by Janene Wood
A popular disco track was pumping through the speakers and Kate felt the familiar urge to let go and abandon herself to the rhythm, but she suppressed the yearning, knowing it was early yet and there was plenty of time. And the wait was always worth it. The best part of the evening always came much later, as night turned into day and this manufactured Western pop evolved into something more organic, far more intoxicating and sensuous, more in keeping with Istanbul’s Middle Eastern roots.
Skirting the dance floor, Kate swept through the crowded bar, heading unerringly for the secluded corner at the back where the owner of the club sat at his usual table, mired under a pile of purchase orders and invoices. Jonathon Aydin 's frown of concentration reminded her of her eldest brother, Simon, who was also consumed by work and responsibility and rarely took time out to enjoy himself. She smiled fondly at the thought of Si, aware of the irony; it was only now, thousands of miles away and a decade later, that she finally appreciated the sacrifices he had made for his three younger siblings. One day she would apologise for the worry and angst she, in particular, had caused while they were growing up.
“Hey, Jono,” Kate greeted her friend, but he was either so engrossed in his paperwork that he had tuned everything else out, or the constant exposure to loud music had made him deaf.
“Jonathon!”
This time he looked up. It was gratifying to watch his frown of concentration transform into a delighted grin. Leaping to his feet, he hugged her warmly and planted a brotherly kiss on her cheek.
“Hey, doll-face! It’s good to see you!” Catching the eye of a passing barman, he held up two fingers. The barman, resplendent in his uniform of black pantaloons and boots, white shirt with long, voluminous sleeves, red sash belt and matching fez, nodded his acknowledgment and hurried away.
“Thank God you're here, Kate. Now I've got an excuse to ignore the damn accounts for a bit longer.” He gathered the papers into a rough pile and pushed them aside. “Where have you been, anyway? I've missed you this last week.”
Kate grimaced. “Work's been crazy, plus I've been trying to pack up the flat for the move tomorrow and organise Jack's farewell party. I've done almost no writing, and I'm feeling extremely...frustrated. Sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day.”
Jonathon chuckled at the irony of her statement. “Well, thanks for squeezing me into your busy schedule. If you can't find time to fit everything in, what hope does anyone else have?”
Kate laughed with him and they soon fell into such easy conversation that it seemed like only minutes since they last saw each other. The barman returned in record time, placing their usual drinks on the table in front of them. “Cheers,” said Kate, reaching for her vodka tonic and taking a large sip. She let out a heavy sigh of relief, as if she had laid down a heavy burden. “This is exactly what I needed.”
Scrutinizing her more closely, Jonathon observed her paler than usual complexion and his warm, brown eyes filled with concern. “Problems, Tess?”
Kate felt the usual frisson of pleasure at his use of the familiar endearment. Jonathon was a long-time fan of her books and insisted she was the perfect embodiment of Tessa, her young heroine. Which didn't really surprise her if she was honest, considering the circumstances under which she had begun writing. Ridiculously young, unworldly and naïve, she had been struggling with the death of her mother and the subsequent end of her childhood. It had been impossible not to imbue Tessa with many of her own qualities, both good and bad, so it was no wonder fictional Tessa and real-life Kate were similar in many ways. Tess had been Jonathon’s pet name for her for as long as they'd known each other, much to her secret delight – although personally, she thought Tessa was a great deal more interesting. It was part of the reason she never shared this place, or Jonathon, with anyone else. This was her fantasy place, a place where she could pretend she was Tess.
“It's nothing serious,” dismissed Kate automatically. And it wasn't, she realised suddenly. In the grand scheme of things, her petty fear of commitment, or of being stuck in one place, or whatever the hell it was she was really afraid of, was relatively unimportant. There were more serious things going on in the world. In her life.
“Want to talk about it?”
