by Lisa Jewell
“Sit back, have a glass of champagne, listen to the music, and just watch the world,” said Flint, “just watch and feel. . . .”
She opened the side cabinet and pulled out a half-drunk bottle of champagne. She poured herself a glass and then rubbed her fingertip across the mahogany tabletop. There it was, she thought, examining the white film: the ultimate urban experience. She put her fingertip to her lips and tasted it with her tongue, like she’d seen them do in films about a million times. It tasted bitter, salty. The end of her tongue went numb. She took a sip of half-flat champagne and turned her attention to the world outside. It really was very insulating in here, she thought, with these muted little lights and black upholstery and tinted windows.
They drove along a wide street lined with imposing office buildings, past a big gothic church with a modern extension attached, past Woolworth’s head office, Madame Tussaud’s, the Planetarium. And then they turned right past rows of immaculately tended white houses. Lights twinkled in huge, uncurtained windows. Ana saw a cocktail party, a woman in a white dress tipping back her head and laughing uproariously at something an old man wearing a monocle had just said, and then circling her finger around the rim of a wineglass.
They passed the BBC building—she recognized it from pictures—and then turned into a side road and zigzagged around for a while. They passed fashion shops and fabric suppliers and canopied restaurants where people sat at sidewalk tables. She saw a man with black hair kiss the back of the hand of a girl wearing a blue and white dress. She smiled and put a chip in his mouth. He chewed it up and showed it to her on his tongue. She laughed.
A group of girls with highlighted hair strolled down the street, arms linked together, singing “Tragedy” at the tops of their voices and then doubling over with laughter. One of them was wearing a diamond chain around her bare midriff, which sparkled in the orange streetlights. An African man wearing a jellabah and an embroidered cap hailed a cab and climbed in after his veiled wife. Ahead of her, Ana could see the Post Office Tower.
She looked up, above the shop fronts and the restaurants, at the ornate floors above, the occasional stained glass window or gothic turret, chipped gargoyle or leaded bow window. She saw someone moving around in a high-ceilinged flat, talking to someone on the phone, smoking a cigarette. Living their life in the middle of a film set.
A mixed group of drunken youth tripped across Tottenham Court Road, still wearing their office clothes, their cheeks flushed with excitement and cheap wine. A girl in a sleeping bag sat in a store entrance, staring vacantly at the passersby, whose pace picked up as they passed her. Inside a seventies-style Italian restaurant a group of friends all looked smilingly at their plump, aproned waiter as he illustrated a story with his arms and his eyebrows.
A doorman outside a hotel hailed a cab for a couple dressed in fluorescent slickers. She saw them mouthing “Thank you very much” as he held the door open for them. And then she saw the doorman’s face fall as he examined the tip they’d left in the palm of his hand.
The car headed back toward Soho, through deserted squares framed by enormous Georgian mansions. In a railinged square lit by a single streetlight, a man and a woman argued. Flint took them through the red-light district. The car slowed down to a near halt as pedestrians swarmed across the narrow roads and cars double-parked outside clubs and taxi offices. It was almost midnight on a Tuesday night, but it looked like every resident of London was out on the streets of Soho. A bulbous-eyed man with tattoos peered into the tinted windows of the car and waggled a large gray tongue at her. Ana flinched before remembering that he couldn’t see her.
She stared into the empty eyes of a dark girl perched cross-legged on a high stool in the entrance of a strip club and wondered how she’d ended up there, and then lost herself briefly in thoughts of destiny and cause-and-effect and how maybe if that girl wasn’t working in that bar, sitting on that stool at this very moment, maybe someone else on the other side of the planet would be unable to come up with a cure for cancer. Or something . . .
They flew back down Piccadilly and across Hyde Park, Knightsbridge, and Sloane Street. Chanel. Ralph Lauren. Christian Dior. Versace. Names that were just the ads in between the articles in Marie-Claire to Ana. And there they were, in the flesh—shining, bright, untouchable, like film stars.
