Eden

by Joanna Nadin

  Because there is Penn; his wet, desperate lips on her face, his hand inside the cream chiffon of her top. And there is the girl, her fingers on the swell of his crotch.

  And James smiles, because he’s found it, he’s found the weakness. And this time it isn’t just a chink, but a huge gaping hole.

  Because the girl Penn is kissing isn’t Bea.

  It’s Stella.

  AUGUST 1988

  THE HOUSE is empty when we return. The decorators have gone for the day, their paint brushes leaving milky trails on the kitchen drainer. On the table is a note from Tom’s mum Hannah: “Come to dinner, we miss you.”

  “Do you want to?” Penn asks me.

  I shake my head. “Too full still.” But it’s not that. I don’t want to go, alone or with him. Don’t want anyone to prick this bubble of perfection.

  And nor does he, I’m sure of it.

  “We’ll have a party of our own,” he says abruptly. “A cocktail party. We’ll have crisps, and peanuts in glass bowls. And we can dress up.”

  “In what?” I ask.

  “You have dresses, don’t you?”

  I shrug awkwardly. I don’t any more.

  I did once: Bea’s hand-me-downs, velvet things with lace collars, then later, drop-waisted, or with net skirts swishing round my thighs. They were always a year or two out of date, but I didn’t mind, for in them I was her. Or almost. But then she grew taller, grew breasts, and I couldn’t catch up, so she either kept her clothes for herself or they were sent to charity. And now I live in T-shirts, leggings; a black uniform of “don’t-look-at-me”.

  But Penn has other ideas. “Come with me,” he says. And this time, it is he who leads me up the stairs.

  I wonder what he’s brought with him. If he has a coat of many colours or a Cinderella outfit hidden away in his bag upstairs.

  But it’s not his treasure he is plundering, it’s mine. Ours.

  We’re standing in front of the door to Narnia: my grandparents’ wardrobe, leading not to snow-capped mountains or forests thick with fir, but to furs. And to black-beaded dresses that tickle my toes with their jet bugles; to pink silk slips that drape across the flesh like liquid skin; to gold brocade gowns whose opulence begs to be chosen, jostling, “pick me, pick me!”

  I’ve stood in front of that wardrobe before, with Bea; our eyes wide, as if we were looking on sweet jars full of gobstoppers and candy canes. She would take armfuls of dresses down, parade in them in turn, catwalking across the carpet in too-big heels while I, on the bed, clapped and whistled, a child still in my Ladybird sundress and flip-flops. It wasn’t that I didn’t dare try on the clothes. Rather, why would I bother? When I could watch her, when she was the one they were made for, really.

  But not tonight. Tonight is different.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “That’s up to you,” he says. “Who do you want to be?”

  “Who do you want me to be?” I ask quickly. Because I’ll be anyone, will play any part, for him.

  But he shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you? You,” he says. “I want you to be you.”

  The invitation is for seven-thirty. I’m to meet him in the drawing room, where he’ll be waiting to escort me, in a grey suit belonging to my grandfather.

  Until then I stand in front of my mirror, take in the girl I have become: the lips painted a heavy, sticky red; the eyes ringed with black kohl; the hair pinned up on my head in a dishevelled bun. And the dress: a 1950s emerald shot taffeta, like the hard shiny shell of a beetle, glimmering with blues and yellows as I move, its skirt rustling in anticipation.

  “I want you to be you,” he said.

  But I don’t want to play me. Me is shy. Me is awkward; all bones and too-skinny legs. Me doesn’t wear stockings, or gold rings, or pearls around her throat.

  But look: this me does.

  This me wears heels.

  This me walks, bold as Bea, brave as Bea, down the staircase, one gloved hand on the banister, the diamonds in my cuff catching in the light of the glass chandelier.

  This me takes his arm, and doesn’t blush or giggle when he says, “Why, Mrs Pennington, you look beautiful tonight.”

  This me simply smiles, and says, “Why, thank you, darling.” And lets him sweep her to the excitement that awaits.

