‘That was way harsh, Amber,’ I said, taken aback.
She looked at me, unflinching. ‘He’ll fuck you over, Jess. You just wait and see.’
She left the bathroom and I reached down to retrieve the sponge discarded on the floor. I couldn’t understand what I was being vilified for. Sean was his own boss now, Marlowe had a baby and I was being blasted for being with a man who made me happy. A man who had a job and a car, who wasn’t swiping right behind my back or whose monthly bills weren’t paid for by his parents. Things were, quite rightly, changing. After all, who wants to remain stuck in a series of late nights that consisted of bar-hopping, bed-hopping, leaving the club at 2 a.m., throwing up in the toilet, throwing up in the sink. Yes, those times were exciting, but they are over.
It was time to grow up.
Sean stood in the hallway of his flat and placed his keys down on the small ceramic dish by the door. He took a deep breath and slowly made his way through to the kitchen, opening a loaf of bread, placing two slices in the toaster. He closed his eyes and remembered carefully what it was like to live there with Paul. He could still see him stood by the fridge, his charismatic smile that took Sean’s breath away, still swept across his face. Although it wasn’t easy, it was time to move on and his new home would be the perfect setting in which to start again. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it down, feeling the cold liquid line the side of his throat. It felt comforting.
It may have seemed like he was coping. Like he had coped. But inside was still the realisation that nothing would be the same again. He walked over to the dark, wooden desk at the side of the room, turning on a small table lamp and sitting down at the table. With ease he pulled out a series of sketchbooks and began reading the notes written haphazardly down the side. Work had proved a valuable distraction these past few years and this particular night wasn’t any different. As he sketched out the outline for his spring/summer collection, from nowhere, the pain hit him. There, away from the eyes of anybody he knew, he cried for the fact of losing him, for the life that he used to live and the distant memory of the man he used to be.
*
That night I arrived at Charlie’s flat and could hear the distinct sound of music coming from the other side of the door. I turned my key in the lock, slowly, and let myself in.
‘I finished work early,’ he said, standing there with a bottle of beer in one hand and a tea towel in the other. ‘Don’t worry, the beer’s organic.’
‘Are you cooking?’ I asked, both surprised and slightly scared.
‘Well, I wanted you to relax. Focus on your Zen.’
‘How long have you been waiting to work that one in?’ I said, glancing at the white polystyrene containers on the table.
‘They’re from this health food store near work that someone had told me about. I bought us a vegetarian lasagne and some dairy-free, sugar-free, fun-free brownies that, to be honest, looking at them, could probably be used to re-grout the bathroom.’
As he continued with his attempts at dinner, I decided to vacate the emergency area and instead walked over to the window. The people below looked like ants, all going about their business. I continued to watch as some waited for buses, others carried food shopping across the bridge, many walking quickly to catch the last train home.
‘You okay in there?’ I shouted to Charlie. He turned up the music that was playing from the kitchen. An album we always listened to. He remembered.
‘I don’t recall ever seeing you cook,’ I said as I passed the kitchen and watched him, unsuccessfully, try to cut free the lasagna from its container.
‘This is why,’ he said, almost slicing a finger. ‘So what did you do today?’
‘I saw Sean for lunch. It was Paul’s anniversary today,’ I said, opening a bottle of beer for myself.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘How many years is that, three?’
‘Four,’ I said.
‘That’s got to be tough.’
I watched as he struggled once more to cut the plastic using a butter knife, his hair strewn across his face. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he shouted as it flew off the table onto the floor. I casually sipped my beer, trying my best to hold the laughter in.
‘Well, looks like the bad karma got us after all,’ I said.
He glanced at the mix of tomato sauce and pasta sheets, trying in vain to scoop it loosely back into the container.
‘It’ll be all right,’ I said, as I handed him a bottle of beer. ‘We’ll just have to eat it down there, like cats.’
