One Star Awake

by Andrew Meehan

  It was the night of my mother’s shepherd’s pie, although Mum and Dad had gone by now. I was in the bath and Jerome was talking to me from the doorway. It was so good to feel clean—a cleanliness that came from not being dirty in the first place. I might have been drinking something, too. Now that I remembered it, I usually drank rosé in the bath. I was about to speak—to invite him to join me—when Jerome beat me to it. His voice was soft and suggestive and I didn’t take it in at first.

  —It’s too bad things didn’t work out between us, he said.

  —What?

  —Sometimes it just stops.

  Jerome wasn’t finishing things with me. He had already finished with me.

  —You just met my parents, I said.

  He snorted. Blow your nose on me all you want, I thought. I’m in the bath, I don’t care.

  Forgetting that he had just dumped me, and that he was the one who was supposed to be sorry, Jerome gritted his teeth and shouted, —I am not your boyfriend.

  I yawned, as if to say he could shout all he wanted. There was a pain in my ear. I supposed that he must have hit me—because he had me by the throat. I couldn’t breathe but most of all I was confused. Jerome gritted his teeth and squeezed harder. I felt useless, sick. His hands machinery around my throat.

  —Can I go to bed now? I said.

  He let out a roar and hit me again and again and again. I must have been bleeding heavily from my mouth, and I didn’t notice the blood in my ears at first. Nor did my voice reach past my throat. What I wanted to say was, I wish we could go far away from here.

  He was gone and I tried to sleep there in the bathwater—in its cold, dark soup—but there was glossy blood running from my ears. I rubbed it in my eyes and I lay there, waiting for him to come back. And it got through to me, all the way to the middle, and I was a dumb creature. Not a king of the jungle or your bird of prey or your teatime PG Tips monkey but your old baboon, the kind the other baboons pick on.

  It was a fiasco, my life after that. Everything else was admin. Besides.

  I felt no one in the world that night could have made such a mistake. Some of us have seen the thing break, faked our surprise, we have turned on ourselves. But did we feel ourselves disappearing under the water? Did we see the blow coming?

  Candlelight was all I could bear.

  Daniel #6

  Daniel disembarked the plane at Charles de Gaulle in Paris to a fresh archive of cheery messages. Eva’s father was extremely conscientious about keeping in touch; and there were all the emojis you could ever wish for, Tony was really spraying them around.

  Don’t mind all that shite at the end of lunch, was one message. And we didn’t do enough damage to that gin. Not nearly enough of it.

  Daniel had to mute the alerts on his phone when he found himself caught up in Tony’s next batch of cocktails.

  They say two isn’t enough but three is too much. Where do they get that shite from? Have you tried gin and milk? Can you imagine? I wouldn’t advise it old son.

  Never tried gin and milk, Daniel replied. But the texts just kept on coming.

  I bet I can drink more gin than you, Tony texted.

  That wouldn’t be a good bet, Daniel texted.

  Further enquiries after his parents. How are they doing, anyway? Are they well? I bet they are, he texted. I bet they are. And here we are back at the gin.

  Daniel visited Eva as soon as he could. Ségo had warned him that something had happened with Jerome and that Eva had been in the garden for so long that it was becoming her job. Ségo would set her up with things to do before she left for work in the morning.

  The garden was drenched and Eva was drinking from the running hose. He walked over to the wall to turn it off.

  —I was using that, she said.

  —You shouldn’t run the tap willy-nilly.

  —Willy-nilly.

  —I think we’re done with the watering for now.

  He mentioned the garden at the family’s summer house on Île de Ré. He made a big deal of the hollyhocks, their candy colours and odd posture. His phone was stuffed full of desirable pictures of the island. Eva looked at them meekly as he described the endless days to be spent squinting at the flabbergasting sea. The island was made for old-fashioned French vacations, the green glow on the water, girls on bicycles. Girls on bicycles were the best he could come up with on the spot.

  —Ségo is closing up soon. I’m going out there for a little vacation. You should come. Believe me, no one should live more than an hour from the coast.

  He got this from his father. In anything he said, especially when he was trying to persuade you of something, Daniel had the conviction of someone running for election. As with all skilled politicans, there were omissions. He made no mention of that morning’s weak moment in which he had invited Tony and Maeve to stay, too. Tony had responded (by text, excitably) and plans were already being made. Daniel really didn’t know what they were going to do beyond seafood and swimming, but he would ensure Eva had her perfect sunset moment with her parents; and she would notice his hand in it and would love him for it.

  —I can’t swim, Eva said.

  —You paddle. There’s a gate that goes straight from the garden to the sea.

  —What if I get out of my depth?

  —You won’t, don’t be crazy.

  The concrete of the patio was gradually drying.

  —I’ve never been in the sea.

  —Exactly why you should come. Just think, nothing to worry about but oysters and ice cream. Oysters. Ice cream.

  —Together? Eva said. Yuck.

