This time the man gives a short, aspirated laugh; but, of course, he has no reason to be displeased with my demand. It’s relatively cheap and will get me drunk quicker. He nods again at the barman.
Two crystal flutes are placed before us. The barman pops the cork and pours, then returns the bottle immediately to a cooler.
My would-be seducer raises his glass. ‘Here’s to expensive taste.’
I raise my glass and we both drink: he sips; I take a generous mouthful so that my flute is half emptied. Then, maintaining eye contact the entire time, I take the shot of pastis and upend it in my champagne, which emits a serpentine rasp as it turns the pinkish colour of mother-of-pearl. The man almost chokes; the bartender’s eyes widen in alarm, just for an instant, before he recovers his perfect professional mask. The jazz continues to reel and twist, and no one says anything for a few delirious seconds. I feel lighter than air, so free of ballast that I’m in danger of leaving the ground. It would be the ideal moment to down the rest of my drink and walk away, end the encounter with a flourish and no damage done. But somehow I can’t. Our eyes are locked and I have to see what he’ll do next – whether he’ll cut his losses, pick up the bottle and retreat, or continue to roll with the punches.
It’s the latter, of course. There’s nothing more attractive to the stupidly wealthy than an absolute indifference to the value of things. It’s like a shot of testosterone in the arm. The man’s face moulds to another sardonic smile. ‘That’s one of the stranger things I’ve seen in this bar,’ he says. ‘How is it?’
I take another mouthful, letting the aniseed bubbles titillate my tongue. ‘It’s like nothing you can imagine,’ I tell him.
13
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
Another bar, another Friday. The circumstances very different.
I’m a little high, but not so much that it’s a problem. I just have that extra zing, that bit more energy and imagination. Two double vodka and Cokes have been placed before me as I rifle through my purse, searching for usable currency. I don’t have any cash – I know that already – but I realize too late that I don’t have my debit card either. ‘I must have left it in my other jeans,’ I explain to the barman, who absorbs this extraneous information as impassively as a slab of granite. ‘Can I put it on my credit card?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He thrusts the card reader towards me.
‘I don’t know my PIN,’ I add.
‘You don’t know your PIN?’
‘No. I mean, I hardly ever use this card, except online. I’ll have to sign for it.’
The barman groans loudly, a noise that is echoed at least twice in the crowd behind me. It’s early evening, it’s central London – so of course everywhere is frantic. ‘You can’t sign for it,’ he tells me. ‘If you don’t know your PIN you can’t use that card.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘It’s company policy. Prevents fraud.’
‘Well, look’ – I shove my open purse towards his face – ‘I have my driving licence here. See? Same name.’
He shakes his head and grips both vodka glasses, as if I might run off with them. ‘No PIN, no drinks.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! I could buy a diamond over the internet without needing my PIN. So why do I need it to buy a bloody drink?’
‘Excuse me?’ I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round angrily. It’s the guy next in line at the bar. He’s tall and I’m wearing flats, so the first thing I see is his stubble. It’s not designer stubble; it’s too-busy-to-shave stubble. He’s not much older than me – twenty-four, twenty-five perhaps – but he looks fraught, vaguely exasperated. He’s still wearing work clothes – shirt, tie and trousers. The shirt has a couple of creases and has come untucked on one side. He looks as if he has come straight from a very long week.
‘Yes, I know!’ I snap. ‘I’m holding everyone up. But unnecessary interruptions aren’t going to help matters.’
‘Er, no. Probably not,’ he agrees, with a slightly worried grin. ‘Actually, I was going to offer to buy your drink for you.’
‘Oh.’ I fumble for a few moments. The barman tuts loudly. ‘Thanks. That’s extremely kind of you. Or it would have been kind of you. I assume the offer has expired?’
‘The offer still stands.’
‘Well . . .’ I open my purse again to demonstrate its emptiness. ‘I do have a bit of a cash flow situation at the moment.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s happened to all of us at one point or another.’
‘Thank you. That’s a lie, I’m sure, but it’s a nice lie.’
