The First Cut

by Knight, Ali

  ‘Just leave me alone!’ Nicky was ready to vent her anger. She bent down to pick up the water and turned to see Bea marching out of the bar, her middle finger stuck skywards.

  Every eye in the room was now upon her, waiting for what she would do next. She mumbled ‘Sorry’ and headed for the exit, head down. She found Adam a few moments later, buying them ice creams.

  He gave her one glance and exclaimed, ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘I just met Bea.’

  ‘Bea Forrester? For Chrissake!’ He looked around wildly. ‘This is beyond a fucking joke!’

  ‘It wasn’t a pleasure.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Come on, let’s go.’ He handed her an ice cream, his face clouded.

  ‘She’s got it bad, hasn’t she?’

  ‘She’s ridiculous. I feel powerless to do anything except wait it out.’

  ‘Rejection is a very intense emotion.’

  He was staring at her and Nicky felt a tension began to shimmer between them. She turned and headed towards the river, putting her hand on the wall that bordered the Thames and feeling the rough stone under her palm. They walked along, licking their ice creams, and slowed by some builders who were digging up paving stones and replacing a section of the wall. Nicky stopped by a line of red and white tape and busied herself eating so she didn’t have to look at him.

  ‘Nicky.’

  Now she had to face up to the situation she had partly created. She looked at him, noticing a small scar near his lip, caught in relief by the sun. She had to make a choice here. He was handsome and keen – what more could a girl want? But Nicky was married, and whatever her problems she needed to deal with them with Greg. Nicky took a step back because she thought Adam was going to try to kiss her. It was a distraction she didn’t need. She felt the red and white tape of the builders’ barrier slide under her bum.

  Adam opened his mouth, as if about to say something, when through the crowds of people on the Thames Path Nicky saw Bea loom up, cycling fast towards her. She gasped and instinctively took a sharp step backwards. As Bea screeched to a halt, Nicky stumbled and tripped on one of the paving stones, aware of the builders’ tape breaking and pinging away under tension. She heard a workman shout out as she took another step backwards, trying to regain her balance, but her foot found nothing on which to land and her arms began to cartwheel in a useless attempt to stop herself falling. She was going backwards into the Thames with nothing to break her fall. She heard a woman scream – it might have been her – before the shockingly cold water closed over her head.

  8

  Nicky had heard many times that the Thames was a lot more dangerous than it looked. She knew that the tides pulling that huge body of water upstream and down swallowed at least one person a week, and those were the ones that were found. By the time she surfaced Nicky noticed with a jolt that she was already ten metres from where she fell in. She tried to swim to the bank, but her dress and shoes were weights dragging her down. She swam harder but got no nearer to the high, slimy wall. Even if she got there she couldn’t climb out. She saw a line of boats and barges moored mid-river that had seemed almost within touching distance from the shore, but now that she was in the gunmetal water their distance was absurd, the expanse of broiling water between her and them impossible to traverse. Something pulled her sharply under again and she fought to get her head above water. She saw a bridge in the distance. If she was pulled under there she knew it was unlikely she’d ever come out because the vicious eddies and undercurrents would hold her down. She was swimming as hard as she could, rapidly losing strength and making absolutely no headway.

  Nicky realized with a terrible sense of déjà vu how quick death could be, how decisive and unstoppable her journey towards it was, how puny her efforts to fight it were. People were shouting from the top of the wall, their arms and hands waving. They were too far away to help her. She heard a scream as someone dived into the river. Adam swept downriver to her and started shouting as he neared. ‘Kick as hard as you can!’

  Nicky was mute, with no strength to utter a word. She put all her energy into staying afloat and he reached out his arms in the water to pull her towards him. He cupped his hand under her chin and together they kicked for the wall. He was a strong swimmer and his legs powered away beneath her. She used the last of her energy to kick as best she could, while Thames water slapped over her face, making her cough and splutter. She turned her head and saw he was trying to use the current to aim for a large buttress of stone that jutted out at right angles into the river. If they could get there at least they would have a chance of avoiding being swept downriver under the bridge.

