by Jenny Colgan
‘There you are, girl,’ said Stefano.
I looked more closely at the reflection. It wasn’t quite the same girl as before. But she was all right.
Stefano gave me a kiss on the cheek and I stepped out onto the streets with a spring in my step and a bounce in my locks.
‘What did you do?’ said Eck.
‘Got my hair done for your degree show. Don’t you like it?’
I swirled the pale, corn-coloured shiny sheet around as I did a twirl.
‘Did it cost a lot of money?’
‘All of it,’ I said. ‘But it’s OK, wedding season is upon us. I reckon I’m going to be quite busy.’
Eck looked worried. ‘I was hoping we could save some of that money towards the deposit,’ said Eck.
Instantly I felt terrible. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Eck,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to look nice for your event. It’s the first time I’ve had any money in . . . well, a long time. I’m so sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Eck, slightly sullenly. ‘Your hair is much more important than our home together.’
‘It’s not!’ I said, desperate to placate him. It was the first row we’d ever had. ‘I’m so sorry. I won’t spend money again without mentioning it to you.’
‘Well, I’m not the police,’ he said. ‘It’s your money. I just thought our future might be as important to you as it is to me.’
‘It is!’ I said. ‘It really is.’
But he’d left the room. I put it down to all the pressure he was under with the show.
‘Hey, blondie,’ said Cal, swinging by with a mysterious object shrouded by a sheet under his arm. ‘Looking good.’
Eck couldn’t be cross with me for long, thank God. He came and kissed me and told me I looked beautiful and we headed out for the show. James emerged from his room last of all as we were clattering down the stairs. He was wearing full dress uniform.
‘No way!’ I said. ‘Look at you!’
James shrugged. ‘Actually, I have to wear it. I’m on active service now. Leaving in the morning.’
‘You’re kidding. Where are you going?’
‘The Balkans, I think. Heating up again. At least it’s not Iraq.’
‘You’re leaving tomorrow?’
He nodded. I gave him a huge hug. Our house was breaking up so much quicker than I’d thought.
‘Don’t get killed,’ I ordered him strictly.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘I refuse to get killed before I’ve seen your tits.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘You’ve just guaranteed it’s never going to happen.’
‘Confound it!’
The second shock came in the cab. Wolverine was wearing a full graduation gown, complete with hat.
‘We’re dropping Wolverine off,’ explained Cal. ‘He’s not coming to the view. It’s his graduation day.’
‘Graduating in what?’ I said, looking after him as he scampered down the steps. ‘Forage Studies?’
‘His PhD in Industrial Chemistry,’ said Cal. ‘He’s a super-brain, actually. Got an amazing research job at Cambridge coming up. They think he’s found something harder than a diamond or something.’
‘No way,’ I said, laughing.
‘Good at chemistry,’ said Cal. ‘Human skills, not so much.’
‘Bloody hell.’ I stared after him.
Eck was wearing his interview suit and looking nervous. ‘I shouldn’t really bother coming,’ he said. ‘I don’t care about this now.’
I knew he’d done almost no work on it in the last month or so, because he’d mostly been in bed with me.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, staring fiercely out of the window. ‘I don’t care anyway.’
Cal was also uncharacteristically nervous. He kept shooting glances at me.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Does this dress look weird in daylight?’
‘No, no,’ he said, fumbling with his hands. Then both the boys lapsed into silence.
The college was a large red-brick building, packed with contemporary bits and pieces (if you saw a fire extinguisher you had to be careful in case it was actually a priceless piece of conceptual work), full of terrifyingly weird-looking girls and smelling of pottery. And it was buzzing. There were press, arty people wearing bizarre hats, patrons of the art scene who flitted in and out secretively, trying to gauge the work without being noticed by their rivals. They would, I assumed, all have been in earlier anyway, making their choices and planning who was going to be the next big thing, just as people would be doing at degree shows and fashion shows and music shows and end of year plays all across the country right now, as everyone dashed about looking for the star.
All the students were nervous, I could tell. And the work . . . there were photographs of people in and out of focus; of women on beaches looking sad as the sky turned green; videos of people doing things slowly and discordantly; a smashed piano looking miserable in the middle of the room; paintings of pigs eviscerating humans and slide shows of peculiar tents. It was weird, but rather fabulous. There was a painting made entirely of apostrophes and semi-colons. I liked it very much. It already had a red sticker beside it indicating it was sold. But I couldn’t see Eck’s . . . oh yes, there they were.
‘Indicating life’ the first one was called. It was a wrought-iron spider next to lots of wrought-iron eggs.