And just like that, Sean was right. In the midst of everyday normality, somewhere between dinner and the washing up, the signs do come. You just need to pay extra special attention to them and open your heart to what’s meant for you.
Chapter Eleven – You, Me… Oui
Voulez-vous fuir avec moi… ?
Would you like to run away with me… ?
‘Tomorrow.’
It was the first thing I’d heard that morning. As if we could just pack up and go on a whim. And we could. I looked at the shape of Charlie’s nose, the smooth contour of the bridge leading towards the tip and then the mouth. It had already been booked. We were going to Paris.
It was going to be late-night walks, long baths and cocktails before dinner, rich cheese in butter croissants and strong coffee in foreign streets: celebrating familiarity within a certain newness. But in the midst of this new kind of relationship, I knew that it was important to still retain an element of mystery; a sense of magic to keep the excitement going in what can often be an overload of time, intrusion of personal space and an awareness of the realities of human function. Which is why, when I arrived at the station the next morning, the idea was mixed with excitement, and just a hint of trepidation.
A fear set in that, from this point on, he would know things, things he probably shouldn’t. Like the fact my hair was naturally a dry frizz, that I shaved my legs using a man’s disposable razor or the fact that I didn’t dispose of it at all as the packet suggested but rather used it repeatedly for several shaves. Up to this point the ample space in his flat had allowed me the precious luxury of being able to hide behind a wall of mirrors and hair straighteners, an effortlessly put together show pony without a single errant hair or facial blemish. There was only one thing I knew as I packed my case: this would be an insight into what was real.
Construction cranes dotted the London skyline as I began my sprint towards St Pancras International train station. I hadn’t been up this early since Christmas day, 1995, and although I had promised to be on time – early, even – I had spent most of my short morning fawning over a suitcase full of clothes that I had been forced to quickly pack the night before.
By now, I was running over twenty minutes late. It had been my intention to buy the both of us a croissant and wait for him on the platform like a scene from a Nouvelle Vague film, but here I was sprinting through the light rain, trying to balance a beige trench coat, which I had deemed to be very Parisian, a handbag and a suitcase that appeared to have two left wheels. I checked off the items mentally as I ran: comfy underwear, good underwear, straighteners and a Continental plug already attached to the hairdryer. I skipped through the small row of taxis occupying the front pavement, and skidded across the squeaky marble floor, my unruly suitcase travelling in the opposite direction. And that’s when I saw him, clutching two coffees and a newspaper: relaxed and well put together.
‘I’m sorry,’ I shouted, weaving through the last of the crowds.
‘I knew you’d be late,’ he said as he kissed me.
One of the things that I admired most about him was his ability to keep his cool in a crisis. We were now late: extremely late, but without so much as a mention, he carefully lifted my bag onto the security scanner and pulled two train tickets from his back pocket.
‘Take your pick,’ he said. ‘Window or aisle?’
Inside I was feeling slightly more excited than I probably should’ve been. We had spent many a weeke
nd at his place together so what was so different about Paris? Suddenly, and at the height of our new romance, we would be thrown together like cellmates. I looked over to see him reading the back page of a newspaper, gently resting one hand on my knee, thankfully oblivious to the stream of insanity running through my head.
I held up my phone to capture the image of the orange sunlight whizzing across the rooftops, and saw I’d received a text from Amber:
Bon voyage! Hope you remembered to pack some good pants xxx.
I smiled to myself and slid my phone back into my pocket. I knew her well enough to know that it was meant as a peacemaker, and that meant a lot. After a few minutes of reading the newspaper over his shoulder, I reached for the packet of photographs still sitting in my bag, smoothing out the glossy surface with the palm of my hand.
‘You should really get started on that,’ Charlie said as he reached for a bottle of water from my bag.
‘I know,’ I replied. ‘What do you think?’
He folded over his newspaper to get a closer look.
‘Can I see?’
‘Of course,’ I said, handing him the envelope.
‘Where were you?’
‘Regent’s Park. Cathy helped me with the composition.’
