Love, and Other Things to Live For

by Louise Leverett

  They look at me confused, and to be honest, so am I.

  The rain splattered against the window as I sat dry, perched on a stool in Cathy’s studio listening to an old record player that she had dug out of the loft following a conversation we’d had about the influence of music.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I said as a raucous, croaky voice tore through the speaker.

  ‘Janis Joplin,’ she said. ‘One of the best.’

  I was an hour into retouching a portrait of an author that Cathy had taken earlier that week. I could see her feet tapping and moving to the music, her hips rocking back and forth on the stool beneath the easel she was working on.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said, as she smiled. She put down her paintbrush next to a bottle of white spirit and leaned over to turn the volume down.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, now that she could hear me.

  ‘How long have you been married to your husband?’

  ‘Forty-eight years,’ she replied, followed by an outburst of laughter. ‘I bet you can’t imagine being with a person for that long. He works for Radio 2. You’ll meet him one day I’m sure.’

  ‘Wow, that’s… impressive!’ I said, as I turned back to my work and adjusted a few more levels on the picture. ‘Don’t you ever get… bored?’ I said, feeling as if I were testing the waters of what she would be happy to talk about. I quickly looked for her response, hoping I hadn’t offended.

  She started laughing again. ‘Jess, it’s not a question of being bored. Yes, he can be a real arsehole sometimes, but you just have to stick together, like glue.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘We met at Woodstock in 1969. He was the sound engineer of a travelling rock group and I was a backstage photographer. I’d just turned twenty-one.’

  ‘You were at Woodstock?!’ I cried.

  ‘I was, hence the unlimited number of Janis Joplin vinyls back there. I’m a bit of an addict.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘It was… messy. Exactly as you would imagine, really. I’ve still got an album of my shots somewhere. I’ll dig it out for you. There was this one picture of the crowd – I remember standing there, and this woman was dancing with her eyes closed, she had two big daisies drawn on her cheeks and a bikini top on – my God, she was gorgeous! That picture made it into Rolling Stone magazine!’

  I could feel myself gazing at her, transfixed.

  ‘It was all about freedom and experience,’ she said, getting up and drawing her legs underneath her on the green velvet couch. ‘Love who you want, take what you want…’ She gave me a look. ‘A certain psychedelic drug…’

  ‘You took LSD at Woodstock?!’ I shouted.

  ‘We all did! The drinks were spiked with it backstage. Just don’t tell my kids…’

  I slowly turned back to my desk, smirking uncontrollably at the thought of Cathy Abbott on LSD.

  ‘Oh, it was a fabulous time, Jess, all about energies, auras and spiritual stuff. I still think about it sometimes, usually when I’m on my own, doing the gardening. I’m a lot older now so it’s evolved more into creating flow within plants and interior design. You’ve just got to sense it… to feel rather than think all the time.’

  ‘You can sense auras?’

  ‘I think I can, yes.’

  ‘Well, what about me, then?’

  ‘You sure?’

  I felt ready to accept what came my way.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked, sipping her coffee.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I replied.

  ‘I didn’t ask if you were okay; I asked what you’re thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m… transient. I’m just leaving myself open to the possibilities, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, how did you end up here, in this studio in my backyard?’ Cathy asked, diligently.

  I ceased avoiding the question. ‘Well, I originally went to university to study law…’ I was ready to give the pre-prepared speech I had rehearsed in my head and relayed 101 times before, detailing how it hadn’t been for me and how I had wanted to follow my dream instead, but this time, for some unknown reason, I stopped myself.

  ‘And…?’ she said.

  ‘I failed my second year. Turns out I wasn’t clever enough to be at such a good university. My dad had paid the fees and it was a private institution, so I didn’t want to, I don’t know… let him down by re-sitting and then probably failing the third year too. So I told him I just… didn’t want to do it anymore.’

  I looked over at Cathy to see if she was still listening. And she was, intently.

