was still operational. The doors slid open and she jogged up the empty stairs to the smaller of the two bookshops.
As expected it was closed, but she was disappointed that there was nobody lurking inside. They'd obviously finished cleaning and dealing with the day's takings. There was no light on and though she walked around the large floor-to-ceiling windows she could not see clearly what was on the counter. She doubted that her things were still there, but being able to rule it out would have relieved some of her anxiety.
No-one had left a notice on the door for her and so she descended to the larger bookshop in which she had met Mark. Here she encountered the same locked doors and darkened interior, only on a grander scale. The check out was unmanned.
She had hoped that she might see the lovers inside, locked together in an embrace that she would break for the sake of her belongings, but they had evidently quit the shop already. Perhaps they had forsaken the store room for some place more comfortable. She had no doubt that the two of them were out somewhere taking their flirtation to the next level, while, as usual, she was left on the outside looking in.
At the main reception, the man behind the counter looked shocked to see her striding towards him.
She was wet again and she was upset.
You'd better not start, she thought. I'm not in the mood for you.
“I wonder if you could help me,” she said as politely as she could.
In answer, he looked at his watch.
“I think I forgot my purse...and my phone...and my keys...in the gallery.”
He burst out laughing.
“I assure you,” she said, “it's not funny.”
“I heard about you,” he said.
“Great,” she said, deadpan. “Does that mean you have my stuff? Please say yes.”
“You left it late. We're closed.”
“And yet we're here,” she said. “Do you have my keys? Then I can go home.”
He shook his head.
“Young man took them,” he said.
Her heart thumped hard.
“Took them? What do you mean 'young man took them'?”
“The arty fella. Nightingale. He said you were friends.”
She rolled her eyes. Nightingale. Very good.
“We're not friends,” Judy said.
“You looked like friends to me,” he said. “Very friendly, if you know what I mean.”
“Where is he now?” Judy asked.
“He was hanging around for you,” the man said. “He waited as long as he could. Then I informed him that we were closing and he left. I don't know where he went. I didn't ask, he didn't tell me.”
Judy covered her face with her hands. She couldn't believe this.
“I would have phoned you,” the man at reception said, “but you left your phone too.”
He was chuckling again.
“To be honest,” he said. “The way you were looking at each other, I assumed you were intimate. I assumed that at some point he'd just go to your place and let himself in, but like I say he was waiting around here until not long ago.”
If she left now then, she might catch up with him.
“Thanks for your help,” Judy said, her shoulders sagging.
The man gave her a wink.
“Good luck,” he said. “With everything.”
* * * *
She took the underground home instead of a taxi, because she didn't know how long she would need to make her remaining money last. Her journey was tense, especially as she didn't know what to expect at the other end. She was relying on her neighbour Lisa to be home and to be alone; otherwise she didn't know where she would go.
She hadn't made much effort to make friends since she'd moved to Walthamstow. Rather, she had thrown herself into her work and let all other things slide, particularly herself and her needs. On reflection, it was an odd thing to have made herself subservient to faxes and figures and phone calls and filing. She knew the part numbers of over three hundred products off by heart, but she could count her friends on one hand. Four fingers, in fact, if it turned out that she had also ruined her friendship with Peter.
Exhausted, she shut her eyes, but she was too cold and too hungry to sleep, so she counted the stops until she was home.
* * * *
She passed under scaffolding as she exited the new Walthamstow Central station exit, which was open but as yet unfinished. Rather than the unnerving sense of something about to fall on her head that she normally felt, she now succumbed to a wave of excitement as she remembered her experiences in the gallery. She bit them back, however, partly because she didn't want to feel like this in a public place and partly because Mark had turned out to be the worm in the apple.
Her flat was upstairs in a row of houses that were exactly the same except for the colour of their doors. She thought that it would be better if people were allowed to express themselves more freely. Why shouldn't they paint the façades of their houses pink or green or yellow or blue, with stripes or stars, or stencils like Banksy?
She didn't approve of graffiti, but she had to admit that she had glanced at some inside the gallery and their simplicity and even their recalcitrance had appealed to something in her, had called out to that new thing that Mark had not so much discovered as uncovered.
She snorted at the thought that she might try to be rebellious. She had never been rebellious. That kind of behaviour, that level of bravery, had always been for others.
Until now?
She tried the mental trick of mustering a smile even though she didn't feel like it, but she could not. Her smiles over the dinner table had been acts of contrition, negotiation, suggestion and acceptance. They had been carefully controlled. The last true smile to surface, whether she liked it or not, had been at the gallery, in the bookshop, as Mark told her that he was jealous of Peter.
