by Louise Kean
She looks up, and a smiles breaks across her face like a warm wave.
‘Hi! How are you?’ she asks, her eyes wide. She reaches out a hand to touch my arm but stops herself.
‘I’m good, I’m well, how are you?’
‘I’m good. Really good. I mean, I’m bored, of course,’ she gestures at the books on the table, ‘but I’m so glad you came in. Can I tell you something stupid? I’ve been waiting for you for days!’ She rolls her eyes dramatically and laughs.
‘Really?’ I ask, taken aback.
She points at her cheeks.
‘I don’t know what I am supposed to be looking at,’ I say, confused.
‘My blusher!’ she says triumphantly.
‘Right?’ I am confused.
‘I, like, completely copied you. I know that makes me, like, a complete rip-off, of you, but I just thought it looked so nice, and then I saw it in Vogue as well, and I thought I should, like, try it, but I wanted you to see it. So …’
‘So?’ I say.
‘So what do you think?’
‘Of your blusher?’ I ask.
‘Yeah! Does it look all right?’
‘I think …’ She looks like a Russian doll. I lean forwards and rest my thumbs underneath her cheekbones. ‘I think you need to blend it a little more,’ I say, and smudge it in. Her cheeks feel plump under my thumbs like stress balls that bounce back into place as soon as you’ve squeezed them.
She stares at me, her pupils dilating. I don’t know what I am doing. ‘Do you think you could, like, show me? Properly?’
‘What, how to blend blusher? I suppose, I don’t see why not.’ I hold her gaze for as long as I can before looking away.
‘How about tonight?’ She claps her hands and squeals like a child.
‘Oh no, I can’t tonight, I have plans.’
‘How about Saturday?’ she suggests, without a breath, without a doubt or an insecurity.
‘Okay, I could do Saturday.’
‘Great! Fab! I know this great bar, it’s all dark and mysterious and you can smoke one of those hubble bubble pipes. It’ll be, like, a complete laugh. What do you think?’
‘Okay, it sounds like fun. Shall I meet you here?’
‘Yeah, I’m working till eight on Saturday – boring! – so if you want to swing by here, we could get a cab. It’s near Marble Arch.’
‘Okay. I’ll bring some samples.’
‘Great, why not?’ she says, and smiles a huge smile again. I smile back as honestly as I can.
‘Well, I’ll see you then, then. My name is Scarlet, by the way. Oh, can I pay you for this?’ I offer her the Steinbeck.
When she takes it from me she touches my hand. ‘Don’t be rubbish, Scarlet, I’ll get it for you, I get a staff discount. It’ll cost me, like, two pounds or something. I’ll give it to you on Saturday, then you can’t stand me up!’
‘That’s sweet of you, thanks.’ Her enthusiasm is unnerving.
‘It’s like, no problem. I never use my discount anyway, unless it’s, like, Christmas or whatever. And then everybody complains, “Not books again, Isabella!” Like it’s the only thing I ever buy them! The thing is, it kind of is the only thing I ever buy them!’ She laughs at herself.
‘Okay, well, I’ll see you on Saturday then, but I have to go now,’ I say.
‘Great, see you then, Scarlet.’ She smiles, and I walk away before I can change my mind.
Helen and I are eating dinner at Café Em on Frith Street. Two men sitting on the table next to us keep looking over and smiling. They look Greek. They aren’t talking to each other, just scanning the room for women. Helen is less tired today. Her brown hair is clean and pulled over one shoulder. She looks like a grown-up with her glasses and her dark matt lipstick, and her suit.
As soon as I sat down I wanted to tell her about Isabella, ask her what the hell I was doing, but I didn’t, I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll say.
Helen takes a mouthful of red pepper and rice and a swig of red wine, gulps, and carries on talking.
‘So, I saw this couple on the tube on the way up here, and they were wearing matching clothes. I swear, Scarlet, they were completely matching. Jeans the exact same colour, jumpers exactly the same! With this weird teardrop in the middle, and a puddle at the bottom. They were seriously ugly. The jumpers I mean. And even the same kind of trainers, white, plain lace-ups. And I had to ask them – are you married? And they loved it. The woman laughed and the man said, “Yes. This is our fifteenth year!” So I said, “Do you always dress the same?” and I think they could tell that I thought it was a bit weird. But they didn’t seem to care, and he said, “We’ve done it every day since the day we married. It’s us, it’s our team colours. It’s us against everything.” Then I had to get off at Leicester Square. But Scar, even their smiles matched! After fifteen years!’
