Honest

by Ava Bloomfield

  ‘Wait,’ he says, giving me a sly wink. ‘I want to try out that Les Paul.’ It’s candy-red like Peter’s bottom lip. We rush to the sound box and he plays every song he knows, like a real pro, like Jimi, singing just for me, the tendon in his neck standing out.

  The shop attendant stares enviously from the counter, then looks away, shamed. He could never be like Peter.

  Peter puts down the guitar and takes me in his arms; his big, strong, 19-year-old’s arms. He’s grown stubble on his cheek and chin. He’s taller, heavier — a man. He kisses me, hard, the stubble prickling my skin. Then he fumbles around for the buttons on my blouse, and pops them open one by one.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say, pulling away from him. ‘We can’t!’

  ‘Of course we can,’ he says, smiling his big, glorious smile brighter than the lights in the store. ‘I’m a fucking rock star!’ he screams, howls, almost, while I laugh and laugh, and he pulls me on his lap and kisses me like a movie star, and—

  ‘Do you need to sit down?’ A voice cut through the dream and in an instant it was gone.

  I flinched, startled by the voice of the shop attendant. I opened my eyes and saw all the same stuff around me; the plush studio chairs, the long stools, the rows and rows of candy-coloured guitars, the rock stars on the wall. He was missing.

  Dread came over me. I remembered that Peter was just a boy, a dead boy, and I was a living-dead girl.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said, my voice hoarse. I had barely said a word to anybody all day, and the sensation felt strange.

  ‘If you’re feeling ill, I could get you some water.’ I looked at his hard blue eyes, his folded arms. What he was really saying was buy something or get out.

  ‘No, really,’ I said, smiling, laughing it off. ‘It’s just my boyfriend would love all of this stuff. He’s never seen this shop before.’

  ‘Really?’ said the store attendant.

  I nodded, eager, a smile spreading on my face. ‘He’s a musician. He’s just been offered a record deal.’

  The attendant cocked an eyebrow. He looked me up and down — just a flick of the eyelids, but it was enough— and he almost smiled. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding again, excitement returning to me now, my hair dripping water onto the floor. It wasn’t cheap laminate. It was hard, waxed wood. This was a decent shop, and I was the only customer.

  ‘What record label, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  I paused, stuck for words. I couldn’t name any. ‘It’s one of the major ones,’ I said. ‘Sorry, my memory’s terrible. I’ve always had such an awful memory.’

  His nostrils flared. He unfolded his arms and placed a hand on his hip. ‘Well if you’re not going to buy anything, we’re closing in half an hour.’ He went to move away, but I stopped him. I tapped his shoulder, making him wince.

  ‘Actually, I would like to buy something. Some things.’

  He smiled then, a true grin. Another dead boy’s image flashed up in my mind; David Pierce in my hallway, his cruel eyes staring into mine. An oozing pool of plastic obscured him, until the image in my mind was nothing but glistening black tar.

  I shuddered, and instead thought of all the money in my bank account. I smiled back. ‘Do you arrange deliveries? I’m looking to buy a lot of things for our apartment. Oh, and I’ll be needing that poster in the window, too.’

  It was one in the morning, and I was laying down on the purple shag pile rug I’d squeezed onto the bedroom floor of my pokey flat, breathing in the shop-fresh smells.

  This wasn’t a penthouse, but it didn’t matter; I’d always imagined Peter and I living in some squalid place before he got his big break; a place like this, above a shop down a trash-ridden service road. I could afford better in time, but right now I was enjoying the solitude; enjoying the dream of what could have been if Peter and I had run away together.

  On the walls, Jimi, Keith Richards and Slash looked down on me, all relics of Peter’s drowned dreams of stardom; no, not relics, gods.

  Downstairs, the record player boomed music through two large surround-sound speakers, loud enough to make the floor vibrate where I was lying.

