by Lisa Jewell
He tapped up the stairs, followed by Rosanne, who’d been sleeping in front of the fire, and Tamsin curled up on the sofa with the intention of crying and worrying and revelling in anxiety. Instead the huge amounts of alcohol in her system sent her into a deep and instantaneous sleep.
She didn’t hear Rick and Siobhan tip-toe back in, and she didn’t even wake up when Rick picked her up like a baby and carried her up the stairs to their room.
The lights went off around the house, toilet chains flushed, floorboards creaked, and suddenly it was silent.
Silent except for the windchimes, the owls and the gentle hum of the tape recorder still going round and round on the mantelpiece, where they had left it recording …
Chapter Sixteen
Ralph woke up with a start. He’d been dreaming, deep disturbing dreams he wasn’t used to having. He tried to remember them, but the details had fled his memory already. Something was strange, something was different. The alarm? Yes, the radio, music blaring out from the other side of the room where he’d left it … Why? … What? He’d set the alarm, last night. What time was it? 7.30 a.m. – fucking hell. He pulled the thin pillow from under his head and put it over his face, trying to block out the music and the light strobing through the minuscule gap between the curtains. As consciousness returned to him, slowly and painfully, he became aware of the lyrics to the song playing on the radio: ‘I feel so dirty when they start talking cute … I wanna tell her that I love her but the point’s probably moot … I wish that I had Jessie’s girl …’
Jesus Christ! Ralph took the pillow from his head and sat up slowly. It was seven-thirty in the morning and he could relate to Rick Springfield – this was a very strange start to the day.
Ralph pulled himself from under the warmth of his duvet towards the radio, trying to find the Off button on this alien piece of equipment. Eventually he unplugged it in desperation and sat back on his heels as silence returned to the bedroom.
Someone out there was trying to get at him; it was the first time in months that Ralph had set his alarm and it woke him up with fucking ‘Jessie’s Girl’. Unbelievable!
He was utterly disoriented. What the hell was going on? The studio – of course! He was going to go to the studio today. Why? Because he was an artist? Sort of. Because he wanted to? Not really. Because … because Jem had told him to … that’s right. Because Jem had told him to. Well, not told him to exactly, but encouraged him to, advised him to, wanted him to.
He’d promised her he would, just to make her happy. You’re right, he’d said. Tomorrow – I’ll go tomorrow, bright and early. Don’t do this for me, she’d said, do it for yourself, promise me. I promise you, he’d said.
So here he was, seven-thirty on a Friday morning, shell-shocked, exhausted, cold and confused. He certainly did not feel like he was doing this for himself –this was for Jem, plain and simple, to make her proud of him, milk her interest in him. He would be her little project if that’s what she wanted: he didn’t mind playing the tortured artist for her if it meant that he occupied her thoughts for a while and displaced Smith. Smith was a banker, more or less, a boring old bloody banker, nothing there to capture Jem’s imagination.
He walked over to the windows and threw open the curtains, ready to face the day now he remembered why he was doing this. What a beautiful day! That helped. He’d borrow Smith’s bike and cycle there, get some oxygen into his lungs, as his mother used to say.
He pulled on some boxer shorts from a pile on the floor and made his way into the hall, quite perky now, humming to himself, ‘“I wish that I had Jessie’s gi-i-irl, I want Jessie’s gi-i-irl …”’
‘Didn’t know you were a Rick Springfield fan.’
‘What?’ Ralph jumped. It was Jem, coming out of Smith’s bedroom wearing one of his Tshirts that barely concealed her … her knickers? Her hair was unruly, her face sweetly sleepy and swollen; she looked like a baby mouse. She yawned.
‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you think of seven-thirty in the morning, then? Horrible, isn’t it?!’
Not so horrible after all – not when you got to see Jem, braless and fantastically dishevelled, in a T-shirt with the tantalizing promise of maybe, if she was to bend over just the weeniest bit, glimpsing the last centimetre or two of her bottom, or maybe … maybe … if she was just to stretch a little bit and the front of her T-shirt was to … augh, God. He pulled his gaze away from her legs.
‘Grim!’ he agreed.
‘I got up especially early to give you some moral support. I hope you appreciate it!’