She considered dumping on him, knowing he wouldn’t mind, but decided it was both too complicated and too trivial. “Nah, you don’t need to hear my problems,” she told him easily. “Tell me about your love life instead; that's bound to give me a laugh,” she grinned. “Are you still seeing that brunette with the giant hooters?”
“Nah, she dumped me,” he admitted easily. “No great loss; the boobs were fake and I'm not that desperate.”
Kate wasn't surprised. Jonathon went through women like most people went through toilet paper. “So who's the latest squeeze?”
“Check out the redhead over there, glaring at you ever so sweetly.” He inclined his head in the direction of a nearby table where three very pretty, very young girls were clearly sending ill wishes in Kate's direction. Jonathon shrugged. “What do you think?”
“She’s cute. Young though. Have you checked her ID? Wouldn’t it be funny if you were committing a crime every time you bonked her?” laughed Kate.
“You're hilarious,” remarked Jonathon sardonically.
“Just looking at her makes me feel old,” said Kate ruefully.
Jonathon disagreed, grinning cheekily, “I look at her and I feel like a sixteen-year-old boy again.”
“I bet you do. But there's your problem right there. Don't you think it's time you started acting your age?”
“Where's the fun in that?” he protested, only half joking. Jonathon’s promiscuity was a long-running joke between them, but it was starting to get old. They were getting old. According to him, he simply didn’t have time for a normal relationship, but they both knew he deliberately avoided women with whom he might actually have something in common, apart from an enjoyment of casual sex. He couldn’t – or wouldn’t – commit. Not even for a week. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by temptation, night after night, with women of all ages practically throwing themselves at him, as soon as they found out he owned the place.
Kate couldn't help feeling they were two peas in a pod, both of them scared to death of being tied down.
They spent half an hour chatting and finishing off a second round of drinks before Kate slipped off her jacket and announced her intention to dance. She gave Jonathon a long, luscious kiss on the lips, waved to the redhead, who hadn’t stopped glaring at them the entire time they talked, then glided toward the crowd of dancers to immerse herself in the music.
It was like slipping naked into a shimmering pool of scented oil. So deliciously sensuous. Her movements were lithe and graceful as her body moved effortlessly with the music, oblivious to everyone around her. She emptied her mind of everything but the primal urge to dance and her remaining cares slipped away. It had been the right thing to do, coming here tonight. The music energized her, feeding her soul and giving her the strength to cope with what was going to be a difficult time ahead without Jack.
A few guys hit on her but soon realised she wasn’t interested. Kate was barely even aware of them and they backed off to look for an easier mark. Lost in the music, her eyes shut tight and her guard down, surrounded by a hundred bodies but in a world of her own, she drifted, in tune at last with the universe. Finally at peace with herself and accepting of her fate, time lost all meaning. Her surroundings faded into nothingness; so long as there was music in the world and strength in her body to dance, she could cope with anything.
From out of nowhere, a familiar face intruded into the empty void of Kate's mind, as real as it had ever been in the flesh. The man's deep-set, brown eyes stared at her accusingly, boring deep into her core. It was like being doused with a bucket of cold water as he dragged her back down to earth with an almost audible thud. Yet there was a split second before her conscious mind had time to react, when it didn’t hurt to look at his face
. For the briefest of moments, she remembered the heady sensation of his muscular body pressed against hers; of his firm jaw, skin rough beneath her fingers, and the comfort of his strong arms around her. For the briefest of moments, it gave her joy, not pain.
But the joy was gone in an instant, leaving only the familiar, gut-wrenching ache.
The wayward memory had taken her completely by surprise. It was months since her last flashback and she’d started believing she had finally forced him from her subconscious. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Why now? she wondered dismally, even as she realised it must have been triggered by the earlier panic attack. Everything was related after all.
Damn! She was crying, she realised angrily. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? She forced her way through the crowd of oblivious dancers, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. This has got to stop, she told herself determinedly; I will not let him ruin my life!