  The records played to my living room filled with new chairs still in their plastic; a table scattered with Ray Bans and a studio recording system shunted up against the wall, beside a row of Fender Strats in Ash, Sonic Blue, Shell Pink, Foam Green and Olympic White.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the long, complicated guitar riffs that I had no desire to learn, while guitarists I hardly admired watched me from above. None of it was for me, none of it; it was all for him. This was Peter’s flat.

  I took a deep breath and pictured myself at the cottage, alone in my bed with the door firmly closed, just waiting for Peter to come to me. I thought of the cold, shivering feeling in my bones just before he entered; then the numb, alien motions of my body rising of its own accord, alive and fizzing, a vessel for him to manipulate.

  I willed it to happen again as I laid on the bright purple rug, surrounded by all the cool things I imagined a sixteen year old musician would love to have. Outside, an ambulance screamed by and a sudden gust of wind knocked dust and debris against my window pane. Nothing stirred inside me; nothing at all. Despite all my efforts, he still wasn’t coming. I was still alone.

  I got up and paced the room, balling my fists, before shrieking loud enough to breach the volume of the record playing below. Storming from the room, I took the stairs two at a time and hurried to the living room, where I pulled the record player’s plug from the wall. The silence frightened me. I stood alone, surrounded by the gifts and possessions of the boy who never grew up; the forever-adolescent love of my life.

  A pipe groaned in the kitchen; the kitchen I hadn’t really used. On its greasy lino floor were boxes piled high; more speakers and guitar stands and figurines of rock stars I didn’t even know the names of. I hugged my wasted frame and was suddenly very afraid of the silence, afraid of being alone with all this...stuff. If Peter wasn’t with me, and he wasn’t here, then where was he?

  Where did ghosts go?

  I grabbed my coat and took the tube into central London, where the streets were still bustling with people on nights out; groups of flabby divorcees and bleach-blondes on hen nights; drunken lads and football louts and every kind of going-out group of people you could think of.

  Between them meandered all the fillers; the people like me who just wanted to be out, to be free; to find a place to go. At least, I liked to think so. I passed them all and their faces told me nothing.

  Nobody knew me, and there was nobody I knew. I had been released into the world to find my way alone, and this was my way of doing it— me against the world, or something.

  I’d read in my magazines many times that love could be just around the corner. I’d read that 42% of individuals aged between18-25 went out on the weekends, and found their partners in a night club.

  One caught my eye. A place called Eight near the corner of Shaftsbury Avenue, where people were huddled outside in their ripped jeans and fishnets, either smoking, or throwing up, or spilling their beer. What intrigued me the most was the great chalk board outside, glistening wetly from a light shower of rain earlier on. It said “Live music tonight!”

  Inside, I didn’t bother ordering a drink; I wouldn’t know how to. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was carrying any change. In an angry kind of daze I searched the crowds, squeezing between bodies and becoming mesmerised by the dim lights.

  Part of me knew what I was looking for; another part was lost, probably still wandering around the cliffs in Mevagissey, searching for him.

  There was a stage where another band was preparing to play, though the audience were too drunk to give them a proper welcome. Most of them looked to be in their thirties, though their clothes — American baseball caps, Converse sneakers and low-slung jeans— were all that of a teenager. I liked that.

  The air was thick with the smells of spilled beer and too much d
eodorant, but I held my breath and braved it. I scanned the crowds, searching the faces, looking and looking.

  I took a place by one of the loud speakers and didn’t even flinch when the music began; I was numb, drunk on determination. I watched for the next hour, my knee throbbing, and waited for someone’s face to jump out at me.

  Then, my heart stopping, I found who I was looking for.

  There was a man sitting at a table at the far end of the room, where the crowd thinned out to just a few onlookers sipping their drinks while the others went nuts at the front. He was with a couple of others, seated around a small table sharing a pitcher of beer. I paid no mind to them.

  I waited half hour or so for them to leave and go to the gents. When they did, I made my move.

  I wiped my sweating forehead on my jacket and watched as his smooth mouth pinched the rim of his beer glass, his eyes flicking up at me, wary. Something about him told me this was fate; something told me this man needed me.