As they sailed down toward Sloane Street and down Kings Road, Ana felt herself being lifted out of herself again, like that night in Bee’s flat when she’d dressed up and drunk champagne and listened to Blondie. Nothing else existed—just her thoughts, the music, and the moving scenery. But it wasn’t just scenery. It wasn’t just a mishmash of separate, unconnected activities and individuals. It was cohesive. It was life. All those buildings and cars and strangers. They were life. And they were magical.
They turned off Kings Road and headed for the river. The music changed again. “Perfect” by the Lightning Seeds. And as the river came into view, as she set eyes on Albert Bridge and gasped at its almost saccharine prettiness, at the ruffled reflections of tiny lights in the molasses-black water of the Thames, she sat back in the soft leather and let a smile play on her lips while the lyrics drifted into her consciousness and seemed suddenly to make sense of absolutely everything.
Ana gulped as the song came to a close. There was a happiness welling up in her chest that brought tears to her eyes. She felt overcome by intense emotion. By intense love. By an intense desire to feel that song, to live that song. Music had always conjured up a sense of another life for Ana, of other, better ways of feeling and existing and being. And now, for the first time in her life, she felt like she could take one of those songs and make it real.
“Flint,” she breathed into the intercom.
“Your ladyship?”
“Let’s go,” she heard herself saying in a stranger’s voice.
“Where?”
“Yours,” she said, “let’s go back to yours.”
thirty-three
He smelled her hair first. It was spread all over his pillow. Black and long and in need of a shampoo. He picked up a strand between his fingers and rubbed it under his nose. It felt like satin knickers.
He maneuvered his body slowly onto its side and looked at her. She was fast asleep, her long lashes resting against her cheekbones, her lips slightly parted. He looked down at her bare breast. It was tiny. But it did everything that a breast was supposed to do. It had a neat nipple that was in proportion to the size of the breast and was a nice caramely color. The breast itself was round and firm and the nipple tipped ever so slightly upward, giving it just the right amount of perkiness. He cupped it with his hand and felt her heart beating underneath, a slow, resting beat in rhythm with the little puffs of breath that slipped between her lips.
Well, well, well, he thought to himself, smiling, I’m in bed with Bee’s sister. As Old Domehead had put it so eloquently yesterday—it’s a funny old world.
He took his hand from her breast and very quietly got out of the bed and headed toward the kitchen. It was eight-thirty. The kids next door were already screaming and shouting. A wading pool had now been added to their artillery of annoying, noise-producing garden contraptions. He made two mugs of tea and padded back to the bedroom, where Ana was just stirring. He grinned at her while she rubbed her eyes.
“Hi,” he said, handing her her tea.
“Hi,” she said, taking it from him and pulling the duvet up around her armpits.
“Well,” he said, “this is something for the books, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” murmured Ana, taking a slurp of tea.
“How you doing?”
“Er . . .”—she grinned and put her tea on the bedside table—“good. I’m good.” And then she beamed at him—a huge toothy, tonsily grin, and for the first time ever Flint could see something of Bee in her.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“You know, Gill told me specifically not to do that.”
“What?�
�
“Have sex with you.”
Flint liked the fact that she said “have sex” and not “make love,” surely one of the vilest expressions known to man. “And why’s that, exactly?”
“She told me you were an old tart. That you’d sleep with anything with a hole in it.”
“She said what?”
“She said that you weren’t as nice as you seemed. That you weren’t to be trusted.”
“And what exactly did she base that judgment on?”
“On the fact that you’ve slept with her. And Lol. And Cathy—whoever the hell Cathy is.”
Flint raised his eyebrows and groaned. “Oh,” he said, “for God’s sake. I can’t believe she told you that. That’s so unfair.”
“But true?”
“Yeah, it’s true. But that was fucking eons ago. We were all young. All in our twenties. Thought that sex was just a big game. And for a while, after I got back from Japan and I wasn’t even drinking anymore, it was the only vice I had. I slept around a lot when I was younger—a hell of a lot—it wasn’t like I made a point of sleeping only with people I knew.”