  ‘But I did meet my best friend Marlowe there so it wasn’t all bad… and Amber too, in a vain attempt to rescue the whole situation.’

  ‘It must be hard running in such successful circles when you feel that way,’ Cathy said, rubbing her bare feet beneath her on the sofa.

  ‘I guess it just wasn’t the place where I needed to be.’ I looked out of the small panelled window framing Cathy’s back garden. It wasn’t something I was going to dwell on. ‘Anyway, weren’t you were going to tell me about my aura?’ I said, feeling myself growing intrigued.

  ‘If I’m honest you seem to have a lot of confusion surrounding you. It’s the main reason I gave you the job. And that’s not surprising as you’re obviously going through your Saturn returns.’

  ‘My what?’ I said, trying not to sound alarmed.

  ‘Saturn returns, darling; we experience it at different stages in our lifetime. Anyway, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment before lunch so I’d better be making a move.’

  ‘But what is it exactly?’ I said. ‘You can’t just say that and leave!’

  She stopped as she reached the door.

  ‘I can see you’re interested so I’ll digress. Technically it’s when Saturn returns to the exact place where it was at your birth – emotionally. It’s why girls your age usually feel confused and a bit lost. Can’t you Google it or something? It’s what you kids seem to do with everything these days.’

  ‘And my aura?’

  ‘I’ve got to go!’ she said, putting on her coat, laughing.

  ‘Just tell me about my aura, Cathy, please…’

  ‘It’s a personal glowing field. When it’s at peace, so are you. Think of the effort it takes to cling onto something compared with the ease of letting it go. Trust me, I’ve been around long enough to know it works. You just need to focus on your energies, your personal space, make it less… chaotic. Why don’t you look at feng shui? It’s the year of the yin fire rooster, awakening and triumph, so now would be the perfect time.’

  I sat there in the harsh realisation of my aura.

  ‘Oh Christ, I have really got to go,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Just finish the retouches from Monday’s shoot and then you can let yourself out. I’ve got to get my knee checked. Trust me, Jess, be young for ever: it’s no fun getting old. See you on Tuesday. Bye, darling.’

  ‘Bye, Cathy.’ I watched her leave in a fluster of wellington boots, prescriptions and umbrellas.

  It wasn’t the most relaxing place, my home, on the fourth floor of a red brick building on a busy road in London. I could hear the neighbours and their conversations late at night, their television sets and their arguments.

  I arrived back there that night and immediately pulled my laptop onto my bed, typing ‘feng shui’ into the search bar. As soon as I pressed ‘enter’, hundreds of online tutorials popped up, cascading down my screen like a waterfall. ‘How to choose crystals’, ‘Architecture and you’ and ‘It’s in there, find it!’ It seemed people all over the world were exploring ways to calm down. Of course, my intention was to just watch a couple and then vacuum the living room but once I’d started I couldn’t stop clicking. Continuously, the sidebar was recommending one after the other and my mind got lost in all the ways to look after the inner you in what can only be described as a beauty tutorial for the soul.

  By midnight I
had learned that the lucky colours of this particular Chinese year were red, pink, purple and burgundy. I glanced at the eggshell walls of my bedroom: far too small for burgundy and I was never really a fan of purple. It was at that point a dusty pink shirt caught my eye from inside the wardrobe. I held it up against the wall and instantly knew: it would be the colour of my new-found sanctuary.

  I awoke bright and early the next day to transform my personal space into a haven of positive energy, and after a quick trip to the local hardware shop to buy paint and a mirror ball, designed to ‘eliminate all negative chi’, I looked at the contents strewn on my bedroom floor, then walked over to my computer to turn on the sound of Jimi Hendrix, a guitar-riddled, heart-inducing rendition of ‘Red House’. It was played as part of his set at Woodstock and I was hooked. Above the shrill of the guitar I could still hear Amber in the kitchen, making a sandwich for lunch, an unusual activity in the middle of the day when normally she should have been at work and the flat would be empty.