  He’s transformed again; a 1940s cad in a demob suit, his pale hair dark with the slick of brilliantine. He puts on music, slips a cassette into the player he rescued from the boathouse, presses play, says, “Would you care to dance?”

  And this girl does, she does care. “I would love to dance,” she replies.

  And she – no longer the schoolgirl in the hall, her arm clamped around Monica Coyne as they stamp out another waltz to Mrs Bonnet’s lamentable piano – she glides now, elegant in his arms, as Morrissey sings a slow, sad love song, tells her the light will never go out.

  They move in time, as one, their steps almost indistinguishable, the line between them blurred.

  “We’re Bonnie and Clyde,” he says in her ear.

  And he is right, for this couple is fugitive from their other selves.

  “Bonnie and Clyde,” she repeats. Then adds, “Superman and Lois Lane.”

  “Romeo and Juliet,” he completes. “You and me against the world.”

  She feels him pull her tighter to him, feels his heart against hers; lower, feels his want, his need.

  “You do believe that, don’t you?” he asks urgently, his words tangling in her hair, winding around her ear.

  She nods, her head rubbing against his cheek.

  And then it happens.

  He slows the turn of their dance to a halt, lifts her head, her chin cupped in his hand, and, like Rhett Butler, like Romeo, he kisses her.

  And though they are still now, she feels the room spinning, a dizzy giddy dance, and they are at the centre of it all. She is breathless, swooning, almost, and in that moment she realizes she does not care if it is truly her he is kissing, or the gone girl, the girl before.

  She only wants for it never to stop.

  JULY 1988

  WHEN PENN wakes, he feels the crackle of condom wrapper beneath his skin and finds himself checking, like he used to. Who is she? Is she still here? But Bea is in her room, her door locked before the party was even over, and Stella, she is long gone back to Nunhead.

  “It’s not my fault,” he says to himself to see off the guilt that threatens to consume him. “I was drunk, it was nothing, it won’t happen again.”

  But by the next day he is squaring his conscience with alarming ease, dismissing Bea as if she were no more than a bothersome child, blaming her. She’s losing interest anyway, he thinks. She’s always wrapped up in some production or other, or private drama of her own making. But Stella isn’t too busy. Stella adores him. She hangs on his every word and actually cries when he mentions his father, who has only months, maybe weeks to live.

  So lost in this game of deceit is he, he doesn’t see that someone else is playing along too.

  For two days James keeps the secret, holds it close: a bright diamond hidden in his tight fist. But the exhilaration of knowing becomes unbearable, and the white-hot jewel begins to burn his skin.

  He sees the girl – Stella – in the refectory on Monday. A pathetic thing: obvious in her blondeness, in her cultivated fragility. He watches as she sits opposite Penn, brazenly pushes her foot against his while Bea chews methodically on a sandwich, engrossed in a script, oblivious to her all-too-public humiliation.

  On Thursday Penn misses a meeting, and Bea confronts him later in the studio in front of everyone. She demands to know where he’s been. Penn mumbles something about a solicitor, apologizes, cups her chin and kisses her, filling her with promises he cannot keep.

  And James can stand it no longer.

  The next day he finds Bea at the noticeboard in the theatre stairwell; she is looking for a message from Penn, fingering each slip of paper in turn, in the hope it will be for her.

/>   “Hey,” he says.

  She turns, startled. When she sees it is him, she doesn’t bother to hide the disappointment in her “Oh, hi.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not now.” She turns back to the board.

  “Yes, now.” He takes her hand and pulls her into a dressing room, sits her on the table so that she is backlit by a hundred bright bulbs; a star, the one and only. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like this by Penn and she doesn’t deserve what he’s going to tell her, but he has to tell her.

  “I saw him,” he says.

  “Saw who?” she is flippant, impatient, eyes flicking to the door in case he comes for her after all.

  “Penn.”

  “What? Now?” She checks the door again, confused.

  “No.” A coal of anger fuels the fire that she could be so bound to Penn, so beholden to a fool. And any shred of conflict over what he is about to do is gone. Because yes, what he is about to say will break her. But then he, the true hero, will pick her up, carry her home, heal her, be there for her, as he has been every day since he first saw her.

