It began like a rallying cry to slaves in the 1800s.
Rise up!
Rise up and speak of the tyranny of machismo,
The unequal struggle,
Of weary loins and sagging dugs,
Of flesh parting company with bones—
It was intensely irritating, dated stuff, and I took to pushing back my cuticles, whilst Malcolm, out of sight of Jean, leaned back on Wilbur Smith and shut his eyes. He stuck his fingers in his ears too.
She paused after poem one, and Malcolm removed his fingers and looked hopeful. But it got worse. From nowhere, Emmylou produced a wooden block, which she kneeled on. She then proceeded to blow into what looked like a home-made recorder. She caught my eye and I gave her a weak smile, just as, at that moment, the door opened and Anthony Hamilton, tall, slightly shambolic, and with just the right amount of confusion I require my friends to be covered in, came into the shop. He glanced around apprehensively and, it seemed to me, the whole place lit up as he found my eyes and smiled. I instantly blushed from top to toe.
Jean, all jangling bosom and flapping jewelled hands, was advancing fast, whispering, ‘Dr Hamilton!’ and bustling to find him a seat – not cross-legged with the squaws, I noticed, but on a plastic chair at the back. He looked uncomfortable perched alone and aloft beside Jean, the two of them like a couple of proud parents at a children's assembly, particularly since a few heads swivelled, as children's heads are inclined to. I squirmed for him.
Emmylou, meanwhile, had abandoned her whistle and was back to the poetry, her voice shrill and declamatory, deep in menstruation. Why? I couldn't look at Anthony, so I concentrated instead on the carpet and getting to the end of the poem, which, at length, we did. A ripple of heart-felt applause rang out, until I realized I was the only one clapping. Ah. Right. Not at the end of each verse, perhaps. I caught Ant's eye, which was amused. Well, better than bored or livid, I decided, as the poem finally ended, and now please, please, could we have one about daffodils? Or trees?
‘This next poem,’ Emmylou informed us gravely, tossing her dark head importantly, ‘is called “Maud and Diana”.’
Well, that sounded all right. A bit like Thelma and Louise, or perhaps Hinge and Bracket? A couple of maiden aunts. Except it wasn't maiden aunts and it wasn't all right either, because Maud and Diana were a couple of little minxes who couldn't keep their hands off each other. My face got pinker with every toe-curling line. ‘Enough!’ I wanted to cry. I risked a glance at Malcolm, who, jaw slack with delight, looked highly diverted, whilst Jean patted her perm nervously, blinking rapidly, trying hard to look like a broad-minded woman who was used to poems of this nature being read in her shop, instead of a lonely, frustrated one who simply worked in a bookshop to meet men, as, I realized with a jab of horror, I did, and as I knew Malcolm did too.
Emmylou's eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, as she glanced up from her text to recite the last lines from memory.
‘Diana and Maud found their epiphany that night,’ she declared to the assembled throng. ‘Hearts sang. Minds rejoiced.’ Her eyes roamed the room and found mine. ‘Vaginas throbbed.’
In the startled silence that followed all I could think was, why is she looking at me? It was too much for Malcolm. He gave a snort of derision and legged it, body at a forty-five-degree angle, to the fire escape. I'm ashamed to say I followed hot on his heels. I bolted through Horror – appropriately enough – around the table of drinks, and out through the heavy black fire door at the back. On the wrought-iron staircase, overlooking the rooftops, in the cool night air, Malcolm and I clutched one another, hiccuping, snorting; even Anthony forgotten.
‘You pulled!’ gasped Malcolm.
‘No!’ I shrieked back. ‘D'you think?’
‘Oh, for sure, hon. She wanted you. She's hot for you.’
‘Oh, please.’
‘No, no, that's her line. Please, Evie, please. She wants her epiphany.’
We dissolved into giggles.
‘But, Malc, that's not poetry, is it?’ I said, wiping my eyes, recovering a bit. ‘Aren't you supposed to leave something beautiful behind on the page? I mean, when you've finished?’
‘Rather than something yucky, I agree.’ He lit two cigarettes and handed me one. ‘Here, hon. Suck on this.’
‘And did you see, Jean?’ I took a drag.
‘Little Miss Liberated?’ Malcolm mimicked Jean's furious blinking, sucking in his cheeks, patting his hair.
