‘I got knocked over by a bike. I’m at home now . . .’
‘Have you called an ambulance?’
‘I don’t need an ambulance. I just need some painkillers.’
‘I’m coming over. Will you be able to let me in?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m on my way.’
He hangs up and I lie back on the bed, trying to breathe normally. A sudden chill goes through me and I pull a sheet over my bare legs, finding comfort in its lightweight cocoon.
I must’ve dozed off because it seems only a couple of minutes have passed when he rings the bell. Wrapped in the sheet, I shuffle to the entryphone to buzz him in.
‘Shit, Krissy, you look awful.’
‘Thank you.’ I attempt a smile as I crawl back to bed.
‘We should really go to the hospital, have you X-rayed. You could have some broken ribs.’
‘I don’t fancy spending the next ten hours at A&E. I want to be home, Marcus.’
Marcus lets out a sigh of disapproval.
‘At least let me have a look at it.’
‘Suit yourself, doctor.’
‘Believe it or not, I do have the St John Ambulance first-aid certificate. A valid one.’
‘You do?’
‘Yep. There is a lot that you don’t know about me, young lady. May I?’
He perches himself beside me on the bed and gestures at my T-shirt. I nod. Gently, he pulls up my T-shirt, stopping just below my breasts. He sucks his breath in, looking at my ribs.
‘Ouch. It does look nasty. You sure you don’t want to go to A&E?’
‘Positive.’
I pull the T-shirt down, suddenly uncomfortable with his closeness. He must’ve picked up on my discomfort, because he jumps up and begins to rummage through his canvas bag.
‘Ta-dah!’ He pulls out a couple of blister packs. ‘The old faithful, Paracetamol, plus Ibuprofen. Take two of each, with water, right now. Just in case this doesn’t work, I’ve brought Tramadol as well.’
He brings me a glass of tap water and watches me swallow the pills. ‘Oh, and for later’ – he reaches into his bag again – ‘some Arnica cream.’
He moves one of the kitchen chairs closer to the bed and sits down.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Reluctantly, I start telling him about my unsuccessful escapade to Leonard Street. But he seems to be listening with such undivided attention that I get into my story. When I reach the encounter with the cyclist I make it sound like a collision, too embarrassed to admit I pushed him.
‘Bloody hell. How awful.’
I nod in silence.
‘I wonder if there are any cameras over there. Maybe we should report it.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘It’s not! Let me call the police.’
‘No, Marcus, drop it, please. I’ve had my share of dealing with them . . .’
‘Oh God, how stupid of me, I’m so sorry . . . It was such a shock . . . If there’s anything we can – I can . . .’
I take a deep breath and regret it instantly, the sharp pain from my bruised ribcage shooting up my arm.
‘Thanks. It’s been pretty awful. And I’m not coping well, to be honest . . . I still don’t want to accept that he’s . . . I mean – that it’s happened . . .’
I bite my lip, fighting back the tears. Marcus reaches out and touches my hand.
‘How can I help?’ he asks quietly.
‘You can’t bring him back, can you?’ I try to smile through the tears.
He looks at me in silence, then lowers his head.
‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’ He jumps up and begins to fuss around with the kettle, his back to me. He brings a mug over, then settles down on the floor by the bed, his back against the mattress.
‘We’re splitting up,’ he says quietly and I’m convinced I’ve misheard him.
‘Sorry?’
He puts his face in his hands, exhaling loudly.
‘Marcus?’
Eventually he lowers his hands, staring ahead.
‘Yes, you’ve heard me right, we’re splitting up.’
‘But why?’ Sophie and Marcus are the happiest, best-matched couple I’ve ever known.
‘I’m sorry, Krissy, I shouldn’t be telling you this, you’re Sophie’s friend . . . She’ll tell you when she’s ready . . .’
He makes a move to get up.
‘No, wait! Tell me, what on earth is going on?’
He leans back against the bed, still not looking at me.
‘We just . . . can’t be together any more.’
‘Have you met someone else?’
‘Who, me?’ He chuckles joylessly. ‘No.’
‘Sophie?’ The disbelief is evident in my tone.
‘No, no. It’s not that.’
‘What then? I don’t understand.’