The barman coughs and drums his fingers.
‘You’re sure?’ I ask, but a twenty-pound note has already been handed over the bar with no further debate.
‘Listen,’ I tell him. ‘I’d like to pay you back for this. If you give me your address, I’ll send you a cheque.’
‘Oh, no. Not necessary. Really. It’s just a drink. No big deal.’
‘Actually, it’s two drinks,’ I point out. ‘I’m with someone. My flatmate,’ I add quickly. ‘She’s had kind of a lousy day. Her boyfriend dumped her, and I promised I’d take her out and get her good and drunk.’ I nod towards my purse. ‘Except it looks like she’s going to be buying for the rest of the evening. Turns out I’m an awful friend.’
‘No, not awful. Just slightly incompetent.’
I laugh, and it feels warm and wonderfully unforced. ‘Yes, exactly.’
‘But your intentions were good.’
‘They always are.’
The barman hands him the change, along with the two vodkas and a pint of something, and the crowd starts jostling to fill the space we’re vacating.
‘Look,’ I say once we’re clear of the serving area, ‘usually I’d ask if you’d like to join us, but it’s not a good time, like I said. We’re probably going to spend the next two hours talking about what shits men are.’
‘Then I’ll happily give it a miss.’
‘I’d still like your number, though,’ I persist. ‘Or email – whatever.’
‘No, really. It’s fine. Completely unnecessary. Take it as a random act of kindness.’
I give him a patient smile. ‘Yes, I know it’s unnecessary. That’s no longer why I’m asking.’
‘Oh.’ I think he blushes a bit, and at that moment I can’t imagine anything sweeter. ‘Um, yes, that’s different, then. Sorry – I’m bumbling. Let me try again: I’d love to give you my number. Do you have a pen?’
‘Er . . .’ I reach into my bag. ‘Yes. Four pens, in fact. No money, but four pens. Perhaps I should have tried bartering for my drinks?’ I flash another smile and hand him a ballpoint and a beer mat, on the back of which he scribbles his details – phone and email. I read it as he writes – [email protected] – then pop the beer mat in my bag.
‘Well, Stephen Beckett,’ I say, raising both vodkas, ‘thanks again for these. I’m Abby, by the way. You shall be hearing from me soon.’
Then I turn and squeeze back through the crowd.
This memory is one of many that surface all at once, like the bubbles in champagne, like the thousands of bubbles in my blood. Alcohol hasn’t dulled me; it has just muddled things, turning racing thoughts into overlapping thoughts, a jumble of tightly knotted contradictions.
We’re stumbling back to my room in a blur of corners and corridors. He has his hand on my lower back, pushing more than guiding, his fingers grazing my buttocks; and he keeps calling me Julia, since that’s the name I gave him at some point. He told me his too – Matt or Mark or Mike – but I’ve already shut it out. He probably has a wife and kids tucked away somewhere.
In the lift, he kisses me and shoves me back against one of the mirrored walls, hard enough that I feel a sharp pain shooting up my spine. The pain feels so much better than the kiss. There’s a thrill, too, in the fact that he wants me so badly, but I can’t begin to comprehend what that means. All I know is that I have no real desire for h
im, this man whose name I can’t even remember. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I don’t care enough to stop this from happening.
When we reach my room, I break away from him to unlock the door, and it gives me the momentary illusion that I’m still in control of this situation. But soon he’s pushing me again, backwards to the oversized bed. I feel my calves hit the base and I’m immediately off balance. My legs fold and I topple back, but manage to roll and find my feet again. I quickly undo and remove my dress – not because I want to; only because I don’t want him to. It’s absurd, but the thought of him ripping it with his clumsy, aggressive hands is more than I can bear. I can hear Francesca’s voice in my head, telling me that I mustn’t damage it. It’s much too precious to risk.
