by Grace Lowrie
Chapter Thirty-seven
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Bay go to the intercom, check the screen and press the door release button without bothering to speak to whoever he was admitting into the building. He left the door on the latch and padded barefoot back to the kitchen, rummaging in his pocket as he went.
‘Delivery?’ I enquired from his bed where I was sat cross-legged, still typing away on my laptop.
Bay hopped up onto the kitchen counter, flicked on his lighter, cupped his hand and lit up. In my peripheral vision I could see his hairy, naked calves idly swinging in time to Linkin Park. ‘Nope, it’s someone for you.’
I looked up and he smirked at me. ‘Who?’ He didn’t reply but I heard the lift opening out on the landing. Seconds later the door swung open and in strode my best friend in fully professional business mode; buttoned-up blouse, pencil skirt and heels; her hair in a neat up-do and a smart leather briefcase in her hand. I gaped at her in surprise, feeling under-dressed in a small pair of shorts and a vest top. ‘Marguerite!’
‘I thought I might find you here,’ she said, marching right up to the bed and ignoring Bay entirely. ‘Why haven’t you returned my phone calls?’
‘I … I’m sorry… I kept meaning to…’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Writing! At last.’ I grinned triumphantly. ‘You know how I’ve always wanted to write a book but didn’t know what it should be about? Well I’ve started jotting down my experiences of London, and it’s fun, and I’m hoping I might be able to make something out of it…’ I tailed off, my smile fading. Marguerite was slowly shaking her head, her lips pressed into a line. ‘What?’
‘Why are you here?’ she said, wrinkling her nose and waving her hand in front of her face, even though Bay’s cigarette smoke had yet to reach her. Nowadays Bay made a conscious effort not to smoke in my personal space.
‘Oh, Bay’s painting me…’ I said, pointing at the easel before realising that it now stood empty. He must have finished for tonight. A glance at my laptop showed me it was 9.30 a.m. No wonder I was tired, my nausea had abated and I’d completely lost track of time.
‘Have you only just got up?’ Marguerite’s voice was snipped and sharp.
‘No, I haven’t been to bed yet,’ I muttered, glancing over at Bay. He looked shattered, too – why hadn’t he kicked me out?
Marguerite was shaking her head again. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Cally, but this isn’t you.’
‘I’m fine, honestly. And I called Liam and he knows not to worry about me—’
‘Good Lord, is that a tattoo?’ She grasped my shoulder, angling my skin towards the light. ‘I think you need help, Cally.’
‘Help…?’ I laughed. ‘What is this, some kind of intervention?’ My smile faded at my best friend’s stern expression. ‘Why do you think I need help?’
‘Just look at you!’ she said with a flail of her hand. ‘You’ve thrown away a nice home, a kind, decent man who loves you and a perfectly good job, and for what? This?’ It was déjà vu the way she glanced disparagingly around Bay’s apartment – Ash all over again. ‘Staying up all night and doing Lord-knows-what with Lord-knows-who? What are you going to do when the six month contract is up? Have you even thought about that?’
‘No,’ I admitted, looking down and quietly closing my laptop. ‘I haven’t thought about that at all.’ A heavy sense of inevitability sank like a stone in my stomach. I’d always known this new life of mine wasn’t going to last, but I’d deliberately avoided thinking about it.
‘Right, well, I think we need to sit down and work out how we are going to get you back on track.’
‘Can’t you just believe me when I say that I’m happy as I am?’ I offered gently.
‘No. I know you better than you know yourself, I always have and we’ve been friends too long for me to just—’
Bay snorted loudly. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’
Marguerite spun round on one heel. ‘You stay out of this,’ she said, jabbing a finger in Bay’s direction. ‘You’ve done enough damage already.’
‘What damage?’ he said, sliding off the counter. ‘She’s just said she’s happy as she is – who are you to decide what she does?’ He prowled across the floor towards us.
