As I walk through the hallway into the sitting room I realise that it’s better than I dreamed it could be. I imagined a smart place that reflected the life of a well-off, independent woman but this is something else, like no home I’ve ever seen before. The sitting room is a large room decorated in cool calm colours of pale green and stone, with accents of black, white and silver. The era of the thirties is wonderfully evoked in the shapes of the furniture, the low armchairs with large curving arms, the long sofa piled with white cushions, the clean line of a swooping chrome reading lamp and the sharp edges of a modern coffee table in jet-black lacquer. The far wall is dominated by a vast built-in white bookcase filled with volumes and ornaments including wonderful pieces of jade and Chinese sculpture. The long wall that faces the window is painted in that serene pale green broken up by panels of silver lacquer etched with delicate willows, their shiny surfaces acting almost like mirrors. Between the panels are wall lights with shades of frosted white glass and on the parquet floor is a huge antique zebra-skin rug.
I’m enchanted at this delightful evocation of an age of elegance. I love everything I see from the crystal vases made to hold the thick dark stems and ivory trumpets of lilies to the matching Chinese ginger pots on either side of the shining chrome fireplace, above which is a huge and important-looking piece of modern art that, on closer inspection, I saw was a Patrick Heron: great slashes of colour – scarlet, burnt orange, umber and vermillion – creating wonderful hectic drama in that oasis of cool grassy green and white.
I stare around, open-mouthed. I had no idea people actually created rooms like this to live in, full of beautiful things and immaculately kept. It’s not like home, which is comforting and lovely but always full of mess and piles of things we all seem to need.
My eye is drawn to the window that stretches across the length of the room. There are old-style venetian blinds that normally look old-fashioned, but they look just right here. Apart from that, the windows are bare, which surprises me as they look directly out towards another block of flats. I go over and look out. Yes, hardly any distance away is another identical mansion block.
How strange. They’re so close! Why have they built them like this?
I peer out, trying to get my bearings. Then I begin to understand. The building has been constructed in a U shape around a large garden. Is this the garden of Randolph Gardens? I can see it below me and to the left, a large green square full of bright flower beds, bordered by plants and trees in the full flush of summer. There are gravel paths, a tennis court, benches and a fountain as well as a plain stretch of grass where a few people are sitting, enjoying the last of the day’s heat. The building stretches around three sides of the garden so that most of the inhabitants get a garden view. But the U shape has a small narrow corridor that connects the garden sides of the U to the one that fronts the road, and the single column of flats on each side of it face directly into each other. There are six altogether and Celia’s is on the fifth floor, looking straight into its opposite number, closer than they would be if they were divided by a street.
Was the flat cheaper because of this? I think idly, looking over at the window opposite. No wonder there are all these pale colours and the reflecting silver panels: the flat definitely has its light quota reduced being close to the others. But then, it’s all about location, right? It’s still Mayfair.
The last of the sunshine has vanished from this side of the building and the room has sunk into a warm darkness. I go towards one of the lamps to turn it on, and my eye is caught by a glowing golden square through the window. It’s the flat opposite, where the lights are on and the interior brightly illuminated like the screen in a small cinema or the stage in the theatre. I can see across quite clearly, and I stop short, drawing in my breath. There is a man in the room that is exactly across from this one. That’s not so strange, maybe, but the fact that he is naked to the waist, wearing only a pair of dark trousers, grabs my attention. I realise I’m standing stock still as I take in the fact that he is talking on a telephone while he walks languidly about his sitting room, unwittingly displaying an impressive torso. Although I can’t make out his features all that clearly, I can see that he is good looking too, with thick black hair and a classically symmetrical face with strong dark brows. I can see that he has broad shoulders, muscled arms, a well-defined chest and abs, and that he is tanned as though just back from somewhere hot.
I stare, feeling awkward. Does this man know I can see into his apartment like this while he walks about half naked? But I guess that as mine is in shadow, he has no way of knowing there’s anyone home to observe him. That makes me relax a little and just enjoy the sight. He’s so well built and so beautifully put together that he’s almost unreal. It’s like watching an actor on the television as he moves around in the glowing box opposite, a delicious vision that I can enjoy from a distance. I laugh suddenly. Celia really does have it all – this must be very life-enhancing, having a view like this.