He’s on me again, the second I’ve let the dress slip to the floor, his shirt unbuttoned and his shoes kicked halfway across the room. He doesn’t attempt to remove my bra; he just shoves it over the top of my breasts, where it cuts into my flesh like a noose. There’s more shooting pain, but this time there’s nothing pleasurable about it. I let out a yelp which he ignores. His mouth is on my left nipple and there’s an awful burning as his thumb presses into the still tender skin around my tattoo. My heart wrenches in my chest. I manage to scrabble backwards and get a raised arm between us.
‘No!’ It comes out as little more than a hysterical pant, but it’s enough to stop him for a moment. ‘Don’t touch me there.’
He stares for a second, then gives a sharp laugh and grabs for me again.
‘Stop!’ I manage to get some volume, some authority into my voice. ‘You can do whatever you like to me, but do not touch me there. It isn’t for you.’
He continues to stare, his expression somewhere between anger and disbelief, I pull my bra back into place, making sure my tattoo is safely concealed once more.
‘Fuck! You can’t be serious?’
‘I’m completely serious,’ I tell him, slapping his hand away a third time. ‘If you touch my breasts again, I swear to God I’ll scream.’
He looks me straight in the eye, his lip curled and his face red and blotchy. Then, with a deliberate, mocking slowness, he reaches for me, his fingers splayed. The moment he makes contact, I scream. I scream and I don’t hold back. A second later his hand is clamped across my mouth.
‘Are you fucking crazy?’
I wrench my head back; his hand slips and I manage to get my teeth into the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Fuck!’ He slaps me across my left cheek, making my ears ring and my vision reel.
I scream again and again, at the top of my lungs, as loud and uninhibited as a wounded animal. Through eyes flooded with tears, I see him retreating. He scrabbles for his shoes, then runs, slamming the door behind him.
My scream dies the instant he’s gone. I collapse into a foetal heap on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
14
HURT
A sharp tapping brings me round. I can taste blood in my mouth, but I’ve no idea if it’s mine or his. Could be both. My cheek feels like it’s on fire. The tapping persists, and I curl up even tighter, willing the sound away. Silence. Then muffled voices, the click of the door unlocking. Two of the night porters walk in, look at me, and exchange a glance. I stare back. I’m still in my underwear, so I just stay as I am, in the foetal position. There’s nothing else I can do.
‘Er, madam?’
I start to giggle, or maybe I’m crying; I’m not sure. Even in a situation like this, they still greet me as madam, and one way or another, it strikes me as hysterical. I tuck my knees under my chin and close my eyes, tight. I think if I can keep them closed long enough, all this will disappear.
‘Madam?’ The porter’s voice is a little louder this time. ‘Please take this.’
I open my eyes and he’s holding out a bathrobe, his expression full of concern. It’s such a simple gesture, but it completely undoes me. He places the robe next to me on the bed as I continue to sob. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ He and his colleague turn their backs with the utmost discretion, as if this is just one more scenario that has been thoroughly covered in training.
Slowly, I force my limbs to uncoil. I rise on legs that feel as if they’re made of wood, wrap myself in the robe, then sit back down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m done,’ I tell them. My voice is completely hollow in my ears.
The porter who has done all the talking turns and gives me a gentle smile. His colleague has disappeared, but he returns from the bathroom that instant, carrying a flannel that has been soaked in cold water. ‘For your cheek,’ he explains.
I nod and try to say thank you, but nothing comes out.
‘Madam?’ The first porter again. ‘Do we need to call someone? The police?’
‘No. Not the police.’ I dab my cheek, and this small, cold contact is enough to tell me that it has already started to swell. I’m going to have a spectacular bruise in a few hours’ time.
‘Madam.’ The porter coughs delicately. ‘Several of the guests reported screams. Something has obviously happened here.’
‘It’s not what you think. It really isn’t.’ Neither of them says anything, but another glance is exchanged. I try to keep my voice calm and clear. ‘There was this guy. Things got out of hand . . .’ I can’t find the words to explain any further. The first porter nods tactfully. ‘I don’t need the police,’ I repeat. ‘Nothing happened. Nothing serious. I just need to sleep.’