He was right to be jealous. Though they had had a good time together, he was nothing on Peter. Honesty counted for a lot in her book, even if it hurt to hear the truth.
Across the road from her, three council houses were undergoing window and roof repairs. Builders had erected scaffolding and now the metal frame stood in front of the houses like the beginnings of a cage.
Was that her meeting it halfway? Was that really what she saw? What she felt?
The soles of her feet, bruised and black, dragged on the pavement.
As she approached her flat, she admitted that she did feel trapped at home, but it was still where she wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world. It was the only place that was safe, except she didn't ev
en have the key to let herself in.
The light was on in her neighbour's window and Judy was heading past her own flat, towards her neighbour's door, when she noticed movement in the small yard of her property.
A man who had been sitting on her step stood now and stretched, yawning loudly.
It was ‘Mark’.
“I didn't mean to scare you,” he said.
He had her leather wallet and held it up in front of her like a prize at a carnival.
“Give me that,” she said and snatched it from him.
She opened it up to check that its contents were still there.
“I think you’re looking for the words ‘thank you’,” said Mark, ”And they’re not in your wallet.”
“If it wasn't for you,” Judy informed him, “I wouldn't have forgotten my wallet in the first place. You should have left my things at the gallery. As it is, I’ve had a wasted journey.”
“I waited,” Mark said, “but I didn’t think you’d come back. I thought I was doing you a favour by coming here.”
“You weren't,” she said. “And I don't believe anything you have to say.”
“That's unfortunate,” he said.
“What's unfortunate is that I ever met you.”
He seemed shocked by this.
Good, she thought. Be shocked. I am shocking. And so is your cheek.
She wasn't sure why she wanted to hurt him so badly. She only knew that now that she had started, she couldn't stop.
Though dark, his eyes were shining. His hair was wild now, tussled by the wind. He appeared to have been out waiting for her for some time. His clothes were as damp as hers.
Had he not seemed so untrustworthy, she might have suggested they both go upstairs and get out of their wet things.
She was dismayed to find that she wanted him. First she wanted to wipe the insolent smirk off his face – the smile that said: “I’m actually above this, but I’m going to have the conversation, because I’ve nothing better to do.”
Then she would have liked them to finish what Peter had started.
If only he’d been honest with her from the beginning.
“Get away from my door,” she said.
“Do you seriously think I was posing as a member of staff so I could get close to you?” Mark said. “I suppose you think I stole your wallet too?”
You weren't only after my wallet, Judy thought. If we’d been together another five minutes, I’d have given you my body and you know it. That’s why you’re here. You know you missed out.
“I don't think anything,” she said. “I just want to get to bed.” She wished that she hadn't said that, but Mark didn't punish her for the double-entendre.
“Are you telling me it's a crime to wear a white T-shirt in a gallery?”
“Not interested,” Judy said.
“I told you who I was. It’s really not my fault that you don’t believe me.”
She allowed herself to consider the likelihood that she’d made a mistake about him. Her judgement was all over the place today. She was tired, hungry and slightly drunk. Today wasn’t a day for jumping into bed with anyone, but then it wasn’t a night for burning bridges either.
Mark was clearly furious though and she was scared suddenly. When scared, her usual defence was to attack.
“What would you have done if I'd turned up with Peter?” she asked. “What do you think he would have done to you if he'd found you lurking out here for me?”
“There is no Peter,” he said. “There was once, maybe, but there isn't now.”
He was too close to the truth.
“That's what you'd like to think!” she said.
“I don't want you to be unhappy,” Mark said. “I really don’t. But I think that if you had had a date this evening, you'd have gone to his place. You wouldn't be turning up here to put a rock through your window or sleep on your doorstep.”
“That's not true,” Judy said, but it was. The Peter in her head didn't exist. He had never existed.
“That's okay,” Mark said, brushing past her. “You have your fantasy; I have mine.”
* * * *
Her flat was colder and emptier than ever, but she was determined not to cry about it. What she did do was throw her freshly-received wallet across the room. It hit the wall with an unpleasant cracking sound, the clasp sprang open and her mobile phone skidded across the uncarpeted floor. She immediately wished that she hadn't done that. It was stupid.
She was being stubborn, however, so she didn't pick it up. Instead she slipped out of her damp clothes and kicked them against the wall before stepping into the shower.
She had always considered it safe to cry in here. It was a childhood thing: crying in the shower didn't really count, because her face was already wet. She refused to do it now, though. She refused to admit that she was wrong to send Mark away without giving him a fair chance to speak, taking out her rejection by Peter on him.