  They smacked into the wall with surprising force, then Nicky grappled to find any handhold in the slimy brick, but she kept being dunked under by the current as it swirled against this obstacle. Water filled her mouth; the dank smell of rotting masonry filled her nostrils. Adam reached up and grabbed an old round boathook fixed into the ancient brick. He clung on to it with one hand and planted his feet wide against the wall. ‘Hold my hand!’ he commanded.

  Nicky made a lunge for his hand as the water tried one last time to suck her around the edge of the buttress and back into the river. She climbed between his legs and he created a cage around her where she could gather her breath. She saw a line of faces peering over the wall and heard shouting that she couldn’t make into anything meaningful. A few minutes later some workmen appeared and lowered a ladder over the side towards them. Nicky only had the strength to climb up one rung so Adam shoved her up by her bum from below. The builders pulled her up the wall with the energy of hopeless bystanders suddenly finding themselves useful.

  By the time she was dragged over the wall and lay splayed on the warm concrete of the South Bank, panting like a fish landed on deck of a trawler, she realized she’d had the most extraordinary day. As a crowd of anxious and appalled onlookers gathered round, asking her if she was OK, patting Adam on the back for being the have-a-go hero he was, she burst into tears of relief and – at that moment of rescue – love.

  9

  Greg didn’t believe in luck, he didn’t like surprises and accidents made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He sat hunched over the computer in the hotel room while the LA morning sun bounced off the building opposite. Nicky’s movements were pixellated by a bad Skype connection; she seemed manic and excitable, and, considering what she was telling him, he wasn’t surprised.

  ‘The Thames has got this funny taste, not what you’d expect at all.’ She tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out right. The spotlights in their kitchen accentuated dark circles under her eyes and made her look tired.

  ‘I still don’t understand how you fell in. Have you contacted a lawyer? You need to sue that building firm right now, their health and safety procedures—’

  ‘Greg, listen to me, I’m fine. I’ve got one hell of a scratch on my knee—’

  ‘Jesus! Have you been—’

  ‘I went to the doctor for a tetanus injection. I had a shock, but I’m fine now.’

  He watched her tuck some strands of hair behind her ear, bite a hangnail. All right, my arse.

  ‘Hello? You still hear me?’

  ‘I’m still here.’ A stretchy silence opened up between them. ‘Who was this guy who jumped in?’

  She was shrugging her shoulders now, tracing a finger over a mole on her upper arm. ‘He was called Adam, but I don’t remember much else about him. I was in a bit of a state . . . there were a lot of people around. He said he was a strong swimmer and a bit impulsive so he just jumped in after me.’

  She was a bad liar – good liars could always tell, and he was one of the best. It was all too implausible. Fit healthy women didn’t just fall in the bloody Thames. He squeezed a stress ball in his palm, trying to keep a handle on his rising panic.

  ‘Are you OK, honey? I know it’s a bit of a mad story.’

  ‘Who were you on the South Bank with?’

  He noted the
shrug of the shoulders, the telltale hesitation. ‘I was on my own. I just wanted a quiet day on my own. Funny how things turn out.’

  Greg squeezed the stress ball so hard his knuckles went white. Fear and superstitions swirled in his mind and he knew that hot on the heels of fear came the rage. The anger that it could happen again; why always to him? Saliva formed in his mouth and he swallowed it away. He was beginning to go mad. The past was playing its never-ending trick on him, laughing at his attempts to outrun it. The faster he ran, the harder he worked, the more he crammed into every day . . . and still it was there, mocking him.

  ‘Nicky, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get to set. You sure you’re all right?’ She nodded. She held her finger up to the small camera and he did the same. ‘I love you. I love you more than I can say, more than you know.’

  She looked sad and confused. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Miss you too.’