He just sits there and I’m too shocked to say anything. Eventually he starts talking, in a quiet, dispassionate monotone.
‘Remember we tried for a baby a few years ago?’
Yes, I do remember, it was a very traumatic time in their relationship, the period during which, I thought, they became even closer to each other.
‘It turns out I have a very low sperm count. We tried all sorts of treatments, but as you know . . .’ He sighs. ‘I tried to convince her we could use donor’s sperm, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She nearly bit my head off when I suggested adoption. She got it into her head that it’s nature’s way of telling us we’re incompatible. She believes in this theory . . . histocompatibility, it’s quite complicated, but she’s latched on to one aspect of it, scent attractiveness . . . that we’re basically drawn to our potential mates by sense of smell. She told me she never liked my smell, that she actually detests it. And that’s why, according to her, we can’t have children . . .’
He falls silent and I’m trying to get my head around what I’ve just heard. Marcus clears his throat and goes on.
‘And suddenly children became a taboo subject and she threw herself into the catering business. You know the company is hers? I’m just . . . an employee.’
I didn’t know.
‘I thought it was her way of healing, you know, distracting herself with work, so tried to help as much as I could, got up at six every day, made breakfast for her, cooked, cleaned, took her suits to the dry-cleaners, waited for her with dinner on the table every night, while she built her career. The company has become . . . an extension of her personality. Every morning she leaves me a list of things to do. And there’s hell if something on the list doesn’t get done.’
‘But the house in France . . .’
‘Oh, that was her idea. I think she genuinely thought it would somehow salvage our relationship, give us both an equal footing. But it never would’ve worked. Things have gone too far . . .’ His voice cracks with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry, Krissy, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this . . . You’re her best friend. It’s just . . . I lost touch with all my mates a long time ago. All our friends are Sophie’s friends. I have no one to talk to . . .’ he ends in a whisper.
‘God, Marcus . . .’ I reach out and touch the top of his head, his thinning black curls surprisingly soft under my fingers. He lets out a quiet sob.
We sit like this for a long time, my hand on his head, a reassuring gesture a mother would soothe a distressed child with. Eventually I feel I have to break the silence.
‘I don’t know what to say . . . I had no idea . . .’
‘But you do believe me?’ There’s pleading, almost desperation, in his voice.
‘Of course I do.’
Do I? Even as I reassure him, my mind is throwing up a series of questions. Is it really possible I have never noticed that things were so bad between them? How could I not have been aware my sweet best friend has turned into some kind of harridan?
Marcus turns and looks up at me. I notice how much he’s aged. His skin is pasty and there are deep wrinkles around his mouth. He sees m
y doubt.
‘You don’t, do you?’
‘I do, Marcus, it’s just – crazy . . .’
‘You think I’m crazy?’
‘No, not at all. You’re one of the sanest people I’ve ever known . . .’ So is Sophie, for that matter.
‘I should go.’ He is scrambling to his feet.
‘No, wait.’ I don’t want him to leave while mistrust still hangs in the air. As I reach out, trying to catch his hand, I knock over the untouched mug of tea he’d put on the bed beside me. The lukewarm brown liquid spills on the sheets, making everything wet.
‘Shit!’
‘No, don’t move, I’ve got it!’
He picks up the mug and dashes to the kitchen. He returns with a big wad of paper towels and starts mopping up the tea. I feel ridiculous just sitting here, watching him fuss about.
‘I’m sorry Krissy, I’m such a clumsy oaf.’
‘No, you’re not. It was my fault anyway.’
‘I leave a trail of disasters behind me, wherever I go . . .’
‘You don’t, Marcus. You are a sweet and considerate man.’ His helplessness is making me want to reassure and comfort him.
‘You really think so?’ There is something needy in his question.
He drops to his knees by the bed and reaches out to touch my thigh. His hand feels scorching on the damp sheet clinging to my bare skin. I remember I’ve taken my jeans off and I’m practically naked under the sheet, apart from a pair of low-rise M&S bikini knickers. He throws me a quick glance, half challenging, half asking my permission. I close my eyes.