  Before I began, I covered all surfaces with some old bedding and flicked the lid of paint open using a screwdriver. Once open, the pale pink paint didn’t look too daunting. I delicately drew a single, gunky brushstroke on the wall and stood back to take it all in. After pausing to assess the damage I gained speed, lacquering the thick paint onto a roller, the creamy liquid smoothing every crack and damp patch.

  ‘Jess,’ Amber said, knocking lightly from outside my door.

  ‘Coming!’ I shouted as I turned down the sound of the psychedelic Sixties.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’ she said, confused. ‘And what’s that on your face?’

  ‘Oh nothing, I’m just painting,’ I said, wiping a smear of pink paint from my cheek using the corner of the old T-shirt I was wearing.

  ‘Well, just to let you know, I’ll meet you at Marlowe’s tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to do something after work.’

  ‘Oh damn! Yeah, I forgot…’ I said, before realising I didn’t have any plans anyway. ‘No problem, I’ll see you there, about eight then?’

  ‘What’s with the bin liners?’ she said, noticing them scattered across the floor.

  ‘I’m de-cluttering.’

  ‘De-cluttering what?’

  ‘My life.’

  There was a brief pause as she searched for words. ‘Okay. I’ll just see you later then,’ she said, putting on her coat.

  ‘Why are you here anyway, in the middle of the day?’

  ‘I’m working late so I’m starting late.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said as she went to leave. ‘Is that my black wrap dress?’

  She turned and gave me a wave as I attempted to tell her to wash it this time before returning it, and that I didn’t want the sleeves stretched like before, but it was too late. She was gone. Looking around at my half-finished job, I turned the volume of the music back up and carried on with the painting.

  *

  I arrived at Marlowe’s house at the agreed time. By now the paint fumes were stinging the back of my nostrils so I thought it best to get some fresh air by walking the three kilometres to her house by the river.

  As usual, it was immaculate and I was just admiring the cream carpet through the window when I could see her walking down the stairs, bouncing Elsa on her hip. She led me through to the kitchen as I put down the bags of food shopping I’d bought on my way over.

  ‘Thanks for coming round,’ she said. ‘I could kill George sometimes. He’s away in Manchester and thought it best to stay over rather than get back late. So now I’m stuck here for a couple of days. I did have some paperwork I wanted to finish but never mind… Daddy can’t exactly help it, can he?’ she said, talking to me through Elsa.

  He absolutely can, I thought as I watched Marlowe sit down on the sofa, exhausted.

  ‘I’ll pop the garlic bread in the oven and open a bottle, shall I?’ I looked over at her, thrown together topped with a messy ponytail and wearing odd socks. Normal for me. Normal for anyone. But not for her.

  She rubbed her hands through her hair and sat down at the breakfast bar.

  ‘No offence, Mars, but you look knackered,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ she laughed.

  I handed her a glass of wine. ‘Merlot for Marlowe?’ She humoured me by smiling at my terrible joke.

  ‘Fancy talking about it? I’m a good ear,’ I said, sitting down across from her at the kitchen table.

  ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Mars, stop being the responsible one for a minute. It’s me you’re talking to.’

  ‘I don’t want to moan, Jess, but I’m just sick of these walls. I’m literally tearing my hair out.’

  ‘It’s okay…’ I said, weakly.

  ‘I’m sick of my only conversation being in a high-pitched voice or shouting over the top of Peppa Pig. It’s not me. Correction, it’s not who I was…’

  ‘It’s not for ever,’ I said. ‘You’re still you.’

  ‘That’s all anyone keeps telling me. But George is never here, he’s always away, and when I ask him to spend more time at home he just flies off the handle, going on at me about the mortgage.’

  ‘You can’t look after everyone all the time,’ I said, softly.