We dissolved into hysterics again, just as the door behind us opened.
‘I take it this is where the staff take their ciggie breaks?’
I swung around to see a tall, quietly amused figure, tapping the end of his own cigarette on a packet of Rothmans.
‘Oh.’ I struggled for composure. ‘Well, not really. It's just – you know – a bit hot in there. But we must go back.’ I stubbed my cigarette out hurriedly.
Doctor Hamilton lit up and blew the smoke over my head. ‘I wouldn't worry. She's paused for a breather. I think everyone needs a drink after that.’
‘Has she finished?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Well, thank the Lord,’ said Malcolm with feeling. ‘I'd better go and charge the Lambrusco glasses. Lovely to meet you, incidentally.’ He extended a hand and flashed a dazzling smile. ‘Malcolm Harding.’
‘Anthony Hamilton,’ smiled Anthony, shaking hands.
‘I'll cover for you, angel,’ breathed Malcolm as he went to go in. ‘You catch your breath.’
‘What is going on out here?’ The fire door swung back and Jean appeared, looking like Brünnhilde, glowering furiously. ‘Malcolm! The white wine, please. And, Evie, what on earth are you doing luring our guest out here?’ Oh, she had to be vulgar, didn't she?
Malcolm came to my rescue. ‘Evie doesn't feel very well. She was getting some air.’
‘Well, she'd better go home then, hadn't she?’ Jean snapped sourly. ‘Go on, Evie, go and get your bus. Malcolm and I will manage tonight. Doctor Hamilton, shall we?’ She opened the door to usher him back in, Uriah Heep-style, bending low, pussycat smile in place.
‘Actually, I ought to be going too.’ He turned to me. ‘If you're not feeling well, I'll give you a lift. You don't want to get a bus. Where are you going?’
‘Um, just past Magdalen Bridge,’ I stuttered.
‘Oh, perfect, I'm at Balliol. Just round the corner.’ Nowhere near. He smiled at Jean. ‘Thank you so much. It's been a very enjoyable evening and, um, very… informative too. The small amount I caught of it. So sorry I've got to fly.’
Jean looked ready to spontaneously combust. Malcolm ushered her away like a nurse with a mental patient, pausing only to turn and flash me a meaningful, delighted grin.
‘I'll just get my coat,’ I muttered to Anthony as we went back through the shop together. I lunged to grab it from behind the counter, avoiding Jean's furious eye, then scampered to join him as he waited for me at the door.
My heart was pounding, and naturally I couldn't think of a thing to say as I walked with him to his car, a beaten-up old Citroën parked down the road. Happily, his savoir-faire gene was more developed than mine.
‘Feeling better?’ he enquired as we got in and put our seat belts on. He flashed me a knowing smile as we pulled out into the traffic.
‘Much,’ I grinned back. ‘I'm afraid poetry readings tend to have that effect on me.’ I couldn't believe I was in his car. I looked around greedily, knowing I'd want to remember later. Polos on the dashboard; papers strewn in the back; nicely messy.
‘You're not a fan then?’
‘What? Oh, no, I love poetry. It's just… not that particular type.’
‘Oh, right. What type d'you like?’ I realized he was interested. Damn. But luckily I knew the names of some poets. Crikey, I lined up their volumes often enough. I threw some out.
‘Oh, you know, Keats, Sylvia Plath, Pam Ayres, that sort of thing.’
He smiled. ‘Fairly eclectic.’
�
��Oh, yes, I like the Eclectic Poets.’ Possibly a group, like the Romantic Poets, whom I'd heard of.
He laughed. Why? No matter. Here I was in his car, snuggled up in my coat beside him, looking at his terribly attractive square profile. Heaven.
‘You must be in clover then, working in a bookshop. Ample opportunity.’
To pick up square-jawed men? No. Perhaps not. ‘Well, quite,’ I enthused, coming to. ‘I'm always reading. I read copiously.’ Good word, Evie.
‘Novels?’
‘Oh, novels,’ I gushed. ‘Can't get enough of them.’ Now I really could be honest. ‘All the time, actually – well, when Jean isn't looking, obviously.’
‘Obviously. And what d'you like?’
‘Anything I can get my hands on.’ I flushed. Golly. That sounded a bit… you know… back to the square-jawed men. ‘I mean – any books.’
