by Emlyn Rees
That moan again, then, ‘What time is it?’
‘Round eight-thirty.’
She clears her throat. ‘So … so, how are you?’
I hear Matt coming out of the bathroom. ‘Oh, you know, pretty good. How come you’re not up?’
‘Not working today. Top Temps let me down.’ She sounds depressed.
I say, ‘Sorry,’ then, ‘Shit, I’ve ruined your lie-in, haven’t I?’
‘No, no – well, yes.’ She laughs. ‘But it’s okay. It’s good to hear from you.’ There’s a silence and I listen to the sound of her moving in her bed. I get a visual of her lying there, hair messed across the pillow, eyes all scrunched up. I wish I was there. ‘Lunch,’ she says. ‘Yes, that would be great. Where?’
I look out of the window. ‘Well, Amy, it looks like it’s going to be another sun-sunshiny day. So how about Hyde Park? Sort out a picnic. Get ourselves a tan.’
‘Sounds fab. What time? And where? Hyde Park’s a big place.’
‘One-ish. You can pick me up from work.’ As soon as I’ve said it, I realise I’ve cocked up.
Right on cue, she sounds confused. ‘What, your house, you mean?’
‘Er, no,’ I improvise. ‘It’s a gallery in Mayfair. A mate’s gallery. He’s away, and I told him I’d look after it for him. Just as a favour, yeah?’
‘Oh, okay. Give me the address.’
We talk for a few more minutes and then I put the phone down, stretch and get up. I’m fizzing. Wide awake and clear of mind. It’s down to what’s happened since Monday, to how storming everything’s gone. On Monday, I started working in the studio at eleven and, apart from lunch and a quick coffee with Matt when he got back from work, I stayed there till gone ten. No TV. No lazing in the garden. Nothing but work.
I got going on this idea that had hit me in the bath while I was still nursing my hangover: a boys’ toys thing. I rummaged through Matt’s GQ collection and cut out all these photos of fashion accessories and pinned them into an arrangement on a board. Then I borrowed Matt’s car and got a canvas from ArtStart over in Chelsea. Three foot by eight. Had to put the roof down on the Spitfire to get it back. I spent the rest of the day on preliminary drawings, groundwork for copying the cutouts on to the canvas. And then I got stuck in. And it was a buzz, like I knew that what I was doing was actually going somewhere for a change. Same went for Tuesday and Wednesday nights, once I got back from working at Paulie’s. No ducking down the pub. Even blew Gete and Paddy out for a West End crawl. Just work. Just what I should have been doing these last six months.
‘What are you looking so pleased with yourself for?’ Matt asks when I walk into the kitchen.
‘Just life, Matt. Just life.’ I grab a bowl and sit down opposite him at the table, pour out some muesli and drown it in milk.
‘Yeah? You got something good planned for today?’
‘Not really. Just down the gallery. Same as usual.’
‘Uh-huh. Oh, yeah,’ he adds, ‘there’s a message on the answerphone for you.’
I look down at my food, disinterested. ‘Who?’
‘S&M.’
I can feel him watching me. ‘What does she want?’
‘Well, not your body, if past form’s anything to go on.’
Despite myself, I smile. ‘Oh, hearty-ha-ha.’
‘No, she was asking if it’s still on for her coming round tomorrow. The modelling bit, you know.’
‘Oh.’
He waits for me to say more, but I don’t. ‘So, you still reckon you’re in with a chance, then?’ he asks.
‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’
He raises his eyebrows, nonplussed. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Take a guess. Three letters. Starts with an A, ends with a Y.’
Amy. I look back at my bowl. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Nothing. How’s that?’
‘So you’re not going to see her again?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘So you are going to see her again,’ he states.
I rest my spoon on my bowl, finish my mouthful. When I look at him, I can’t tell whether he’s joking or being serious. ‘I didn’t say that either.’
‘What are you saying, then?’
‘I dunno. I haven’t made my mind up.’
‘So you’re not meeting her for lunch today, then?’ He laughs when he sees my expression switch to surprise. ‘Sorry, mate, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking…’
This pisses me off. ‘Eavesdropping, you mean.’