Helen shakes her head and her smile fades to sadness. She takes another gulp of wine.
‘That’s so funny,’ I say. ‘On the tube this morning I was sitting next to this girl; she looked like us, I mean, our age and stuff, but I looked down and she was reading the Bible, Hel! And my immediate reaction was to switch seats! That’s how freaky I find reading the Bible in public. That is weird. I would have found it far more acceptable if she was reading, say, porn, or a pamphlet on how to spot a terrorist bomber, or anything. But the Bible made me want to switch seats. And I just thought “Freak!” That’s nice, isn’t it, I’m a nice person.’ I take a mouthful of falafel.
Helen starts to laugh, but it fades quickly. ‘He says I’ve ruined him,’ she whispers.
‘Who?’
‘Jamie. He says he loves me and I was just mucking about and now I’ve ruined him and he’ll do it to somebody else and then they’ll hurt like I should. And the whole time he’s wearing those awful bandages around his wrists, and wincing. Christ, Scarlet, let’s not talk about whether we are nice or not …’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘they are some mighty big words for a seventeen-year-old. You’ve ruined him?’ I ask, pretending to look impressed.
‘He reads,’ Helen says darkly.
‘Yes, Harry Potter,’ I reply.
‘Not just that, Scarlet, other stuff as well. He reads poetry. He keeps quoting it at me.’ She grimaces.
‘Any Byron?’ I ask.
‘Christ, Scarlet, I don’t know! I don’t know anything about poetry. But he keeps coming out with it!’
‘That’s unlucky. What are the chances of that?’
‘I know. He’s the only seventeen-year-old in the country who has heard of Yeats.’
‘Christ!’ I say, mortified. ‘Which one was he again?’
‘I don’t know, but he keeps quoting some poem called “When You Are Old”’ she says, ‘“But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you” – he says it over and over. It freaks me out if I’m honest, Scar.’
‘But what does it mean?’ I ask.
She shrugs and we take a mouthful of wine, and gesture to the waiter for another bottle, as the Greeks try to catch our attention and we ignore them.
‘But it explains the gesture, Hel. He’s romanticised you and him. He thinks he’s a poet. You can’t feel guilty about that.’
‘Yes I can, I absolutely can! We weren’t equal, Scarlet. It’s not like if you meet somebody our age, and you do whatever you do – at least you know that you’ve both been around the block, and you just know what’s going on. We know that. But Jamie didn’t. He thought I, you know …’ She pauses, and takes a breath. ‘He thought that I loved him.’
I push my plate away. I’ve lost my appetite.
‘Maybe you do love him, Hel, a little bit. Love isn’t such a crazy concept. Maybe you just think that you shouldn’t because he’s young enough to be your son.’ I smile at her.
‘Thanks,’ she says, and laughs.
‘It’s my pleasure. But maybe you do, a bit?’ I persist.
‘Maybe I do.’ Helen nods her head.
One of the Greeks says
, ‘Excuse me’ and we both say ‘No’ at the same time. The Greeks say something rude and turn away to find new girls to harass.
‘But what of Steven? And Nikki with an “i”?’ I ask.
‘Turns out she’s not pregnant after all, and what a surprise,’ Helen says, pushing her plate away as well.
‘Is he coming back?’
‘He might be …’ Helen looks like I’ve just discovered her guilty secret.
‘Will you take him, Hel?’ I ask, reaching for the dessert menu.
‘I’m not sure … I feel like I shouldn’t … but I feel like I might … Will you hate me, Scarlet, if I do?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You should do whatever you want to do. The only thing that worries me is, do you love him, Hel? Is it large and dramatic love?’
Helen laughs. ‘Scarlet, that’s not for me, that’s for you.’
I grab her hand across the table, and she looks alarmed. ‘No, no! Hel, it should be for everybody!’
