The Girl on the Pier

by Paul Tomkins

  “I think I know the photo you mean,” I say, eagerly. However, I’m not sure that I do. There is certainly an image in my mind’s eye, but probably because it’s just been planted there.

  “She once said ‘What I’m trying to describe is that it’s impossible to get out of your skin into somebody else’s – that somebody else’s tragedy is not the same as your own.’ I’ve always loved that idea. The exterior tells us so much about someone, but you always remain on the outside, a voyeur. It’s true, isn’t it? Her suicide just adds to the poignancy of her work.”

  “True artists feel such extreme emotions,” I say, sighing.

  “She also said, ‘I’ve never taken the picture I intended. They are always better or worse.’ For me, that’s the beauty of photography. You just never quite know what you’re going to get. Sometimes it’s a crushing disappointment, while at others there’s magic in the play of the light, or in the movement, or the expression, and the elements conspire to produce something beyond your wildest imagination. It takes your breath away. It really does.”

  “I wish I shared your passion about what you do. About what I do, I mean.”

  “Maybe I’m just lucky.” She says, shrugging her shoulders.

  * * *

  The bombshell is this: in just three days’ time, Black is leaving to spend a year backpacking around Europe. I’ve only just had her enter my life, and already the exit looms. Why hadn’t Jacob told me? I’d asked a few questions this afternoon, but he chose not to say anything. He didn’t even mention that she’d finished modelling for him.

  My chances of winning her affections – always slim – have all but evaporated. The need to do so sufficiently within a time frame of less than 72 hours renders them virtually redundant. With enough time, I might have stood a chance. But I’m not going to get her to change her mind about going away in less than half a week, nor do I see a way to make enough of an impact to have her hurry back to me upon her return.

  “So why are you going?” I ask, absentmindedly spinning dregs of beer around the bottom of a can.

  “I split up with my boyfriend, about a month ago. I needed to do something radical. And a year travelling around Europe with just a backpack seemed suitably drastic.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “By the end, everything, really. But mainly it was because he was so controlling.”

  “And women aren’t?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That I was?”

  “No! Just that I’ve yet to meet a woman who didn’t also want to be in control. Relationships are one big fight for the steering wheel. And if you do manage get a hold for a few minutes, she’ll be back-seat driving.”

  “Men’s egos can’t handle not being in total control, dictating everything.”

  “Mine can.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, right!”

  “Okay, look at it like this – I want my input to be valued. I mean, no one likes being out of control, do they? That sense of utter powerlessness. Okay, maybe there are a few people who like being entirely submissive in all aspects of a relationship – those who love being dominated. But I have no desire to be emasculated.”

  “So a woman having some semblance of control emasculates you?”

  “No, no, you’re getting me wrong. It’s about balance. It’s about being fifty-fifty.”

  “Nothing in life is ever fifty-fifty,” she says. “There’ll always be disparity.”

  “Well I can live with that. Fifty-five forty-five is okay. Even sixty-forty. I just can’t live with being told what to do all the time, or having that sense that she’s the one with all the power, the one who can make me crumble at a moment’s notice. I can’t handle eighty-twenty, ninety-ten.”

  I stop the thought there; let the next sentence fade to silence in my mind. I can feel that, for her, I would make an exception. I can see myself doing whatever she suggests. Anything. For the first time in my life I can envisage being a willing patsy.

  In truth, we men stand no chance. We are not prepared for what the heart can do. We grow up with images of needy women awaiting rescue: the helpless princess falling for the heroic knight in shining armour. But we are the weak, the vulnerable. We are the ones known to fall in love more quickly, and to have the real trouble letting go. We are the little boys, lost and abandoned. Women are the ones who always find the strength from somewhere. Women pull through.

  Black strikes up another cigarette, then re-ignites the conversation. “He also ran my confidence into the ground. Made me think no one else would want me, told me I was ugly. Told me I was worthless. Told me I was an embarrassment, that I should never leave the house.”

  I look at her. Puzzlement must be clear in my face; I feel my eyebrows pinch and squeeze together. How can anyone who looks as good as Black, and who is a normal human being – one who doesn’t eat her own flesh, drool, or defecate on street corners – be made to believe she is not what worthwhile men are looking for? Perhaps the problem with stunning beauty is the booming, metronomic clock that echoes inexorably at the back of the mind. I was attractive yesterday, but today it’s all over. And while she has personality, character, intelligence, their worth has been undervalued by too many men for too long. Even by this tender age. Twenty-one still means a decade, maybe close to two, of being praised mostly for her superficial beauty. Perhaps taking her seriously as a person is the key? But what’s the betting that the guy who gets to do just that also has to be tall, dark and handsome? Maybe I’m underestimating her.

  “He was obviously unable to handle you,” I say. “You weren’t the simpering woman he clearly needs. That’s all about him, not you.” I think she hears me, but her reply seems to have been percolating since before I spoke.

