Love, and Other Things to Live For

by Louise Leverett

  ‘You did? I’d love to read it. I’ve actually taken a bit of an interest in her work since meeting her.’

  ‘I’ll get it from the study, remind me before you leave. Want another drink?’

  ‘I’d love one,’ James said.

  Marlowe left the room with James, taking the conversation with them. I looked over at Amber who was running her index finger around her wine glass and Sean, who at that point met my eyes across the room.

  ‘Great party,’ he mouthed, before sarcastically giving me the thumbs up.

  ‘Did you ever think when we first met that our lives would take us here?’ Amber said.

  We were sat at the table, part way through the main course with Marlowe and James laughing continuously at one end, while the four of us were at the other on the double date from hell.

  ‘I was studying to be a lawyer then, so no,’ I said, twirling my half-full glass on the table.

  By this time, Amber had made the fluid transition from wine to gin that I knew from past experience was never a good sign and would inevitably result in a trip down memory lane.

  ‘I wanted to be a model,’ she continued. ‘Can you remember? I used to get paid a fortune to sit there and have crap painted on my face.’

  ‘And then you’d pay for the drinks all night!’ I said. ‘Fun times at The Edge…’

  Amber laughed, trying her best to speak. ‘That’s where Sean took first prize for best solo dance act on Valentine’s night.’

  I laughed sharply, spitting out some of my wine.

  ‘Charlie, he came off stage followed by a small Brazilian man covered in baby oil, carrying his pants! I’ve still got the photo somewhere.’

  ‘You probably had to be there,’ Sean said, slightly embarrassed as Charlie looked at him from across the table.

  ‘My face hurts,’ Amber said, wiping her eyes. ‘Is there any more gin, Mars?’ She floated her empty glass high up in the air.

  ‘In the cupboard,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be a dinner party,’ Sean told her as she topped herself up, ‘not a free for all at Marlowe’s liquor cabinet.’

  ‘She won’t mind,’ she said, looking down the table grinning, ‘she seems far too distracted.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ I whispered to Charlie. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’

  ‘Just as long as I don’t become the target,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘After all, she’s quite entertaining.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Amber began, clicking her glass with a teaspoon. ‘I’d like to perform a little speech I had prepared for this evening. Mars, I can see you don’t give a shit about what I have to say but if you could pull yourself away from your boyfriend for two seconds, I’d appreciate it…’

  ‘Stop it, Amber,’ Sean said, tugging at her arm.

  ‘I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight. Charlie, thank you for gracing us with your presence, we are truly honoured, and Jess, thank you for accepting my apology, despite the fact that you were in the wrong.’

  ‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ I said to Charlie.

  ‘Okay then, bye!’ Amber said. ‘Rude.’

  As I reached the top of the staircase I stopped briefly to look at the photographs that adorned the walls of the hallway. I’d seen them a million times before but hadn’t quite taken them all in until now. Arranged in lines along the beige wallpaper, there was one of Marlowe on her graduation day sporting a rather dubious fringe and lip liner, one of Marlowe and George on their wedding day in Tuscany and finally, right at the top, a gold-framed photograph of Elsa in the bath. I smiled and tiptoed across the hallway, avoiding her bedroom that was lit dimly by a nightlight.

  I washed my hands at the basin and as always when I visited, borrowed two squirts of Marlowe’s expensive hand cream. I had delayed things for as long as I could before having to go back downstairs. With Amber things were always impulsive but I still didn’t know what had got into her. I could hear her muffled voice from beneath me.

  ‘I’ve got it, Amber,’ Sean said, calmly, ‘just lift your sleeve out.’

  ‘I think it’s time we went home,’ Charlie said, greeting me at the bottom of the stairs, chewing on the remains of an after-dinner mint.

  I rolled my eyes and lifted Amber’s coat from the bottom of the banister.

  ‘Want to stay at mine?’ I said as I led him back through. ‘We can’t let her go home like that on her own. Look at her.’