Feeling as though she was getting something right tonight was the only thing keeping her together.
She felt as though she had been transformed. She'd almost fallen for a stranger, she'd been aroused in public to the point of shaking and she'd propositioned her long-term friend and ex, straining their friendship until it broke. She'd been in a constant state of anxiety or outright fear for the most part of the evening.
From time to time, she felt as if her world was expanding to accommodate her. It was a glorious feeling, but in the end there was her and her empty flat and nobody to call. It seemed that perhaps things hadn't changed so much after all.
She had blown the cobwebs away, only to find that there was nothing beneath. It was only her body, the cold tiles and the sound of water washing London grime down the plughole.
She squeezed her eyes shut to squeeze out the world and squeeze back the tears.
Under the rush of water spraying her body, she heard his voice, dry and smooth:
“You have your fantasy; I have mine...”
She wondered what he meant by that. What was he implying by: “I have mine.”
Was she a part of his fantasy future, even now?
Eyes still closed, she allowed her hand to explore the smooth skin of her stomach.
“...have your fantasy...” Mark was saying in her head and she cut him off there.
She let her fingers draw a pattern in her soft pubic hair, imagining that it was Mark, no, Peter, no, a guy she'd seen on the tube, no Mark, teasing her. She decided to make him the best lover that she had ever had. He knew just when to stop stroking her hair and slide gently between her legs. He knew not to rush her. He knew that she wanted him and that there was plenty of time to enjoy this. Plenty of time.
Too much time.
She imagined his kiss on her inner thigh and sighed out loud, allowing the shower head to spray fine jets at her, sending rivulets over her as she delved deeper and sent the first of what she anticipated would be many shockwaves rippling through her body.
She placed her fingertips on her clitoris and began a circular motion, quickly sending pulses of pleasure throughout her body. She pleasured herself vigourously, impatiently, pushing back against her fingers, her spine hitting the tiled wall and her mouth an ‘O’, because she was soaring so quickly to the cusp of her orgasm.
She knew her body better than any man. More’s the pity. But she was able to seize upon her sensation and fold it into itself, doubling it and doubling it again, kneading her pussy and bringing herself closer and closer to that explosion of feeling that she craved.
In the end, Peter had been an appetiser. Now she was tingling all over. She massaged her breasts, feeling how hard her nipples had become under the shower spray. They were like studs jutting out from her ample breasts.
As she washed Peter away, she welcomed her new arousal and her new appreciation of her body.
She gasped, because she was so close to coming. Her pussy was aching and the muscles of her forearm were taut with the pressure she applied to herself, b
ut that final push evaded her.
The thought of Mark in the shower with her came to her then. She had him on his knees, his tongue against her pussy, his fingers sliding into her and his eyes on hers, because she wasn’t just an object to him.
His eyes lingered on hers, because he wanted her to feel at least as good as she was making him feel.
“You have your fantasy,” he had said. She certainly did.
And yet, it wasn’t right, because if she hadn’t been so impulsive, so close-minded, this fantasy might have been a reality. Instead, she was alone. She seemed to be destined to be alone.
She chased the pleasurable sensations, but her body was already getting away from her, her over-active mind getting between her and the release she needed.
She gave up and her entire body ached with loss. Unfinished business.
The water ran cold and she stood beneath it, thinking it might help. Not long after, her doorbell rang. It sounded for a long time, insistent.
She shut off the water, grabbed a towel and stepped into the hall.
She knew instinctively that Mark had returned. Though she dried herself, a certain part of her remained wet for him.
Her heart was hammering and she felt lightheaded. Not everybody gets a second chance. If he was willing to grant her one, then she was willing to do the same. Maybe he really was a hot shot art critic. More likely, he was just some guy she happened to meet at a gallery. Perhaps he had invented the writing thing, because he was a bit embarrassed about what he did for a living. Perhaps that was the reason he hadn’t once asked her what she did for a living. He’d been avoiding the subject entirely.
It no longer mattered to her. The fact was that he seemed like a really nice guy and he had a great body to boot. She wasn’t going to let her hang-ups and issues get in the way, particularly when they were actually a hangover from past, botched relationships. Why make Mark pay for that? Why not give him a chance and at the same time give herself a clean slate?
But she couldn't go downstairs like this.
“One minute!” she yelled and threw on tracksuit bottoms and a vest. She was knickerless and braless, but she didn't want to risk Mark giving up and walking away. She glanced at herself in the mirror before leaving the room and thought that she didn't look too bad. With her long, black hair wet from the shower, she might even say that she looked good.
SEVEN DAYS Page 5