‘“This work is about the circle of life even in ugliness, pain and despair”,’ I read off the card next to it.
‘Yeah, they help us write that stuff,’ said Eck gruffly. His work was rather tucked away in a corner. One of his bigger spiders, one with red legs, was a bit more prominent, careering down one wall. ‘A great attack in the vengeance of a burning world’ it was called. It hadn’t sold either.
‘The spider thing,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I wish they didn’t put so much stress on representing your inner consciousness. I wish they’d just told me to paint pictures of horses and flower-covered bridges.’
‘It looks brilliant,’ I said, kissing him. I remembered him when I had moved in to the flat. So cheerful and always busy; smelling a little of his welding kit. What had happened to him? Now he was constantly checking his mobile, to hear about a job, or checking me, to make sure I was OK. Was it my fault? Had I dragged him down, or was life doing it?
I left Eck standing forlornly by his spiders and moved through into the second gallery. I wandered through a little garden of sculptures. I stopped to look at them more closely. Then more closely again. The works were of feet and hands, sculpted in the purest of pure white marble. There were two hands holding a mop. A foot, with chipped nail varnish next to a part of a toilet bowl. They looked like pieces broken from some large work, but somehow they were complete and beautifully made of themselves, despite their lowly subject matter. It wasn’t just that, though. The more I looked at them, the more I realised that the hands and feet looked familiar - they were mine.
I didn’t even have to look at the label, although I did. ‘Cal Hartley’, it said. And neatly, beside each one, ‘Cinderella i, Cinderella ii, Cinderella iii and so on. Each of the pieces included, somewhere, a lock of long, blonde hair. And every single sculpture had a red dot on it. I could hardly breathe.
‘What do you think?’
Cal’s voice came out of the spotlit shadows. It didn’t, for once, sound sarcastic or amused. He genuinely wanted to know.
‘Mad,’ I said. Then I reconsidered and turned round. ‘They’re beautiful,’ I said. ‘You’ve sold them all.’
‘I’ve kept one or two,’ he said.
‘Is it me?’
He rubbed his quiff in a nervous way. ‘Well, no, there was this other posh bird who came in with nothing and did the cleaning.’
A chap wearing black horn-rimmed glasses came up.
‘Very nice, very nice,’ he said. ‘The classical and the quotidian. Perfect little pieces.’ He shook Cal’s hand and gave him his card. ‘Come see me soon
, please.’
He glanced at me and then at the pieces, one of which had the tailend of long pale hair resting on its heels. ‘Is this your muse?’
I tried to look modest.
‘You look familiar . . . Ah, well. Look after him,’ he said. ‘He has a bright future ahead.’
I could barely glance at Cal, who was staring at the card in his hand as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
‘Who was that?’ I asked when he’d gone.
‘Sloan . . . only the most influential guy on the London art scene . . . oh my God! Sophie, God, do you know what this means?’
I shook my head, but his utter joy was bubbling over, and he picked me up and spun me round in a big bear hug.
‘It means . . . I don’t know what it means, but it’s exciting and an adventure.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ I said, meaning it, all our bickering dissolved suddenly. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Cal.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, completely choked. ‘Thank you.’
Just then Eck came running up. ‘Where have you been?’ he said, a little impatiently. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Ernst and Young just rang.’
‘Who?’ I said, distracted.
‘The accountancy firm. You know.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes.’
‘They’ve got a training position for me! It’s opened up early! I can start next month and sit my exams with them and everything.’
‘That’s . . . that’s great,’ I said. ‘Are you pleased?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’
‘OK,’ I said. Then I went up and tried to give him a kiss but slightly misjudged it and caught the side of his nose. ‘That’s great! Brilliant! Good news all round.’
Eck took in Cal’s little line of pieces, glowing in the low light.
‘Well done,’ he said honestly, taking in the stickers. ‘You deserve it. You worked hard for it.’
‘And the same for you,’ said Cal, staring steadily at me all the time. I felt like a washing machine inside.
‘Hey, is this Sophie?’ came James’s loud voice. ‘Why could-n’t you have done one that showed her tits?’
Eventually, after there had been lots of congratulations and farewells and excited squeals from the other students (and some envious looks - Cal had obviously been the hit of the show), we wanted to leave for a drink in the union so, arms linked, we made for the door. Just as we did so, James nearly tripped over an elderly couple who were staring at Eck’s spider.
‘Sorry,’ said James.
‘That’s all right, young man,’ said the old chap, turning round. He was dressed in an out-of-date double-breasted brown suit and a slightly odd blue tie. ‘I’m looking for Alec Swinson . . .’
Then he caught sight of us.
