Exquisite

by Sarah Stovell

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘If that’s OK.’

  ‘It’s compulsory.’

  We spent the rest of the day there in the study together. There was no sound between us but the scratch of biros against paper, the gentle tapping of keys, the occasional sigh of thought. I became so exquisitely aware of it all that at times it felt as though Bo were running her pen over my skin.

  Towards the afternoon, she said, ‘Will you share what you’ve done with me?’

  I hesitated. ‘It’s junk, Bo. Really, it’s shit. No matter what I set out to do, I end up writing about my bloody dead mother.’

  Bo said, ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, sweetheart. Remember it’s only been a year, and you’ve only just lived through the anniversary. It’s bound to dominate. Things like that do. It was the same for me when I started out.’

  ‘Was it?’ I heard the eagerness in my voice. Tell me again that I am like you.

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Starting out with anything creative is like turning on an old tap. The water comes out brown at first because you’re emptying your psyche of rubbish. Once you’ve got rid of that, it will run clear. I promise you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  Gently, Bo said, ‘If you want to, you can tell me about your mother, if you think that will get it out of you sooner.’

  I shook my head. ‘We just didn’t get on,’ I said.

  Bo nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said, and I knew that she did. She understood deeply, without me having to say a word more about it.

  4

  It had been one of the happiest weeks of my life, which seemed odd when I thought about it, because it had hardly been exciting. The nights weren’t late, there was no sex, no drugs, no rush of new people. Everything at Bo’s was just calm and easy. It was good. That’s what it was. Good, in every way. The safety of it, the busyness, the atmosphere of home. I hadn’t known how deeply you could long for those things, and hardly even be aware of it.

  On my last day, we dropped the girls off at school as usual and walked on, following the river through the woods to Rydal Water for a picnic. Everywhere was in full leaf now, and the beech trees and sycamores hid our view of the mountains.

  In the green darkness of the woodland, Bo said, ‘I’m glad you came to stay.’

  I smiled. ‘Me, too.’

  ‘I feel like meeting you has been really special.’ She stopped and gazed silently at the lake.

  I could hear only the gentle heave of water against stones.

  Bo said, ‘I wish…’ Then stopped.

  I glanced at her quizzically.

  She shook her head. ‘I was just thinking how nice it would be if you could … never mind. Come and stay again soon. Come in September, when the crowds have gone. It’s lovely here in autumn.’

  I could almost feel my legs buckle beneath me, hearing this woman – this wonderful woman – speak like this. I thought, It’s because it’s new to me, such a strange and comforting awareness that someone really cares, really wants me here.

  My mind slipped to my mother – dead one year today, everything unresolved between us and no chance to fix it now – and the old, deep loss of her. I used to feel the absence of my family as a weakness, as though my heart were fuelled only by water, instead of the tender force of blood. But the water had turned stagnant, dried up. I did not want my heart to to crack open again.

  Bo didn’t mention my mother at all today, but as we walked home she linked her arm through mine and smiled and said lightly, ‘I feel like I have another daughter.’

  I tightened my grip on my friend’s arm but stayed silent. Friend. It was the wrong word. It didn’t describe this. I didn’t know what to call it.

  But then, in the evening, after we’d eaten and Gus had slammed out of the room because of the cat shit on the floor, Maggie said, from nowhere, ‘Mum, can Daddy sleep somewhere else?’

  Fleetingly – so fleetingly – I saw it: Bo’s bed, empty of Gus…

  I glanced up at Bo.

  Our eyes met.

  Bo looked startled. Then she laughed and said, ‘Maggie likes to have girls’ nights sometimes, where the two of us sit in bed and read together.’

  I nodded and could hear myself saying, ‘Oh, that sounds fun.’

  I knew what this was now. Not friend. Not mother. Lover.

  We’d said goodbye at the station the previous morning. Afterwards, I sat on the platform waiting for my train, and Bo took Maggie to the station shop. I looked through the window at them and saw Bo standing at the magazine shelf, wiping tears from her eyes. I thought, Perhaps she is lonely. And then I thought, I am lonely. And I travelled slowly back to Brighton and my flat, and sighed at the appalling depth of my poverty. No money, no family, a skulk of dreadful memories and a home so basic it scarcely kept out the cold.

  I sat on my bed and thought of Bo. I wondered what she was doing, up there in her beautiful Lakeland home, with her mountain views and her children, and the husband who hadn’t a clue what a jewel he was married to. And I wondered whether she missed me.

  5

  After I’d been home three days, I walked into town and bought myself an iPad Mini so I could email Bo whenever I wanted, instead of always having to use the computers at the library, which ran so slowly I needed an hour each time and always felt guilty when there were other people waiting who needed to apply for jobs or get advice.

  The iPad was expensive, but worth it, because Bo’s emails were now frequent and urgent.