  He was tall, with long muscular arms in a striped vest and a pair of baggy jeans. His skin was a creamy brown, his eyes an eerie, glistening green. He had a short crop of afro hair, and a battered leather jacket was hung over the back of his chair. My quick eyes took in the tell-tale signs; dirty fingernails, unwashed jeans, tattered shoes. My heart thumped.

  I took a seat next to him and came in close enough to whisper. ‘Do you need somewhere to stay?’ I asked, sniffing. I caught a whiff of the sweat on his skin; salty and warm.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he said. His accent was typically east-end, and by his tone of voice I could already tell he was desperate. It was an instinct.

  There was an incline at the end of his sentence; bold, territorial, yes; but not without intrigue. This guy was perhaps couch hopping with friends — maybe bed-hopping— but he was homeless. I made it my crusade, there and then, to bring this man home with me — and keep him.

  I thought of all the flirty conversations I’d imagined in my head after reading all the agony aunt sections in my magazines. I put on my best smile. Something changed in his glittering green eyes; was it fear?

  67% of men we asked said they like a dominant woman.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ I said. ‘I was just looking at you and—and—’

  ‘And what?’ he said, swallowing another mouthful of beer. His top lip was glistening, and I could see a hint of stubble.

  Bravely, I reached out and put my hand on his knee. ‘It’s just I was hoping you would come back with me tonight.’ I smiled again, widely. A friendly smile.

  He left my hand on his knee, cool and sweating. He put down his glass, considering. ‘You’re not some whacko?’ he put a hand across his mouth and sniggered. On his wrist was a twisted leather bracelet. ‘Stupid question.’

  ‘I’ve got a flat. I’ve got money. You could stay.’

  His smile dropped. He looked around the room, then clasped his hands together under his chin in thought. ‘Just for one night?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Or...Or however long you need.’

  ‘I’ve had offers like this before,’ he said.

  My heart thumped so hard I thought I’d burst. ‘Whatever you want, you can have it. Just please come back with me tonight.’ I felt tears prickling my eyes.

  ‘Give me one good reason other than money,’ he said.

  I gripped his knee tighter, panicking. He pushed my hand off. ‘Come on,’ he urged.

  I could tell he thought he was calling the shots, but men liked that too. They liked to think they were in control, when really I —the woman— was doing the controlling. I’d read somewhere that all men were babies, just looking to suckle the next teat.

  ‘A hot shower, and some new clothes, and...do you like music? Do you like records or play guitar?’

  Please, please say you do, Peter.

  ‘I play a little bit. So one night, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, secretly hoping for longer. Of course he’ll want to stay, I told myself. Of course he will.

  He nodded his head slowly, looking around the bar again. He leaned in closer and said, in a low voice, ‘How much?’

  ‘Money? Uh...Oh, I don’t know, how much do you want?’ I reached out for his hand, but he snatched it away.

  ‘How much are you offering? Come on, hurry up.’

  ‘A thousand,’ I blurted out. His eyes bulged — he wasn’t expecting that much. He quickly recovered and did his slow, thoughtful nod again.

  ‘In cash?’

  I nodded eagerly. I put my hand on his knee and this time, he didn’t flinch away. ‘Of course. Can we go now?’

  He looked me over, paying particular attention to my eyes, just as I did to his. ‘Where do you people come from?’

  I shrugged, smiling ear to ear. I didn’t understand the question, but I didn’t need to. I had him.

  He rolled his eyes and swallowed the last dregs of bear. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. Just don’t be too crazy, all right?’

  We left together, and I felt like a queen. Every face we passed looked in awe of the man on my arm and I, looking up at him, knew I could keep him for my very own.

  Magazines couldn’t teach you that.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In the bedroom, I stuffed the five hundred pounds I had in cash down the front of his jeans. ‘The rest,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you tomorrow.’