  Greg watched the Skype rectangle jump to black. He laid his head on his arms next to the keyboard, thinking through this strange conversation with his wife. The gulf between them was growing wider. Nowadays their conversations were short, perfunctory. How different from the early days when the distance of his jobs separated them. Back then she had fallen asleep with him listening on the Skype connection, had lain the laptop next to her on the pillow so he could watch her. They’d had phone sex and Skype sex and still it hadn’t been enough. But somewhere on their journey together they had lost each other and, like so much, he knew it was his fault.

  He sat in front of the black screen and thought through every nuance of that conversation. She hadn’t said she loved him. He tried to remember if that was a first. He needed to insulate himself, try to get reassurance where he could. He wasn’t a religious man, that would have been a joke, considering; but he even gave a little prayer. He picked up his phone and hesitated. He was trampling on the unspoken codes that underpinned his marriage. But then it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone beyond decent. Suspicion crawled across his hot skin. He called a number in London. The phone was answered after two rings.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Full of the joys of summer, are you, Liz?’

  ‘You only ever call me if you need something.’

  ‘You know me too well.’ She was silent, refusing to pander to her brother. ‘Oh come on, Liz, I’m away, and I’m not that bad.’

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Oh! Here we go.’

  ‘Hear me out. Pretty please, sis dearest.’

  ‘You’re such a wanker!’

  But he could tell that she would relent. Liz was lonely and life had not lived up to the high standards she had expected. ‘I’m worried about Nicky.’

  ‘Oh?’ Now she was interested, revealing an eagerness to know about problems and strife. ‘How so?’

  ‘I just want to make sure that she’s OK. Can you keep an eye on her?’

  There was a pause. Her voice was triumphant. ‘You’ll have to be a lot more specific.’

  ‘I just need to know that she’s OK.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you want me to follow your wife?’ She was dripping sarcasm.

  ‘Liz, please, just for a while—’

  ‘What do you think I do all day, Greg? I work! I’ve got Dan . . .’

  ‘And you’ve got me too. You’ve always been there for me, Liz.’

  ‘Greg, tone down the touchy-feely Hollywood – this is south London. I might gag.’

  ‘Just do it for me.’

  She swore under her breath. ‘You owe me.’

  He finished the call and stared uselessly out of the window. He wondered if the Californian sunshine could cleanse him of his disturbing thoughts.

  10

  Nothing attracts like a saviour, Nicky decided. Try as she might, Adam had become a hero, and heroes were hard to ignore or turn down. After the shock of a visit to A&E and a tetanus injection, then a change of clothes and borrowing money off Adam to go round to Maria’s to get her spare door keys, she mooned around the house for the rest of the weekend, replaying her ditch in the Thames and her rescue over and over. She thought about making a complaint against Bea, but dismissed it almost immediately. She wasn’t worth the bother or the paperwork, and despite what Bea might have wanted to happen, Nicky’s fall into the water had been an accident. Plus, she had more practical issues to consider: she’d lost her bag and now faced a full day on the phone replacing her entire identity: bank cards, money, make-up, keys. In the midst of these jobs she got an email from Adam inviting her over on Wednesday – his dad was at home and if Connie was well enough Nicky could meet her.

  After three uneventful days at work, and still waiting for the police report of her fall in the Thames to be sent to the accounts department so she could get a replacement mobile, she walked the short distance from Notting Hill Gate tube to the address at the southern end of Portobello Road. It was a warm sunny evening and she felt the long dormant feeling of excitement and anticipation at doing something new, meeting someone interesting, uncovering the layers. Lawrence’s flat was down a cobbled mews cut off from Portobello Road by a large gate. She rang the bell on a brushed-steel door and a moment later someone clattered down the stairs. Adam was trying to keep his feet inside a pair of faded espadrilles and he shifted and hopped on the doorstep as he kissed her on the cheeks. He’d got browner in the few days since she’d seen him, and it suited him. ‘Come on up.’

