Love, and Other Things to Live For

by Louise Leverett

‘Hi, Jess,’ Maria, the woman I’d heard on my earlier visit, shouted from the back of the restaurant. ‘I’m Guido’s wife.’ She led me through the door reserved for staff. ‘Next time,’ she said, ‘you must enter from the side door on the left. The main door is for customers only. I don’t mind but Guido doesn’t like it.’ She held out her small delicate hand for me to hold. ‘Follow me, the steps are steep.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ I said, as I looked back at the daylight disappearing as we descended the stairs.

  ‘Toilets are through there and you have your own locker in the side room in the basement. I’ll give you two minutes to freshen up and then see you out on the floor, okay?’ Her accent was thick and Italian.

  I dutifully hung my beige trench coat in my locker, changed into my black leather loafers and washed my hands in the basin. A yellow neon light bulb shone down giving my skin a jaundiced tone. It would be a steady income. And for that I was grateful.

  The following morning, my trial shift had proved successful and I was now a fully-fledged member of the team. I stood on the pavement on the dawn of my first full shift at Guido’s and pulled out my phone from my bag. There was another missed call from Harry. Another call unanswered, but this time I decided to handle things differently. I pressed redial and listened for the ringing tone. After what seemed like an eternity of doubts that perhaps he’d seen sense and found somebody new, he answered.

  ‘Harry,’ I said. ‘It’s Jess. How are you?’

  ‘Jess, I’m fine thanks. Nice to hear from you.’ His voice sounded surprised, as expected.

  ‘I saw that I had a missed call from you and so, I just thought I’d call to say… well, hello… and things…’

  ‘It’s good to hear from you, Jess. Yeah, I did ring. Quite a few times, actually.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry…’

  After a brief pause, he continued. ‘So, why ring now?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking we could meet up again,’ I said, wincing.

  ‘Sure. I mean, I’ve never met a girl who cost me a week’s salary just to eat noodles. Maybe we could go to the Ritz for tea this time?’

  I laughed out loud. ‘Thanks for making a joke,’ I said, smiling. ‘Is that a yes then?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That’s a yes.’

  ‘Listen, I’m just at work but I’ll give you a ring later to choose a good restaurant. Second thoughts…’ I hesitated, coming to the realisation that a night out with the remains of my bag money might not be the most logical idea, ‘. . . why don’t you come round to mine tonight after work and I’ll cook us a pizza or something?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Nine hours later I sat in my kitchen opposite a man I’d only met once but felt as if he belonged there. And I was still in my work clothes, which I couldn’t decipher as meaning that I didn’t care, or I cared too much not to notice.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I told you about my failures at cookery, now tell me your most embarrassing story.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘As you know, I’ve played rugby since I was young…’

  I nodded as he took a sip from his bottle of beer, slowly beginning the anecdote but starting to laugh already. His chuckle was contagious.

  ‘I was at school and playing rugby for the team. Now, this was a big game, the final of the county championships so basically the FA cup final of rugby for students. For some reason, I’d had an Indian the night before with the lads…’

  I closed my eyes in anticipation. A small burst of laughter escaped my lips.

  ‘Eh… don’t look at me like that,’ he said, ‘go with it…’

  He smiled widely at me but I couldn’t help it. I wiped my eyes, which had now filled with tears of laughter.

  ‘Wow, you’re a good audience,’ he said, chuckling. ‘So, anyway, it was half time and I made a quick dash to the changing rooms, as you can imagine, quite quickly.’

  I put my hand over my mouth.

  ‘To cut a long story short, it was too late to check if there was any toilet paper: far too late. And there wasn’t.’

  I screwed up my face. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I took my socks off and used them,’ he laughed.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I played sockless.’

  Both of us burst out laughing: two loud and heavy laughs from the opposite sides of the table.

  ‘It was all well and good until I remembered that I still had to play the second half.’

  I reached over to pull a piece of kitchen roll from the side, my face aching from the strain.