“And Bee?”
“What about Bee?”
“You slept with Bee, too . . .”
“Oh. God.” He let his head drop onto his fist. “Yes,” he sighed. “I slept with Bee. Once. About a week after we met. And that was it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you sleep with her only once?”
Flint thought about it for a moment. “Because it seemed wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Yeah. Not right. It was embarrassing. Awkward. A mistake.”
“And these days?”
“What?”
“Do you still—sleep around?”
He shrugged. “Nah,” he smiled, “not like I used to. I mean, I still have my moments, you know. But I’m an old man now—it’s not my raison d’être anymore.”
“And when was the last . . . ?”
“About a month ago.”
“And she was . . . ?”
“She was Angela. She was twenty-nine. She’d hired the car for her hen night.”
“You know on Monday night, when I asked you about Bee? About whether you’d ever been in love with her? And you said you’d never been in love with anyone? Did you really mean that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But—I don’t really understand. I mean—you’re thirty-six years old. How did you get to be so old without falling in love with anyone?”
“Ah, now. I said I’d never been in love. Not that I’d never fallen in love. I’ve fallen in love a few times.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, one is a process. The other is a state. I’ve been through the process but never found the state. At one stage in my life I persuaded myself that maybe the process was the state and I married her.”
“What!”
“Yup—it lasted fourteen months.”
“Who was she?”
“A client. Girl called Ciara. She was a dancer. Irish girl.”
“So what went wrong?”
“We didn’t like each other.”
Ana laughed. “That simple?”
“Yup. That simple. We just woke up one morning and both decided that we really couldn’t stand each other.”
“So—how do you differentiate between the process and the state?”
“You need to be able to differentiate between insanity and sanity. Because that’s the difference between falling in love and being in love. One is a state of total and utter madness, the other a state of pure clarity and peace. Or so I’ve been told.” He smirked.
Ana smiled and rested her chin on her knees. “Sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“For giving you the third degree. It’s just that Gill made you sound so awful. . . .”
“Yeah, well—Gill’s not—” He paused. “—Nothing.”
“Gill’s not what?”
“Nothing,” said Flint. “Forget I said anything.”
“No way! Gill’s not what?”
He sighed. “Gill’s not . . . the type to take rejection very well.”
“What—you mean, she’s tried and you said no?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When?”
“Oh. On a pretty regular basis. When she’s pissed usually. When Gill’s pissed she turns into a complete raving nympho.”
“Yeah,” smiled Ana, “I’ve noticed. But from what I’ve seen, you’re not exactly her usual type, are you?”
“You mean the black guys?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. Gill loves her black guys. And they seem to love her, too, actually. I mean—don’t get me wrong—I do like Gill. You know, I’ve known her half my life. But when it comes to sex, she’s a bit fucked up. I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything she says—she’s got a skewed vision of sex. She seems to think it’s an Olympic event.”
Flint took a sip of tea and looked at Ana. “Here’s a question for you,” he said, “how come you’re asking me about all this right now—why didn’t you ask me last night—before . . . you know?”
Ana grinned at him. “Because,” she said, “last night I wasn’t really in the mood for talking.”
Flint smiled and took another sip of tea.
“You must think I’m dreadful,” said Ana.
“What?” laughed Flint.
“Last night. I don’t really know what happened. I was just . . . overcome. Not that I didn’t want to, before, or anything. I’ve been wanting to since I first saw you . . . oh.” She put her hand over her mouth and looked embarrassed.
Flint laughed. “You dirty old mare,” he grinned. “And I thought you were such a nice girl.”
“I am,” she insisted, “I’m a very nice girl. In fact you’re only the second man I’ve slept with.”
“I know.”
“What! How?”
“The delightful Hugh told me. He told me that he taught you everything you know. And I have to say that as much as it makes me want to hurl to admit it, or even to think about it, for that matter—he did a fine, fine job.”