  Charlie walked over to Amber, slowly holding out his arm. ‘Here you go, you can hold onto me. Watch the step, my car’s just outside.’

  We watched at the doorway as Charlie laid Amber down on the backseat of his car.

  ‘I really like him,’ Sean whispered, linking my arm.

  ‘See,’ I said. ‘You should trust me…’

  ‘And might I just say, that is one nice ride he’s got himself.’ He glanced at the black sports car sitting at the bottom of Marlowe’s driveway.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not bad. Cars aren’t really my thing.’ I said, smiling.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the car,’ he said, patting my bum as I climbed inside.

  We drove home in silence. After dropping Sean off at his home, we continued on through the city towards my flat.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, reaching for my coat. ‘I’ll deal with her.’

  I made my way to the front of our building, propping open the doors in preparation for her entrance. As they turned the corner I saw that Charlie had picked Amber up and was carrying her in his arms.

  ‘You owe me for this,’ he said, kissing me on the lips on the way past. ‘Big time.’

  ‘You okay, Amber?’ I shouted, as they both passed by.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she muffled, from under a pile of black hair.

  As I stood in Amber’s room, convincing her to drink some water, I texted Marlowe to say thank you for dinner that evening:

  I’m sorry we left early. Hope you had a good night. xx

  I stood at the foot of Amber’s bed and watched as she contorted her legs to fight the sleep. She was holding her hands just below her stomach, massaging it softly in what I can only assume was a way of stopping the vomiting. I could hear Charlie turn on the television in the living room and desperately wanted to be with him. I wanted to bury my head in the sand and pretend I lived in a world where the two sides of my life could join amicably for at least one night. I was wrong. But I couldn’t help but feel that I was in some way responsible – that I should have somehow foreseen this happening. After wrestling her into her pyjamas and watching her spectacularly pass out on top of the covers, I left her bedroom door ajar and made my way into the living room.

  ‘Well, that went well’ I said as he pulled my legs onto his lap on the sofa.

  ‘I just don’t understand why you have to fix things all the time. It is okay to just let things be.’ He ran his hands over my feet, slowly making his way along my thighs.

  ‘Charlie, we can’t,’ I said, pulling away. ‘I left her bedroom door open.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he whispered into my hair. I could feel his hands moving down my jeans as my phone pinged from inside the pocket. It was a message from Marlowe. He gently threw it onto the table and continued his journey across my chest. I wondered about Amber. I cared if she could hear. What if she got up to go to the toilet? What if she walked in? By this time his hands had reached inside me: I let out a cry, struggling to stay unheard. Please stay in your bedroom, I repeated over and over in my head, please stay in your bedroom. There was no time to think. It was messy and awkward and immediate. As he pulled my legs around him, I felt the heat of his body and I was gone. Consumed. In that moment, he was everything.

  Chapter Thirteen – It’s a Girl Thing

  London was my drug of choice and I had all the hallmarks of an addict. Apart from being a cosmopolitan metropolis where quite literally, anything goes, I find it gives you a similar feeling to when you g
o on a date with someone slightly out of your reach: almost impulsive, temporary, but above all, slippery. As with most unequal relationships you never quite manage to reach the comfortable phase where you’re given the liberty of putting on ten pounds by eating pizza in bed socks, or when you are lulled into a false sense of security, descending into complacency. London calls for effort, a sense of direction and to top it all off a foray into the world of congestion charge and competitive rent prices. You are a permanent newcomer; not even at ease enough to chance a backstreet, safe in the comfort that you know where you’re going. Without realizing, you end up lost, out of your depth, begrudgingly seeking help from a stranger.

  In a desperate attempt to get back in the saddle, work-wise, I’d spent the previous week scouring the Internet for positions that would allow me to stretch my photography skills and also, in a rare dose of optimism, potentially get paid for what I wanted to do. As a result of my labours I was on my way to interview for a photography position at a local magazine, an alternative travel guide for visitors to the capital. The brief, from what I could determine from a hundred-word blog post, was for somebody who could navigate the city, documenting it in imagery in a ‘unique and exciting way’.

