Naked City

by Anthony Cropper

  Watching Adam now, she could see that although his hair was still glossy and his profile keen, he had a jaded air. The bar was buzzing with animation, with raucous reckless youth, but he moved from task to task mechanically, as if on autopilot. She realised then how much she had wanted him to be as he had always been: her companion in fun and frolic. The same.

  Her phone rang, startling her. She took it out of her bag, saw that her husband was calling, and switched it off.

  9.30pm

  When he wasn’t directing staff or filling glasses, Adam had time to notice Stella’s consumption of vodka. He snapped his fingers at Mahmoud. Mahmoud sailed across the floor like a bat with inbuilt radar, smartly avoiding collision with skittish posers and heavy-footed drunks.

  ‘See that woman there,’ said Adam, indicating Stella, whose head was lolling a little in the corner of her sofa. ‘I want you to take her a sandwich. Tell the kitchen to come up with something quick and substantial. Steak and onion maybe.’ Or was she vegetarian? Shit, he’d forgotten. ‘No, better make that mozzarella and roasted peppers. And tell her I said she had to eat it.’

  ‘Woman with black hair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so sad face?’

  Stella’s features were strong, arresting, but now looked crumpled. Adam shrugged. ‘Seems her marriage has broken up. Whose hasn’t? I just happen to know how easily she passes out, so do as I say, will you?’

  When he saw Mahmoud leaning over her with the plate of food, tapping her shoulder as if to rouse her from sleep, he picked up a bottle of mineral water and two glasses and joined her on the sofa. ‘It’s my break now,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d check you were okay.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Fill me in then. How’s the business?’

  It had taken off at the beginning of the nineties, just before he went down to London. Stella had graduated from scarves to other accessories: belts, hats, gloves. There was a brief period when nearly every girl shopping in Church Street had been wearing or buying one of Stella’s hats.

  She was eating, he noted with relief. She brushed crumbs from her lips, obediently drank the water he handed her. ‘Went bust, didn’t I? It was bound to happen sooner or later. I mean, there comes a time you have to move on. You expand or you get taken over or you go to the wall. Well, I went to the wall.’

  ‘Tough shit.’

  ‘It’s not tough; it’s business. And I didn’t want to be a businesswoman. I wanted to be an artist, remember? Like you. So how come you’re running a bar?’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, Adam, that’s why I’m asking.’

  The sofa was comfortable, yielding but firm. The early-evening after-work crowd had moved on. A new tranche of customers was settling in for the night. The hum of their voices spiralled into the vaulted ceiling; the mood was relaxed. Adam spread his arms. ‘This is where the money is. Plus it’s a ready-made social life – yes, I’m one of those poor fuckers.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then, the theory goes, during a long free afternoon when the light’s good and I’m feeling fresh as a daisy, I can be creative again. Or not, as the case may be. You keep promising yourself… but hell, who keeps promises? Look, can I get you a coffee or something?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m on a mission to get wasted.’

  ‘Just so long as you don’t puke over my shoes.’

  This was a reference to the time, years ago, when he’d been trying to get her back from the pub to the studio. He’d rashly spent far more than he could afford on a pair of Italian leather boots and she had vomited spectacularly into the gutter where he had been standing. ‘Fuck, you bitch,’ he’d shouted, leaping backwards into the path of a passing car. The driver, being sober – and a trainee solicitor – had been anxious to make sure they were all right. He got out of his car, tried to pick them both up and prop them against the wall like puppets. Stella collapsed and Adam cursed his bruises. In the end the three of them trailed up the galvanised metal staircase that led to Stella’s studio. She filled a bowl with cold water and dipped her face into it; then, in a gesture of atonement, she polished the vomit off Adam’s boots with one of her finest pieces of silk. The driver parked himself on an old horsehair chaise longue, fascinated by the room that looked like a theatrical set, draped with velvet and faux furs, and by Stella. He asked if he could see her again. And although she told Adam he wasn’t her type: too stocky, too freckled, too earnest, she agreed on a date. Two years later she married him.