Fleeing the dance floor, Kate headed straight to the bar. What she needed was more alcohol to wash away the memory of him; clearly she hadn’t had enough. She threw back a double shot of vodka and then carried a round of their usual drinks over to Jonathon’s table. She sank into her chair and drained her glass in a few short gulps. Jonathon watched her in consternation; she wasn’t normally a big drinker.
“Whoa, Tess! Where’s the fire?” Kate looked at him mutely with pain-filled eyes, forcing him to reach his own conclusion. “I thought things with this Ryan bloke were going well.”
“It's not Ryan,” she told him woodenly.
“Oh,” said Jonathon, understanding finally dawning. “You know I’d give everything I own to eradicate the memory of that cowardly mongrel from your mind. It kills me to see you in such pain.”
Kate acted like he hadn’t said anything, instead picking up his untouched drink and throwing it down, wincing as she did so. “Ach! What was that?” she asked, appalled. “It’s disgusting!”
“Yeah, I’ve switched to tequila. It's an acquired taste,” he told her unapologetically. He picked up her hand and squeezed it gently, looking deeply into her eyes. “What can I do to help, Tess?” he asked.
Kate shook her head, looking lost and lonely. “There's nothing you can do,” she snapped, abruptly snatching her hand away and standing. “I just need to get him the hell out of my head!” She turned and stalked away, back toward the dance floor.
By the time she had taken a dozen steps, she was filled with remorse. It wasn't fair to take her anger out on Jonathon, who loved her and only had her best interests at heart. Returning to the table, she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Jono. I know you want to help, but there’s nothing you can do. It sucks, but this is my life now.”
He reciprocated with a hug of his own, and she knew she was forgiven.
Moving House
Saturday, 24 November, 1979
The sun was timidly edging its way over the horizon as Kate slipped out her front door. It was Saturday, so the streets were pleasantly deserted; most of her neighbours were taking the opportunity to sleep in before going about their household chores or ferrying the kids off to weekend activities. The air was cool and the grass was moist with dew. Although the sky was brightening by degrees, the sliver of new moon was still clearly visible. High up in the sky there was a strange greenish glow, too far away for her to determine what it was exactly. Some sort of aircraft, she supposed, or perhaps a low orbiting satellite. Or maybe a UFO, she smiled. Of far greater interest was the cloudless sky. Mentally crossing her fingers to ward off the rain, she took off at a slow run.
Kate’s hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and she wore the black track pants and purple singlet Jules gave her for her 26th birthday, two months before. Her body clock was notoriously reliable, waking her every morning at 5am without fail, so despite the early hour, she was alert and wide awake. Her eyes were a deeper shade of violet than usual, reflecting her conflicting emotions: excitement at moving into her new flat, and dread at the thought of being alone, now Jack was leaving.
By the time she reached the top of Primrose Hill Road she was running at an easy lope and feeling the slow release of endorphins into her blood stream. The path through Regents Park was almost deserted, just the way she liked it. It occurred to her suddenly she would have to find a new place to run after today, somewhere closer to her new home. It was a pity; she would miss the early morning serenity of the park.
An hour and five miles later, Kate stood under the shower, enjoying the exhilaration of cold water on warm, weary muscles. She massaged her head with apricot-scented shampoo and ran through her mental agenda for the day, hoping she hadn't forgotten anything. It was still several hours till Jason and Jules were due to arrive with the ute, and no doubt Jack would remain abed until the last minute, but there was plenty for her to be getting on with.
Pulling on old jeans and a faded Sydney University sweatshirt, she blow-dried her hair then made her way downstairs. As she moved quietly around the tiny kitchen, gathering the last few bits and pieces together and packing them away, she looked around with a nostalgic eye, remembering the good times she and Jack had shared here. Sharing a house with her brother had been fun, but nothing stays the same forever. Jack's decision to move on had forced Kate to take stock of her own life and make a few painful but necessary changes.