  Never Not Amazing

  I wished I could remember the first time I cried. Was it the first time I felt embarrassed? Was it at the end of E.T., or when I was born—did I cry then? Was it when I was beaten up by Jerome? Did I cry then? Let’s say I didn’t. Being innocent in the circumstances—or assuming innocence for myself and why not?—was in itself a weak defence, since the circumstances involved a man who seemed glad of the opportunity to punch the fuck out of someone physically weaker than him and who was careful not to waste that opportunity.

  There wasn’t too long before Gravy closed for the summer holiday but Ségo thought it was best that I stay busy.

  —Looking for a job? she said.

  —I have a job.

  —Had a job. You walked out, remember?

  Back in my whites, it would be just the same as before. And it was. But nothing tasted right—not even sugar which was bitter, water was sweet, meat felt like cheese and so did fruit. I was doing a bad impression of the woman who had worked there only a week or two previously. It was a struggle to catch up—it took me an hour to peel a single kilo of tomatoes, another ten minutes to stare at them until I remembered where I was.

  Daniel exited the store with an armful of tins. He was stocking up for our trip to the island and jawing on about the colours in the August skies and other things he couldn’t describe effectively.

  —He thinks we’ve never seen a sunset, Ségo said. Au bord de la merde.

  —You can almost smell the light, he said.

  —If you’ve had enough to smoke, she said, back to work, Daniel. Let’s eat.

  For the staff meal I had braised some mince, which I took to be veal before realising it was pork only to be told it was chicken. Ségo gave me the look—the look that said this most annoying and common-sensical thing. Count to ten. Then she wanted to tell me about her idea for a summer soup. The vegetable store needed cleaning out in time for the holiday. The implication was that the stores had become a mess in my absence.

  —We don’t believe in waste, I said.

  —No we don’t, Ségo said, before we were interrupted by the ringing phone.

  There had been a series of phone
calls to the restaurant and Ségo didn’t know what to do since the number was blocked and the caller, whoever it was, never said a thing. But I knew it was Jerome because he had been emailing too—Can I come see you? Now? If not now when?—and I knew he was waiting for me just once to answer the phone.

  It was the same this time. No one on the line.

  —Not even any heavy breathing? Ségo said. That’s disappointing.

  The calls continued over the next few days, usually first thing in the morning when there was a stronger chance that I would be there alone. Sometimes the phone rang and she would stomp towards it in a temper and I would imagine another braver me answering it instead of Ségo.

  All we need is a period of adjustment, Eagleback, I thought. We can still see this through. Sparks could still fly.

  Jerome seemed startled to see me even though he had been the one doing the loitering, on Voltaire by the métro. He was wearing the Eagleback T-shirt—finally!—and his face had been coloured by the sun since I had seen him last.

  We found some shade under the canopy of a cordonnerie. I felt a small ache when he told me that every afternoon he had been waiting to see if I would be there. He didn’t want to embarrass me at work—that was why he was waiting there in the hope that I would pass by. I was a little surprised to see him but not that much. I told myself his presence was a mystery. But that would be to ignore his continuing calls to the restaurant and his many emails.

  —Dinner, he said. On me.

  Jerome smiled as though he assumed he was irresistible to me, which maybe he was. I should have known better than to agree. It didn’t feel right to be so chipper either. Not with these things we had to speak about—these gruesome things I had remembered which would be in no way reviving or good for the appetite. Instead of saying anything to that effect I told him I couldn’t wait to eat.

  Jerome insisted on taking me shopping on Charonne for something to wear that evening. He had selected an outfit for me, something he thought I would love, that he wanted me to try.

  He tried to describe it to me then he said, —I think you should just see it.

  —No one’s ever done this before.

  —What?

  —Bought me a gift. Bought me something to wear.

  —Yes they have. I have.

  The saleswomen were dressed like astronauts—their eyes glassy but also on high alert for any nonsense. Of course, no price tags on the angular tunics and shoes made from tires. After a little cajoling I tried on the dress Jerome had been considering—an extraordinary silver shower curtain—and I was reminded of the young Japanese people who had started to come to Gravy since word had gotten out of A__ B__’s visit. The dress was made from the same kind of fabrics they wore—seemingly designed to withstand toxic spillages.

  All I could say was, —Oh.

  The dress was heavier than a sodden blanket but that didn’t matter. One of the astronauts stood by as I swayed before the mirror, popping my shoulders and waggling my wrists.

  Jerome stood close to me and whispered, —You should get it.

  —Don’t think so, I said.

  —How do you feel?

  —Dunno. Pretty?

  —Why so uncertain?

  —Don’t know.

  —You look amazing. When was the last time you felt pretty?

  —Don’t know.

  I asked Jerome if I should change into the dress straightaway but he started unbuttoning my chef’s jacket without taking his eyes off mine, without acknowledging that my last visit to his apartment had ended with his wife pulling me out of there by my hair.

  —This is nice, he said.

  —Do you think so?