  “If I went out looking nice, he was paranoid. Anything sexy he’d say made me look fat. I ended up in baggy jumpers and saggy cardigans. More than a mere dab of make-up and he called me a tart. And God help me if I even spoke to another man. He’d have preferred me in an Islamic headscarf while out, but stockings and suspenders once home.”

  “That bad?” I say. However, already sparking in my mind is the bizarre vision of her in those stockings and suspenders, complete with accompanying burka.

  “You deserve so much better. But then again, you’re bright enough to know that.”

  She looks at me, and I think this comment has on some level hit home. But she just continues talking about her ex, and I’m not so sure. “You really don’t have to go to Europe to regain a sense of control,” I offer, once she’s finished.

  “I know I don’t have to. There are other ways, I know that. But it’s a chance to have full independence, and a chance to take some interesting photos. I want to get away from taking pictures in a totally safe environment, an environment where nothing really surprises me or tests me. I want the pictures I take to really mean something, to have something at stake. A challenge. I won’t know anyone, and don’t speak any other languages beyond a few GCSE words. I plan to meet briefly with a friend in Prague at Christmas, but otherwise I’ll be travelling alone.”

  “But is that independence? Won’t you simply be more dependent on those who speak English? Those who…” I’m not quite sure where I’m going with this, or if I actually believe what I’m saying. I just want to form an argument to seed the idea of keeping her here. My words trail off.

  “I don’t agree. I will have to stand on my own two feet, rely upon my wits, far more than I do now.”

  “But can’t you exert a level of control and independence within your life, not create a radical new life to fit the idea?”

  “It’s still my life. It’s still me who’s going to be overseas. I’m not changing my identity. Everything I experience will shape the person I am.”

  “I guess I’m just checking that you’re being true to yourself, not doing something extreme for the sake of it. Not running away.”

  She laughs. “Well, I guess that’s my business, not yours.”

  Not my b
usiness? If only she knew. I didn’t ask for her to become my business – or go looking for it – but at this moment in time I feel like Black is the only business I have.

  We fall silent, hugging our knees. Or rather, she is clasping hers, with such effortless grace, and I find myself mirroring her movements. My knees rest awkwardly around my chin, shins exposed above socks I regret choosing to wear. What does it say about a grown man to have cotton cartoon characters peering out from above his shoes? I see them as ironic, but a woman with the style of Black – with her thrift shop élan – would surely find them rather sad. I readjust my trousers, in the hope she doesn’t notice. And while I’d of course like the opportunity, the prospect of her seeing my matching boxer shorts leaves me feeling uneasy.

  Still, I’m nothing if not a dreamer.

  After the extended period of silence, which, to my pleasant surprise, proves entirely comfortable – both of us temporarily stargazing – Black begins to quiz me with real gusto.

  “So what do you do?”

  “Do?”

  “For a living.”

  “Well, at the moment, temporary work. In between careers.”

  “Careers?”

  “Well, maybe careers is the wrong word. I dropped out of art college, when I realised it just wasn’t for me. I felt too much of an also-ran amongst the bright young things – all those gifted Fine Artists like Jacob. I then managed to get into medical school. I’d always been fascinated by the human body, enjoyed life drawing and so on, and my mother was a nurse, so it all kinda fit. But turned out that wasn’t right for me either and I just didn’t have what it takes for all those years of study. Right now I’m temping in London, with an insurance company.”

  “I knew from a young age what I was going to do.”

  “Well, I knew what I was interested in. But I just wasn’t exceptional enough to be an artist or illustrator. Not creatively, at least. And in a very creative environment, I felt like an impostor.”

  “Why an impostor? I take it you’d earned your place there?”

  “I had, I suppose. But maybe I was the one who scraped in by the skin of his teeth.”

  “Have you considered forensic art?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Drawing people for the police, that kind of thing.”

  “No, not at all. What makes you say that?”

  “A friend at uni was interested. Apparently there’s no official course anywhere, but you can find specific workshops with existing artists. How much of your course did you do?”

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Medical.”

  “A couple of years. Well, almost.”

  “So you must have a decent grasp of the basics?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you must be able to draw reasonably well to have got onto a Fine Art degree?”

  “Well, yes. Technically I’m fine. I just wasn’t expressive enough.”

  “Well then. Why not give it a go?” This last point is put to me with an intonation that suggests I am already procrastinating, having not moved a muscle in the handful of seconds since she suggested the idea.

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, it sounds ideal – the perfect combination of your interests.”

  “It is. But I’m sure it’s not as simple as all that.”

  I gaze up at the stars once again. Isn’t that where you’re supposed to find your future written? Its patterns make no more sense to me than Cantonese lettering on a glowing lantern.

  Black moves through the doorless metal frame, out onto the sturdy balcony overlooking a broken wooden shed, beyond which nothing but the Channel. The best sea view in Brighton; only, not one you’d pay for.

  I move to join her.

  “Cigarette?” she enquires, holding the crumpled packet toward me, a solitary stick protruding.

