‘How about an Alka-Seltzer, then?’ he suggests instead, meeting my eye and reflecting the glint there. His own are like jewels - like lime diamante. ‘Can I tempt you,’ he goes on, his smile growing wider, ‘with my extensive selection of antacids, perhaps?’
I smile coyly at him. ‘In the morning, perhaps.’
And another. There is now very little space between us.
‘A glass of water, then?’ he offers. ‘I have some nice Eau de Tap.’
Very little between us except my organizer handbag - and my few remaining pretensions towards girlish propriety. And they are certainly few. Because the other Lu Fisher has got out at last, and has some sort of plan on the go. Oh, gosh.
Oh, golly gosh, in fact.
‘All right, then,’ I say, smiling now. ‘I’ll stay and have a coffee.’ I place my bag, very purposefully, back on the bed.
He follows the movement then his eyes flick back up to meet mine. And we stand there looking at each other for what seems like an age. We are no more than six inches from full-on nose-to-nose contact. One more step and we would be close enough to touch. A small tremor goes through me. What should I do now? He looks hesitant but, then, he has no arms available. Should I put mine around him? Should I reach up and kiss him? Or should I wait? What? I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish he’d do something. Give me some encouragement. I wish he wouldn’t look so undecided, all of a sudden. His lips part in a half-smile, but he holds up the kettle. ‘I’ll just go and fill this up, then,’ he says.
I can’t recall what kissing Joe was like the first time, because I was way too drunk, but if how I feel right now is anything to go by, it will be a glorious, electrifying, wonderful thing. It’s all in the pheromones, of course. That much is clear. Pheromonal, and hormonal and genetic and psycho-sexual and diurnal, and didn’t I learn way back about long-day breeders or something? Red deer, wasn’t it? That’s it. We’re approaching the longest day of the year. Is that an equinox? No. That’s in spring, isn’t it? Well, whatever. Anyway, that must be what it’s all about. Must be. How else can I explain it?
Except with reference to evolution, of course. That’s it. It’s all well and good all this post-modern identification with the male and his quest for his feminine side and so on. But I have the sneakiest, sneakiest feeling that there isn’t more than a little of the good old-fashioned ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ factor at play here. Not remotely PC but there you go. Oh, and Snow White, of course. She’s always in there. Can’t get away from biology. Can’t. He hero on horse, flaying sundry villains at random, she, ergo, in major-league swoon. She lump of putty in his white-begloved hands.
Or was it short-day breeders? Who knows? Who cares? Whatever the biology, one thing’s for certain: there’s only so much a girl can achieve via swooning. Got to be, got to be proactive here.
But as it turns out it’s all academic anyway. Because while Joe is in the bathroom, my eyes light upon the packet of Marlboro, which are still wrapped in their Cellophane and sitting on the desk. Beside them is a big box of nicotine chewing-gum, one blister pack broached, and minus one square of gum. Which reminds me, of course, that I still have Joe’s things in my bag. Which is either a bitch or a blessing, depending on which way you look at it. Depending on which way I look at it, at any rate. And I don’t really want to look.
I reach for my bag again, and start rummaging for his stuff. His wallet, a heavy, warm, slippery thing (which, OK, I will confess to holding fondly against my face for some moments), his packet of chewing-gum, and his phone.
His bloody phone.
Pretty swanky, is Joe’s mobile. And slim, because size matters. And switched on, because what else are mobile phones for?
There is a little phone icon on the display. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. I will not. But I do.
I press the green button.
The display lights up.
And it changes.
And now it says ‘Missed call. Jeannine.’
And then he’s back in the room with me. He has washed up his coffee cup as well.
‘Black or white?’ he asks beguilingly. ‘Decaf or ordinary?’
I put the phone down on the bedspread. ‘Joe, I’ve changed my mind,’ I say. ‘Thanks all the same. But you’re right. It is late. I’m going to get off to bed after all.’
‘Oh,’ he says, staring at me. ‘Right. If you want, then.’
And that’s the image I take away to bed with me. Joe poised by the kettle with his Nescafe sachet, looking puzzled and weary and saying, ‘Oh.’
