In the car, some weeks later, he was in a T-shirt and jeans, unshaven, and looked younger, gave her a friendly greeting as he stowed away her rucksack in the boot. On being introduced, his doctoral student gave a peremptory grunt – she was an irritant, it was clear – and ostentatiously resumed the interrupted conversation, a discussion of his thesis, as she slid into the back seat. As they left the city, the student droned on, and Rita reached into her bag for her music player, her fingers brushing against the box of chocolates. The gift now appeared overly formal.
‘So I’m saying that a Marxist reading reveals more of the reasons . . .’
‘But you’ll need to show that you’ve explored more than one angle . . .’
‘Which is what I’ve done in chapter three . . .’
‘Not nearly as rigorously as I think you need to . . .’
They carried on, and she stared out of the window. They were on the motorway, green around them. When she next tuned in, they were talking about music. He caught her eye in the rear-view mirror.
‘Have you seen them, Rita?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Have you seen them live?’
She shook her head, embarrassed that she had not followed the conversation, worried he had expected that of her.
They made their first stop late morning, and as they queued up at a café, he said to her, ‘Do you want to swap, sit up front for the next leg?’
She shook her head, ‘No, I’m fine in the back, thanks.’ He didn’t press her, but smiled, then on reaching the counter waved her purse away and paid for her snack. When they returned to the car, she found she would again escape being called on for conversation: the other student slipped out a folder holding recordings of the demos of his band, which he played one after the other, pointing out in each the bass line he had contributed.
They stopped again at another services an hour from London, where they parted company with his student; for the rest of the journey, it would just be the two of them. After using the washroom, she found him outside, leaning against the wall, smoking. On seeing her, he waved the cigarette.
‘Just the one. I’m supposed to have given up,’ he said. He offered her the pack. ‘Do you?’
She shook her head.
‘Of course you don’t. Being a dancer and all . . .’
He crossed one leg over the other, shook his head.
‘I’m still not over how good you are . . .’
‘I’m not that good . . .’
‘You convinced me.’
She could have let it lie there, but she pushed herself.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘you don’t have a good eye.’
He gave her a sideways glance, let his eyes run up and down her.
‘I’ll have you know,’ and he blew out some smoke, ‘that I have a very good eye indeed.’
He had accepted her offer. It was flirtatious, a compliment – she was sure of it. Her heart thudded against her chest. Then he turned slightly and made a gesture towards his car.
‘I’m sorry it’s not been much fun for you,’ he said.
‘I’ve not minded.’
‘I could see.’ He looked amused, as if he knew that she had been relieved by her relegation to the back seat, safe from any onus to make conversation.
She made a decision and presented the box of chocolates.
‘These are for you. To thank you for the lift.’
‘Well, that’s sweet of you.’ He straightened up and took the box from her. ‘You really didn’t have to.’
‘Thanks for asking me along.’
‘It’s not a chore in any way. I wouldn’t have offered . . .’ spreading out his palms. ‘Actually, I was looking forward to getting to know you a bit more.’ He smiled, took another drag at his cigarette.
‘I find you intriguing,’ he said. ‘You’re so quiet, but you have these depths to you as well. And then,’ he continued with an exaggerated flourish, ‘and then when I saw how you dance . . .’
He was grinning, to temper his words, and she blushed. Yet it was what she had wanted: for him to see her, take note of her in a different light, not awkward as she always was around him.
He tucked the box under his arm. ‘We’ll open these in the car if you like.’
‘No, keep them. They’re for you.’ She hesitated. ‘And your wife.’
Now he blew some more smoke out, silently regarded her, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if acknowledging her parry. As she felt the colour rise again in her cheeks, wondering if she had gone too far, he reached forward around the back of her neck. She felt his fingers curl around her ponytail, and then he swished it gently into her face, as if it were the most natural thing to do: a gentle reprimand. Before she could react, he continued as if nothing had happened: ‘As a mark of appreciation on my side,’ he said, ‘I’ll let you choose the music we listen to for the rest of the drive.’
They walked back to the car. As he stamped out his cigarette, she searched the radio stations, unsure what her selection would reveal about herself. They pulled out of the services and continued on their way. He did not seem to want to talk, but hummed along to most of the tunes under his breath, never once denigrating her choice, tapping at the steering wheel. She found herself glancing at his hands: long fingers like a pianist, neatly cut nails.
They arrived at a large Victorian house in Clapham, and as he parked the car on the street in front he asked, ‘Why don’t you come in for a bit? Have a cup of coffee before you get on the bus?’
He was reaching across her, scrabbling around in the glove compartment to produce a large set of keys. When she had murmured her thanks, he continued, ‘But once I get out of the car I’m on holiday. Don’t think of me as a lecturer, all right? Just as Ben. Can you do that?’
She tried to smile. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Good.’ He smiled at her, and for a moment she thought he was reaching for her ponytail again, but he only reached behind to grab his bag from the back seat.
‘Watch the step,’ he muttered, the keys for the house between his teeth. He opened the door, stood aside for her to enter.