  He looked around the room, confused, his eyes narrowing. I could see his hand shaking. ‘Where did you get all this stuff? Rob a fucking bank, or what?’

  I was relieved he hadn’t heard of me. That made everything easier. ‘Don’t worry about where it came from.’

  He shook his head and, muttering to himself, took the money from his front and counted. Then he stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You’re fucking weird. I don’t know about this. It’s just sex, right?’

  No, Peter, this is love. Love, love, love.

  I smiled up at him, admiring his lean physique and strong arms. He made no effort to join me on the bed; just stood there, nervous, unsure. He was just a baby, I reminded myself; a beautiful baby. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Stephen,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘I’m Ellen. Just one thing, if you don’t mind, before we...you know.’ I giggled. I shrugged off my coat and dumped it on the floor, before plucking the Ray Bans from my head and dumping them there too. He watched them fall with a clatter, his face becoming more confused.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  I moistened my lip and looked up at him from beneath my eyelashes. ‘I want to call you Peter. Is that OK?’

  ‘For a thousand quid you want to fuck and call me Peter?’ He started laughing, covering his mouth again and closing his eyes. ‘Whatever,’ he said eventually. ‘This is the weirdest fucking night of my life.’

  While he slept, my head in the nook of his shoulder, I thought about stuffing a pillow over his face.

  In the morning, he would collect the rest of his payment and leave; abandoning me forever. And besides, he wasn’t even the real thing; not nearly. He was half has handsome and twice as old, and he was alive, for Christ’s sake. It just wasn’t fair.

  I grabbed my pillow with one hand, slowly eased myself up, and held it up above his face. His breaths came soft and slow, his naked torso rising and falling. Every fibre of my being urged me to do it; make him mine completely, surrendered, dead.

  I gripped the pillow with both hands and hovered, fighting against myself. ‘You deserve this,’ I whispered, my arms shaking.

  I remained that way for a few minutes, battling with myself. No shivering came, no numbness, no signs at all; Peter made no intervention. I was alone, cold.

  I threw the pillow across the room, hitting the poster of Slash. I slipped back into the bed sheets and watched him sleep, while my hand softly stroked his cheek. For the rest of the night he was still living, at least, and all mine.

  Peter said nothing when he woke and saw me there, still watching, my
eyes red and sleepless. He made his way from the room, naked, and sought out the bathroom. I heard the pipes surge and the shower start up.

  Sighing, I pulled on my clothes and left a note telling him I was going to the bank for the rest of his money, and that he was to make himself comfortable.

  On the way, as the cold wind whipped my face, I dreamed up all the ways I could convince him to stay or, if that wouldn’t work, to make him stay.

  I meant that in the nicest possible way, of course; I wasn’t a bitch. It’s just that people had a way of complicating things, when it was easier to just comply; take the easy way out and give in. We needed each other, after all; he needed a home, and I needed someone.

  And I was not going to be left alone.

  The bank was a couple of miles walk away, but I was grateful for the exercise. Being wheelchair-bound for so long had made it difficult for me to keep my weight in check, but now, I had no excuse. Even my sore knee, which swelled from time to time, was no excuse for not losing more weight. All women could do with losing more weight.

  I went inside to the counter and drew out £1500, which made the cashier cock an eyebrow. She was a woman of about thirty with bad roots and a pencil skirt; no threat. I smiled and said, ‘My boyfriend has expensive taste.’ Then I left, stuffing the envelope into the inside pocket of my coat.

  I felt almost drunk as I made the walk back to my flat. Drunk, or out of this world, or something; the way it felt when I’d woken up in hospital after the fire. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, though my feet just kept moving on.

  Several times, whilst stooping to stroke a dog or glance in a shop window, I remembered there was a strange man in my flat. Something about that made a warmth rise inside me, like the feeling of coming home.

  There was a large red car parked by a garage on the service road as I approached my flat, the daylight glinting off its roof. Its boot was wide open, like a large yawning mouth. As I passed by, I noticed something familiar on the back seat. Lots of familiar things.