  He took the stairs two at a time and she followed him into a large, open-plan living room-cum-kitchen. A row of sliding doors led on to a large patio beyond which a sumptuous view of a west London sunset could be seen. Several large, high-gloss photographs of tree canopies hung on the matt white walls. It was not what Nicky had been expecting; she had imagined an old-fashioned town house with stuffy chairs, leather books and patterned wallpaper, but Adam’s father had defied the conventions of his age and class. An elegant black woman in her sixties, wearing yellow flip-flops and an abstract patterned skirt, was at the kitchen island boiling a kettle and someone sat at the dining table hiding under a red towel.

  ‘Dad, this is Nicky. Nicky, this is Lawrence.’

  Lawrence waved his arm at her as a greeting, his head still under the towel. A strong waft of Vicks VapoRub carried over to her. ‘My darned sinuses are playing up.’

  ‘He’s such a bore about it,’ the black woman said, spoon tinkling as she stirred a cup of something and brought it over, placing it on the table next to Adam’s father. ‘You’d think no one else had ever been ill,’ she said with an air of resignation, quickly followed by amusement as she turned back to Nicky. ‘I’m Bridget. Now for God’s sake let’s have a drink. I hear you’re a journalist, so I presume you neck anything that’s put in front of you?’ Her eyes twinkled.

  Nicky laughed and nodded.

  ‘There’s a bottle of red wine in the cupboard,’ Lawrence half shouted from under the towel. ‘It’s got a peacock on the front. Let’s have that.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be drinking in your condition,’ Bridget replied, walking over to a Scandinavian-style sideboard and opening the door. She ignored Lawrence, who was muttering to himself under the towel.

  Nicky was enthralled. Their manners were so casual, their flat so beguiling, the sun somehow warmer and conversation just that little bit more fun. Visitors to her parents’ house were rare enough to cause stress: fiddly snacks in little bowls, her mother stiff-backed in the Victorian chair by the nets, her dad offering the coasters with the best of British birds on them. Sometimes, when she was low or had had an argument with her parents, Nicky wondered what her real family had been like. She had never told anyone, but in her dreams she hoped they were a bit like this. Her dad was a loss adjuster, her mother a part-time librarian. Nicky knew she was falling for the allure of a life more interesting, a history more exotic than the one she had lived.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Bridget said.

  Adam
was lying across one corner of the low grey sofa, his head supported by a hand, regarding her. She hesitated, unsure where she was supposed to put herself, when a high-pitched scream made her jump. She looked over at the doorway to find an old woman standing there, clutching the frame for support.

  Lawrence swore loudly and threw back the towel. ‘Connie! I’ve burned myself!’

  Nicky was taken aback. The old woman was glaring at her. She glanced at Adam and saw that he was upright now, his shoulders tense, staring at his aunt. An awkward silence fell across the room.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Nicky managed to say, wringing her hands together.

  She looked at Lawrence and tried to smile. His face was puce from his vapour bath, droplets of water forming by his eyebrows, which were a striking black next to his grey hair. He sat stupefied. ‘Oh, I feel dizzy now,’ he said, touching his forehead.

  ‘Just sit still for a moment and you’ll be fine,’ Bridget said with brisk efficiency and then she came over to Connie. ‘This is Nicky,’ she said, taking her arm. Connie pushed Bridget’s offer of help away. She was a tall, slim woman, wearing red baggy trousers that looked expensive and a flowery shirt. She had a selection of large gold rings on her bony fingers and she still dyed her hair. Its chestnutty colour gleamed in the evening sun. The only evidence of her catastrophic health was in one eye, which had drooped at the outer edge – presumably the result of one of her strokes. It gave her face a strange lopsided appearance.

  ‘She’s not going to bite,’ said Adam, coming to Bridget’s aid, holding on to his aunt and trying to get her to sit down.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Adam invited me round,’ Nicky replied.

  ‘Adam, your nephew,’ Lawrence added loudly as he dried his face, his features hidden again beneath the red towel.