‘Oh, God, you didn’t have to. That’s very sweet of you.’ She’d got up early, just for him! Left Smith alone in bed, for him. Yes! ‘D’you want to use the bathroom first?’
‘No, you go first. I’m going to make you some breakfast, set you up for the day! I wouldn’t mind a quick wee, though.’
‘Oh, sure, of course.’
He moved out of the way to let her get to the bathroom, her body just barely brushing up against his as she passed, just enough to induce an unexpected erection inside his baggy shorts, which forced its way jauntily through the gap at the front and emerged squinting into the brand-new day, like an overzealous mole. Shit. He pushed it back inside, buttoned the fly quickly with fumbling fingers and crossed his hands in front of his crotch. Jem had left the door slightly ajar and he could hear her peeing, that strange gushing, jerky sound of girl’s pee hitting water, and then the sound of toilet paper being unravelled from the wooden holder and folded and wiped across her. And then she was out again, grinning widely at him.
‘I didn’t flush it – hope you don’t mind. See you in the kitchen!’
She skipped off down the hall. Ralph watched her as she went, her T-shirt rising just not quite high enough with every bouncy step she took. He exhaled deeply the breath he’d been holding since their bodies had touched and walked into the bathroom. He stared down into the toilet bowl at Jem’s pee and the raft of pink paper floating on top of it, sinking slightly as it became waterlogged, and aimed his semi-hard penis at the yellow water, feeling strangely gratified by the sight of their fluids mingling before his eyes. Yes, he liked the idea of their bodily effluents becoming as one … and he absolutely adored the idea of Jem now, in the kitchen, tinily Tshirted and cooking his breakfast … mmmmm! He smiled smugly to himself. Things were looking up.
It had been two weeks now since their first night together, their chilli night, and Ralph had been working incredibly hard to sustain the bond they’d formed. He realized now that this was more than a crush, more than jealousy or lust. He was most definitely in love and he had no intention whatsoever of ignoring it, of putting his feelings to one side. He’d never been in love before and he was not going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He was going to take it slowly and cautiously.
He had suddenly started taking an interest in Smith’s social and professional affairs, subtly discovering when he was going to be out and making sure he, Ralph, was in, that he had some time alone with Jem. He’d bought a couple of new tops and had finally washed his jeans, a job he’d been putting off for six months. He also bought flowers regularly now, from Northcote Road – peonies, of course – and made sure that he timed it so that he was artistically and sensitively arranging them in a vase when Jem got in from work. He’d even cooked for her a couple of times. And they’d developed a banter about hot food. ‘Oh, you must go to such and such a restaurant in Earlsfield/Bayswater/Brick Lane. Best vindaloo I’ve ever had – really, really hot’; or ‘Guess what? They’ve started selling Thai Bird chillies in Asda.’ Ralph had even found some chilli seeds for sale in Northcote Road, and Jem and he had planted them, taking it in turns to water them and discussing their progress together, anxiously, like fretful parents.
This was a particularly successful development as it not only brought Jem closer to him, but also alienated Smith, who suffered from a tendency to order lamb pasanda and things with almonds and cream in. It was a tiny bu
t effective little spanner in the works of Smith and Jem’s cloying complicity. Ralph shared something with Jem that was somehow outside the realm of a non-romantic relationship – their own complicity. And now there was the tortured artist thing.
They’d been watering the chilli seeds in the airing cupboard the night before, and Jem had brought the subject up.
‘Had any more thoughts about painting, Ralph?’
‘Painting what?’ he’d replied absent-mindedly, thinking maybe she was suggesting a new lick of paint in the living room.
‘You know. Painting. You – studio – artist,’ she’d said, with her palms outstretched, emphasizing his obtuseness.
‘No. Was I supposed to?’
‘No. You weren’t supposed to, I just thought you might have, that’s all.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. You just seem different lately, somehow. More … more … purposeful. More alive. I had actually been wondering if you might have met someone!’ she added playfully, nudging him in the ribs.
‘No, I haven’t “met” someone,’ he retorted, nudging her back and laughing. ‘I’ve got a girlfriend, remember.’
‘Oh, yes – the lovely Claudia.’