But Matt’s not reacting. He just keeps on smiling at me. ‘Got to hand it to you, though…’
‘What?’
‘Picnic in the park. Very romantic’ He pronounces the word ‘picnic’ like it’s some sort of contagious disease.
‘A picnic,’ I point out, ‘is a form of lunch. A park is a place where people eat picnics. There’s not necessarily anything romantic about it at all.’
He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Your call. Whatever you say.’ He finishes his coffee. ‘Personally, though, I’d call it a romantic date. Personally, I’d take it as yet more evidence that Amy is developing into something more than a “mate”. Personally, I’d advise you that, if this is indeed the case, you should be extremely careful about your behaviour towards S&M.’
‘Meaning?’
Matt stands up and puts on his jacket. ‘That it might be decision time,’ he says, heading for the door.
I cycle over to Paulie’s Gallery and get there early. It takes me a couple of minutes to get in. Someone unsuccessfully tried to break in on Tuesday night and made a complete mess of the door in the process. So now there’s a new door and new locks and, more importantly, Paulie owes me the money I forked out to pay for them. I haven’t heard from him for a week, not since he jetted off for a climbing holiday in Nepal. Money owed aside, though, I’m not complaining. Paulie, truth be told, is a bit of a prick. Mid-forties, ex-City, multi-millionaire with an arrogant streak the size of the Panama Canal and a personality the size of a rat shit. When he interviewed me for the position, it became apparent that he didn’t give a toss about art, and the only reason he owned a gallery at all was because it gave him something to talk about at dinner parties. Still, as Chris, who I used to work with at ProPixel, counselled me at the time: ‘It’s a job. It pays. Just do it.’
I tell myself that Chris’s advice is no less relevant now than it was then. So what if this job is terminally boring? It’s a means to an end. It pays the rent. I can cope. So I do. I go inside, I make myself a coffee, I station myself at the table by the door, and I smile at people who look in through the window, and generally concentrate on looking professional and approachable.
This lasts all of five minutes. Then I’m pacing round the kitchen at the back of the gallery, radio on, having a cigarette, dwelling on the conversation I had with Matt this morning. He does, of course, have a point about McCullen. Or, rather, he has a point about McCullen and Amy. Because it’s the same point. And it’s razor-sharp, too. It’s fidelity.
For the two years I was going out with Zoe, fidelity wasn’t an issue; I was faithful to her and, as far as I know, she was faithful to me in return. My thinking on the matter was very clear-cut:
a) The difference between sex with someone you’re going out with and someone you’re not is its emotional content
b) If you experience emotional sex with someone, then you care about them
c) If you care about someone, why would you want to deceive them?
d) If you’re at ease deceiving the person you’re going out with, then you no longer care about them
e) If you no longer care about them, then you shouldn’t be going out with them
f) If the person you’re going out with is unfaithful to you, then they’re not worth caring about in the first place
This isn’t to say I disapprove of infidelity acr
oss the board; I don’t. And it’s not to say I haven’t been involved with other people’s infidelities; I have. Between Zoe and now, I’ve slept with one married woman and two with long-term boyfriends. But in each of these cases, it wasn’t me who made the decision to be unfaithful, it was them. The way I see it, the betrayal stops at their front doors, not mine. Single people are predatory by definition. Once I broke it off with Zoe, I became a free agent. I owed sexual loyalty to no one. Just because I wouldn’t be unfaithful myself if I was in a relationship didn’t mean I shouldn’t be extremely grateful if other people chose to do just that with me.
But I’m fully aware that my single status is in jeopardy right now. I do have emotions for Amy. I’m not saying they’re big emotions. It’s not like I’m some love-crazed troubadour who’s going to impale himself on his sword or anything. But, still, seeing her in a few hours is a good thought. And everything has to start somewhere. And if this is where Amy and I start, then continuing to hunt McCullen will probably be where it stops. So decision. Just what Matt was banging on about this morning. The question I have to address is this: Do I want to make a go of things with Amy? Because if I do, then for however long it lasts, I will be faithful to her. Which means no more hunting McCullen. Which means no more hunting at all.