  To: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Sent: 3 July 2015, 16:15

  Subject: Hello

  Dear Lovely Alice,

  How are you doing? Things are OK here, though quiet. I have started chapter three now and am slowly picking up pace, but it’s a long slog and I’m not convinced I’ll make it very far. If I send it when it’s finished, will you look at it and let me know your (honest!) opinion? Seriously, if it’s shit, just say so. I met a man at a conference recently who has devoted his life to studying the environment and predicted the effects of climate change in the UK; he asked to see it, but I refused in case he is a raging sexist tosser. (I think I am starting to sound like you.)

  Actually, I miss you. We ate our meal this evening and then, because I love summer nights on the fells, when dark silences the peaks and I can hear nothing but the vale’s rocky falls and the occasional creak of a fir, I went out walking for a couple of hours, and as I walked I thought how lovely it would be, to have you here beside me…

  So come and stay with me again soon, dear, sweet Alice.

  xxxxx

  From: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Sent: 3 July 2015, 16:49

  To: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Hello

  I’m sure your work is better than you think, but yes, do send it to me and I shall examine it and no doubt find it all so brilliant I won’t understand any of the depths of it at all. If you’re happy with that kind of critic, then sure. But you know by now that I am only ever going to tell you you’re brilliant. Because you are. Maybe that’s the sort of criticism you want, but you don’t need to send me your work for that. I can just say it. I’ll say it as much as you like. I’ll say it until your ego grows so large, it can be seen from space.

  You’re brilliant.

  My flat is such a heap of shit. I have decided to take your advice and find somewhere decent to live, but I need to find a job first and … blurgh. My boss has increased my hours to every morning at the language school, but it won’t be enough to pay rent anywhere nice. I might sell my ovaries on eBay.

  Your walk sounds lovely. I wish I could have been there, too.

  Ax

  Bo’s emails were distracting. I wanted to get on with something, to start a new piece of work and impress her with it. That was what I wanted, more than anything: to impress Bo and make her love me. Briefly, the thought ran through my mind that I was pathetic. A child, desperate for my verbally abusive, unloving mother. Freud, I knew, would have a fiel
d day with this.

  But Bo wasn’t my mother. Bo was a good thing, a positive – someone caring who brought out only the best in me. Last week, in her studio in Grasmere, Bo had started me off, set me going like a watch. ‘Write,’ she said, and I was going to write.

  I turned on the radio. It was tuned to Radio Four. Someone was talking about some new website that had been set up, where anyone who was interested could access transcripts of any case brought before the Old Bailey from 1600 onwards. I listened more intently. A man was telling the story of an impoverished young girl who’d stolen another girl’s dress and been sentenced to transportation. A whole life lived in New South Wales instead of here. And that was the last that was known of her. The judge’s sentence, her weeping response then nothing.

  I thought, I wonder what happened to her, and started to make some notes, so I could tell this girl’s story.

  The day wore on. I read articles online: potted biographies of convicts, facts about life in Botany Bay. At half past six, I made myself some toast, then opened a blank Word document and started writing.

  It took me four hours, but I managed to fill a page. Three paragraphs of carefully constructed sentences, not a single one about my mother.

  Jubilantly, I attached it to an email. ‘I’ve done it’, I wrote, and hit send.

  The reply came in ten minutes: ‘This is excellent stuff, darling, as I knew it would be. Keep on, keep on…’

  I went to bed, exhausted and happy.

  I was woken by the ping of the iPad.

  From: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Sent: 4 July 2015, 00:32

  To: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Subject: Wide Awake

  Can’t sleep, so up in the middle of the night. Tried to work. Too tired and distracted. Wish you were here.

  Well done for working today. Goodnight, my sweetheart. I am picturing you lying asleep, hoping your dreams are peaceful.

  Love you,

  Bxxxxx

  From: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Sent: 4 July 2015, 00:34

  To: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Subject: PS

  I forgot to say: Don’t sell your ovaries on eBay. You will need them. I want no more of this ‘the world doesn’t need more of my genes’ nonsense. The world would be a better place if it were filled with your genes.

  x

  I read, and scrutinised every word of the two emails. Love you. No one had ever said that to me before. Not that I could remember. Love you. I wondered what it meant, what sort of love she was talking about. It kept me awake, trying to work it out.

  Everything was sublime and terrible.

  6

  I needed a project. I woke up on Friday morning and decided today was the day. I was sorting my life out. It would be a major aggravation, but was ultimately for the best. I needed to fill my life. I needed work. I needed a good environment to live in. I needed things to do. That way, I could stop thinking about Bo. No one had ever taken me over like this before. I was like a cliché from a Victorian romance novel. I couldn’t eat, or sleep, or concentrate on anything. My head was so full of Bo that I could think of nothing else.

  I love her, I thought.

  Her.

  It came as a shock.

  This emotion needed restraining. Bo was married. She was married with two children and lived at the other end of the country. Nothing good could come of this. And, besides, she saw me only as a friend, a close friend, like a daughter or something. That’s what she’d said. ‘I feel like I have another daughter.’

  I didn’t want to be her daughter. I wanted to crawl into bed with her and stay there forever.

  But I couldn’t.

  I showered and dressed and went to the language school. When I found my boss, with little preamble, I asked him for more hours.

  ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘Full time.’

  He shrugged. ‘OK, but I must pay you cash in hand.’