It was a wide spacious hallway, and she stepped onto the beautiful black and white tiles: a pattern that would stay with her and return to her, often, as if imprinted on her memory, a visual aide-memoire. There was a dark mahogany hall table holding a collection of photographs in thick heavy frames and on which he threw the car keys. ‘Hang on.’ He took her rucksack off her shoulder. ‘I’ll put this here.’ He closed the door, led her down the hall and then down a short set of stairs to the kitchen. There were gleaming surfaces, large windows and a lingering smell of grilled fish. He produced a French press which he held out.
‘Coffee? Or would you rather tea?’
‘Coffee, please.’
There was a small washroom opposite, with shells in a glass jar balanced on the sink; the walls held framed photographs of a beach, a cliff. The mirror reflected her face, looking young and unformed. She quickly pulled her hair down from its band and brushed it, arranged it into a half-up, half-down style, tugged at her hoodie, touched some balm to her lips. He was arranging some cups on a tray when she re-entered the kitchen. His eyes briefly surveyed her hair, but he said nothing.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said.
‘It is, isn’t it.’
He motioned to her to follow him, and they climbed back up the stairs. The living room was a large area of wooden floors and leather sofas, rugs, two fireplaces. There were tall, wide windows, with ivory-coloured shutters, through which she could see a sloping lawn, a summer house at the end. Sunlight was streaming in, even though it had started drizzling outside. He laid the tray down on a side table and handed her a cup. She remained on her feet, taking in the room. There was one wall covered in African masks, another holding a large stretched canvas. There was a long, tall bookcase covering one wall, holding novels and large hardback collections of artists’ prints.
It was a room that if she had drawn a
house she wanted to live in would have fulfilled every aspect. So this was how he had grown up. He had made it sound like they might have had an upbringing in common, but she realised this was far from the truth. She stood for a few minutes looking at the titles on the bookshelves, absorbing the atmosphere, and when she turned she saw that he was watching her.
He came and stood beside her.
‘These books,’ she gestured to one shelf.
‘My father’s. Did I tell you he’s a writer?’
He reached forward and slid one out.
‘His most well known. He wrote it just before I left.’
‘Before you left?’
He nodded. ‘My parents were separated for many years. My dad stayed on in Harare while I came here with my mother. He only came to London ten years later.’
He opened the book – the spine had broken and some pages had been dislodged – then handed it to her. There was a cover featuring a dark hill of some kind, a streak of yellow, then the author’s name: John Martin. She opened the book and glanced at the words inside.
‘What’s it about?’
She could feel her tongue relaxing, as if the drink he had handed her was laced with whisky. The warmth of the room, the pleasure of standing among beautiful, interesting objects, was working like a drug, as if this were not a living room but another universe, one in which she was a different person. He shifted onto his other foot.
‘What’s it about? Well, you have to read it and see. It’s based on his childhood, growing up in Africa.’
She turned it over and looked at the blurb: Surrounded by the open spaces of the Eastern Highlands of Rhodesia, a young white boy questions his parents’ ownership of a farm . . .
‘I’ll try and find you a better copy. I’m sure we’ll have more.’
He let his fingers run along the shelves as he reached higher, his T-shirt riding up so that she saw a flash of stomach, a line of hair snaking down from his navel.
She averted her eyes and turned away, walked over to the painting on the opposite wall. There were five women bathing in the river, one baring her breast. A child was tied around her waist with a cloth, his fingers reaching for a nipple. The expressions of the women were haughty, and one woman, pausing as she was slipping off the cloth covering her upper body, looked directly at the viewer as if challenging this intrusion.
‘Here you are.’
He came up beside her and held out a slim novel. ‘Take it with you.’
‘Will your parents mind?’
‘They’re away at the moment, but I’ll tell them when they get back. They won’t mind.’
‘I love the painting,’ she said.
‘It’s my brother’s. One of his earliest actually,’ he said. ‘He’s an artist.’
They stood side by side, looking at it.
‘It’s very good,’ she ventured.
‘It is,’ he said, but did not continue.
‘And is that you and your brother?’ There was a photo on the mantelpiece above the fire: two boys, teenagers, with tousled dark hair, in a field of some kind.
He nodded. ‘That was just before he went to art school.’
There was, next to that photo, another, which she did not mention: a wedding day. A slim, elegant blonde in a fetching cream-coloured dress; beside her, a tall, dark-haired, handsome groom. She blinked and turned away.
‘And your father,’ she asked. ‘Does he still write?’
He nodded. ‘He’s working on something now. Not sure if it’s a book or something else.’
She turned back to the painting. There was something hypnotic about the naked breast, the woman’s beautiful face with its disdainful stare, the tones of her skin, the light reflecting in the river, more figures revealing themselves layer by layer. She was aware that he remained close, leaning against the wall, and when she glanced at him she realised what was making her heart beat faster: he was looking at her as if she were one of those women in the river.
‘Come and sit.’ He gestured to the sofa.
But she remained on her feet, placed her cup on a glass-topped table and pulled off the chunky hoodie she was wearing, leaving it on the arm of a chair. She moved further down the room, looking at the titles of the books, the painted ceramic pots; at one point she fingered a batik of some kind, pinned to a shelf. While she was inspecting the room, she could feel his eyes follow her movements, taking in her arms, her straight back and slender, supple body. She knew he was watching her, and she felt flutters in her chest, her stomach contract.