I watch for a while longer as the man across the way chats into his phone, and wanders about. Then he turns and disappears out of the room.
Maybe he’s gone to put some clothes on, I think, and feel vaguely disappointed. Now he’s gone, I turn on the lamp and the room is flooded with soft apricot light. It looks beautiful all over again, the electric light bringing out new effects, dappling the silver lacquer panels and giving the jade ornaments a rosy hue. De Havilland comes padding in and jumps on to the sofa, looking up at me hopefully. I go over and sit down and he climbs onto my lap, purring loudly like a little engine as he circles a few times and then settles down. I stroke his soft fur, burying my fingers in it and finding comfort in his warmth.
I realise I’m still picturing the man across the way. He was startlingly attractive, almost unreal. He moved with such unconscious grace and utter ease in himself. He was alone, but seemed anything but lonely. Perhaps he was talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Or perhaps it was someone else, and his girlfriend is waiting for him in the bedroom and he’s gone through there now to take off the rest of his clothes and lie beside her, drop his mouth to hers. She’ll be opening her embrace to him, pulling that perfect torso close, wrapping her arms across the broad back . . .
Stop it. You’re making it all worse.
My head droops down. Adam comes sharply into my mind and I can see him just as he used to be, smiling broadly at me. It was his smile that always got me, the reason why I’d fallen in love with him in the first place. It was lopsided and made dimples appear in his cheeks, and his blue eyes sparkle with fun. We’d fallen in love the summer I was sixteen, during the long lazy days with no school and only ourselves to please. I’d go and meet him in the grounds of the ruined abbey and we’d spend long hours together, mooching about, talking and then kissing. We hadn’t been able to get enough of one another. Adam had been a skinny teenager, just a lad, while I was still getting used to having men look at my chest when I walked by them on the street. A year later, when we’d slept together, it had been the first time for both us – an awkward, fumbling experience that had been beautiful because we’d loved each other, even though we were both utterly clueless about how to do it right. We’d got better, though, and I couldn’t imagine ever doing it with anyone else. How could it ever be so sweet and loving except with Adam? I loved it when he kissed me and held me in his arms and told me he loved me best of all. I’d never even looked at another man.
Don’t do this to yourself, Beth! Don’t remember. Don’t let him keep on hurting you.
I don’t want the image but it pierces my mind anyway. I see it, just the way I did on that awful night. I was babysitting next door and had expected to be there until well after midnight, but the neighbours came back early because the wife had developed a bad headache. I was free, it was only ten o’clock and they’d paid me for a full night anyway.
I’ll surprise Adam, I decided gleefully. He lived in his brother Jimmy’s house, paying cheap rent for the spare room. Jimmy was away so Adam planned to
have a few mates round, drink some beers and watch a movie. He’d seemed disappointed when I said I couldn’t join him, so he’d be delighted when I turned up unexpectedly.
The memory is so vivid it’s like I’m living it all over again, walking through the darkened house, surprised that no one is there, wondering where the boys have got to. The television is off, no one is lounging on the sofa, cracking open cans of beer or making smart remarks at the screen. My surprise is going to fall flat, I realise. Maybe Adam is feeling ill and has gone straight to bed. I walk along the hallway towards his bedroom door; it’s so familiar, it might as well be my own house.
I’m turning the handle of the door, saying, ‘Adam?’ in a quiet voice, in case he’s sleeping already. I’ll go in anyway, and if he’s asleep, I’ll just look at his face, the one I love so much, and wonder what he’s dreaming about, maybe press a kiss on his cheek, curl up beside him . . .
I push the door open. A lamp is on, the one he likes to drape in a red scarf when we’re making love so that we’re lit by shadows – in fact, it’s glowing darkly scarlet right now, so perhaps he’s not asleep. I blink in the semi-darkness; the duvet is humped and moving. What’s he doing there?
‘Adam?’ I say again, but more loudly. The movement stops, and then the shape beneath the duvet changes, the cover folds back and I see . . .