‘Alec! There you are! We’ve been looking for you everywhere. ’
‘Oh, yes,’ mumbled Eck. ‘Hello, Mum. Hello, er . . . Dad.’
Dad?
‘Did you just say . . .’ I started, thinking, it must be his stepdad but Eck had moved over to kiss what were obviously his parents - you could see it a mile off. His father’s hair may be grey now but it fell over his forehead in exactly the same place; they even had the same stance.
‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ Eck was saying.
‘Would we miss it?’ said his mum, who looked nice, and a merry sort. ‘It was in the paper.’
‘Can’t get rid of us that easily,’ said his dad. ‘Not after three years of this, eh? And are these your friends?’
I smiled, struck numb inside.
‘Eh, kind of,’ said Eck. His face was puce, a mixture of confusion and upset. ‘But I think they have to go.’
‘But Eck . . .’ I said, looking at him, trying to get some understanding.
Seeing the situation was helpless, Eck grabbed me and pulled me over to the door.
‘Sophie . . .’
‘But . . . but . . .’ I couldn’t get a hold on my emotions at all. ‘But that’s your dad!’
Eck buried his face in his hands. ‘I know.’
‘But . . . how could you have been so wicked? It was wicked, Eck. Wicked to do that.’
‘I know, I know . . . I was just trying to . . . trying to get you to like me.’
‘But I already liked you!’
‘I thought you liked Cal. I was . . . I was being a fucking idiot. I said it out of desperation, and then, well, it just kind of snowballed, and I couldn’t tell you the truth, because I’d told such a stupid lie.’
‘But did you think I’d never find out?’
‘I just kind of put it out of my mind . . . I hoped that when we were living together maybe you’d love me enough . . .’
I looked at his sweet face. ‘I would have loved you enough.’
Eck swallowed heavily. ‘Does that mean . . .’
I didn’t answer.
‘Of course it does,’ he said. ‘ Of course. Christ. God, how can I have been so stupid?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, frozen, hardly able to speak.
‘Alec?’ the voice came from the next room.
‘I think you should go to them,’ I said, as firmly as I could, trying to hold back the tears.
‘Sophie?’
I shook my head.
‘Please. Go.’
‘What happened?’ said Cal as I stumbled into the bar. James went to fetch us some drinks. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Why won’t Eck introduce you to his parents?’
‘Because,’ I said, and I nearly couldn’t say the words. ‘Because he isn’t meant to have two parents.’
James handed me a glass of wine, then retired. I took a large slug.
‘Oh God. Cal. He told me . . . he told me his dad was dead.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He told me . . . he told me his dad was dead, and that he knew how I felt. But Cal . . .’ I felt like I was five years old. I couldn’t get the words out at all. ‘My dad really is dead!’
And I burst into huge miserable sobs, so loud the fashionable people around us moved away. Cal wrapped me up in his long arms.
‘Oh, oh, darling. Are you sure you can’t have been mistaken and he meant someone else?’
I shook my head as he found us a couple of chairs out of sight.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I know how nuts Eck is about you. He’s been crazy about you from the second you arrived. Oh God. I mean, he would have said anything to get on with you.’
‘But that’s . . . that’s like the worst thing he could possibly say.’
‘I know. I know, sweetheart. He was so excited to meet you . . . thought you were way out of his league. He must have got carried away. I think a life with you - glamour and money and all that. He was dead into it. And you, of course.’
I shook my head, the tears dripping all the way to my lap.
‘That must be why he kept pestering me to go and look for the money or talk to the lawyers, or all that bullshit about the jewellery. Maybe he thinks there’s money in it.’
‘I don’t . . . I’m sure it’s not like that.’
I thought about my gentle, sweet Eck. I’m sure that’s not what he meant. But he had told a lie, and it had just spiralled more and more and out of control.
‘Oh no. I miss him so much.’
‘Eck?’
‘God, no. My dad. I miss him, Cal. He’d never have let me get taken in like this.’
‘I know,’ said Cal.
I sat bolt upright. ‘You don’t, Cal. That’s the thing. Nobody does. Except my stepmother, and I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.’
‘What? What could be so awful?’
‘He called me, Cal. When he was having his heart attack. He called me, and I didn’t want to talk to him. And I could have saved him, and I didn’t, because I was at a party. I killed him, Cal! It was all my fault.’
Cal took my face in his hands. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Sophie. I promise. It wasn’t your fault. A heart attack - they’re ter
rible, terrible things. There’s nothing you could have done.’
‘I could have saved him.’
‘You couldn’t have. You couldn’t have.’
Then he took me in his arms and held me very, very tightly. For a long time.