  “No thanks, I don’t.”

  “Any reason?”

  “No. I just don’t. Tried once, as a kid, and that was it.” But all of a sudden it seems like a good time to start; to just do.

  She flicks back the lid of her silver Zippo. The noise it makes is a genuine clink. As the gas leaks before igniting, I take a deep breath; the smell is beautiful and comforting against the night air, as if the two ingredients, when mixed, form a perfect recipe. The tip of the cigarette gleams orange, and again the initial aroma of burning tobacco – mixed with menthol – is soothing.

  “They’re not coming, are they?” she says, confirming what I’m sure we’ve both long-since concluded. The shoreline is still fairly packed, but it must be around closing time. To the revellers at last orders we form two indiscernible shapes in the distance, whose earlier attempts at calling were drowned out by the waves and the traffic.

  Black has a look – a double-take stare – where she fixes you with her eyes, relents momentarily, and then fixes you once again, only more intensively; checking to see if you are laughing with her, or at her.

  “What’s that?” she asks, breaking from one such stare to point at the chain around my neck.

  “A St Christopher,” I say, pulling the small silver medallion from under my t-shirt. “My mother gave it to me. Supposed to give you good luck on your travels.”

  “And has it?”

  “I guess so. I’m still here, after all.”

  “So, tell me about your family.”

  “It won’t lighten the mood, believe me.”

  “How so?”

  “Parents divorced when I was a baby. Mother killed herself when I was six. Dad died when I was eight. No brothers or sisters. Brief time in foster care. Then went to live with my aunt, who never really wanted me. Not exactly your model childhood.”

  “Seriously?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

  “Not exactly something to joke about, is it?”

  “No, but... Wow. Such a tough run of events.”

  “Well, at least I didn’t end up in borstal. Or worse.”

  “Why did she kill herself? – your mum. I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I honestly don’t know. She didn’t leave a note. I didn’t know her well enough, and no one really explained things to me. I took it very personally, though. Blamed myself.”

  “You poor thing.”

  Being poor, and being a thing, are not exactly labels I am seeking out. But together, in the way she says them, I feel validated. She puts her hand on my forearm, for just the briefest of moments. Even though she swiftly removes it I can still feel its heat.

  The wind picks up, as a swift breeze gusts in off the water. Dust whips from the pier, pirouetting around us.

  “Ow!” she moans.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Something in my eye,” she says, rubbing furiously.

  “Do you want me to have a look?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” She tries to open the eye, then rubs it again. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind?” She turns her head to the moonlight, pulls down her eyelid. I draw closer, in a kind of false intimacy. She reveals to me a section of moist, private flesh. With my thumb and forefinger I help elevate the upper lid, as she darts her eyeball from side to side. Eventually a tiny foreign object, possibly a splinter of wood, swims into view. With the tip of my little finger I dab it, and it transfers itself onto my skin. There’s the briefest pause as our eyes lock, and then in unison we both turn away. I flick the speck from my finger and we return to staring out to sea.

  “What was your first broken heart?” she asks, turning back to face me.

  “Genevieve. Genevieve Frazer. I was almost fifteen. She came to stay with me and my aunt in the summer of 1981. I’d known her before then, but a lot earlier, when we were both just kids. That summer was different. She was… exotic. There was something about her that just got to me on some deep level.”

  “How did she break your heart?”

  I laugh, r
uefully. “By never knowing that she even had possession of it. Actually, scrap that – she must have known. She knew how to play me. But maybe she didn’t know how deep my feelings ran. Thinking about it, maybe she doesn’t qualify after all.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, don’t you have to have been in a relationship with someone to be truly heartbroken?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says, slowly. “People can damage you in different ways. Ultimately, it’s all down to the strength of what you feel.”

  “I mean, it’s not like we didn’t have any kind of relationship. I didn’t merely watch her from a distance. We hung out together. I knew her. But if you’ve never been intimate with that person, then, well, obviously you’ve never shared a full connection. If you’ve never owned something, you cannot truly lose it.”

  “Owned?” she says.

  “In the sense that they are your girlfriend or boyfriend. Your wife or husband. I don’t mean you possess them like an object.”

  “Ah, okay. Let me ask you this – have you ever been more heartbroken than that first one with …?”

  “Genevieve.”

  “Genevieve.”

  “Probably not. I’ve obviously had proper relationships, but nothing felt quite as raw as it did that first time. I think I’d built this future for us in my head. I never properly thought it through, thinking back, but I felt it.”

  “Then she was your first heartbreak.”

  “You’re probably right. So, what about you?”

  “I had a few minor crushes, but I never really got all girly about pop stars or boys at school. Some of my friends would get so obsessed with someone, but I never really got that. I was always fairly tall at school, so boys in my year looked a bit odd to me, and they always seemed immature. And I didn’t go for that whole ‘older boys are so cool’ thing – but they were less irritating than ones my age. Anyway, when I was sixteen there was this one older boy, Simon.”