‘Not everybody can stand the pace and the drama, Scarlet. And the tears, and the rows, and all of it. I think I’d just like an easy life.’ She pats my hand simply.
‘God, do you want Ben? He wants one of those too.’ I sit back in my chair and study the desserts rather than think about it.
‘You haven’t failed, you know, Scarlet, it’s nobody’s fault.’
‘Ice cream and coffee,’ I say to the waiter, smiling and passing him the menu, before throwing my napkin down on the table in exasperation. ‘But I love him, Hel. And he doesn’t love me. What do you do about that?’
‘Do you love him, though, Scarlet? Is it urgent and dramatic and passionate?’
‘You know, I think it is. I didn’t think it would be, but I think it is. Except now I just feel so rejected, all the time, that it’s hard to be anything but bitter.’
‘But are you sure there isn’t just a bit of you hell-bent on hearing him say it? And once he does say it, once he says, “I love you, Scarlet”, you’ll leave instead? Are you sure it’s not just you that is urgent and passionate and the other one, so it just feels like you feel that way about him?’
‘It doesn’t matter because he’ll never say it, not now. Our window has passed. And the problem is I can’t stop myself asking the same question over and over in my mind: Why doesn’t he love me? What have I done that is so wrong that he doesn’t love me? Is it that I squeeze a spot sometimes? Or that I like to talk dirty sometimes, dirtier than him? Or is it that I need too much attention, or I’m too demanding? Or is it that I spend too much money? I just don’t know! Or because I’ve put on weight, because, you know, I’ve put on a stone, Hel …’
‘Stop that!’ Helen says, appalled.
‘But Hel, it’s true. Does he think I’m greedy? I don’t know what it is and it’s driving me crazy! But I also know that I don’t just get on with the business of loving him and maybe that’s what love should be like. I should just keep loving him in spite of his feelings for me. And, you know, Ben is Ben. He doesn’t do feelings, or emotions, or honesty really.’
‘Love him anyway? You sound like one of those women who write to death-row inmates and then marry them in jail. And as for Ben not feeling or emoting or being honest, well – that’s a life sentence, Scarlet. Even Steven can tell me that he loves me.’
‘And probably Nikki with an “i” as well,’ I chip in, and then regret it.
‘Maybe,’ Helen agrees, nodding honestly, ‘but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. And at least he’s got the guts to say it.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘So what you have to ask yourself is, are you ready for prison, Scarlet, and a lifetime of Ben? You didn’t do anything wrong, you know … you’re not guilty.’
‘Oh Helen.’ I take a mouthful of ice cream and shudder, and wait for it to slip its way down my throat. ‘I did, though, didn’t I? I took him.’ I take another mouthful of ice cream and shiver again.
‘No you didn’t!’ Helen says sternly, and puts down her spoon for effect. ‘No you didn’t! He makes you feel like that and I hate it! He left. He’s the one who should feel guilty, not you!’
‘Oh Helen, it’s not just him, it’s me as well. I do it to myself.’ My ice cream is all gone, and I reach across to grab a spoonful of Helen’s, and she pushes it towards me.
‘Well it’s not true, whoever is thinking it. He’s a grown-up, and he left. That’s that. And it was three years ago! Jesus, these things happen, you weren’t the first person to have an affair and you won’t be the last! For Christ’s sake, my husband is shagging somebody else, and even I know it’s got nothing to do with her, really. If we were happy, it wouldn’t have happened!’
‘We’re going to the zoo,’ I say, and I have to put my glass down on the table quickly as my hands start to shake again.
‘Good place. Like in that song. “Tell Me on a Sunday”.’
‘I might not do it, Hel,’ I say, flooded with an absolute sadness that I have never felt before.
‘You might not. You might not. You might, though,’ she nods her head.
‘I don’t want to be on my own, Helen. I like being in a relationship. I like the closeness. I like having somebody care where I am if I don’t come home.’
‘But you won’t be on your own, Scarlet, not for long. Go and find somebody a little more “you”.’
‘But …’
‘But what?’
‘But what if I’m not pretty enough any more? To get somebody else?’ I feel guilty and stupid just saying it, but I really feel it.
‘You’re just using that as an excuse,’ she says evenly, pouring out the last of our wine.