“Last night,” said Ana, “was nothing to do with Hugh, I can assure you.”
“Oh no?” said Flint, putting his tea down and grabbing Ana by the waist.
“No,” said Ana, passing her hands over his buttocks, “what happened last night was the inevitable result of being driven around London in a stretch limo at midnight by a large, handsome man in a suit, while drinking champagne and listening to good music. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”
“Is that what I’ve got to do every time I want to do this with you, then? Take you for a drive?”
“No,” she said, looking confidently and directly into his eyes, “only the first time. After that all you have to do is ask.”
Flint stared into her eyes. Who was this person? This person with sparkling eyes and ready lips? This person whose body he could feel underneath his, long and taut and accommodating? This person who was like Ana, only different? Whoever she was, he liked her, liked her even more than the other Ana.
“Please may I have sex with you, Ana?” he said.
“You most certainly may,” she said, guiding him on top of her and, as she pulled his face toward hers and put her lips against his, Flint just wanted to punch the air and shout, “You’ve come a long way, baby. . . .”
thirty-four
They set off for Ashford at about eleven o’clock. As they headed across the M25, the sun blazing through the windshield and turning the leather seats to the consistency of warm flesh, Flint kept his hand on Ana’s knee and thanked God for automatic. He glanced at her briefly. The air-conditioning was ruffling the fine wisps of baby hair that grew from her hairline, and she was smiling serenely. She looked across at him and squeezed his thigh and grinned, pulling a strand of hair off her chee
k.
Now, thought Flint, this feels right. This feels really, really right.
Usually when he woke up in a bed with a girl, a little something inside him sort of died. Almost like that feeling you get when you go back to your car and see a ticket on the windshield. You knew you were parking illegally, you knew there was a good chance this was going to happen, but that space—well—it was just there and you wanted it and you took it anyway. Waking up with Ana had been more akin to leaving his car in a no parking zone and coming back to find someone giving it a full washing and Turtlewax—for free.
Ashford was about twenty miles from the M25. High Cedars was just outside Ashford, on the outskirts of a smart commuter village.
“Wow,” said Ana as they approached a Jacobean mansion up a gravel driveway. They drove through ornate stonework gates and grounds planted with cedars and fir trees. “This looks more like a five-star country-house hotel than a children’s home.”
A shiny-faced receptionist wearing a cardigan smiled welcomingly at them as they entered. “Good afternoon.”
Flint looked at Ana, who looked nervous for a moment before stepping forward confidently to the desk. “Good morning,” she said, “my name is Ana Wills. My sister—well, my half sister actually—she was related to one of your . . . er, children. To Zander Roper.”
“Oh yes,” she said, “Mrs. Wills—she phoned yesterday, actually.”
“Well, actually, that was me. The thing is you see—Mrs. Wills died.”
The receptionist threw her hand over her mouth. “Oh no,” she said. Her eyes were open in horror, and she looked genuinely shocked. “How?”
“I’m afraid it was suicide.”
“Oh no. But that’s terrible. She was such a beautiful woman—such a caring aunt. I can’t believe it. Does Zander know?”
Ana shook her head. “That’s why we’re here. We thought it would be best for him to hear it from someone who was close to Bee.”
The receptionist asked them to wait while she called a doctor, and then a few minutes later led them to a large office on the ground floor, where a small Chinese woman with a hairy mole on her cheek greeted them warmly. She was called Dr. Chan and she knew all about Belinda Wills, had first met her back in 1997 when she’d come to High Cedars to visit Zander. She was deeply, deeply upset to hear about Bee and even more shocked to hear that it was suicide. “But—why?” she asked plaintively. Zander and Belinda had, apparently, had some kind of argument about a month ago and he’d refused to see her and speak to her since. They’d tried to get Zander to talk about it in his therapy sessions but he refused to say a word. Which was, according to Dr. Chan, entirely in keeping with his personality. He was a “very difficult child.”