I haven’t been expecting this. A shiver runs through my body as he slowly pulls the sheet off me. We shouldn’t be doing this. But a part of me wants it, the feeling of total abandon that would dull the pain, the desperate sense of loneliness. My eyes shut and my heart pounding, I wait for his next move. And there it is, a light caress to start, his fingers sliding underneath the bikini elastic, his hot breath on my skin, the stubble on his chin grazing the inside of my thigh. I gasp at the first touch of his tongue, then grab his hair and pull him closer, raising my hips.
I’ve always found cunnilingus a bit of a let-down, ranging from perfunctorily clumsy to downright awful. Most of my male lovers have been hopeless fumblers in that respect, Anton being the only notable exception. Marcus is definitely trying. But my initial arousal has evaporated under his touch. The relentless persistence of his tongue is, well, relentless. I let him go on for a bit longer and then fake something that could pass for a half-hearted orgasm. And then he’s gone. The bathroom door slams shut. Self-consciously, I reach for the crumpled sheet to cover myself. The sudden movement brings back the pain in my ribs, dulled for a while by the painkillers. Marcus spends a long time in the bathroom and I choose not to dwell on what he’s doing there. When he eventually emerges, his hair is wet and there are damp patches on his shirt and trousers. Without looking at me he picks up his bag and heads for the door. He stops, runs his hand through his hair, clears his throat.
‘I’ll be off then . . .’
‘Bye, Marcus.’
This time he closes the door quietly and I hear him charging down the stairs.
I lie under the damp sheet, disgusted with myself. What has just happened? Why did I let him touch me? I should’ve stopped him, I should’ve diffused the tension, laughed it off. But I didn’t. I could say I felt sorry for myself, that grieving for Anton had made me needy and reckless. I could blame the accident, say I was dazed by painkillers, but I know deep down there’s no excuse for my behaviour. No matter how pitiful the fumble was, it was also selfish, sleazy and stupid. Unbelievably stupid.
23
I wake up with a heavy head. When I try to get up, the pain in my side knocks the breath out of me. I remember staggering out of bed in the middle of the night to take one of Marcus’s Tramadol tablets. And then I remember what happened yesterday and drop back on the pillow with a moan. A wave of self-loathing makes me hot and sweaty.
Oh, Anton, none of it would’ve happened if you were still here . . .
I’m suddenly aware of how disgusting I feel, wrapped in stained sheets, sticky and reeking of BO. Gritting my teeth, I push myself up and put my feet on the floor. The loft spins round me. I wait for the wave of nausea to subside, then slowly get up. My ribs pulsate with a dull ache and my legs are trembling, but at least I’m up. I wrap myself in the crumpled sheet and shuffle towards the kitchen counter, honing in on the coffee machine. With clumsy fingers, I drop a fresh coffee pod into it and press the button. I swallow the first sip of Pure Arabica and close my eyes, waiting for it to do its job. After a while the shaky feeling inside subsides and the synapses in my brain begin to fire lazily. The first coherent thought of the day is not reassuring. What have I done? I sit down heavily on the bar stool by the kitchen counter. If only I could undo what happened last night. And more to the point – what should I do now? Own up and atone? Bury my head in the sand and wait? Do nothing? No, I can’t. I owe it to Sophie. I have to tell her. But how? I can’t even begin to imagine the confrontation. What will be the fallout from that stupid lapse of judgement? Will Marcus confess and beg Sophie’s forgiveness? Perhaps he’s done so already and she’s sitting in their cosy kitchen right now devastated by the double betrayal, by her partner and her best friend. Or perhaps she’s fuming with anger, smashing up their Mikasa dinnerware? Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe he hasn’t told her. None of the scenarios dispel the heavy feeling of guilt lodged in my ribcage, just below the sternum.
The coffee has done nothing to get rid of the relentless buzzing in my head. I lean forward until my burning forehead touches the cool surface of the marble worktop. The cold compress brings some comfort but the buzzing is still there, a persistent high-pitched whine like a swarm of furious bees. I straighten up, massaging the back of my neck.
The buzzing.
