I could get rid of Daniel and go with her, but I’m not sure I can sit there beside her and pretend nothing’s happened.
“Tell him I’ll try to pop by later.”
She nods quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear in that coy way she has. I don’t think she even realizes it looks flirtatious. The ring on her engagement finger has twisted around, and now I can see the whole phrase that has been engraved into the stainless steel (as I now know it must be—not silver).
True love waits.
My eyes widen. Seriously, Abe? I know you didn’t have much money, but was this all you could manage for an engagement ring?
It’s a purity ring, given to Abe and me by our parents when the first wisps of pubic hair appeared. I took mine to university with me, determined to be wearing it as I lost my virginity. Friends at King’s College came up with the nickname when they found it in my stuff. The name on my birth certificate is Mary Martha, but they thought that was inappropriate, so I became Mary Magdalene, the whore with the seven demons inside her.
But my friends didn’t know their scriptures. The Magdalene may not have been the Virgin Mother, but she was by Jesus’s side when he was crucified. Not a whore but a saint. Either way, I played along, and the name stuck. Magdalene. Mags.
At the end of the first term, I laid my ring carefully down on the railway line, and the fast train to London obliterated it. I can understand why Abe kept his—to laugh at or hurl across the room when he thought of our parents—but why give a chastity ring to his lover? Ironically? Somehow, Jody doesn’t seem the type to get the joke.
As I watch her hurry away to be by his side, my wave of pity is accompanied by anger. How could he do this to her?
Piles of mail sit on the table in the foyer. A pile for everyone who lives here. The bountiful friendship of takeout. Even the junkie in flat 7 has a generous handful, and she doesn’t look as if she’s eaten in years.
Abe’s is held in an elastic band. A white corner is just visible between the menus of Bengal Kitchen and Pronto Pizza.
Sliding it out, I open the blank envelope.
She was there
I pass my fingertips over the indentations from the pen, as if they will tell me something my eyes can’t. I know for certain now that this note is meant for me.
And I’m pretty sure what they mean by there; they mean when he fell.
“Who was there?” I call up the stairwell, and the echoes of my voice seem to go on for long moments.
Then my door opens high above.
“Mags? You OK?”
“Fine. Be up in a minute.”
Tucking the paper into my pocket, I start climbing the stairs. On the third floor, I pause, wondering whether to knock on the junkie’s door. Clearly, Abe was bisexual. Could she have been one of his lovers too? She’s probably capable of anything to get the money for her next hit, but I’m not sure Abe was that desperate, not with Redhorse on the scene. Unless she was before Redhorse, before Jody, and now resentful of the love that she had with my brother? Resentful enough to try to set Jody up?
No. She said she was out that night and stuck with her story even when she thought there might be a reward for saying she’d seen something.
I pass the grumpy queen’s door. Potentially another jealous lover?
I realize suddenly how desperate I am to try to prove that someone is jealous of Jody and is trying to drive a wedge between us, because the alternative—that this letter writer is telling the truth—is unthinkable.
Jody’s lying to me.
She was there when Abe fell.
Daniel is standing by the window drinking coffee when I get back in. The flat gets the morning sun, and his blond hair is lit up with all the colors of the apostles’ cloaks. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt of Abe’s—I said he could—which is a bit too tight because his muscles are just starting to turn to fat. He turns and smiles at me, and for a moment, I feel a rush of emotion, like the release of some narcotic into my bloodstream. I bustle around the kitchen until it has passed, then lay out the croissants and the paper.
“Well, this is nice,” he says, sitting down at the table. “You’d make someone a lovely wife.”
“Piss off,” I say halfheartedly and pick up the money section, though my eyes skim across the page, unseeing.
I know he’s got to go. He’s promised to take his sons to the Warner Brothers studio, but when he glances at his watch and sighs, I feel a sudden stab of desolation, and when I kiss him goodbye, he says, “Careful.”
“What?”
“Almost let some feelings show there.”
“Yeah, the feeling of wanting you to piss off so I can get on with some work.”
He grins, his teeth Vegas-white.
I hear his footsteps all the way down the stairwell, then the creak of the door opening, and then silence. I’m alone again, and the oppressive atmosphere of the church returns, as if the lead roof is pushing down on me.
21.
Jody
It was a beautiful evening because of the volcano. On the news, they said it was something to do with the layers of ash in the atmosphere. As the afternoon wore on, the sky became streaked with a million different shades of red. I tried to think of all the different names as I gazed out the clear patch of window in my flat. Crimson and scarlet, vermillion, fuchsia, cherry, burgundy, ruby, baby-pink, blood.
But it seemed as if this wonderful gift was all for me: the people scurrying down Gordon Terrace kept their heads bent, and the main street was as noisy as ever, with roaring bus engines, horns and sirens, and the occasional shouting match. No one else had noticed what was spread out above them.