‘I’m her best friend, that’s who! I love her and I look out for her, isn’t that right, Cally?’ she added, turning back to me. I nodded and smiled weakly at her. She was right – she had always been there for me – Marguerite had always been my strength.
‘But she doesn’t need you right now.’ Bay pointed out, towering over her, smoke smoothly escaping the side of his mouth. But Bay’s height alone would not be enough to intimidate Marguerite.
‘She needs me now, more than ever – so that she doesn’t get taken advantage of.’ My cheeks heated with shame; I didn’t want Bay knowing the real me, and here she was spelling it out for him, as if I wasn’t even here. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. ‘She needs…’
‘Are we talking about the same person?’ Bay interrupted, looking at me and then back to my friend with a confused expression. ‘Cally’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met.’
I glanced up at him, shocked by his words and his eyes locked onto mine, glowing with something I couldn’t decipher.
‘I don’t care what you think,’ Marguerite said dismissively, taking my hand. ‘Come on, Cally; let’s go next door where we can talk in private.’ Unconsciously I rose to my feet to follow her, Bay’s unexpected compliment still ringing in my head.
‘Hang on,’ Bay said, tossing his cigarette butt into an open tin of paint and stepping up close to me. He cupped my face in both hands and stared into my eyes, filling my vision, his warm familiar scent stirring my blood. ‘What’s going on? You don’t have to do what she tells you.’
‘No, I know; it’s not like that – she’s my best friend…’
‘So why have you gone so quiet? Why aren’t you standing up for what you want?’
‘I…’ Good question. I’d always let Marguerite take the lead; it was automatic.
For a split second I thought Bay might slap me, but instead he kissed me on the mouth, urgently; as if to wake me, resuscitate me, or remind me of something. A fortnight had passed since we’d slept together and the strength of my latent desire rushed to the surface, making my head swim and my knees weak.
‘Urgh, what are you doing!’ Marguerite cried, trying to pull me away.
‘Whatever else happens, you still have two and a half months here…’ Bay said, his dark eyes holding mine.
‘Yes,’ I said, breathless. He was right – my time hadn’t run out yet. Reluctantly stepping back out of Bay’s hands I dragged my eyes over to Marguerite’s disgusted expression. ‘How about we go next door and I make us a cup of tea,’ I said brightly. She looked relieved as I gathered up my laptop and we made our way over to the door. Bay silently followed, his steady gaze unrelenting.
Once Marguerite was safely through my front door I turned back to him. ‘I’ll see you later, get some sleep.’ The worry on his face receded at my words, and on impulse, unable to resist, I reached up and stroked my fingers through the stubble at his jaw. An arrogant smirk slowly spread across his lips, warming me inside.
‘Later,’ he said, winking playfully at me before stepping back inside his flat and closing the door.
Over the course of half an hour I worked to convince my best friend that I was not in need of saving. I distracted her with all the pretty new dresses and shoes I’d bought, and regaled her with tales of all the amazing places I’d seen. Obviously I left out the more colourful details: my job as a stripper, illegal trespassing, smoking weed, crowd surfing, fight clubs etc. But I was able to reassure her with complete honesty that I was not piercing my body parts, injecting myself with heroine or prostituting myself, which helped put her mind at ease.
Marguerite had been my rock growing up – she had given me the direction and protection I craved and I’d pledg
ed my unswerving friendship and loyalty in return. But somewhere along the way, the balance between us had shifted too far in one direction. It was my fault as much as hers. I had let her carry me, simply because it was easier than standing on my own two feet, and she had grown more controlling in response. But things were different now – my eyes had been opened and I couldn’t afford to capitulate any longer.