It’s not in my head, it’s coming from the outside. I slowly turn on the stool to face the window. My eyes take a while to adjust to the sunny brightness and then I see it. A shiny white, crab-like object with four arms, each crowned with a small rotor, hovering outside. Transfixed, I approach the window. The object shifts its position, as if aware of my presence. I know exactly what it is. It’s the most covetable item on Anton’s wish list of digital toys. A DJI Phantom 3 Quadcopter. In other words, a drone. Not any old drone, but one of the most intelligent, powerful and sexy flying machines with its own integrated, stabilized camera, which both Anton and I drooled over at the Photo & Imaging Exhibition last year. We didn’t buy it in the end, but Anton kept fantasizing for months about a street-art project that would involve the use of a Phantom drone. And there it is, right outside my window, almost within arm’s reach.
I take a step towards it and it shifts again, in a quick, insect-like jerk. The black eye of its camera is trained on me and I’m suddenly aware that it’s watching me. OK, I know, it is just a sophisticated digital device without will or curiosity, but whoever is flying it through their iPad or mobile phone is definitely watching me. Would Mindy be so persistent? Or technologically savvy? I wrap the sheet tighter around myself and quickly scan the windows in the building opposite. They all seem dark and empty. Where is its pilot?
The drone is on the move again, this time rising higher, and I notice a strange contraption attached to the bottom of it, below its camera. This is not part of the standard drone equipment. I narrow my eyes, trying to work out what it is, when it suddenly squirts some red liquid in my direction. Instinctively I jolt back, trip over the edge of the sheet I’m wrapped in and fall backwards with a cry. My ribcage seizes in a vice of pain. I can’t breathe. I desperately fight for some air, but all I can manage is a horrible wheezing sound in my throat. I force myself to lie still, the sound of my frantic heart pounding in my head. Gradually my airways open up and I take the first cautious breath in. Then another one. And the next.
But the drone is still there, outside my window, buzzing up and down, spraying the gla
ss with a red substance I hope is only paint. I’m still dizzy and weak, but my survival instinct makes me pull myself along towards the only hiding space in my loft. The bathroom. I reach its door after what seems like eternity, crawl in and slam it shut behind me. I lie on the cold tiles until my breathing gets back to normal.
Silence.
I crack open the bathroom door. The drone is gone. I cautiously venture out.
The heady smell of synthetic graffiti spray paint lingers in the air. The windows are covered in thick red lines criss-crossing in an intricate pattern resembling a spider’s web. What the hell? My heart begins to pound and my breathing becomes shallow again. My whole body is shaking and I have to sit down on the bed because I don’t trust my legs to carry me. Calm down, it’s only a bit of paint. It’s probably just some silly prank. Calm down. I force myself to take a few deep breaths. The paint fumes are making me lightheaded. Let’s not panic, let’s try to think. Someone has sprayed my windows, or perhaps even the whole building, with red paint. Definitely not Mindy. But it could be . . . Drone Guerrillas. I remember Anton telling me about a bunch of guys, Italian or maybe Croatian, who’d use drones to paint on government buildings. And then there is Katsu, another of Anton’s street-art heroes, who used a hacked Phantom drone to spray graffiti on a giant billboard in New York. Compared with New York this building is a trifle. I exhale a cautious sigh of relief. It’s just possible that one of his street-art mates, perhaps even Katsu himself, has decided to celebrate Anton’s memory by creating drone graffiti on the building he used to live in. That must be it. This is Hoxton, after all.
The red paint on the windows doesn’t look so ominous any more. I slowly get up, propelled by a sudden pang of hunger. I’ll have some muesli, pop some more painkillers and deal with the damage on a full stomach. The damage. Shit. Marcus and Sophie. The memory of last night, blissfully pushed aside by the drone attack, comes back with a vengeance. I’ll have that to deal with as well. My phone pings with a new email but I ignore it, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets in search of muesli. Yes, I shake the box of Anton’s favourite Rude Health Granola triumphantly. It tastes surprisingly fresh and crunchy. My blood-sugar level up, I feel ready to take on the new day. I’ll call the building’s managing agent and see what can be done about the graffiti. And then maybe I’ll have enough courage to call Sophie. Well, we’ll see. Another email pings in my phone. It’s time to start the day. Too lazy to fire the computer up, I touch the ‘Mail’ icon on the phone and wait for it to update the inbox. And I freeze.
Exposure Page 16