‘Jess, they’re really good,’ he said. ‘What are they for?’
‘Just for me, I guess. I took them with my new camera.’ I took the packet back from him and slid them back into the side pocket of my handbag.
‘You know, if you really want to do this, I know a few people who might be able to help?’
‘That’s okay,’ I said, dodging his remark by taking a sip of my water.
He smiled before going back to reading his newspaper. ‘I literally had no idea you were that good. What else don’t I know about you, eh?’
I wanted to tell him that this trip would be a tasting platter of life for us, that maybe at the end of it we would know, but as we entered the tunnel, somewhere between England and France, I decided to just sit back and enjoy the excitement.
We arrived in Paris mid-morning to the scent of rich perfume and cigarette smoke. At our hotel, Charlie had stayed behind in reception to sort out passports and paperwork and I stood alone in the lift as it ascended the five floors to the top suite. I watched as the different floors went trickling by before coming to a halt at the top as the doors clicked open.
The concierge had arrived beforehand with the bags, meaning that all I was left to do was unlock my case and begin unpacking. The room was simple yet elegant. Thin white curtains billowed from the open window and laid on the bed were a pile of laundered towels. Two sets. I walked over to a fruit bowl left on a table by the window and picked two green grapes, popping one immediately into my mouth. In the bathroom I leaned in towards my reflection in the mirror, the harsh fluorescent white light above the sink beaming down on my face: every blemish and stray hair was on display, perfectly lit like a poor man’s Mona Lisa. Great, I thought to myself, unpacking my make-up bag. Good job I packed the tweezers. I walked back into the room to retrieve them and saw that Charlie had since caught me up. He, too, had started unpacking. His was the type of suitcase with actual compartments and pressed trouser and shirt sets. A brown box sat in the middle, designed specially to contain his watch.
I opened my suitcase to reveal several dresses, one still damp from the dryer, cramped, hidden under a pile of underwear and a pair of cream silk pyjamas bought specially for the occasion. He laid out his bottles meticulously: aftershave, deodorant, followed by a pale pink bar of soap. I smiled to myself. He had his quirks too, probably things he’d been hiding from me, things like OCD by the look it. And so it begins, I thought to myself, the getting to know one another. I lay down gently on the fluffy white duvet and, as I predicted, he followed me. As history had taught me, I decided to embrace the want, after all, one day, I might miss this second, miss this moment. Miss the days we spent together, in Paris.
*
I clipped my hair up on top of my head and lay down on the pillow next to him. It was 3 p.m. and he was asleep. I could feel his arm around me as I lay, quietly, looking out of the window. I thought about London, which although just a two-hour train journey away, still felt incredibly distant. To add to this, and for the first time since I’d known her, I was missing Marlowe’s birthday party. ‘Go and have fun,’ she’d said when I told her about our last-minute Paris trip. ‘Just don’t blame me if you come back pregnant.’ Despite their difficulties since having Elsa and although she got annoyed with his working away all the time, Marlowe and George had withstood more than a romantic weekend away. George once told me that he knew Marlowe was different to the other girls he’d dated. There was something so serious about her. She was an adult before any of us. I will always remember her turning to me over a coffee one late afternoon in South Kensington. ‘They can only treat you like shit if you let them,’ she said. I sometimes missed a Saturday morning coffee with her, which usually turned into lunch that turned into dinner that turned into drinks and before we knew it, we were dragging each other home at 2 a.m., swearing that this time really would be the last time. But months had passed and with them, other responsibilities had quite rightly taken precedence. She looked after Elsa, and George, and all of us, really. Her maternal nature was often taken for granted against the louder, more extreme behaviour from the rest of us. And this phase, this unhappy outlook she’d recently slipped into, would inevitably fade and in time, she would be her old self again. She just needed to see it too.
‘Are you asleep?’ Charlie asked, nudging me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just lying here, waiting for you to wake up, sleepy head…’ I kissed the corner of his cheekbone gently.