I gasp with pain at the memory, screwing my eyes shut as though this will block out the pictures in my head. It’s like an old movie I can’t stop playing, but this time I firmly press the mental off switch, and lift De Havilland off my lap onto the sofa next to me. Recalling it still has the capacity to floor me, to leave me a sodden mess. The whole reason for coming here is to move on, and I’ve got to start right now.
My stomach rumbles and I realise I’m hungry. I go through to the kitchen to look for something to eat. Celia’s fridge is almost bare and I make a note that grocery shopping will be a priority for tomorrow. Searching the cupboards, I find some crackers and a tin of sardines, which will do for now. In fact, I’m so hungry that it tastes delicious. As I’m washing up my plate, I’m overtaken suddenly by an enormous yawn. I look at my watch: it’s still early, not even nine yet, but I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day. The fact that I woke this morning in my old room at home seems almost unbelievable.
I decide I’ll turn in. Besides, I want to try that amazing-looking bed. How can a girl not feel better in a silver four-poster? It’s got to be impossible. I go back through to the sitting room to turn out the lights. My hand is on the switch when I notice that the man is back in his sitting room. Now the dark trousers he was wearing have been replaced by a towel tucked around his hips, and his hair is wet and slicked back. He’s standing right in the middle of the room near the window and he is looking directly into my flat. In fact, he is staring straight at me, a frown creasing his forehead, and I am staring right back. Our eyes are locked, though we are too far apart to read the nuances in one another’s gaze.
Then, in a movement that is almost involuntary, my thumb presses down on the switch and the lamp obediently flashes off, plunging the room into darkness. He cannot see me any more, I realise, although his sitting room is still brightly lit for me, even more vivid than before now I’m watching from the dark. The man steps forward to the window, leans on the sill and looks out intently, trying to see what he can spy. I’m frozen, almost not breathing. I don’t why it seems so important that he doesn’t see me, but I can’t resist the impulse to remain hidden. He stares a few moments more, still frowning, and I look back, not moving but still able to admire the shape of his upper body and the way the well-shaped biceps swell as he leans forward on them.
He gives up staring and turns back into the room. I seize my chance and slip out of the sitting room and into the hall, closing the door behind me. Now there are no windows, I cannot be seen. I release a long sigh.
‘What was all that about?’ I say out loud, and the sound of my voice comforts me. I laugh. ‘Okay, that’s enough of that. The guy is going to think I’m some kind of nutter if he sees me skulking about in the dark, playing statues whenever I think he can see me. Bed.’
I remember De Havilland just in time, and open the sitting-room door again so that he can escape if he needs to. He has a closed litter box in the kitchen which he needs access to, so I make sure the kitchen door is also open. Going to turn out the hall light, I hesitate for a moment, and then leave it on.
I know, it’s childish to believe that light drives the monsters away and keeps the burglars and killers at bay, but I’m alone in a strange place in a big city and I think that tonight, I will leave it on.
In fact, even ensconced in the downy comfort of Celia’s bed and so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open, I can’t quite bring myself to turn out the bedside lamp. In the end, I sleep all night in its gentle glow, but I’m so tired that I don’t even notice.
Chapter Two
‘Hey, excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Lie Cester Square?’
‘Sorry?’ I say, confused, blinking in the strong, morning sunshine. Above me the sky is a clear blue with only the faintest suggestion of clouds in the distance.
‘Lie Cester Square,’ she repeats patiently. The woman’s accent is American, she’s wearing a sunhat and big dark glasses, in a touristy uniform of red polo shirt, loose trousers and trainers, with the obligatory small backpack, and she’s holding a guidebook. Her husband, dressed almost identically, is standing mutely behind her.
‘Lie Cester?’ I echo, puzzled. I’ve made my way from Randolph Gardens to Oxford Street, one of London’s main shopping thoroughfares, and am strolling along it, watching the crowds of people out even at this relatively early hour, and gazing in the shop windows. It’s hard to believe that all this bustle and commerce is going on just a five-minute stroll from Celia’s flat. ‘I. . . I’m not sure.’