  I’d just passed the sign for Battersea Bridge, a result of getting off the bus too hastily, believing that I knew the way, only to find myself walking along the riverfront, lost and annoyed. The yellow sun cast a shimmer across the Thames and joggers sprinted past me, breathing heavily in the foggy atmosphere. It seemed that I’d taken a wrong turning somewhere off Sloane Square and was currently following a blue dot (me) along the backstreets of a warehouse forecourt towards a red arrow (them). I glanced up from my phone to see a small cabin with a man in a high-visibility jacket reading the newspaper, clutching a polystyrene cup of tea.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said through the chequered glass window. ‘Could you tell me where this office is?’ I held out my phone so he could see my trajectory on the map.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said, taking it from me. ‘You need to go along the green bay and out through the other side. There’s a small grey building at the dead end – that’s it.’

  I walked off speedily in the direction he suggested.

  ‘I can show you if you want?’ he called out as I left.

  ‘That’s okay!’ I shouted back. ‘I’ll be fine – thanks!’

  I checked my watch and broke into a small jog. Here I was in the familiarity of Battersea, totally lost and navigating my way through a lorry car park. Luckily I’d worn my trainers and was carrying work shoes in my canvas tote.

  ‘Jessica Wood,’ I said as I finally reached the reception desk. ‘I have an interview for the photography position.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ the man said from behind the desk. ‘They’ll be with you shortly. Would you like a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you, I’m fine,’ I said, straightening out my jacket.

  I sat down on the squashy grey chair, changed my shoes and pulled out my portfolio from my bag. Through the window, the grey sky cast a thick weight across the river. I could see the sun trying so desperately to break through.

  ‘Jessica?’ A middle-aged man in a grey cashmere jumper signalled me to come over. ‘Follow me…’ Together we walked through to an office on the second floor.

  ‘Thank you for coming in to see us,’ he said, taking a seat at his desk. ‘I’ve been looking at the sample shots you sent through in advance of our meeting today.’

  I moved in my seat slightly, trying to gauge a reaction. I didn’t realise how much I wanted the job until I could feel my hands trembling in my lap.

  ‘And you want to work full time?’ he said, without looking up from my CV.

  ‘Whatever is available,’ I replied. ‘Preferably full time but I’m willing to work just a couple of days, if that’s all you need.’

  The back of my throat felt dry and scratchy. I tried to clear it quietly but couldn’t take my eyes from the light blue water cooler in the corner of the room.

  ‘And you took all of these yourself?’ I could smell cigarette smoke and could see his yellowing fingernails rub the desk next to my folder. ‘Clever girl,’ he said, fingering the plastic covering.

  ‘I started off with landscapes and then moved on to portraiture. Your advertisement said that you might need both so…’

  ‘I have to say, Jessica, I was impressed with your work here and the selection you sent over, but I’m going to be honest: your style is a little too delicate for our taste. We want someone who will blend in more with the overall feel of the magazine.’

  I was crushed. I could feel a sinking feeling hitting my stomach as I faced the reality that I had let myself down, and Cathy, and anybody else who had taken the time to help me. ‘In what way?’ I asked, hoping that a little more clarification might help me to understand where I’d gone wrong. I could feel the dryness in the back of my mouth as I spoke. My voice didn’t sound like my own as I heard it out loud.

  ‘We’re looking for someone who’s a bit more robust in their approach. You know, fits in as part of the team with the lads. But that’s not to say that your work wasn’t impressive. I could just picture you running around town with your little camera,’ he laughed.

  I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he couldn’t see how patronising he was being. Despite this, and to my shame, I found myself almost desperate to make myself fit his criteria.

  ‘So you want me to be more… manly?’ I said, hoping that saying it out loud would help him to see the lunacy of it all.