  ‘So, do you have any more stories for me?’ he said, pulling his chair closer. ‘Not necessarily in that… genre, of course.’

  As I started to think I felt him lean into me. He kissed me.

  ‘Fucking wanking bastard taxi driver couldn’t find Hungerford Bridge.’

  At that point I heard Amber slam the front door behind her and make her way through the hallway, shattering our rosy evening by turning the air blue.

  ‘Sorry, I’m late, Jess. It’s bloody pissing it down out there. Goodbye, summer.’

  Christ, this is it, I thought to myself. The amount of men who could handle an angry, dripping wet Amber were few and far between.

  ‘Hi,’ she whispered, suddenly realizing that we weren’t alone.

  ‘I’m Harry, nice to meet you.’ He went over and shook her dripping wet hand, sliding the soaking umbrella off it and putting it down by the door.

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt, I’ll just go to my room,’ she said, quietly making an exit.

  ‘You don’t have to…’ I said.

  ‘No way!’ Harry continued. ‘Plenty of room for three. Why don’t you two go and put your PJs on and we can all get another beer and watch a film or something?’

  Amber questioned me with her eyes as to whom this man was and why he was telling her what to do.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll nip into the lounge and find a film.’

  Before sauntering off to her bedroom Amber shot me another glance from behind the door, unable to hide her wry smile.

  ‘I like him,’ she mouthed.

  ‘Me too,’ I whispered.

  AUTUMN

  Chapter Seven – Oh, Starry, Starry Night

  I suppose the thought of autumn always appears more attractive to me than the reality of it. I’d fantasize about sheltering in shop doorways, shaking out umbrellas amidst ankle-drenching puddles and drinking freeze-dried soup stirred from a packet into a cup.

  As the first nips of the season could be felt, I was still working as a waitress at Guido’s and had saved enough money to buy a new camera and tripod. My relationship with Harry had gone from semi-permanent to full time and to give an idea of where we were headed, he was staying over at our flat most weekends; the relationship wasn’t open but the bathroom door still remained closed.

  Looking back, it seemed as if time had suspended itself over summer, a period of just a few weeks when nothing and everything had happened. Some memories stood out, others had faded. I didn’t know at the time that it would all catch up with me. Like a jolt or a shudder, a reckoning for the anticipation of a moment, one in particular, that changed everything…

  Believers of astrology have long interpreted astronomical happenings and the position of stellar constellations as influencers of the earth’s condition, affecting the key substances of human form. In other words: our lives. Only in the last few centuries have scientists learned to grasp the importance of the stars and their impact on the human race. Even now, the galaxy’s vast stretch of darkness remains mysterious. Nothing is clear.

  It may run a little deeper than whether or not a Sagittarian is compatible with a Virgo, but it could govern the very direction of our trajectories: our happiness, our loves, our sadness, our mistakes, they could all be cosmically linked. For the sceptics perhaps it’s just a matter of gaining perspective of our size in comparison to
the universe but it still begs the question as to whether we are actually in control of any of it or if the constellations are merely a guilt-free director of everything that happens day to day: the rising sun, the moon, the stars… and me.

  I lay awake as the wind whistled through a small crack in the windowpane. I looked over at Harry sleeping next to me – thinking how a collection of little steps forward could culminate in such a colossal change. I slid out of bed trying not to disturb the covers and perched on the edge, wrapping my large towelling dressing gown around me. I could feel him stir.

  ‘Are you getting up?’ he asked, from a sleepy haze.

  ‘Yeah, I need to. Early start.’ I could feel his head gently lift before flopping back down on the pillow and back to sleep. I left our bed a little too easily that morning and ran myself a hot shower.

  I was getting ready to meet Cathy Abbott. A few weeks previously, I had posted a blog on an online photography forum looking for anyone who may need an extra pair of hands assisting with their work: unpaid, of course. I had since received an email from Cathy who had a studio at her home in West London.