Eventually, he walked over to stand next to her. Pointing to the book in her hand, he smiled down at her and said, his tone light, ‘I want a critique of that when you’ve finished.’
She nodded; the book slipped out of her grasp and fell onto the floor. They bent down in unison, nearly knocking heads, and he laughed, picked it up and handed it back to her. When she reached for it, he did not let go immediately, and she raised her eyes to meet his.
Time ticked by; she could not look away. His hands on the book: she could imagine them on her body. It was the moment when everything could have been different. She could have laughed and moved away, picked up some more books, and they could have engaged in a discussion over the merits of post-colonial literature, after which she would have excused herself, caught her bus. Later, she would understand: it was as if he were asking permission. That if she broke their gaze and turned away it would be the indication that he needed: that she was unwilling. As she didn’t, he had received his signal.
‘You’re very lovely.’ He spoke slowly and softly.
She opened her mouth, felt her face grow warm, and then seeing her reaction he seemed to change his mind. He smiled, but she saw his eyes were still dark with intensity. He touched her elbow lightly.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I don’t have an English reserve.’
She was holding her breath, she realised; her mouth was dry.
‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s nice of you to say.’
He surveyed her gravely, then he reached forward and lifted some hair off her shoulder, as he had done before, but this time he kept hold of it, resting his hand briefly on her collarbone, before raising it so that the back of his fingers brushed her cheek.
‘You’re more than lovely,’ he said with a quiet simplicity that seemed to take the words from his mouth and place them somewhere in her chest.
She did something she never would have imagined doing. She reached forward and with her fingertips touched his lips, then brought them back to touch her own: like a play-kiss, a child’s game. He was quiet, looking down at her, and then his hand slipped behind her neck and he stepped in, pulling her forwards. Within seconds his mouth was against hers, the scratchiness of his chin scraping against her skin, the smell of his hair: tobacco mixed with a trace of shampoo. When he drew away, he didn’t let her go but asked quietly, his eyes uncertain, do you want to leave, Rita? As she shook her head, she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She opened her mouth, so that she could taste his tongue, and she let her head fall back, so that he had to move in closer.
Afterwards, all she could remember was how thrilling it was, the change in him. His strength, the way that there was an absolute certainty in what he wanted to do, where he wanted to touch her, as if he had imagined doing so before. He was breathing fast, his body pressing hard against hers, the feel of it so different from her own. His fingers were on her skin, pushing up her T-shirt, sliding her jeans down over her hips. She was being carried backwards; she was falling onto the rug. She was naked and then he was naked; his mouth was everywhere. When he entered her, she gasped and felt him stiffen against her in surprise, but she tightened her thighs against his, her fingers clutched at his hair, and then he was thrusting against her. The sunlight filtered through the shutters; the birds were singing outside.
4
SHE took the bus back to Tooting, down the Broadway, touching her lips with her fingers, reliving every minute, ev
ery breath, as the streets below her – the shops, the green spaces – all continued moving as if she was invisible, an onlooker on everyday life. She had wanted to stay on that rug with him for ever, as they were: there was no need to live any longer. When everything had stilled, he had lain with his face buried in her neck for some minutes, and she had listened to their breathing. Then he had lifted himself off her but kept his fingers on her throat, which he slid to her lips. When he leaned forward to kiss her mouth, he had said, you’re so beautiful, and then in the same breath, I’m so sorry. The memory of that moment was one of the strongest she had: that along with the pleasure, there was remorse, the need for an apology. She was not sure to whom.
He gathered her clothes for her, and she pulled on her T-shirt. Looking down she could see the wetness and smears of blood on her thighs, the colours arranged as on an artist’s palette. He pulled on his jeans and left the room, to return with tissues, a folded towel, which she took from him, wanting to gaze at him – this male person before her – the muscles in his arms, the breadth of his shoulders and his chest, his body tapering into his jeans. But she turned away and climbed the stairs to where he had pointed: the bathroom. She could not bring herself to step into the tub, gleaming white with brass taps, but washed herself from the sink. A messier proposition, with pools of water gathering on the floor. She mopped these up with several wads of toilet paper, flushed them away. Then she stood for a few seconds, trying to slow her breathing, her heart beating hard. When she came downstairs, she handed him the towel, which he took down to the kitchen, to a utility room, presumably to throw into the washing machine. There were so many practicalities. She felt a twinge of unease, a sense of something being done and needing to be erased.
‘I should get back . . .’
‘Yes, of course.’
He slung her rucksack on his shoulder, walked with her to the bus stop, his hands tucked into his pockets, then waited with her, not saying anything. When she glanced at him, he turned and smiled. Her bus arrived, and he kissed her quickly on the forehead, slipped her rucksack onto her shoulder. And then he waited on the pavement, his fingers drumming against his thigh while the other passengers boarded, until the bus pulled away from the kerb, and she looked for him. He waved goodbye.
The Inheritance Page 3