  At that point the doorbell buzzed and I could hear Sean and Amber chatting loudly outside. Marlowe wiped what I thought was a small tear from her eye and smiled through the glass door as she let them in. Amber waved at Elsa, who was in the living room watching television through the open door.

  ‘Apparently you’re supposed to limit TV to just two hours per day…’ Marlowe said, as she walked them both through.

  ‘Oh let her crack on, that’s what I say,’ Sean said. ‘As long as she’s not smoking a joint in there – let her get on with it.’

  ‘What a sweet thing to say about her daughter,’ Amber said, following him into the kitchen.

  Sean had brought around playing cards, which he dealt out between us as I put three large pizzas onto plates and made a token gesture of health with a bowlfull of washed salad.

  ‘So what happened to Harry?’ Marlowe said. ‘I never even got to meet him.’

  ‘He was nice…’ I said.

  ‘That was the problem,’ Sean piped up. ‘If you’re nice in this dating climate you may as well have a rare strain of herpes.’

  Amber nodded as she tugged at her dress.

  ‘Amber, you need to tighten that wrap dress, honey,’ he continued, barely looking up from his cards. ‘I can see everything.’

  ‘Sorry, I probably should have worn a bra with this,’ she said, adjusting it.

  ‘Are you not wearing a bra?’ I said, trying to look.

  ‘No, I’m not. Is that all right?’

  ‘You had a bra on earlier today?’ I said.

  ‘Who are you, the bra police? I had one on today and I don’t have one on now. Is that a good enough answer for you?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ Sean said. ‘I’ve seen it all: from all of you. Remember when Marlowe was breastfeeding? I saw her full boob on most occasions.’

  ‘It wasn’t full boob,’ Marlowe said, ‘just the nipple…’

  My eyes stayed transfixed on Amber as we continued playing cards. She was definitely hiding something.

  ‘Are you sure about Harry?’ Marlowe said quietly.

  I nodded. ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  ‘And there’s no one else?’

  ‘Nope.’ I didn’t want to explain to the table that I’d indulged in phone sex with my ex that was so intense it had contributed to the end of my relationship.

  ‘Okay, Amber, any more news on the old, married guy front?’ Sean asked, deliberately changing the conversation.

  ‘Nope… not much,’ she said, looking down at her hand. ‘What about you? How’s the new job?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a shit show with the new team to be honest, but we’re getting there.’

  ‘Would you mind if I popped by?’ Marlowe
said. ‘I’d like to see where you work.’

  ‘Any time,’ Sean said. ‘Come by one morning and we can go for lunch.’

  ‘You know, I was walking down Oxford Street the other day with Elsa and I caught sight of myself in a shop window and I didn’t even know it was me, seriously – I didn’t even recognise my own reflection. How tragic is that?’

  The three of us listened to Marlowe as she spoke.

  ‘I’ve got clothes in my wardrobe that belong to a fifty-year-old because they’re comfy and easy to move in… I’m pathetic.’

  ‘You’re not pathetic,’ I said, softly.

  ‘And it’s not for ever,’ Amber reassured her.

  Marlowe looked at me. ‘See…?’

  ‘Mars, why don’t we go upstairs and have a sort through your wardrobe? Let’s set fire to some of those clothes you’re talking about.’

  I watched as she followed Sean through the hallway, stopping for a brief moment to pick up a toy left lying on the stairs.

  ‘I hope she’s all right,’ Amber said, reaching for another slice of pizza.

  ‘You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?’ I whispered across the table.

  ‘With who?’ Amber asked innocently.

  ‘Your boss!’

  ‘No, I’m not! Not really…’

  ‘Amber,’ I protested. ‘He’s married.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with him, okay?’

  ‘But what about the bra?’

  ‘Jess, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you think you know everything that’s going on… with everybody, but you don’t. And once you get into the real world you’ll realise that some of the men out there can be pretty shit – not just Harry and his crime of caring about you too much, but properly shit. Then perhaps “nice” won’t seem like too much of a problem.’