  Her mouth twitched at the recollection.

  ‘So,’ said Adam. ‘What’s brought this on? What did the bastard do to you?’ Ever vigilant, he noticed her handbag yawning open like an invitation. He leaned across and snapped it shut. ‘Couldn’t keep his flies buttoned or what?’

  She shuddered. ‘Not exactly.’

  He couldn’t understand why she was so cagey. In the past they’d egged each other on to more and more extreme confessions. But blowing your mind was different then. Like blowing a stranger you’d met in some sweaty club only ten minutes before. Before there were repercussions. He felt an urge to confide in her, to encourage her confidence in return. ‘Did anyone tell you,’ he asked, ‘why I’d come back from London?’

  She shook her head with some difficulty as if it were too heavy for comfort.

  He swallowed some mineral water, tried to keep his tone measured and even. ‘Well… it was because I lost someone there. Someone who…’ He’d been going to explain about Ben: the quality of the relationship they’d had, the fact that he’d lived with HIV for years, the assumption that he could continue to manage the condition, the shock of his relapse. His own dithering and attempts to continue as if nothing had happened.

  But Stella interrupted. ‘For Godsake don’t sound so twee. And please don’t tell me he passed away.’

  Adam gaped, astonished.

  ‘Tell me he died. He’s dead. Why can’t you say it? You don’t lose people, Adam. They aren’t umbrellas. You love them and then they leave you. They die.’

  Maybe she was trying to be helpful. Face your demons had always been one of her catchphrases. But Adam felt as if she had kicked him in the gut. As if he were lying on the ground, his intestines spilling about like tagliatelle, his brain close to seizure and in the distance the sound of her sneer. He stood up and walked away.

  She didn’t call him back and he didn’t turn in her direction until he was safely behind the polished cherrywood counter. He should have remembered her tendency to be brutally frank. At times it could be attractive; right now it seemed ugly, almost vindictive. Her head was bent, he noticed, perhaps in remorse? And he was pleased to see the American he had served earlier – who had gone hunting for a meal in Chinatown and now returned – offering her a handkerchief. Adam knew how tenacious Americans could be. Almost as insistent as that little goblin, Mahmoud. Well, he wished her luck with him.

  10.30pm

  Mahmoud was keeping out of Adam’s way. He could tell from the way he moved: short sharp jabs at the till, his elbows and cheekbones prominent, his voice tight and mannered, that he was angry about something. Long before he learnt the vocabulary of whichever country he was in, Mahmoud had taught himself to read bodies. He could spot hostility at a hundred paces; he could tell the difference between the implacable and the pliable; he could pick out chinks of hope. He had seen such chinks in Adam, when he had first starting watching him, when he had been drawn to him as a protector.

  Deciding that the best way to pacify him was by looking after his lady friend, Mahmoud hovered behind the cast-iron column at the corner of Stella’s sofa. The American had tucked his rejected handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Flew in from Boston yesterday morning,’ he was saying. ‘Still getting over the jet lag. You a local girl?’

  ‘I only moved in today.’

  ‘Does that make us both new kids on the block?’

  She shrugged, but he was not easily discouraged. The leathe
r sighed as he lowered himself onto it. ‘I’m staying over at the Crowne Plaza. But they told me this was the best end of town for night life so here I am.’ Leaning forward too eagerly, he knocked over her drink. Mahmoud sprang forward to mop it up and felt a small glow of pride when Stella smiled at him.

  The Bostonian insisted on buying another, pressed a ten-pound note into Mahmoud’s hand and told him to keep the change. Not daring to face Adam’s wrath, Mahmoud took some time, furtively pouring a double shot and using the till at the far end of the bar, under cover of one of the waitresses. When he got back, Stella was looking mutinous and the Bostonian disappointed. ‘I was kinda hoping you could show me the ropes.’

  Mahmoud, considering himself a resident, was anxious to help. ‘This is right place!’ he said excitedly. ‘This is Ropewalks Quarter. You know? Like circus?’ In his fantasy, tightropes were webbed across the narrow streets like a cat’s cradle; acrobats and trapeze artists swayed high above the ground, balancing their bodies with a confetti of coloured parasols.