  “Not now,” he continues. “At the party. He— he was with someone, Bea.”

  She looks blankly at him, still angry, still confused.

  “Jesus, he was kissing someone else.” Then he softens again. He cannot be the villain; that is Penn, has to be Penn. “I’m so sorry.” He pulls her into his chest.

  And then it crystallizes, what he’s telling her, and her hands slam against his shoulders, pushing him sharply away.

  “No,” she says. “I don’t believe you.” But doubt is etched on her face, contorting it. Because she knows he is capable, knows his reputation.

  “Who then?” she sneers. “Go on, who?”

  “Stella. Stella French.” As if it could be another.

  There is silence, enough for four heartbeats. And then, “You’re lying,” she says.

  “No, I—”

  “You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous.”

  “Of him?”

  “Yes. Because everyone loves him… Because I love him.”

  He looks away so she can’t see that she has found a truth, or half-truth, because he does covet what Penn has. But he doesn’t want to be Penn; would rather be anyone than that cheat, that liar, that poor little rich boy.

  He lifts his head up again, emboldened by the thought. “You deserve better.”

  “What, like you?” she snaps.

  He says nothing. Lets her throw sticks and stones, a volley of accusations and insults. Because she doesn’t mean them. Can’t mean them. You always hurt those closest to you, don’t you? That’s what his ma used to say about his da. He doesn’t mean it, he loves you really. It’s only when Bea snatches her bag off the floor that he lets himself speak.

  “Where are you going?” he demands.

  “Away from you.”

  And she turns and slams the door behind her, and he’s left staring at the space where she had been, so that all he can see is an infinite number of Jameses reflected in this hall of mirrors. And they all wear the same face: a smile, a Cheshire-cat-that-got-the-cream grin. For despite her denials, despite her accusations and protestations, he knows he has won. Penn and Bea cannot survive this, and then she will be his.

  For the first time in a long time, he walks tall; elated, amplified by this power. He is cloaked in it, a great, technicolour thing.

  He has felt this triumph before; this rising, like a bright bird from the shadows. He was the hero then, too. But the villain was played not by Penn, nor even another boy, but by his own da.

  He bought the coat from Affleck’s Palace in Manchester; an Aladdin’s cave of discarded velveteen and dead men’s shoes, hung with the beguiling mix of patchouli and their long-departed owners. He’d seen it in the window on a meandering, time-wasting walk to the station and saved for four long weeks to afford it. Four weeks of Saturdays in the sweaty, yeasty heat of the bakery, and Sundays in the backroom of Grimshaw’s, sorting papers for delivery: the heavy, frowning sobriety of broadsheets for Mesnes Park; the wide-mawed, finger-wagging red tops for the terraces, his own amongst their number. But he was neither. He was more. And the coat was the start of it.

  The coat was dark brown suede, like the skin of a pony, and lined with silk paisley in startling reds and emeralds. And long – so long it threatened to graze the gum-spattered pavement, but then would rise miraculously with each dancing step. It was a dreamcoat. And inside it, he was Joseph, the prodigal son.

  His sisters said nothing when they saw it. For once their screeching aviary-like chatter was silenced, but their disdain was clear: Siobhan let her mouth gape open, a wodge of Hubba Bubba nestled pinkly on her tongue; Brigid signalled hers with a single, incredulous snort.

  But his da had something to say. His da always had something to say.

  “What the bleedin’ hell do you think you look like?” he demanded.

  Seamus looked down at himself in his finery, then back at the man in front of him, a red-faced mass in a yellowing vest and trousers held up by a piece of twine since the belt buckle gave way. I look like a prince, he thought, a king. Compared to you.

  “He looks like a poof,” declared Deirdre.

  Brigid went one better. “He looks like Mental Davey.”

  “Mental Davey,” chanted Brigid, her head bobbing from side to side. “Mental Davey, Mental Davey.”