And that’s a very big decision indeed.
Amy arrives at Paulie’s at four minutes past one. I know this because I’ve been monitoring the clock on the table for the past nine minutes, ever since I struck up this arty pose in preparation for her arrival: feet up, an illustrated copy of the history of Dadaism studiously rested on my lap. She raps her knuckles against the window pane and I look up casually, then smile, stand up. She’s wearing mules and this brightly patterned, knee-length dress, and her hair’s tied up. My mate Andy’s dress rule applies one hundred per cent: ‘You know a woman’s well-dressed when all you can do is picture her naked.’ I walk to the door and open it for her. For a second, we just stand here, all nervous smiles, and then I lean forward and our lips meet.
When she pulls back, I stroke my finger down her nose. ‘The sunburn’s gone, then …’
She blushes, screws up her face. ‘Five jars of Nivea later.’ She looks past me into the gallery, grins up at me. ‘So what’s it like doing an honest day’s work for a change?’
At this point, the Clean Conscience Brigade marches to the front of my mind, all starched white uniforms and mops and buckets of warm soapy water. Look at the state of this place, they mutter in disgust. Isn’t it about time we cleared up some of this bullshit? And they do have a case: I would feel a lot better about myself if I just fronted up to Amy and told her the truth about working here for real three days a week.
But just as I’m about to speak, to blurt it all out and tell her that it was just a chat-up line and that I feel I can tell her the truth now, because I know she’ll be cool with it, I chicken out. What if she’s not cool with it? What if she thinks, He’s lied to me once, he’ll do it again? Then it’ll be over. It’ll be over before it’s even begun. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be doing this job for ever. It’s just a stop-gap. And the people who know the truth, Matt and Chloe, are old hands at backing up my lines. Amy need never know.
‘Put it this way,’ I say, opting for ignoring her question, rather than lying outright, ‘the sooner we’re out of here and in the park, the better.’
I flip the sign on the door round to closed, lock up, and we set off towards Hyde Park. We chat about the weekend and what we’ve been up to since. Then we pop into a deli and grab a couple of sandwiches and some soft drinks. As we’re walking from the deli to the park our hands brush, and the next thing I know her fingers are knitted between mine. I can’t help flinching. Spooked is not the word. Stupid, I know, because our hands have been on far more intimate parts of our bodies before. But that’s been behind closed doors, or drunk, or out of London. Not here in the sunshine on my home turf. It’s the significance of the action, I suppose, that’s freaking me out. It’s the whole, hey-world-this-is-me-and-this-is-her-and-we’re-together deal.
‘What?’ she asks, laughing at me, stopping and staring down at our joined hands.
I bite the inside of my cheek, then say, ‘Nothing. It just feels weird, that’s all.’
‘We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. In fact,’ she adds mischievously, slipping her hand from mine, ‘it’s probably best if we don’t.’
I stand here confused, suddenly feeling off-balance, with the shopping bag in my left hand and nothing in my right. ‘How’s that?’ I finally ask.
She narrows her eyes, challenges, ‘What? Do you think I’m stupid? I know how these things work.’
I’m still clueless. I can’t even tell if she’s being serious any more. ‘What things?’
‘Things like holding hands. My mother warned me all about men like you. First it’s holding hands, then it’s a peck on the cheek. Next thing I know, you’ll be trying to have sex with me and I’ll be pregnant and you’ll be shacked up with some other floozy.’ She pouts at me. ‘Well, let me tell you, Jack Rossiter, I’m not that kind of girl.’
A snort of laughter escapes from my mouth. ‘Okay,’ I apologise, ‘point taken.’ I hold out my hand, but all she does is raise her eyebrows in an invitation for me to say more. ‘Please,’ I say, ‘I’d like to.’
‘Certain?’
‘Certain.’
And, as she puts her hand in mine and we walk on, I have to admit it feels pretty good.