  After two bus rides across the city and a wrong turn at Sloane Square, I wove my way through the shoppers clutching a small piece of paper on which I’d scribbled her address. I arrived five minutes early. The exterior was painted white with a probably once-thriving flower basket now left hanging empty above the door. I gave three sharp knocks of the rusty gold handle and waited.

  ‘Jess,’ she beamed as she opened it. ‘How lovely to meet you.’

  Cathy was late sixties, perhaps seventy, who had a mass of long blonde hair clipped up in a shaggy bun on top of her head. Her face was free from make-up except for a trace of burgundy lipstick that had been slightly washed away by a cup of tea or coffee.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she said, leading me through her hallway.

  As I took off my shoes I looked around at the museum of Cathy Abbott which hung on the walls: family photos, an old clock and three framed black and white landscape pictures hanging in unison across the staircase.

  ‘Did you take those?’ I asked.

  ‘I did. It’s actually the Lake District, beautiful part of the country.’ She stressed the word beautiful so that it was at least three syllables longer than usual. ‘Have you been?’

  I shook my head. ‘I would like to though.’ She guided me into the studio; an extension on the back of the townhouse that smelled of rolled-up cigarettes and oil paints. She moved a pile of books from a stool to let me sit down.

  ‘I paint too,’ she said, ‘but you just want to help out with the photography stuff, right?’

  ‘Yes, that would be great. What I really need to do is gain some experience. That’s what everybody keeps telling me, anyway.’ I looked at the painting of a half-finished nude standing on an easel. ‘I just want to learn a bit more about art and your work.’

  ‘I’ll be honest,’ she continued, pulling out a brown leather portfolio case. ‘I only saw your post by chance as I don’t really look at those online forums. I usually go on recommendations but I was having a flick through and for some reason, you caught my eye.’ She handed me her folder as I sat down. ‘These were taken in 1986, would you believe.’

  I looked at the images of five young women sitting on the floor of a studio against a white background.

  ‘I read that your pictures were in American Vogue,’ I said, waiting for an animated reaction. But instead, she just smiled and nodded.

  ‘So you can start by coming Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I’ll leave some of the editorial stuff for you to examine on the computer. Nothing too airbrushed as that’s not my style but you’ll get the hang of it. Sound good to you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘You should really get going on your own shoots too,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘In order to last in this game, you have to create your own style.’

  I nodded, a tingle of inspiration that had long been forgotten rose within me as I flicked through her work in the folder.

  ‘And do me a favour?’ she said. ‘Pick a style that won’t be replaced by a machine in ten years’ time.’ I smiled at her as she stood, hands on her hips. ‘Better to make yourself irreplaceable in this digital world,’ she said.

  ‘Would you mind if I stayed for a bit today?’ I said, almost without thinking. ‘I could tidy up or help you with packing?’

  ‘Well, let me see. I was making a start at archiving my work,’ she said. ‘I could always use an extra pair of hands with that – but it’s not too exciting, I’m afraid. I tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  ‘No, I will,’ I said jumping to my feet. ‘I want to make myself useful.’

  As I stood holding the dry tea bags, waiting for the water to boil, I could hear she had put the radio on and was beginning to pull open boxes. I had the urge to get back inside and help an indication that this might be more than a stepping stone. I was exactly where I needed to be.

  I left her house that evening at 6.30 p.m. In just under nine hours I had archived thirty years of style and attitudes right through from the Seventies to the Nineties. I walked back along to the bus stop, this time in darkness, evidence that the cold nights were getting longer by the season. I phoned Harry to tell him I would be later than planned but as I pulled out my phone that’s when I remembered: we had arranged to go out with Sean that night to celebrate some big news, something that had proven too important to tell me over the phone. And I had completely forgotten. It was the reason I had swapped shifts at the restaurant and why Harry had been invited as a chance for them to get to know each other a little better. I moved along to the back of the bus and sat by the window. As I wiped away the condensation on the glass with the edge of my forefinger, I noticed that it was a full moon. Bright, bold and hazy in its glow. A shining beacon in an otherwise pitch-black sky. I followed it with my eyes for three bus stops.