‘Of course. Classics?’
I took a deep breath and wondered, fleetingly, if I could bluff my way, literary speaking, for the next ten minutes or so. Happily some invisible divinity whispered sense in my ear and I decided against it.
‘Actually, I prefer more modern books. Contemporary fiction,’ I added quickly, remembering that tag. ‘I'm a big fan of E. J. McGuire.’
‘I'm not familiar with him.’
‘Her,’ I corrected, twisting in my seat to face him. ‘Oh God, she's terrific, you must try her. She does these brilliant sort of thriller things, really tense and creepy, and you have absolutely no idea how it's going to end up or who's done it.’
‘Sounds like Poe.’
Like… poo, did he say? I blinked. ‘Well. Obviously it's not to everyone's taste,’ I began, ‘but—’
‘Edgar Allan. You know, Victorian melodrama.’
‘Oh! Right. Yes, well, maybe. And actually it is quite melodramatic, now you mention it. But I quite like that. And there's always a terrific twist at the end, which you don't see coming. Oh, and she does romances too. Quite often they're set in a hospital so, you know, you get the doctor/nurse thingy going on, or sometimes it's somewhere hot and sultry so there's safari suits coming off all over the place. Well, not right off. And not too steamy. Not steamy at all, in fact.’
‘I must look out for E. J. McGuire. Left here?’
‘Yes, then down on the right.’ He stopped the car. I turned to him, flashed a winning smile. ‘And I must look out for Poo. Poe!’
He laughed; turned in his seat to face me, his arm crooked over the back of it, eyes shining right into mine. Wow. I took a deep breath. Lost my nerve.
‘Jane Austen's wonderful too, isn't she?’
He laughed again. ‘She certainly is.’
Well, at least I was making him laugh. Clearly on cracking form, Evie. Laugh him into bed, why don't you? No! Just like Jean. Not the laughing bit, the bed. And that wasn't what was called for. I'd just met him, for heaven's sake. He really was terribly attractive, though, all twinkly-eyed and smiley beside me. Another deep breath.
‘Would you… like to come in for coffee?’
It wasn't coffee time at all, more like supper time, more like nine o'clock time, but he wasn't offering anything else – quite thin, I noticed, so perhaps he didn't eat much, and hell, these intellectual types needed a bit of encouragement. He looked at me: an amused, evaluating look. I flushed.
‘I'd love to,’ he said quickly, before I could open my mouth to retract it. ‘Or maybe even a drink?’
‘A drink!’ I said joyfully as if he'd hit on the Holy Grail. Too joyful. Calm down, Evie. I got out of the car. ‘But I have to warn you,’ I prattled on nervously as I led him down the street, ‘I'm three storeys up, so you might need oxygen rather than vodka by the time you get there.’
‘I stand warned.’
‘And I don't know if my flatmate's in, either. I mean, she never normally is, but—’
‘Would it matter if she was?’
‘No. Of course not. I'm just saying she… you know… gads about.’ As if I didn't.
Happily further talk was made impossible, as for the next few minutes, we struggled up six flights of steps. Lesser Romeos had been known to stop for a breather on level four, or even level three, but this one had stamina, I noticed. I led on, wishing my skirt wasn't quite so short and hoping I didn't have a ladder in my tights.
I was rather dreading our entrance to the flat. Health and Safety hadn't thus far been alerted, but I fervently wished I'd had a quick clear-up before I'd left. But then again, I hadn't really envisaged bringing him back; had, at the very most envisaged a drink, or – and we're talking wildest dreams here – a pizza. Yet now, here he was – my heart pounded as I put the key in the lock – following me into what would doubtless be a fairly revolting… oh… my… God.
The kitchen, which one encountered fairly promptly, given that the hall was the size of a napkin, was spotless.
I spun round in surprise. ‘This is unreal. Someone's tidied up!’
No piles of washing-up tottered precariously in the sink, no midden of newspapers obscured the table; no broken cupboard doors hung open spewing forth cartons of soup, pasta, Pot Noodles. The two tiny work surfaces were clear, the stainless steel sink shone, and all rickety doors were wedged tightly shut. The lino wasn't sticky either, I noticed, testing it tentatively with the soles of my shoes. Suddenly, the sitting-room door opened and a blonde in a pink dress flew out.