22
Friday 15 June
Forgive my French. But bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.
I lay on my bed for a while, unable to sleep - unable to fathom quite why I had acted as I did. Who the hell cares who Jeannine is anyway? I sometimes wonder if I’m going mad. Why am I so insecure? Why?
This is such a terrible affliction. I am thirty-five. Thirty-five, damn and blast it. Why don’t I know better than this? Why the hell didn’t I do it? Why didn’t I just go right ahead and kiss him while I had the chance? That was all he needed. Just one tiny affirmation from me, that’s all. And I didn’t quite do it. I couldn’t quite bring myself to make the first move. I should have made the first move. But every time I set myself up to try to believe that it’s all right to do this stuff, as soon as I even contemplate doing it, I’m all of a dither.
Patrick, damn him, has such a lot to answer for. Oh, I know it’s pointless and stupid to blame him for everything, but sometimes I just can’t help it. This is his legacy. Forget the three Rs. It’s the Ds that are the problem. Seems like all my adult life, my whole life since Patrick, I’ve been dogged by a stupid, useless dogma that’s entirely of my own making. A dogma that’s really of such questionable use. The D for Dignity, which I have done ad nauseam, and the D for Damage-limitation. Done that one to death.
So I have made a decision. I have decided that I don’t actually give a monkey’s cuss who Jeanine bloody Carver is. I’m going to take my heart, my head, my whole bloody bagload of pathetic insecurities and I’m going to give them a damn good shaking. Because he was interested, he did want to kiss me, and had I not gone careering off in my usual pathetic scared-rabbit manner then he doubtless would have kissed me, and I would have kissed him back with so much conviction that it would be absolutely clear that whoever Jeannine bloody Carver is, she’s not only missed that particular moment - she’s bloody well missed the whole boat.
It is with this kind of mindset (Dignity indeed! Damage-limitation indeed! I fly in the face of them both) that I shower, dress, and approach the breakfast buffet.
But it doesn’t last long.
Because, oh, goodness me, what a surprise! Joe is being off with me again.
And now Jean Paul is as well.
Which is, I’ll grant, perfectly understandable under the circumstances. He is probably wary of getting within twenty feet of me. Which suits me just fine, as I’m quite sure I can smell his breath even over the oily whiff of eggs and baked beans.
But he certainly doesn’t seem off with Joe. They are already sitting at a table when I get there, talking in urgent but entirely unaggressive tones, and tucking into breakfasts the size of tennis courts. Both look up as I enter the dining room, Jean Paul with an expression of wary uncertainty, and Joe with the most cursory of cursory nods. Then, having acknowledged my presence, they simply resume their chat.
I wonder what curious code of social ethics exists in the world of combustion, and decide that to wonder is as pointless a business as pondering the craters on Jupiter’s moons. Then I collect some fruit juice, two rolls and a croissant, and go and sit down somewhere else, on my own.
By the time I had finished my breakfast Joe and Jean Paul had long since left the restaurant, and I made my way back up to my bedroom without bumping into either. When I arrived back downstairs, Joe was already at the reception desk, checking out. His suit-carrier and case were parked beside him. I put my holdall on the floor besi
de them and he turned. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked. I nodded. There was no sign of any of the Luxotel people, except those who were currently in its employ at Birmingham Sud. No sign of Claude, no sign of Jean Paul. It was almost as if I had dreamt them all up.
‘So?’ I enquired testily, as I traversed the decidedly frosty air in his wake as we made our way out to the car park. ‘What happened, then? What did he say?’
Joe put our cases in the boot and clunked it shut. ‘Not a great deal,’ he answered flatly, walking round and getting into the car. ‘He was fairly mortified. He wanted to apologize to you, but I told him you were pretty upset and that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to approach you until you’d cooled down a bit. So he asked me,’ he went on, doing up his seat belt, ‘if I thought it would be a good idea if he sent you some flowers instead.’ He turned to look sharply at me. ‘I told him no. Obviously.’