Thankfully Marguerite had a meeting to get to. We made firm plans to meet up for a girly night out later in the week, and she left far happier than she had arrived. Collapsing into bed, exhausted, I felt grateful for my devoted old friend, and grateful for my new and unpredictable one. If only I could wipe his breathtaking kiss from my mind, I might get some sleep.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Why the hell was I doing this? What was wrong with me? I’d never had the urge to follow anybody before, but then I’d never met anybody like Cally before. She’d become a bad habit and I wasn’t sure what, short of moving into a hotel for the next two-and-a-half months, I should do about it. Since meeting her I’d tried ignoring her, swearing at her and repeatedly exposing her to all my bad vices, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. The woman had infiltrated my work, my bed, my network of friends. She’d even met my brother for fuck’s sake. Worst of all she was in my head – making me want to confide and confess things – things that were none of her damn business. It scared the shit out of me.
So why was I skulking at the back of this pub in a baseball cap, watching my neighbour from across the room?
It was probably a nice pub once upon a time, with history, character and soul, but it had been taken over by a chain; had its guts ripped out and been modernised so thoroughly that, sitting here, you could easily be in any city in the western world. The service was lousy, the food was worse, and the so-called music was giving me a headache. Even the beer was decidedly average – I usually avoided the hard stuff and stuck to lager when drinking in public to better keep my wits about me. At least Cally hadn’t spotted me. But then she seemed oblivious to most of the pub’s punters; including the two middle-aged men at the bar eyeing her up while they worked up the nerve to approach her; and the young guy at the next table who kept checking her out over his date’s shoulder. I couldn’t blame them – she was particularly alluring this evening in a cadmium-red, Grecian-style maxi-dress that hugged her torso and billowed around her legs when she walked.
But Cally had all her focus trained on the straight-laced, uptight brunette sitting opposite her – Marguerite. I wondered what they were talking about; whether they were discussing Liam, the ex she’d left behind, or whether Cally’s thoughts were elsewhere. Her fingers repeatedly strayed to her shoulder where, beneath the fabric, I knew her tattoo was nicely scabbed over and itching like mad. So far she had refrained from actually scratching it. Was she thinking of me?
I told myself I was here to look out for Cally because I didn’t trust Marguerite – she was snooty and controlling and hated me on sight. I suspected she would try and do something to lure my next-door neighbour away from me for good. But so far there were no signs of kidnapping – they were simply having a quiet drink, while I trailed them like a sick dog.
I was losing the plot.
As I took another sip of my pint and started to destroy yet another beer mat between my fingers, a blonde with a lip ring and an undercut slid into the seat beside me.
‘Hey, I’m Jen.’
‘Hey, Jen, fuck off.’
‘There’s no need to be an arsehole.’
‘But I am an arsehole.’
‘Fair enough. Buy me a drink and you can tell me all about it.’
As I was shaking my head, two young guys approached Cally’s table. Marguerite greeted one of them enthusiastically with air kisses before shaking the other by the hand. I didn’t envy the guy; I’d been on the receiving end of that limp-fish handshake myself. Marguerite proceeded to introduce the newcomers to Cally and then, to my increasing irritation, invited the men to sit down. I say ‘men’ but really they were boys – fresh-faced, no muscle bulk to speak of, and wearing chinos for fuck’s sake. I could flatten them both with my thumb. I certainly wanted to. So this was Marguerite’s cunning plan…
‘Hell-oo,’ Jen said, waving a hand in front of my face.
‘What?’ I growled, without taking my eyes off Cally.
‘Are you gonna buy me a drink or what, grumpy guts?’
‘If I do, will you piss off?’
Yep,’ she said cheerfully. I passed her a tenner and told her to get me another pint while I continued to observe my Greek goddess making polite conversation from afar.
An hour and two pints later I was confident that Cally wasn’t into her blind date. She seemed perfectly at ease in the guy’s company as she steadily made her way through two half pints of lager, but the eye contact was fleeting, her smiles half-hearted, and so far he had only made her laugh once. I was debating whether to slip out the rear exit and leave them all to it, when Cally suddenly stood up. Excusing herself from her seat she squeezed her way between the crowded tables and approached the jukebox idling in the corner.
I loitered, curious to see what she would choose, noting that she was a little flushed, as if the beer had gone straight to her head. As she returned to her friends the main music clicked off and I listened with anticipation. As the familiar first line of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ leaked out of the speakers, a ripple of awareness swept through the pub, triggering memories and associations within the collective minds of the pub’s patrons and lifting the atmosphere.