‘Oh, Ant. This is my flatmate, Caro.’
‘Hi.’ She looked flushed and anxious, and shot him only the briefest of glances. ‘Evie, my mother's here!’ she whispered in terror, pointing back over her shoulder at the door she'd slammed.
‘Oh, no!’
Christ, no wonder she'd cleared up. Caro's mother was a terrifying woman, formidable, critical and probing, the headmistress at the local high school. I didn't relish the usual inquisition about what I was going to do with my life as she fixed me with a fishy eye. ‘You can't go on working in that bookshop for ever, Evie.’ Or, when introduced to Ant, ‘Another boyfriend, Evie?’ hanging – hopefully unspoken – in the air. Oh, no, this particular foursome was not going to work.
‘We'll go,’ I said quickly. ‘Grab a drink in town.’
‘Good idea.’ Caro hustled us towards the door.
‘Oh, but surely…’ Ant looked perplexed.
‘She's a Buddhist,’ I told him firmly. I wasn't quite sure what this was, but I was pretty sure they were teetotal. ‘Doesn't approve.’
‘Doesn't touch a drop,’ agreed Caro. ‘And really hates anyone who does.’ Her hand was already on the doorknob. She swung the door wide and ushered us out.
As she went to shut it behind us, though, I stayed it with my hand. Peered back round. ‘You washed up,’ I said in awe, marvelling at the sparkling sink. ‘Must have taken hours.’
For weeks now, Caro and I had blithely skirted the remains of a particularly gruesome dinner party – casseroles burned black, mashed potato caked onto pans, all growing penicillin, forcing us to fill the kettle at an excruciatingly awkward angle.
‘I threw it away,’ she confided softly, glancing over her shoulder in case her mother heard.
I giggled. ‘You didn't?’
‘I bloody did. I couldn't face it. It's all in the dustbins outside. You can get it out, if you like,’ she added with a defiant grin. ‘See you.’ And with that, she shut the door.
‘Is she serious?’ Ant asked as we tripped down the stairs.
‘Oh, definitely. Caro and I have a very simple approach to clearing up. Most of our stuff is shoved under beds, or even… damn.’ I stopped. ‘I need some ciggies. Won't be a mo.’
I bounded back upstairs, fishing the key out of my coat pocket. Opening the front door and darting through to my bedroom, I hissed ‘Fags!’ at Caro, who was still in the kitchen. She was bending over the tiny table, which, I noticed, was laid for two, lighting a candle. I stopped in surprise. Turned. Her pink dress was very short and her thick blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders into, what I now realized, was
quite a spectacular cleavage. As a blast of Rive Gauche rocketed up my nostrils, I was aware of Ant, appearing in the doorway. He'd followed me up the stairs, perhaps for a second look. Caro straightened up; seemed caught. I folded my arms. Cocked an eyebrow.
‘Your mother?’
She flushed. Blew out the match. ‘Ah.’
‘Hasn't she bloody gone yet?’ boomed a familiar voice from behind the sitting-room door.
I froze. Then my head rotated slowly towards it. In another moment I'd crossed the kitchen and flung the door wide. An arresting sight met my eyes. A naked man faced me, stretched out on the goatskin rug in front of the two-bar electric fire, hands locked behind his head. Although the face was very familiar, it wasn't one I was used to seeing round these parts. Neither were his parts. He sat up languidly, casually flipping a corner of the rug over to cover them.
‘Oh, hi, Evie,’ he grinned. Then he looked around me. ‘Who's this?’
‘This is Anthony,’ I said evenly. ‘Anthony, this is my brother, Tim. We pretty much like to keep it in the family.’
7
Chronologically speaking then, we all by and large leaped off the starting blocks together, Tim and Caro, Ant and I. All got away at the same time. Tim and Caro, as we know, had a minuscule head start, but it didn't take Ant and me long to catch up. Ant, being a gent, went through the motions of buying me drinks and suppers, but under my guidance quickly dispensed with formalities and we soon ended up in bed, where we stayed for the next few weeks. Ant occasionally got up to give a lecture, and I occasionally got up to work in a bookshop, but as a rule, we were horizontal. When we eventually emerged from base camp, sated, smiling foolishly, and blinking in the sunlight, it was to find Tim and Caro waiting for us.
The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton Page 7