‘Well, what do you say we take a shower and go for a walk by the river? The table’s booked in the restaurant at eight.’
‘I’m not sure I want to leave anymore,’ I said, pressing my cold feet into the back of his warm legs. ‘This bed is just so comfy…’
‘Eight forty-five,’ he said, wiggling himself back down under the covers. ‘We can push it back to eight forty-five.’
I stood over a vase of flowers in the lobby of our hotel. By this time, daylight had surrendered to darkness and I was waiting for Charlie to hand in our room key. I could smell the lilies, mixed with faint perfume from all the people who had left before us. The sound of the piano in the hotel bar drifted gently through the foyer, drowning out the sound of shoes squeaking on the marble floor.
‘Jess,’ Charlie shouted from the desk, ‘you all right walking?’
I looked down at my gold sandals that were holding up surprisingly well for five-inch heels, scrunched my nose up and nodded. I walked over to him as he took my hand and led me through the revolving doors and out into the Parisian night.
‘I wish we could do this more often,’ I said, looking out over the Seine.
‘We can,’ Charlie said, squeezing my hand. ‘Thames is a bit nippy, though.’
I laughed. ‘You know what I mean. It’s nice just to be on our own for a bit.’
‘I’m yours and you’re mine, in London, Paris…’ he said, putting his arm around me, ‘wherever we happen to be in the world.’
We crossed the street and came to a small restaurant on the corner of Avenue Montaigne. I stepped delicately through the rows of white roses carefully laid out around the outdoor terrace. The maître d’, a striking woman with light brown hair and fluorescent pink nails, led us to a table in the corner of the terrace. It was central enough to be part of the crowds, quiet enough to be intimate. A row of orange heaters blazed out around us. I could feel their welcome warmth on my back.
I reached for a menu and began my mission to choose a starter. I could feel Charlie’s gaze landing on me before quickly looking away as I caught him. On his third attempt it was time to confront him.
‘What?’ I said, laughing.
‘Nothing,’ he said, grinning. ‘I just wanted to say that I meant what I said on the train, Jess
. I would love to help with your work if I can.’
Although the gesture was sweet and his intentions were completely genuine, I couldn’t help but resent the fact that he saw me as a girl who needed to be helped. I wanted him to see me as an equal, not a helpless damsel who needed rescuing.
‘Thanks,’ I said, looking back down at the menu. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Why don’t you want to talk about it?’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘You know, Jess, I find you fascinating. You shove your photographs in front of my face and then back away when I try to talk to you about them.’
‘I didn’t shove anything,’ I said.
‘I just would like us talk about it, that’s all.’
‘But I don’t need to talk about it,’ I said, feeling flustered. ‘And I don’t need helping.’
‘Sorry!’ he said, raising both his hands in protest. ‘Just trying to…’
‘Help,’ I said, ‘you’re trying to help. Which is good for you because you look like a hero but if I refuse, then I’m the bad guy.’ He waited for me to finish. ‘I’m sorry. I appreciate it, I really do, but this is just something I need to do for myself.’
‘I have this friend, Steve, he’s the head of…’
‘Charlie,’ I said, cutting him off mid flow.
He held his hands up again. ‘Sorry! Jeez, sorry I mentioned it.’
Despite all the signs that this conversation was over, I should’ve left it there. But I couldn’t.
‘What’s with the Mother Teresa act all of a sudden, anyway? You couldn’t care less about my career before, why now?’
‘Because I’ve realised what it means to you,’ he said. ‘And it’s my job to help.’
‘Why is it your job?’ I said, digging deeper. ‘Because I’ve suddenly become your responsibility?’
‘No – because I love you,’ he said.
‘Are you ready to order?’ the waiter stood at the foot of the table and began listing the specials in a thick Parisian accent. ‘Madame, may I recommend the scallops, perfectly in season with a hint of chilli oil.’
Love, and Other Things to Live For Page 12