  ‘So what exactly is this news?’ Harry asked as I marched him down the stairs outside our flat.

  ‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me,’ I replied. Having sat around in leggings all day at the studio, I had changed into a dress and even managed to paint my nails emerald green before being hustled out the door by Harry. He hated to be late. I hated being rushed. Things were tense.

  As the taxi pulled up outside the restaurant I caught sight of the moonlit sky again.

  ‘Jess,’ Harry bellowed from the taxi.

  ‘Yeah, I’m coming,’ I said, following him outside.

  Sean was alone at the table and with what looked to be his second cocktail.

  ‘Finally!’ he shouted.

  ‘Sorry we’re late, mate,’ Harry said, shaking his hand. ‘Nice to see you again. This one wouldn’t get out of the bathroom.’ He signalled to me as if I were an unruly teenager. What I really wanted to say was that he didn’t need to apologise on my behalf to my own best friend but I held it in reluctantly.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked. ‘I thought we were late?’

  ‘You are.’ Sean rolled his eyes. ‘Marlowe’s not coming because George forgot to tell her that he was away – so she’s looking after the bambino. And Amber will be here when she gets here.

  When that will be is anyone’s guess. Tell me, are your friends as reliable as mine, Harry?’

  I looked over at them both, chatting animatedly about the journey over here as I sat in my chair in relief: relief for central heating, relief for not having to talk anymore – relief that I’d made it. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. In the back of the taxi I could hear myself being difficult, tutting at every question, snapping at Harry for no reason at all. In all honesty, I had been trying to distance myself from the thoughts that I’d been having for weeks but that somehow made them stronger. Something wasn’t right. I’d felt it the night before when we were making dinner and last weekend at his house making pancakes. For weeks, I’d sat on my feelings in the hope they’d go away but this feelin
g of claustrophobia and the fact that he was still being nice to me only seemed to be making things worse.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Amber cried, ‘the tube stopped mid-tunnel and I had no idea how long it was going to take.’

  ‘Yeah, I hate when that happens,’ Harry said, buttering a piece of brown bread.

  ‘So what’s this news?’ Amber asked, jumping straight in.

  Sean leaned forward and straightened his cutlery. ‘Well, you know how I hate my job?’

  ‘Yes,’ both Amber and I said in unison.

  ‘Well, I was headhunted for a design position at a menswear label, Jack Saunders, about a month ago and I went for the interview yesterday.’

  Amber leaned forward from across the table. ‘Jack Saunders is pretty special. I have clients who want to stock their stuff.’

  ‘Well, they called me up today and I got it. They’ve given me the job!’

  ‘Oh my goodness, that’s amazing,’ I cried, reaching for his hand across the table.

  ‘So this means that I get to see my own designs being made into actual clothing. I won’t have to cut and stitch someone else’s pattern pieces anymore, I’ll just be working on design.’

  ‘Well, I think a celebration is in order,’ Harry said, trying to get the waiter’s attention. I watched as he ordered a bottle of champagne for someone I loved but he barely knew. A twinge of guilt panged inside me.

  ‘Why don’t we go out tonight?’ Amber said. ‘Like properly out, we haven’t done that in for ever.’

  ‘Oh I’m in!’ I said, for once not having to apologise for the lack of money.

  ‘Great,’ said Sean. ‘A dry martini followed by a dance followed by who knows what?’ he said, winking.

  ‘I’ll just join you for the martini,’ Amber said, drily.

  As we got up to leave I caught sight of a couple standing by the bar: a tall man wearing a suit, talking energetically to a woman with a bouncy blonde blow-dry, hanging on his every word. Sharp suit? Yep. Good shoes? Yep. Attractive woman? Absolutely. It was the perfect look to keep a woman on her toes. They don’t get a chance to feel permanent and so they never stop trying and so develops, in my experience, a cosmic connection based on flirtation and fear. You don’t feel safe enough to let the mundane creep in. Or, dare I say it, be any type of ordinary.