‘And what have you got against Claudia all of a sudden?’ Ralph was surprised and faintly pleased by the mild sarcasm in her voice.
‘Nothing’ – Jem took a deep breath – ‘except she doesn’t make you happy and I think you could do better for yourself.’ She patted ineffectually at the moist soil in the small plastic pots, for something to do to cover her embarrassment.
‘Oh, bless you, Jemima. I didn’t think you cared.’ Ralph was coming across as light-hearted, but inside his chest his heart was racing like a Formula One car. Finally, finally, she was cracking – she cared, she cared!! ‘So, who do you think would be better for me then?’ he asked cocking one eyebrow slightly in an attempt to look coy.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Someone who makes you feel good about yourself, someone who appreciates what a lovely bloke you are and doesn’t just complain the whole time, someone who would inspire you to do what you’re best at and not just treat you like a … like a … like an airhead gigolo!’ She was practically kneading the already smooth soil now, her face reddening slightly.
Ralph laughed, hard and loud.
‘“An airhead gigolo!!” God that’s funny. I’ve never thought about it like that before, but I think you’re right! I think that’s exactly how she sees me. A gigolo!’
‘No, really, Ralph, I’m being serious. There’s a desperate shortage of nice blokes around in this world and you’re wasting yourself on Claudia. Believe me, there’s thousands of girls out there, nice girls, who would just love to go out with a guy like you. And if you had a nice girlfriend you’d spend less time bloody worrying about what you were going to do wrong next, and being inadequate and not good enough for some souped-up Sloane, and more time doing what you’re good at. Painting. Really. I mean it,’ she finished, closing the door of the airing cupboard and heading for the kitchen. Ralph followed closely behind, not wanting to miss a syllable. ‘Girls like that make me so angry – they give other girls a bad reputation. Dump her and start painting, Ralph. Please.’
Oh, blimey. This was getting a bit heavy now. ‘Can I just try the painting bit first and then see if I still need to dump Claudia afterwards?’
She punched him playfully. ‘God – can’t live without the sex, can you!’
‘I’m not going to deny it, I’m a voracious animal,’ he smiled, leaning backwards against the work surface.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want you to do all this just because I say so,’ Jem said, replacing the water-spray under the sink, ‘but if you thought you were up to it you should definitely give it a bash, just one day at a time – see how you feel. That’s always the way in life: the longer you leave things, the harder they are to do …’ She trailed off. ‘Do it, Ralph, go tomorrow. Get up early, get to your studio and see what happens. Maybe you won’t paint anything, maybe you’ll just come straight back again, but at least you’ll have got out of this cycle of just staying at home all day doing nothing – eh?’ She was standing in front of him, looking up at him through her eyelashes, a stern but amiable expression on her face which stopped Ralph from feeling that he was being pressurized and more like he was being cared for, warm and nice inside. It had been a long time since he’d felt that way.
‘OΚ,’ he said, feigning defeat under duress, ‘OΚ. Just one thing, though – what exactly do you mean by “early”?’
‘Oooh, no point being half-hearted about this. Seven o’clock?’
‘No way! Eight,’ he countered.
‘All right. Seven-thirty and no arguing!’
‘OΚ, but that stinks, it really does. Even you don’t have to wake up that early.’
Jem smiled. ‘You’ll feel good about it, I promise. You’ll feel happier with yourself.’
And then that all too familiar moment arrived – the depressing sound of Smith’s key in the lock, the twinge of pain in Ralph’s heart as Jem’s face lit up like the woman’s in the Terry’s All Gold advert, and she was gone, gone from him, and into Smith’s arms.
But she was his again now, for a few delicious moments, before Smith got up; she was in the kitchen cooking him breakfast – she’d never cooked Smith breakfast – and she was wearing that teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy T-shirt. He rushed his shower, not wanting to miss a moment, dressed quickly but thoughtfully in his cleanest clothes, splashed on a bit of designer aftershave (a present from an ex), fluffed up his hair and made his entrance.
Jem was coaxing the last few baked beans from the bottom of the can. ‘I always feel mean if I leave a few stray ones,’ she said, ‘like they’ll feel rejected or something.’ She flicked on the gas ring and gave the beans a quick stir. ‘Could you handle laying the table?’ she asked. ‘I’m just getting to the brain-to-hand co-ordination bit.’