  ‘Your work is exciting, don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking that away from you but I think you need just a few more years to toughen up a bit. I’m just a little concerned that it’s a bit too feminine for what we’re looking for on those big shoots.’

  ‘But I thought the whole idea was to create a magazine that was accessible and appealed to young people?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but the male demographic are the people who actually buy the magazine so it’s really them we have to cater for…’

  I smiled my way through frustration. ‘I’m not sure I know how to make my work more masculine?’ I said, calmly.

  ‘And you don’t need to. You’re an exciting young girl. I’m sure there’s a million magazines you could go and work for – and look at it this way: at least you won’t have to carry our heavy photographic equipment across London.’

  I gave him a small smile. Just what he needed, a reassuring response to an unfunny joke.

  ‘I bet you’ve got a strapping man somewhere who can help you with that though, am I right?’

  I readjusted myself in my seat. ‘No, I carry my own equipment. It’s usually fine.’

  ‘Clever girl,’ he said, for the second time. ‘I tell you what: here’s what I’m willing to consider. Why don’t you go away and put together some pieces. A few generic shots: nothing too… bold. And then we can get together and see if it will work?’

  ‘I don’t wish to be rude, Richard…’ I’d read his name from the plaque on the door but hadn’t expected to be using it so casually. ‘This isn’t a joke, it’s my career. I don’t think you’re taking me seriously as a suitable candidate. I’m sorry you don’t think my work is in keeping with your magazine, but if I stay here in this office a moment longer, while you crush my dreams against your own agenda, then I’m afraid I might not pick up a camera again. I’ve taken two buses and walked for twenty-five minutes in drizzle to sit and be told that my work is too feminine and the very idea of me running around town with a “little” camera actually made you laugh out loud. In future, maybe you should have some consideration for the people on my side of the desk.’

  I didn’t know where it had been hiding, but for the first time, a runaway train of words had managed to trip off the tongue in a coherent and measured way and Richard had become the pin board upon which they had landed. The feeling was unique and satisfying, to say the least.

  ‘Thank you very much for yo
ur time,’ I said. ‘But I think it’s best that we end things here.’

  I stood up on jellied legs and made my way out of his office. As I crossed the forecourt, time slowed down, the mist had cleared, and a faint rainbow had now broken through. I reached in my pocket and noticed that I had forgotten my gloves in reception – far too humiliating to go back for them, I thought. Instead I took a sharp turn back along the green bay and saw the man in high visibility still in his cabin.

  ‘Did it go all right?’ he shouted through the glass door.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, giving him a genuine smile.

  I continued along the river and towards Battersea Power Station. I may not have got the job but I had done something equally as courageous: I had stood up for myself and for my future as I saw it. Not bad for a clever girl.

  ‘You did what?’ Sean said over the phone in a mixture of horror and amusement.

  ‘Yeah, I walked out of the interview. I just couldn’t do it, Sean. He was a soul-destroyer. He kept talking to me like the little girl who wanted to take photos in the big boys’ club.’

  ‘But you’re happy to work as a waitress?’

  ‘Yes.’ As soon as I said it out loud, I knew it was actually true. ‘Are you free for a coffee?’

  ‘’Fraid not, I’m in the studio – looks like I’ll be here late. I’m already on my second packet of Doritos. Lord have mercy on my five chins…’

  ‘Well, I think I’ll ring Marlowe, see if she’s free for the afternoon.’

  ‘Good idea, Gloria Steinem – you two can go burn your bras or something.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It was humiliating.’

  ‘So how long do you have?’ I said to Marlowe, speaking to her as if she were a woman on parole.

  ‘Three days…’

  ‘What?’ I said, pulling out my chair.

  ‘He’s back for three days and after a short cry and a long bath he agreed to give me a break for a while. I took a taxi through Bayswater so I’m now on my second coffee and quite a bit shaky to boot.’

  ‘Oh Marlowe…’ I said, taking off my coat.