  Siobhan joined in, buoyed both by Brigid’s daring and the sheer audacity of her brother. “Mental Davey, Mental Davey,” she repeated with delight. Because the coat was a joke. It had to be. No one dared to wear a coat like that in real life. Not round here.

  No one except Seamus.

  But their da wasn’t laughing. He was staring, disgust contorting his flaccid features.

  “That’s enough.” He slammed his hand down on the worktop, sending Siobhan’s plastic beaker of Ribena skittering over the Formica, a pool of purple inching incrementally towards the edge.

  The first drop of juice plopped satisfactorily onto the linoleum, but no one moved to mop it up. No one dared. The air was dense, the room heaving with possibility.

  Another drop.

  And then it broke.

  He stood. “Outside. Now,” he said.

  They went to the bottom of the garden. Just him and his da. The women shut in the house where they couldn’t scream or scold or stop him. Not that they’d try, Seamus thought.

  “Take it off,” his da commanded.

  He had toyed with resisting, with uttering a single defiant “No”. But his da had a foot and twenty-eight pounds on him; a bulk and temper that had once floored Garv O’Riley down the John Bull with two sharp jabs, one to the stomach, one to the head. Seamus was no match for that. Not even in his coat.

  Seamus slipped the garment off his shoulders and let it drop to the ground at his feet.

  And so it was his da who picked it up and dropped it in the brazier on top of the dead leaves and yesterday’s news, as if it were no more than a broken toy, an outgrown, worn-out thing.

  But it was more than that. It was the end and beginning of it all.

  “You know why I’m doing this, son?” said his da.

  Seamus knew why. But he said nothing. He had long since learned that silence was the easier option. The only option, if you valued your skin.

  His da didn’t wait for an answer anyway. “It’s for your own good. You’ll thank me one day.”

  But Seamus wouldn’t. He knew it then, even at the age of seventeen, that he would thank this hulking sack of ignorance and hatred for nothing. This working-class villain with his sex on a Saturday and church on Sunday. His life undistinguished, his soul untouched by ambition. Any treasure, any glimmer of brilliance, any hope of something more that shone in Seamus came from his ma. And she was gone. And soon he would be too.

  He could smell the petrol from the brazier now, its choking fumes seeping into the suede, staining it darker, sleeker, turning the linin
g from ruby to blood red.

  “I don’t know what you’re smiling at,” said his da.

  But Seamus couldn’t stop. Because it was funny, laughable. Because he didn’t need the coat. Because where he was going there were other coats, brighter, more fabulous, more powerful. Because it wasn’t the coat that burned bright anyway. It was him. He was on fire, cleansed, purified.

  The flames swallowed the fabric, but his flesh was intact. Out of the ashes James rose like a phoenix. Clean. New. Strong.

  AUGUST 1988

  BEA AND I had imagined what it would be like – to go to bed with a man; to wake up beside him the next morning. We’d pulled faces and vowed we never would; cited their stupidity, their animal hairiness, their bestial smell as reasons. And yet, just two years later, she’d already done that three times and I knew from her whispered conversations on the phone and louder ones in the toilets at school that she planned on doing it a lot more. But I was scared to finish anything I started. So I ran away from Rory Ellis after I let him kiss me behind the Lugger one night, his tongue poking wetly into my mouth like the eels we watched writhing in buckets on the dock. And ran away from Tom a year later.

  And yet, as I awake that morning, Penn’s bare body just inches from mine, the taste of him still on my tongue, the feel of him still on my skin, I understand, finally I understand. I watch as the sun dapples across his back, catches the edges of a tattoo on his shoulder – a bird ringed by fire – and I imagine his bravery to suffer the needle digging in and out of his flesh to carve the feathers and the flames, and then imagine the scene when his mother saw the result.

  The house is silent still. It’s a Saturday and there are no workers today, so there’s no one to disturb us. Not even her. She’s quiet now; there’s nothing left for her to say, not a whisper. For it’s done. I love him, just as she did, as much as she did. And he loves me.

  He stirs, stretches languidly, cat-like, then turns to me, pulls me to him. And so it begins again.