  The man was impressed. ‘No kidding?’

  Stella seemed bent on disillusion. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No circus. Just sweat-shops. There were roperies for kitting out the ships, that’s all.’ She grimaced as she drank, as if the alcohol were purely medicinal. ‘Names aren’t what they seem, you know. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that Hope Street was named after one of the three graces. Mr Hope was just some local landowner. So was Mr Parr, Mr Colquitt, Mr Slater…’

  ‘Paradise also?’ said Mahmoud, deflated.

  ‘I don’t know about Paradise Street.’ Her head lurched forward and her body seemed to double up in spasm.

  The American looked anxious. ‘Are you okay?’

  Her hand over her mouth, she spoke through her fingers. ‘Sorry, I’m not used to this. I’ve been out of circulation for a while. I spent most of last year in Alderhey Hospital.’

  He wriggled away from her as if she were contagious. He forced a smile. ‘Nothing serious, I guess? I mean, you look terrific.’

  He was being gallant: she was too thin, her nails were bitten to stubs, her cheeks were unnaturally flushed. So were his.

  ‘Don’t you know anything?’ she said scornfully. ‘Alderhey is a children’s hospital.’

  ‘Shoot, I’m sorry. No disrespect…’ He edged away, backing himself off the sofa, nearly stumbling over Mahmoud in his haste to avoid the difficult or the unpalatable. Not all single women were a breeze to be with.

  Mahmoud made the abandoned Stella a formal bow. ‘You want to rest in office?’ he said.

  ‘In Adam’s office?’

  He nodded. ‘I know combination.’

  ‘Really I should go,’ she said. ‘I should go back to my apartment.’

  He could see the thought of it chilled her: the waiting void, the automated controls, the silence. As she stood up, she staggered a little. Holding her elbow he steered her down the corridor, past the toilets and through the door marked Private.

  1.30am

  Adam was cashing up. The takings were slightly down on last night, but respectable for the middle of the week. There’d been little trouble: a brief scuffle between some lads who’d had to be led outside like frisky ponies, a noisy domestic, a pair of gay footballers driven away by naïve and flirtatious females. But no serious scenes, no vomit, no complaints of theft or harassment. The last stragglers left quietly, like small children, in search of taxis home. He hadn’t noticed Stella’s departure. He still felt bitter at her callousness. He hadn’t been asking for sympathy, but he hadn’t expected such a curt reaction either. What kind of friendship was that?

  He dismissed the rest of the staff. Mahmoud, he knew, would be leech-like. He could see him still mopping a patch of floor. He’d have to boot him off the premises and shoo him into the night. However darkly the boy’s eyes pleaded, he would not, would never, take him home. He counted the coins into the cashbox. He banded the notes, slipped them into envelopes, and carried them to his office. Out of superstition he never switched on the light until all the money was stored in the safe. He had an absurd notion that somebody at street level might peer down through the grating and catch the number of the combination lock. For this reason, also, he changed it every week.

  The door of the safe had just swung open and his hand was reaching inside when he heard the movement, saw the shadow stir and rise from the couch. For a moment he froze. He knew managers who kept small revolvers tucked in unlikely places – out of paranoia or bravado. Adam thought it was asking for trouble. Recovering himself, he slammed the safe shut and flicked on the overhead light.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Stella. ‘You gave me a fright.’

  ‘How the fuck did you get in here?’

  ‘Your boyfriend brought me. To escape the Bostonian. Has he gone yet?’

  ‘Everybody’s gone. It’s two in the morning. And he’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Christ, then I must have passed out. I didn’t realise…’ she frowned, as if trying to remember the blank time she had lost. ‘Sorry. I guess I sort of developed the knack – you know, snatching a few hours’ sleep here or there on a pull-out bed – when Lucy was in Alderhey.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘My daughter.’

  He was tired, confused, his head was buzzing. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter.’