The second porter shakes his head, the movement barely discernible. ‘I don’t think we can leave you alone. Not like this.’
‘I’m okay. I’m not hurt.’
I press the flannel harder against my cheek; then, before I can stop myself, I’m crying again. They’re right, of course. I can’t just go to sleep and hope everything will be normal again in the morning. And it’s not sleep that I want; it’s oblivion. I want to close my eyes and for everything to stop.
I get up and retrieve the spare towel that’s folded at the bottom of the wardrobe. Neither of the porters says anything as I produce my mobile from the middle of this bundle. What could they possibly say? I see you’ve wrapped your phone in a towel.
‘I’m going to call a friend now,’ I tell them. ‘I’m going to ask her to pick me up. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone. You can call my room when she arrives.’
The first porter throws a questioning look at the second, who, after a moment, nods. ‘We’ll notify you as soon as she gets here. Is there anything else you need in the meantime? Anything at all?’
‘No. Thank you. You’ve been very kind. Please, could you close the door on your way out?’
There are eighteen missed calls on my phone, and God knows how many texts and voicemails, but I have to ignore them for now. I can’t think about those messages yet, not if I want to function. I hit the cancel button, then check the time. It’s one twenty. I call Dr Barbara.
The phone only rings a couple of times before she picks up, and when she speaks she sounds completely alert, though I assume I must have woken her. ‘Abby, where are you?’
‘I’m at the Dorchester.’
She registers no surprise at this fact. ‘I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there within half an hour. Do not go anywhere. I want you to promise me.’
‘I won’t go anywhere,’ I tell her.
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Is anyone with you?’
‘No. I’m alone. I have a room.’
There’s a brief pause as she digests this information. ‘Abby, listen to me. I want you to stay in your room. Do not leave. If you have any thoughts of hurting yourself, you are to phone me immediately. Immediately. I’ll be with you very soon. Stay put.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’
She hangs up and I place my phone beside me on the bed. I try to picture her on her way, shoes clicking purposefully, headlights flaring to life, but the images quickly spin out of my control. I see her ca
r crumpled at a junction, blood pouring from her mouth and nose and eyes. That would be my fault too. Half an hour seems an impossible amount of time to wait.
I get up and go to the bathroom. In a mirror that covers most of a wall, I see a girl who might have been painted by Picasso. My left eye has narrowed above a hillock of swollen skin, and my hair is in disarray from having lain foetal for so long. My cheek is the red of severe sunburn, and already taking on a darker, purplish hue. And somehow it’s all made worse by the flawless luxury of the surroundings: the snow-white towels, the dazzling light, the endless, astonishing marble. Against this backdrop, I look so messed up it’s mesmerizing, and for several minutes all I can do is stare, held captive by the grotesque jigsaw where my face used to be.
I no longer feel drunk. I no longer feel much of anything. It’s as if the alcohol and the mania and the tears and the kisses and the slap have all cancelled each other out, leaving a void as blank and formless as fog. But I know that this is only half of the story. Somewhere, buried deep, there is still the urge to run – the black inversion of my earlier elation. My instinct is to get out, to leave the hotel this very minute and let the night swallow me. The only thing standing between me and the door is the promise I made to Dr Barbara.
The light is too bright in the bathroom, so I return to the bed, get in, and pull the covers over my face. The problem, of course, is that this is not enough; I can’t switch off all the lights in my head. I need a distraction, so I get up again and ransack the room for something to read. There’s nothing very inspiring: just the hotel directory and the Gideon Bible. I try both, but the directory doesn’t last long, and the Bible is too brutal. Eve eats some fruit; God says he’s going to punish her by making childbirth excruciating. I get back under the duvet and pray for the phone to ring.
Lacking any alternative – other than the bathrobe – I put my dress back on and head down to the lobby, my steps slow and mechanical. Dr Barbara intercepts me before I’m halfway to the reception desk and enfolds me in a tight hug. My own arms hang lifeless at my sides, as limp as overcooked noodles.
The Mirror World of Melody Black Page 12