The bits of the park near the main roads are packed by the time we get there. All the office workers are out on their lunch hours, getting their daily allowances of unfiltered oxygen and sunlight. It’s all hitched-up skirts, rolled-up sleeves and loosened ties. Empty bottles of Evian and Prêt A Manger wrappers litter the grass, and Amy and I navigate our way through these obstacles until the people thin out and we find a quiet place near the centre of the park. We settle in the half-shade of a tree and eat and drink and talk.
To begin with, the whole scene seems pretty unreal to me. I find myself play-acting, laughing at Amy’s jokes, firing off question after question, getting under her skin and letting her know it’s a good place to be. Doing, in other words, all the stuff girls like – or all the stuff I’ve learnt to make girls like me, anyway. But after a while, the act slips. It’s no longer me playing Jack the Lad, or Jack the Listener, or any of the other personas I’ve developed since I split up with Zoe. I end up just being Jack the Me. And it’s a relief. I find myself relaxing. We’re lying here side by side, staring up through the pattern of leaves at the sky, and suddenly, there’s a conversation I want to have with her, a conversation I haven’t had with anyone since I first met Zoe.
‘That thing with the hands,’ I begin.
She touches her fingertips against mine. ‘This thing?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, folding her hand inside mine, ‘that’s the one.’
‘What about it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just, well, you know … it means something. It’s a link. I mean, when you look at two people holding hands, you make assumptions about them, don’t you?’
‘That they’re together …’
‘But it’s more than that, too. You assume that they’re happy with the situation, that they’re comfortable with it.’
Still holding my hand, she props herself up on her elbow and stares down at me. ‘And are you? Is that how you feel when you’re with me?’
‘I think so.’
Her brow wrinkles slightly. ‘Only think?’
I try to explain. ‘Well, you can’t know, can you? Not yet.’ I falter. ‘I can’t, anyway.’
She looks disappointed, but when she speaks, her voice is stoical. ‘You feel what you feel, Jack. It’s as simple as that. It’s not something you plan. It’s just something you do.’ The way she says it makes her sound like she’s been here a hundred times before.
‘I’m being crap, aren’t I?’ I conclude.
‘What do you e
xpect? You’re a bloke. It’s part of your job description.’
‘It just feels fucking weird opening up to you like this.’ I grimace. ‘Or not opening up to you, which is probably more accurate.’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ she points out.
‘I know. But that’s the deal, Amy: I do want to tell you stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘That I had a fantastic weekend and I’m having a fantastic day and … and I want there to be more. I want to do this again.’ She doesn’t say anything, because she knows I haven’t finished. And she’s right. But still, I’m apprehensive. This might not be what she wants. She’s keen, sure, but how keen? Maybe for her this is just a fling-thing. Maybe me telling her I want it to be more, that I’m finally ready for something more than a serial shag, will scare her off. And then there’s me. I’m scared of me, too. Maybe I’ve just caught a dose of summer madness and two weeks down the line I’ll find myself trapped in a relationship I no longer want.
Her grip on my hand strengthens. ‘Do you know what I feel?’
‘No, tell me.’
‘I feel comfortable with this.’ She shakes her head, smiles. ‘Fuck comfortable. I feel great.’ She holds my hand up before my face. ‘This feels great. This feels right. This is what I want.’
‘And if it doesn’t go anywhere?’
‘Then it doesn’t go anywhere.’
And there it is. A tidal wave of relief washes over me. There’s no pressure. We see how things go. We do what millions of people do every day: we throw the dice and wait to see how they land.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘so when people look at us holding hands and assume that we’re together, they’ll be right, then.’
‘Yes.’
When we kiss, it feels different to the times we’ve kissed before. As our lips touch, it’s like putting a physical seal on the verbal pact we’ve just made. It’s scary and amazing at the same time. This is it, I’m thinking. This is the end of one part of your life and the beginning of the next. Just as our tongues are entwined, I realise that so are our lives. But when this kiss breaks, we won’t. That’ll only happen if one of us decides it. That will only happen if we stop believing in the words we’ve just spoken to one another. And who knows? Maybe that’s on the cards. But that’s the kick, I suppose. But then there’s the possibility that this is for real. And it’s a possibility that leaves me smiling as we settle back on the grass and I wrap my arms around her and drift into sleep.