She had put an apron on over the T-shirt, tied in a bow at the back, forcing the precarious garment a little higher up her legs but still … still just not quite high enough. Maybe if she had to reach for something from one of the cupboards higher up, like … the ketchup!
‘Jem, would you mind passing me the ketchup? It’s in that cupboard just over your head.’
He watched with bated breath; Smith’s T-shirt had been clinging stubbornly to the back of Jem’s thighs all morning like a prudish nanny, but now it was time. There was no way its resolute spirit could survive the impact of reaching for the ketchup.
Jem raised herself on to tiptoes, her back started to stretch, her arm left its side to begin the journey to the cupboard, the T-shirt moved a millimetre, two millimetres, three millimetres, and there it was! Almost. Oh, God, just another millimetre … Ralph was frozen to the spot with painful anticipation … Just another millimetre … Shit! Shit!! Jem’s free hand suddenly grabbed the hem of the hateful T-shirt and pulled it down staunchly over her thighs as she completed the stretch and grabbed the bottle. Ralph couldn’t believe it.
‘There you go.’ She handed him the bottle, seemingly unaware of his intense disappointment and frustration.
Let’s face it, he thought, I was not meant to see her bottom, it’s not going to happen, forget about it. But, dear God, he wanted to see her bottom. If it was anything like her silken thighs he absolutely had to see it.
‘Sorry, Jem. Mustard?’ He gestured at the same cupboard with his eyes.
She tutted good-naturedly and reached for the cupboard again. The mustard was further back in the cupboard and she had to stretch that little bit more, using her spare hand to steady herself on the work surface. Ralph stopped and stared again: one millimetre … two millimetres … three, four, five – Jesus! There it was! Six, seven … his mouth was dry, his eyes bulging … oh, sweet Jesus … the most beautiful, edible, luscious little bundle of bottom, pale and smooth and … bottomy … and, oh God, want to bite it want to bite it …
‘I hope you’re not
looking at my bottom, Ralph McLeary!’ laughed Jem, turning around.
Ralph spluttered. ‘What? Me?’
‘Yes, you. Here’s your mustard.’
Ralph reached out for it with trembling hands, trying to look unfazed and innocent, turning too soon and missing the jar entirely. It dropped to the floor and, quite contradictory to Ralph’s expectation of what would happen if you dropped a jar of mustard on to a linoleum-covered floor, it smashed into several pieces, depositing a splat of dirty yellow paste all over Jem’s bare feet.
‘Oh, God, Jem, I’m so sorry.’ He rushed for the kitchen roll and pulled far too much off, bundling up the mass of paper and soaking it under the tap. ‘I’ll wipe it off for you. I’m so sorry.’
He got down on his knees at Jem’s feet and began to dab at the mustard. ‘There,’ he said, ‘it’s coming off.’
‘Of course it’s coming off,’ said Jem. ‘It’s mustard, not creosote!’
Ralph held her ankle tenderly as he wiped her tiny white feet. ‘There,’ he said, letting his hand slide a little further up her calf, his whole body stiff with the excitement of being so close to the hem of her T-shirt, his face inches from her naked groin, his hands encasing her legs and her feet, the mustard suddenly an erotic lubricant; he would quite happily have licked it off her.
‘There. Almost done.’
He tore a single sheet off the roll and dried her feet with it, delicately, moving the paper in between her toes with his finger, his other hand still moving slowly further up her leg, almost behind her knee now. He was disappointed to realize that the job was finished; all the mustard was gone. He patted her leg and got slowly off his haunches, leaning his body in a little bit as he rose, keeping his nose close to her body, breathing her in deeply. Suddenly his eye was caught by a couple of small yellow specks on her legs.
‘Oh,’ he said, breathlessly, ‘there’s a bit more.’
He put his finger back in the paper and brushed at the splashes, wobbling slightly on his tired knees and grabbing the top of her leg quickly to keep himself steady. Warm, soft, lovely, lovely legs. She didn’t flinch at all, just stood still, looking down at him with a small smile on her face.