Cally’s ‘date’ was a picture of surprise and Marguerite wrinkled her nose, but several other people, including the men at the bar, whooped and cheered with appreciation. I couldn’t help grinning as Cally enthusiastically sang along to the words, encouraging others to do the same. By the middle of the song she had her friends up on their feet and was half-hidden in a throng of strangers that jumped along to the music, head-banging and swinging their hair.
‘Supermassive Black Hole’ came on next and I tried to recall whether Cally had always been a Muse fan or whether my taste was starting to rub off on her. Marguerite took herself off upstairs to the Ladies’ while Cally and the others carried on dancing; the various different groups mingling and getting to know one another as if now at a party. But on her way back, Marguerite slipped on the stairs and twisted her ankle. After much gentle prodding and debate, it was decided that Cally would take Marguerite to A&E for an x-ray, effectively ending their night out.
I observed from the shadows of the pub as a taxi drew up outside and the patient was helped into it, but then Cally ran back inside alone, as if she’d forgotten something. Except that she bypassed their table completely, quickly weaving her way through the makeshift dance floor, her head down as she advanced towards the back of the room. Before I had a chance to move she was grabbing me by the scruff of my shirt, leaning up on her tiptoes and kissing me beneath the peak of my stupid cap. Had she known I was here all along?
Impulsively taking hold of her butt I pulled her to me, groaning into her mouth with shame and pent-up frustration. But after only a couple of minutes she backed out of my grasp and hightailed it as quickly as she had arrived, gliding away through the masses and into the waiting taxi without a word. I stood for a moment, stunned, and then Cally’s final song choice started up on the jukebox.
Though a classic, The Police’s ‘Every Breath You Take’ wasn’t enough to keep the crowd on their feet – people gravitated back to their seats, their enthusiasm for dancing disappearing along with the woman in red. But I chuckled to myself, shaking my head and grinning like an idiot, the stalker’s anthem serenading my ears as I ordered myself another pint at the bar.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I snuck into Bay’s flat unheard over the music. He was standing with his back to me; legs spread, bare feet firmly planted and arms crossed at his chest, seemingly lost in thought as he surveyed a selection of paintings propped up all along one brick w
all. Stepping up behind him, I recklessly tucked my hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, pressing my chest to his lean, hard back and subtly inhaling his warm scent though his shirt. Outwardly he showed no reaction to my presence, but I felt him stirring; swelling and hardening inside his shorts and shivered with satisfaction.
‘What you up to?’
‘Felix is sending someone over tomorrow to collect some paintings for an exhibition.’
‘Felix?’
‘My agent.’
‘Oh! That’s exciting.’
‘Is it?’ His voice sounded far away.
Withdrawing my hands I moved to stand beside him, running my eyes over the fine array of work before me. ‘How many does he want?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Ah.’
Several of the forty-or-so canvases featured the peacock butterfly theme or early versions of me dancing – though I was abstracted enough that I wasn’t easily recognisable. Presumably Bay had omitted all the larger and more recent depictions of me because they were unfinished or otherwise unsuitable. I still danced for him occasionally – with my three shifts a week at the club I didn’t need the practise, but I enjoyed dancing when Bay was watching. He seemed equally content to paint me whether I danced or not; even when I cooked food, read books, brushed my teeth or dozed on his bed. That was Bay. I think he’d paint me while we fucked if he could, except that he hadn’t fucked me since that one night.
We were both refraining, which was good; sex would only confuse things in the long run, but I couldn’t seem to stop wanting it – wanting him. And it wasn’t just me – we were both growing increasingly tactile with each other – skating close to the line but never crossing it. Sexual tension crackled like static electricity between us and yet, I was fairly certain there had been no other women in Bay’s bed since me. And if he wasn’t going to have me, then why not someone else? Why was Bay abstaining from sex completely? Was it something to do with his artistic process?