  It was the nearest thing to no I could think of. But I wanted him to guzzle my lips, and to pry me open and scoop me out. He started to kiss me and something was weighing against me. A galaxy. I was angry with Jerome—after all I had read and all I had remembered. I was angry at myself, for allowing him to kiss me and that I hadn’t enjoyed a first kiss. I was angry that kisses were irreversible.

  Where do you start with making love when you are feeling like that? My rash—hitherto limited to my groin—had spread rampantly. The bruises from my beating on Léon Frot still sparkled. The veins in my biceps were leaping. I watched him, he watched me—the air fragrant with wariness and impatience. How could two naked people manage to stare at each other without any true curiosity? My thighs felt about as sensual as chair legs. I made myself feel better with my hand, as though to ask him to do it would have been an imposition.

  A quick tussle. A bubble of hot breath. I coaxed him inside me. Inhaling, exhaling, spookily. Pushing onto me, Jerome went over on his ankle, calling out in pain, but carried on—his eyes containing fury. I reached out and placed my palms against the wall. I had my eyes on him and was communicating my terror wordlessly. Thoughts of him beating me and then drowning and being burned alive flew past—the carriages of an express train. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t turned on.

  We made fast work of each other in the end. I think I preferred sex when I was in a bad mood anyway. Two angry people licking the same ice cream. It was like you weren’t alive at all.

  Just Because I Worked In A Restaurant Didn’t Mean I Liked Eating In Them

  Jerome was pleased that we had gotten into the hard-to-get-into Renouveau, on Charonne, with its famous chipboard finish and ceiling covered with warped glass. At least it wasn’t Schiste. He had left his Eagleback T-shirt on the bedroom floor in favour of a striped shirt that transformed him into a handsome deckchair. In the new dress I might just have stepped off a condemned farm.

  I wanted to eat quickly but when I saw the ever-increasing subdivisions of waiters gathering at our table the promise of a quick dinner seemed unlikely. They had already swept in with vegetables arranged to imitate an urban skyline and, when I had eaten them, all I felt was ill on vegetables. The waiters kept on appearing just at the moment I was about to speak. There was no way to avoid their confidential whispers about the delicacies before us, that we could see for ourselves.

  Jerome saw me looking around.

  —What do you think? he said.

  —A lot of rigmarole, I said. One of Ségo’s words. I figured that once whoever decorated this place had an idea they just couldn’t stop.

  —Isn’t it beautiful? he said

  If beauty means throwing gold leaf at the ceiling, I thought, then yes.

  I saw a rosy-cheeked young waiter pick his nose and flick it away. I exhaled involuntarily and he looked my way. Oh I saw you, said my eyes.

  Every time I spoke, Nose winced as if he had been electrocuted—but when Jerome addressed him he was as unresponsive as someone under interrogation. Nonetheless, I thanked Nose when he arrived with the bread, once I had selected the bread I wanted, once he had placed it on my plate, and again as he left.

  —That’s four times you said thank you to that guy.

  —And?

  —You’re supposed to be having a good time.

  I became concerned with the back of a spoon for a while. Then we were both staring at a pale gob of purée and I was letting the mush fall from my spoon. It smelled of my groin after exertion. I returned it to Nose with a shake of my head. I was stuck on one thing—did Jerome hit his wife too? I never did ask him why he hit me. And I never did ask him what was so wrong with everyone else in the first place that he chose me. And what made us different now?

  I couldn’t resist asking him about his life with Ghislaine. Shyly he spoke of their marriage without noticing that I was holding soup in my mouth without eating it, any more than he noticed I was there at all. He recited the story of their fall. Comfort leading to over-familiarity—closeness to remoteness and so on through perfection and time and boredom.

  I studied Jerome—his hands were clasped and a
wkward, dead as pastry. He was twice as forthcoming as anyone needed to be, on the basis, it seemed to me, of a failing marriage and his part in its failure, which he sought to correct by more affairs—affairs with me and whoever.

  Nose grandly presented us with some precious little dumplings—filled with something-something—and it was tough luck that the first thing I did was drop one from a height into the transluscent dipping sauce. I was worried that I had ruined the dress and worried that I would cry out loud about ruining it so I ran to the bathroom—pursued by Nose & co—to examine the stain more closely. The fabric squeaked when I moistened it and it pained my heart to see a cosmos of brown dots. But I wouldn’t allow myself to cry today, not over a dress.

  Warnings. That’s what the dots were—a warning. If Jerome hit me before he’d hit me again. If he was a monster once he’d be a monster twice. The reasoning would become more obscure. You Were Asking For It begets Just In Case which begets I Felt Like It.

  Jerome was on his phone when I returned. I recognised his expression and tried to ignore it. He wore such a pitying look that I had to assume he was communicating with Ghislaine.

  —What are you doing?

  —I just need to do this, he said.

  We were making strange progress—our eyes, our mouths showed it.

  —I just need to know something, I said.

  —Need to know what?

  —Why you dumped me? Why you hit me?

  Jerome peered at me and folded his arms. He was useless at being aloof, even now with something afoot—except now he looked not only uneasy but pained, as though he had been made a fool of.