After filling every available space of her canary-yellow Jeep with small, easily transportable items, Kate wended her way through the Saturday morning traffic to Bella Blue café on Camden High Street for a box of assorted pastries to tide her and her trio of helpers over until lunchtime. She had just conveyed her order to the girl behind the counter when she heard a voice call her name. Her gaze landed on a green-haired man sitting in the furthest, most dimly-lit corner of the café, his hand raised unnecessarily to catch her eye.
To be fair, [Janene Wo1]Suri's green hair was far from the most striking thing about him, and there wasn't that much of it to speak of, just a strip of spiky growth, running from the top of his forehead to the nape of his neck. The rest of his smooth-shaved head was unremarkable, though the same couldn't be said of his face. His ears, nose, lip, and eyebrows, even his cheek, were pierced with an assortment of metal studs, rings and bone shards. He had hinted there were other piercings she couldn't see, but even if her curiosity extended that far, she wasn't sure she wanted such intimate knowledge of a man with such unusual proclivities.
Despite the brisk temperature, Suri wore a sleeveless leather vest to show off his arms, every inch of which appeared to be crawling with spiders: big hairy ones; small spindly ones; every type of spider that nature and imagination could conjure up. And the tattoos didn't stop there. His face was a vast tattooed spider-web, complete with a life-like facsimile of an enormous, hairy tarantula crawling up his neck and over his jaw, its spindly legs trying to find purchase on his stubbly skin.
Not for the first time, Kate wondered what motivated someone to disfigure themselves like that. Even now she knew him better, it didn't make sense. He said it was living art, as if that explained everything. The arachnids were incredibly life-like, so much so that Kate found it hard not to stare at them, just in case they decided to crawl off him and onto her. But all over his face and arms?
It was the tattoos that precipitated their unconventional friendship. Kate's one and only (very small, very discreet) tattoo, from a crazy, booze-filled girls night out at uni, also happened to be a spider, though it was so not in the class of this dude's ink. Despite his intimidating aura, she had felt compelled to walk up to him and ask where he got his done...not with a view to adding to her collection, mind, just as an appreciative voyeur, so to speak. He said his tattooist lived in California, and he flew there once or twice a year to “add to his portfolio”.
Now that was commitment.
She also asked, that first time they spoke, whether he got sick of people staring at him. He just laughed, saying he'd be offended if they didn't stare. Getting no reaction would piss him off more than anything.
“You're up early,” she greeted him. They often bumped into each other during the week, when Kate stopped by for a cappuccino before work or between patients. He seemed to spend half his life here.
“Couldn't sleep,” he explained briefly, tilting his head and gazing at her in that quizzical way he had, as if trying to figure out what made her tick. “Coffee, Lady K?”
She declined his offer, much as she was tempted. “No time, sorry. I'm moving house today and the sooner it's done, the sooner I can get on with my life.”
“Right; I think you mentioned that.”
“What about you? Got anything interesting planned?”
He thought for a moment. “Spurs are playing at home this afternoon, so I might join the screaming hoard and cheer them on. Then I'll probably get shit-faced and pick a fight. Nothing special.”
“Sounds like a blast,” she said dryly, not sure if he was serious or not. It was hard to tell with Suri. “Well, I'd better get going,” she said, resisting the urge to pick up his cup of coffee and make a run for it.
“Sure, see you around, Lady K. Stay safe.”
His last words elicited a raised eyebrow, but Suri was forever saying unexpected things.
Kate's new home was a large Victorian townhouse in Notting Hill, recently converted into five spacious apartments, one on each of four above-ground floors and another below-stairs in what used to be the basement kitchen. Several other properties in the area had been similarly converted, and the other day she counted five new renovation jobs in the surrounding streets alone. She would be very surprised if house prices didn't go through the roof in the next few months.
By the time she lugged everything upstairs and set up her hi-fi, she was more than ready for her first cup of coffee. It wasn't until she opened the packet of her favourite blend that she realised the box containing her cutlery was still sitting on top of the stove in the old flat.