‘Look, here it is,’ the woman says, showing me her map. ‘I wanna see the statue of Charlie Chaplin.’
‘Oh – Leicester Square, of course . . .’
‘Lester?’ she repeats, puzzled, and turns to her husband. ‘They say it Lester, honey. Honestly everything’s a trap around here if you don’t know.’
I’m about to tell her that I’m a tourist myself but somehow I’m a little flattered that she thinks I know my way around. I must look like a Londoner. I take the map and look at it carefully, then say, ‘I think you can walk there from here, look. If you go up to Oxford Circus, then down Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus and turn left, it’s a straight line across to Leicester Square.’
The woman beams at me. ‘Oh, thank you so much, that’s so kind of you. We’re kind of lost. It’s so busy, isn’t it? But we’re loving it!’
I smile back. ‘You’re very welcome. Have a lovely stay.’
I watch them go, hoping they’ll find their way to Leicester Square all right and that the Chaplin statue lives up to their expectations. Maybe I should try and find it myself, perhaps it’s worth a look.
I fish my own guidebook out of my shoulder bag and look through it as people swarm by in both directions. All around are large department stores and big chains: Gap, Disney, mobile phone shops, fashion outlets, chemists, designer glasses stores, jewellers. Along the wide pavements are stalls selling souvenirs, luggage, knick-knacks and snacks: fruit, caramel-roasted nuts, waffles, cold drinks.
My plan is go to the Wallace Collection, a free museum nearby that holds an extraordinary amount of baroque art and furniture, and then maybe grab some lunch somewhere and see what the afternoon brings me. I have that delicious sense of freedom: there’s no one to answer to, no one to please but myself and the day stretches ahead, full of opportunity and possibility. London has more to offer than I can ever take advantage of, but I plan to see all the big sights, especially the ones nearest to me: the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery and the British Museum. My degree is in History of Art and I’m practically salivating at the thought of all the things I’m going to see.
Well, they all know now.
But no one here does. No one around me gives a damn about my humiliation or my broken heart or the fact that I’ve been betrayed by the man I loved. I smile and breathe in the fresh summer air. A big red bus rumbles by me and I remember I’m in London, the great capital city, and it’s spread out before me, waiting for me to discover it.
I set off, feeling lighter than I have for weeks.
It’s late afternoon when I finally return to Randolph Gardens, a heavy carrier bag of groceries cutting into my palm, ready for a cool drink and keen to take my shoes off. I’m exhausted but pleased with everything I’ve achieved today. I managed to find the Wallace Collection and spent a very happy morning delighting in the rococo art and furniture within the extraordinarily beautiful Regency house. I revelled in the pink and white magnificence of Boucher, drank in Fragonard’s gorgeous floral fairytales and sighed at the portrait of Madame de Pompadour in her lavish gowns. I admired the exquisite statues, ornaments and furniture, and lingered over the collection of miniatures in the galleries.
I found a nearby cafe for lunch, where hunger helped me overcome my general shyness at eating alone, and then decided to see where I would end up if I simply wandered. Eventually I found myself at what I discovered was Regent’s Park, and spent a couple of happy hours walking around, sometimes through manicured rose gardens, sometimes along paths bordered by green expanses and shaggy trees, sometimes beside lakes or playgrounds or sports fields. And then, to my astonishment, I heard the trumpeting of elephants and saw in the distance the dappled neck and small head of a giraffe: I was near the zoo, I realised, laughing. And after that, I turned for home, stumbling onto a very smart street as I went that had, alongside chic boutiques and homeware shops, things like cash points and a branch of a supermarket that meant I could stock up on some food and other necessities. As I made my way back to Celia’s flat, with only a couple of stops to consult my map, I felt almost like a real Londoner. The woman who’d stopped me that morning had no idea I knew the city as little as she did, but now I was a little more seasoned, and already excited about what I might do tomorrow. And the best thing was, I had barely thought about Adam. Well, not that much. But when I did, he seemed so far away, so distant and removed from this life I was living, that his power over me was distinctly diluted.
Fire After Dark Page 2