‘Am I? There are a lot of younger, prettier girls out there now, believe me, I’ve seen them, Helen! And blokes don’t want the thirtysomethings who want babies. They just want fun and no responsibilities and to not have anybody hoist any decisions on them and …’
‘Okay, Scarlet, you’ve been reading the wrong magazines. If you think your face is all you have then you deserve what you get.’
‘Oh don’t be naïve, Helen, we’re talking about men! I’m not the prettiest girl around any more!’
‘Well, you know what, some of us weren’t the prettiest girl around to start with and we still did all right!’ She is angry with me. ‘Don’t you be naïve, Scar. Love isn’t pretty. If there’s anything I know, it’s that.’
Standing outside the restaurant on Frith Street, Helen hails a black cab.
‘Are you going home?’ she asks.
I stare down towards Old Compton Street, and think about heading to Gerry’s.
‘Can I come and stay at yours, Hel? I can’t face him tonight,’ I ask instead.
‘Of course,’ she replies, and we travel home in silence. Helen gives me a hug around Vauxhall.
Friday. I call Ben at 9.52 a.m. as I walk back along Ealing Broadway to the flat.
‘It’s me,’ I say. I don’t know why I always say that, I assume he has my number in his phone by now.
‘Hi,’ he replies.
‘I didn’t come home, I thought you might be worried …’
‘Right.’
‘But obviously not.’
I hear him sigh at the other end of the line. ‘Jesus, Scarlet, will you give me a chance? I was going to call you later.’
‘Later? What, like, lunchtime later? Or next-week later? I could have been dead in a gutter for twelve hours “later”.’
‘You never give me a chance, Scarlet.’
‘I give you every reasonable chance, Ben, unless you are clinically slow. It’s like the time the bombs went off on the tube, do you remember that, Ben? And I had to phone you to tell you I was okay about three hours later. There were no missed calls on my phone. You were just watching the whole thing on a hundred TVs at work, it’s not like you missed it. At least have the guts to admit you just don’t fucking care, Ben!’
He sighs again.
I hang up the phone.
My head is foggy fro
m last night’s red wine.
I walk down and along Aldwych today, from Holborn Station. I think I have wandered into the middle of a fireworks display. Cabs streak past and beep their horns and suits laugh at each other loudly and my ears are ringing with the shriek of rockets falling around my head, but nothing seems to explode. I’m just nervous and poised and waiting for the big bang.
A plane passes above our heads, low and heavy and loud in the sky, and I look up. It’s a two-man plane, and I am surprised because I didn’t think that they were allowed over central London, because of bombs and terrorists and things. I’ve never seen one this close before.
It has a banner blazing behind it. ‘Look Up’, it says.
Every time that my phone buzzes in my pocket I pray that it’s Ben, but I also pray that it isn’t. He could make it better, if he wanted to, but he doesn’t seem to have it in him. He’s no grand-gesture kind of guy, and it’s getting to that stage. Soon, ‘I’m sorry, Scarlet, I love you’ won’t even be enough. I’m already too damaged for that. No, it won’t be enough. When was the first time that you glimpsed the edge of the world, and thought that you might fall off?
I think I hear kids in a playground somewhere, in central London, at the back of Covent Garden, and I stop and stand still and listen. I can definitely hear a playground and children screaming and running. I can hear laughter, and even though I know that they are learning to be awful to each other, there is still joy. I hear the delight and the squabbles and the cheers and the arguments, skipping ropes cutting through the air, and hopscotch on concrete, and footballs being booted carelessly from one end of the court to the other. Even though I know that some of them will learn to hate each other this morning, it is still wonderful. They don’t hate each other yet.
I wander up a Majestic aisle and hear somebody say, ‘I’ve got to stay slightly drunk to bear the pain.’ I assume it must be Dolly in a rare moment of candour, but looking up I see it is Audrey Winston, Dolly’s understudy and also the actress playing ‘the Witch of Capri’, or something like that – Tristan told me, but I’ve forgotten already.
‘Again, but with a laugh, Audrey, please. You need to make light of it more. It’s not riddled with meaning, she’s removing the meaning. Again, please, love.’