I was reversing out of our parking space as he said this, so I could see that the small smile on his lips was not complemented by one in his eyes. I felt tired and depressed.
‘Yes, but what about you? I said. ‘What about your Luxotel contracts?’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about me,’ he said.
‘What do you mean “don’t worry about you”?’ I retorted. I swung the car out of the car-park. He was busy fiddling with his wretched gum. ‘Well?’
‘Like you said, it’s sorted. Jean Paul is sorry. I am sorry. No harm done. Case closed.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. Just like you said it would be.’
So my small-hours rant had worked, at least. Though it didn’t make any difference. He was still off with me, and looked like remaining so. In perpetuity, at the very least.
Because it was Friday, and there were engineers to be paid, we were on the road before ten. And by ten past his phone was ringing. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered it.
‘Oh, hi …’ he began, in a voice entirely dissimilar to the one he’d been using with me thus far this morning, ‘… In the car, driving back from Birmingham. Had a meeting up here yesterday, I know, I know. I just forgot. I’m sorry … Oh dear. I’m sorry. I had it in my diary for … I know. And I meant to call you yesterday morning, but what with one thing and another, and Iona being away, well, it just went right out of my head. Did it mess things up for you? … No, you know I don’t think any such thing. It’s just that sometimes … Well, I’m not sure. How about this evening instead? … ‘S OK. Let me know later, yes?’ And then he said, “Bye.’
Hmm, I thought darkly. Jeannine.
He switched off the phone and I glanced sideways at him. ‘Hmm,’ I said lightly. ‘Rhiannon?’
So much for my early-morning decisions, then. I was clearly unable to sustain a positive mindset for long. He shook his head and pushed the phone back into his pocket. The little tic was starting up in the corner of his jaw. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not Rhiannon. Someone else. I was supposed to be somewhere last night and I forgot to ring and cancel.’
Someone else indeed. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘So I’m in the dog-house, that’s all. No big deal.’
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t explain. We drove on for an hour with the radio on.
Just before we get into Cardiff, my own phone starts ringing. Joe, who borders on the phobic where in-car clutter is concerned, bends an arm round to fish my handbag from the floor in the back. By the time he has retrieved it, I have missed the call. ‘It’s Del,’ he informs me, reading the display. ‘You want me to call her back for you?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll wait till we get to the next tail-back. Sure it’s nothing that important. Expect she just wants to know how last night went.’
‘Hmm. You’ll have plenty to tell her, then,’ he observes, with some asperity. ‘You got a pencil in here?’ he asks, as he goes to put my phone back. ‘This wretched thing’s driving me mad.’
But even had I intended to regale Del with last night’s three-act drama (which I hadn’t - not all of it, at any rate), when I call her back during a go-slow at Newport, I am, it seems, unlikely to get a word out for some minutes.
‘Ah!’ she says. ‘Got you at last! Why haven’t you called? Did you not get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘The message I left on your mobile this morning. Didn’t want to ring too early in case you and Joe were - well, anyway,’ she giggles, ‘you can run all that by me later.’ Oh, yeah? What is it with her? I press the phone a little closer to my ear. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t calling about that,’ she goes on excitedly. ‘I was calling to say have you seen it?’ ‘Seen what?’
‘Seen you, you great noddle! You’re in the paper, my girl!’
Paper? What’s she on about now? ‘But I checked, Del,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not in the papers.’
‘Then, sweetie, you’re reading the wrong ones,’ she says.
23
As soon as I got back to the office I telephoned Del.
Clare, who had made short work of the payroll, was busy putting payslips into envelopes, and as there wasn’t any coffee made, I suggested I might slip down to get us all one, which gave me a chance to get the Pokémon cards I’d promised for Leo (and forgotten, which made me feel awful as well) and to pick up the dreaded paper.
And there I was, in glorious, wobbling, monochrome splendour. In a feature on one of the arts pages.
‘But The Times, Del! It’s completely mind-boggling!’
‘Believe it,’ said Del, who was stifling giggles. ‘It’s right there in black and white and various shades in between.’
‘I know!’ I said, the paper spread on the desk in front of me. ‘I’m looking at it right now!’