  I gave no thought to the legalities of this. All I saw was cash in my pocket, which was what I needed. I accepted the offer there and then. My next step was to find somewhere else to live.

  I’d decided I didn’t want to houseshare anymore. If I was going to be working full time, then I needed to be disciplined about how I spent the spare hours around it. I wouldn’t get any writing done if I lived with other people. I needed to be on my own, somewhere comfortable and bright.

  An agent showed me a place in Kemptown, near the sea. One tiny bedroom and a living space I could write in. £700 a month. It was pushing me to the extremes of my budget, but I could probably manage if I lived on toast and porridge and gave up smoking.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I said, and forked out the holding deposit.

  I looked at the clock. 2 pm. This new project – sorting my life out – had taken four hours. It was meant to keep me occupied for days. The hassle and administrative hell was meant to have taken my life over.

  So, of course, I went home and emailed Bo. Usually, there would have been at least one message from her by now, but today there was nothing.

  I allowed myself to picture her, indulging myself in a daydream. But, like every time I thought of her in recent days, I saw her unclothed. The desire was painful. It was no good. I wondered what I was doing,

  The message I bashed out was brief. Afterwards, I paced up and down my flat. Could Bo possibly feel the way I felt? Surely not. It would make no sense. But the thing – the connection between us – was so strong, I felt sure Bo had to be aware of it. Of course she was. It was impossible not to be.

  Now and then, tentatively, I had dropped hints. At first love was a word we simply tossed between us. We signed off all our emails with it. But then I wrote, ‘I love you to Empire State Building proportions. I do not know exactly what sort of love that is, but I do know it’s a lot.’

  Bo replied, ‘I agree. American Architecural Love is huge and hard to define … Love you, adore you. Adore you.’

  So love sat there between us, a nettle ungrasped. I didn’t want to be the first to take it.

  I tried to busy myself for the rest of the afternoon, reading and making notes for my book. Then later, as I was wondering whether to phone someone and go for a drink, the iPad beeped with an email alert.

  Bo.

  She was telling me to leave her alone.

  From: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Sent: 5 July 2015, 19:45

  To: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Subject: Sorry

  Hi Alice. Sorry not to be in touch today. I woke up this morning and decided I needed to give myself a rest from the computer. In fact, I was awake most of the night and I thought, ‘I must ask Alice to stop emailing me for a while, as I need my head to myself for a few days.’ Would that be OK? I just need to get on with some work. I’ve been so distracted recently and I hardly know why…

  I understood the gist of this message: ‘Leave me alone because I can’t stop thinking about you,’ Oh, God. How long could we keep this up? My heart felt ruptured with it. I could hardly contain it as I knocked out my reply.

  From: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Sent: 5 July 2015, 19:50

  To: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Sorry

  My darling Bo. You don’t need to apologise. I understand completely. Loving you in silence, in absence, and always.

  I hit send, then regretted it. Too obvious. Far too obvious. I panicked, and sent another one.

  From: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Sent: 5 July 2015, 19:52

  To: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Sorry

  Sorry. Didn’t mean to sign off like some kind of bloody Barrett Browning there. Yes, get back to work. Speak in a few days. A.

  Originally, I’d typed ‘Best wishes, A’, but deleted it before sending. That was going too far as well.

  Speak in a few days.

  A few days.

  Ever since I’d come back from Grasmere, we’d been in touch every day. Our ta
lks went on and on. Every couple of hours, she emailed me and I replied. Or I emailed her and she replied. Whatever way round it went, we were in this together.

  But now I had to stay away. It was for the best. Of course it was. Perhaps I should take myself out for a drink in that time, meet a man, eat dinner with him, have sex with him, do something sensible instead of … instead of this.

  But the thought of days passing in silence between us was unbearable. The clock on the wall ticked on, marking time, but time had become loose and unreliable. Hours were slippery. They shrank or grew, depending on Bo and how far away she was, and the hours without hearing from her would be longer – so much longer – than the hours when she’d been by my side.

  This is awful, I thought. It should not be this consuming. The deep shock of love had come with no warning, and ran with the force of water over rocks. It had the power to knock me down.

  The next day I wrote. I finished my opening chapter, but I didn’t send it to Bo. When I went to bed, I lay awake. It was the first day since we’d met that I hadn’t heard from her at all. The silence was a hole I could fall in to.

  My sleepless mind drifted. It went to Bo, to my mother, to that night when I was eleven, when they came and took me away from her.

  Sometimes, I wondered how Bo had turned out the way she had. She was beautiful, I thought. A truly beautiful person – a miracle, to me at least. She understood everything about the world. It was greater than genius and placed her beyond human.

  7

  From: Bo@BoLuxton.co.uk

  Sent: 7 July 2015, 22:34

  To: AlicetheEighth@gmail.com

  Subject: Missing you

  Nothing to say. Just wanted to say goodnight. And that I miss you. Come and stay soon.

  I printed out her emails and took them to the pub to show Anna. I’d caved in to the pressure. I wanted another opinion. I’d asked Anna because she was older than I was and the most forthright of all my friends.