  ‘Well I did. Six years ago. I’m sure I sent you a card but you’d probably moved a dozen times already.’ She paused. ‘And then I didn’t. And now I don’t.’

  Adam felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Tragedy is not exclusive, tragedy casts her net wide. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  Stella looked around the office: files of orders, a retro Bakelite telephone, a slim silver computer. ‘D’you keep any drink in here?’

  Adam, who had barely had two pints all night, took a flask of brandy from the bottom drawer of the desk and passed it to her. She pulled him down to sit beside her, took a long swig and then, with her hand gripping his thigh and her eyes fixed on the wall clock, she said ‘Leukaemia. At the time I didn’t know which was worse: the frantic hoping for a miracle or the days when you simply gave up, resigned yourself. Now I know I’d do anything to be back there again, reading to her, watching her smile, feeding on hope.’ She faltered. ‘I miss her so much…sometimes I think I can’t bear it.’

  He placed his hand over hers, remained silent.

  She turned towards him. Their faces were now so close he could see the tiny lines of care that hadn’t been there, ten, fifteen years ago. ‘I am truly sorry,’ she said, ‘That I upset you before. It was unforgivable. A mixture, I suppose, of too much alcohol and still being so bloody angry. Angry at Lucy’s death, at the hypocrisy of people in general and my bloody husband in particular.’

  ‘It isn’t fair to blame him,’ said Adam. He remembered Nick as a steady dependable type; he remembered being grateful that someone else was taking charge of Stella’s mood swings.

  She took another long pull at the brandy bottle, but her voice was raw and rasping. ‘He stopped sleeping with me, he wouldn’t give me another baby. Another baby might have been a donor, could have saved Lucy’s life. How can I live with that?’

  ‘Well look at us,’ said Adam. ‘A pair of celibates.’ It was over two years since Ben died and he’d finally got used to it. At first, like Stella, he’d been furious. And furiously promiscuous. Now he was through to the next level and abstinence seemed a whole lot easier. He put his arms around her, let her head droop onto his shoulder, savoured the warmth of another person’s flesh.

  A small tinkling sound trickled up the corridor. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Is someone trying to break in?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, we’ve got to get a move on. I have to lock up properly.’ He was on his feet, racing ahead. Stella, hobbling on high-heeled sandals, followed.

  Mahmoud was sweeping up a shattered wineglass. He smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough. Let’s go.’ Adam was exhausted, drained
. He’d escort Stella home and then walk up to his flat in Faulkner Square, shaking off Mahmoud on the way. He never used to crave solitude, but times change.

  Stella was rummaging in her bag. She noted with contempt two more missed calls from Nick. Then she began to panic. ‘Shit. I can’t find my keys.’

  Adam was ready to set the alarm. Everything was shuttered and silent. Stripes of light from street lamps picked out the sheen of the polished floor, a chrome table leg, a row of clean glasses. Stella emptied her handbag into one of these patches of silver and scrabbled among lipsticks, combs, phone, diary, purse and a small precious folded photo-frame. No keys.

  ‘You had them at the bar when you came in,’ said Adam. He could see them spinning on her finger: the promise of a new life. ‘I’m starting over,’ she’d said.

  ‘Then we must look,’ she commanded.

  Lights on again, towels lifted. A torch for the dark recesses beneath the shelving. They found pens, cigarette lighters, coins, but no keys.

  ‘You’ve been clearing up,’ said Stella accusingly to Mahmoud. ‘You must have come across them somewhere.’

  He spread his hands, shook his head.

  ‘Then they’ve been stolen. Shit, shit, shit, shit!’

  ‘Don’t be crazy. Who would take your keys and leave your cash? Has anyone got a spare set?’

  ‘Only the letting agency. You don’t think I’d give Nick the chance to come calling do you? This is a trial separation. I’m supposed to start painting again…’

  ‘Maybe you should go back to him, Stella.’

  She scowled. ‘I’d rather sleep on the street.’ And glanced hopefully down the corridor.

  Adam shook his head. ‘Sorry, out of bounds.’