There was a tap at my door; it sounded hesitant, as if the person had come to ask a favor. I thought of my silent neighbors. Perhaps the woman next door wanted to borrow something. I decided not to answer. To become friends with her would mean having to have contact with her partner, and he frightened me. On the few occasions I’d actually seen him in the flesh, he seemed to me, like most men who choose to look that way, more like an animal than a person.
The tap came again.
I sat still and silent by the window. Then I saw Mira walking across the waste ground in the direction of the main street.
If it wasn’t her at my door, then who? What if it was her partner? He knew I lived alone. What if he—
“Jody?”
I sprang to my feet with a gasp and raced to the door.
You stood there, your body half-turned away as if you were about to leave, and my heart jumped into my throat—I came so close to missing you.
“Hi, sorry, I didn’t hear the door,” I gabbled.
You turned back. You were all dressed up to go out—a big parka with a furry hood. My mind raced with the possible reasons for you coming around—could I take in a parcel for you? Could I let you back in because you’d lost your key?
Then I noticed what you were carrying. A bottle of wine in one hand and two plastic wine glasses in the other, a gray woolen blanket over your arm.
“I’m going to watch the sunset,” you said.
“I thought I was the only one who’d noticed it.”
Our eyes met. “You’re probably busy. And it’s cold, but I was wondering if you wanted to co—”
“Yes!” I almost shouted, then was stricken with terror in case you were going with someone else and wanted me to lend you a corkscrew or something.
But you exhaled with relief. “Great.”
I stepped out onto the landing and went to close the door.
“Erm, you might want to put something warmer on!”
That was just like you, Abe, to think about me and how I was feeling before yourself. Your sister was right about one thing at least—you can love someone too much. You should have thought about yourself more, my darling. You should have told me how
you were feeling. I could have helped you.
“Come in a minute. I won’t be a sec.”
You came in behind me, shutting the door softly. I led you through to the living room, and you went straight to the window. I watched you for a moment, silhouetted against the red sky. So beautiful.
Then I went to change. It felt strange as I hurried into my bedroom, knowing you were there, in my flat. A raw sort of feeling, as if I’d peeled off a bandage and the newly exposed flesh was throbbing in the air. Not painful, just sensitized.
I pulled off my jogging pants, sweatshirt, and T-shirt, sniffed my armpits, and then, on a whim, I changed my underwear from the boyshorts I’ve always worn to a pink pair with lace at the front that one of the girls in the rooming house gave me. You can just glimpse my pubic hair through the lace, and looking at myself in the mirror, my heart started to pound. What was I doing?
I told myself to calm down, that I just wanted to feel confident and attractive with you.
I put on the rain dress, with a cable-knit Aran sweater over the top and a pair of pink cashmere socks—both Christmas presents from Helen. I pulled on my thrift shop boots, brushed my hair, and at the last minute, put on some lipstick.
It would have to do, I told myself as I slipped out of my bedroom to find you still by the window. You started when you saw me, then you smiled.
“My favorite dress.”
I looked away, the blush deepening.
“Well, come on, then, rain woman. This wine won’t drink itself.”
When we got out of the flat, I started going down the stairs because the best view would be around the back, and we could sit on the wall that surrounds the parking lot.
“Where are you going?” You leaned over the banisters, grinning. The banister rail pressed into your hips, and your T-shirt moved in the currents of air rising up through the stairwell.
I’d passed the door at the end of the landing every day since I moved in but never thought to wonder where it led. Somehow, you got it open, and as soon as you pushed it wider and the cold air rushed in, I realized—it led to the roof.
Giving me the wine bottle to carry, you took my other hand and began leading me up a flight of concrete steps. The door below us swung shut, and for a moment, we were in total darkness.
My grip on your hand tightened.
“It’s all right,” you murmured. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.”
I squeezed your hand. “I’m not.”
I remember thinking how soft your hands were. Not rough and coarse like a normal man’s but soft as mine.
It was so dark that I couldn’t see where I was going, and when you got to the door at the top, I didn’t stop in time and bumped into you. You held me to stop me from falling back, and for a moment, we were in each other’s arms. The fur of your parka was against my cheek. It smelled warm and cozy, like fresh hay.
You held me just a second longer than was necessary, and then you pushed open the door.
The lead was slippery with rotting leaves and the soles of my boots had no grip, so I didn’t let go of your hand as you led me out into the middle of the roof.
A low crenellated wall surrounded the spire.
“We could sit here,” you said. “The view’s OK. Or”—you grinned and raised your eyebrows—“we could go higher.”
I followed your gaze toward the little door set into the spire and then up. Just before it narrowed to a point, there were two arched apertures, open to the elements.
“The view from there will be amazing, but it’ll be pretty windy. Will you be OK?”
I held your gaze and said, “As long as you keep me warm.”
It was shockingly brazen of me. You might even call it provocative, but I knew I could trust you, Abe, and I was right.
The little door opened onto a spiral staircase, and a moment later, we stepped out onto a stone floor covered in twigs and dry leaves, I guess from birds making nests higher up. Opposite the windows that looked toward the main street, there was another pair, looking west, into the sunset. For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath.