It was an article about the Nude. It was called ‘Naked Ambition’, and was discussing the depiction of flesh and its role as a cultural barometer throughout the last century. The sort of analysis that would inform my artistic studies. The sort of article I really should be reading. But don’t.
I scanned the page. My own modest breasts were in opulent company. There was one by someone called Schiele - all scarlet nipples and lipstick, and two big-bosomed women arranged on a couch. And a photo of something that looked like a sculpture and appeared to be a man having sex with a tree. And me. I started reading.
‘God, Del!’ I spluttered. ‘God, Del! Did you read this bit? This bit on the right?’
‘I haven’t got it in front of me. Which bit in particular?’
‘This bit! This! Listen. “Stefan Llewellyn’s breathtakingly intimate portrait eschews traditional physiological emphasis and instead makes its purpose to capture the essence of the erotically charged atmosphere that is inherent in the form. Cutting through the notion that fine art, first and foremost, serves a higher purpose than to sexually excite, it instead draws us straight into the mind of his subject.
‘ “For Llewellyn’s model asserts” - wait for it - “-a powerful sexuality.”’ Uuurgh! ‘“Reminiscent of Schiele’s models (Schiele was, of course, imprisoned briefly for ‘making immoral drawings’), Llewellyn’s subject is” get this! “an overtly sexual animal. A willing participant in the carnality of the creative process, her state of” and this God! “extreme sexual arousal is fundamental to the study, and contributes to the erotic charge the work undeniably possesses. Which begs the question—” Oh, God! Oh, Del! This is awful!’
She sniggered. ‘Yep. I did read it. And it seemed like quite a pertinent analysis to me.’
I slapped the pages back together in disgust. ‘God! We might just as well have hired the millennium stadium and sold tickets! But how on earth - why on earth? How did they get hold of this? I mean, the Exo do was only on Wednesday, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Well, I suppose they must have got it before then. Have you spoken to him yet, by the way?’
‘Who? Stefan?’
‘Yes. He rang here an hour or so back. I told him to try you at work this afternoon.’
Oh, he’s all
about now, isn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever been in such demand. He rings again, at the office, an hour or so later, but I’m with Joe, running through contract amendments, and Clare tells him I’ll have to call him back later on. And then again, when I’m home, but I’m busy with spellings, so I tell him I’ll call him once Leo’s in bed.
Stefan’s voice, always his primary organ of seduction, pours like warm toffee down the phone line to my ear. It is not impressed. I move the receiver away slightly.
‘I know,’ he drawls languidly. ‘It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?’
I’m not sure that ‘cool’ would be my interpretation. ‘No,’ I say acidly. ‘It’s not cool, Stefan. It’s very embarrassing. And how did it end up in there? I mean, I did half expect there to be something in the Echo - which would have been bad enough, quite frankly - but The Times? Were they there?’
‘No, they were down two weeks back,’ he says grandly. ‘Mand organized it. You know—’
‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘I course I know who Mand is!’
‘Well, I told you she had a friend at the BBC, right? Well, Saskia - that’s her name - her partner is a feature writer for them and, of course, there’s not much doing at this time of year, and as he was doing a piece on the Nude, he asked Saskia if she could suggest any up-and- coming contemporary artists he could feature and, of course, she’s got all my stuff.’
Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘Stuff?’
‘Mmm.’ I could hear him drawing on a cigarette. He exhaled audibly. Junkie. ‘And, of course, he loved Supine Five.’
Supine Five? Supine Five? This is my epitaph, is it? And who the hell were Supines One to Four? I wonder. And who has he lined up to be Supine Six? Cerys? One of next term’s new cohorts? Oh, I wish I’d taken a look at some of those canvases at Stefan’s. Perhaps, had I done so, I would have exercised a touch more caution before slinging my knickers to the four winds.
And he’s still droning on at me. ‘… and he was really keen to feature it, particularly once he knew it was going in Exo. They’re in talks now, as it happens. About rebadging their two existing centres and developing a new logo. You might just find yourself the new image of Exo, you know.’
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