“Careful,” you said as I went over. “We’re pretty high now.”
The view was incredible, stretching right across London. I could see Hampstead Heath and the Emirates Stadium, as well as all the office blocks and cranes in the city.
You came to stand beside me, resting your arm on my shoulder. I could feel the stiffness in your muscles, as if you weren’t sure you were doing the right thing, and I slid my arm around your waist to let you know that you were, that I was comfortable with you. More than comfortable—I was happy.
“I bet we’ve got the best view in the whole country right now,” you said softly.
I let my head fall on your shoulder. The fabric of the parka was cold and slippery under my cheek.
“Wait a minute.”
To my disappointment, you took your arm away, but then I understood. You were taking your coat off and wrapping it around my shoulders. Now I was nestled into the sweet warmth of your body.
For several minutes, we just watched the sky. The wind had blown up again, and the bands of different colors were coiling and unraveling under high, gold-bellied clouds.
“What are you thinking about?” you asked.
I looked into your eyes, and my voice was barely audible when I spoke. “You.”
I placed my hand on your chest. It was rising and falling so fast. You stayed perfectly still as I rose up onto my tiptoes and kissed you. Your lips were so soft. You didn’t respond, and I was terrified I had misunderstood your intentions, as I always do, but just as I was about to pull away, you circled me with your other arm and kissed me back. Time seemed to stand still. Even the wind dropped. The sun must have come out from behind a cloud because my eyelids glowed red. I was overcome with such dizziness that if you hadn’t been holding me up, I think I would have tumbled out of the window.
After a few more minutes, you pulled away and smiled at me, but I didn’t want it to stop. And more than that, I wanted it to go further. I had waited so long.
I moved my hand across your chest, and you caught your breath.
I started unbuttoning your shirt.
“Are you sure?” you asked.
I nodded, and you kissed me again, and now I felt the tip of your tongue against my own, I responded, and you held me tighter, crushing me to your body. Something was rising in me that I had never felt before.
You lowered me gently down onto your coat, and with the dry leaves whispering around us, I lay back and closed my eyes.
Then you were inside me, moving in me. And then we were moving together. We were like one person, our breath, our heartbeats, the slow coming together and moving apart: all synchronized, as if our bodies knew each other already.
Something inside me opened then, like a flower blooming. For the first time, I felt like a woman.
You whispered my name breathlessly, and I murmured yours, moving my palms up and down your smooth back, feeling the energy that rippled through your body. Your lips were on my neck, on my shoulders, my breasts.
Heat flowed across my skin. All my nerve endings were alive, as if my whole body thrummed with electricity. In the core of my being, I felt a bursting warmth, like a wellspring, bubble up and start to flow through my veins.
“Jody,” you said, your voice cracking. “Jody.”
Afterward, for those still seconds as you lay on top of me, your breath in my ear, your heart thudding against my ribs, I looked out at the last flare of the dying sun, and I knew that I had left it all behind, all the pain and fear and shame. Down there, where the rubbish whirled around the broken pavement—that was my past. Up here, in the cold, clean eye of the wind, with the bloody sky stretched over me—this was my future. With you.
You pushed yourself onto your elbows and smiled at me. “All right
?”
I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell you just how right I was, so I simply smiled back at you, touched your face.
“I know this will sound strange because we hardly know each other,” you said, your hand cupping my cheek. “But I think I love you.”
I love you too, Abe.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
22.
Mags
I decide to print out the messages from Redhorse and show them to Derbyshire. If this were my case, there are several lines I’d follow. One: Jody found out Abe was having an affair and pushed him. Two: Abe tried to end the affair, and his lover pushed him. Three: An as yet unidentified third person pushed him for unknown reasons, but someone witnessed this.
If I can’t get Derbyshire to take any of these scenarios seriously, then I’ll either have to call in some favors with private investigator firms in the United States—see if they can’t trace the IP address where the chat room messages came from—or give up and go home. To be honest, the latter option is by far the most attractive, but I feel like I owe it to Abe to at least try.
I save the messages onto a stick and head to the internet café on the main street. There’s a line for the printer, so I order a latte and sit at a table to wait. The girl behind the counter is Eastern European; her skin has a greenish, waterlogged pallor that makes me think of a drowning victim.
Outside, a wall of buses inches by, slower than walking pace.
Sipping the latte, I flick through one of the coffee-ringed magazines. It’s filled with gleeful descriptions of celebrity breakups. Friends say Kelly just couldn’t take his hostility toward her BFFs. Friends say he didn’t like her leaving her dirty underwear around the bedroom.
I toss the magazine down in a pool of coffee. A whole industry based on schadenfreude, making their inadequate readers feel smug about their drab little lives and relationships. Celebrities break up because their egos are solid enough not to put up with other people’s bullshit. The rest of us don’t have the balls, because we’re too insecure to be alone. Maybe you have to be as spineless as Jody to be really happy.
The Girlfriend Page 14