The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  At last I find Redchurch Street and see what looks like the right building. I try the door but it’s locked. Beside the door is a strip of buttons with no names next to them, again unhelpfully. I press the top buzzer and wait. After a minute or so I hear someone on the other side. The door opens and an elderly man with a goatee beard stands in front of me. He’s wearing a grubby dressing gown and is holding a mug of tea.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking my phone and bringing up Connor’s message. ‘Er … I’m looking for … this isn’t the Ultimate Clash boxing event, is it?’

  The man regards me for a moment then starts to laugh.

  ‘I don’t think so, love,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Not with my knees.’

  He closes the door and as I stand looking up and down the street it starts to rain.

  ‘Shit,’ I cry, huddling into a doorway. ‘I just wanted a night in.’

  I take out my phone and call Connor’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. Then I see a group of men outside a grey building on the other side of the street. They are dressed in gym gear and one of them is holding a kitbag. I dash across the street, almost slipping on the wet pavement.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I shout as I draw level with them. ‘I’m looking for the boxing event. Have I got the right place?’

  One of them, a young black guy with cropped hair, smirks as he looks at my sodden trouser suit.

  ‘Yep,’ he says, gesturing to the door behind me. ‘Down those stairs.’

  I follow some of the men inside and find myself in a dark corridor. The air smells of sweat and cheap deodorant and the walls are covered in graffiti and torn posters.

  ‘Through there,’ says a voice behind me.

  I turn. It’s the young guy from outside. He gestures ahead of him.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say as I make my way into the gloom.

  The corridor opens into a small, square room, with a large boxing ring in the centre. It’s already heaving with people and as I squeeze through I see Connor standing with two men at the edge of the ring. He looks up as I approach and starts to laugh.

  ‘Oh dear, what happened to you?’ he says, pulling me towards him and kissing my cheek. ‘This is Hanif and Bobby, by the way,’ he says, gesturing to the two men standing next to him.

  ‘It started to rain,’ I say, smiling politely at the two men, who look more interested in the ring. I start to sway on my feet. The heat of the room is making me feel light-headed. ‘And I got lost. You said it was a black building but it’s grey.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he says, looking around the room distractedly. ‘Anyway, you’re here now and the fight’s just about to start.’

  ‘What?’ I say, but my voice is drowned out by the sound of Rag’n’Bone Man’s ‘Human’ blasting at full volume.

  The lights go down and then a solitary spotlight falls on the entrance. I watch as a dark, hooded figure enters the room, bouncing on his feet like a springbok.

  ‘That’s Mark Fahey, the champion,’ whispers Connor in my ear. His breath smells of stale beer. It makes me feel nauseous. ‘The guy in the ring is Julius Morris, the contender.’

  I look at the ripped guy standing in the centre of the ring. His eyes are blazing as he smashes his gloved fists together. There’s a strange energy in the room that unsettles me, the prelude to something nasty.

  The crowd starts to chant the name of the champion as he enters the ring. The chanting is accompanied by the stamping of feet that makes the ground beneath me vibrate. It’s hot and airless in here and I feel something akin to travel sickness as the two men square up to each other, their noses almost touching.

  ‘Come on, Fahey, fucking kill him,’ yells a male voice behind me as the bell rings and the fight begins.

  I glance at Connor. He’s staring straight ahead, engrossed in the action. I notice he has his fists clenched. Behind me, the man who shouted is now providing a running commentary to the fight, screaming expletives as the two fighters skirt around each other.

  The first punch comes from the contender, Julius Morris, and is so hard it makes me flinch. It unbalances Fahey and the crowd go wild. They’re getting what they have come to see.

  ‘Come on, Fahey, you fucking poof,’ shouts the man behind me. ‘End this sucker, for fuck’s sake.’

  And it looks like that’s what Fahey is going to do. He ploughs into the contender like a machine, punching him in the side, and then, when Morris drops his guard, square in the jaw. Blood spurts from the contender’s face, much to the delight of the crowd. The nausea that had been mild when I first arrived now intensifies. I turn to Connor. He’s glued to the action. I shake his arm and he looks at me with an expression of irritation.

  ‘What?’ he hisses.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ I say, raising my voice to be heard above the jeering crowd. ‘You said it wouldn’t be bloody.’

  ‘It’s a fucking boxing match, Vanessa,’ he says, shaking his head and returning his gaze to the ring. ‘I said it wouldn’t take long and it won’t by the look of it.’

  ‘Connor, I really want to go,’ I say, my stomach twisting. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘Vanessa, please,’ he says, pulling me closer. ‘We have to stay. My company is sponsoring this fight. It’ll look terrible if I leave in the middle of it. I told you we’d go and have drinks afterwards. Now shush and let me focus.’

  I stand there, dumbfounded. He’s never spoken to me like that before. I stare at the side of his head but he’s completely oblivious.

  Inside the ring, Morris is still taking a pummelling but he’s on his feet, refusing to concede. His face is a mass of blood and swelling. It’s a hideous sight.

  Looking down at the beer-soaked floor, I close my eyes and try to think of the most innocent and pleasant image I can, something distracting. I momentarily land back in my old kitchen that final day with Mum. I see her face, her eyes twinkling as she listens to Geoffrey on the radio, see her grab for the pen to scribble down the name of the book. I hear her melodic, soft voice repeating it to make sure she got it right: ‘The Spirits of Holly Maze House. Ooh, that sounds right up your street.’ But then a deafening roar goes up from the crowd and the memory fractures into a thousand pieces. It must be over, I think to myself. But as I open my eyes I see, in front of me, the horrifying sight of Morris lying on the floor of the ring, his face a mass of bloodied flesh.

  It’s horror beyond words, but it’s not over. Within seconds, he’s back on his feet, though he staggers from side to side like an injured animal. Fahey comes at him. Morris raises his gloved hands to block the punch but he’s clearly too weak to defend himself. The blazing-eyed young man who had looked so fresh and handsome as he stood in the ring at the beginning of the fight now flops around drowsily as Fahey rains blow after blow upon him. The knockout punch seems to come from nowhere. Morris falls on his side. The crowd cheers with unrestrained glee. And all the while, beside me, Connor stands transfixed, his hands still balled into fists.

  I feel dizzy; a mix of the intense heat, the noise and the unquiet sense of doom that pervades the room. I need to get out of here.

  ‘I’m going to get some air,’ I say to Connor, squeezing past him.

  ‘Vanessa, you can’t, it’s …’

  His voice is drowned out by shouts of ‘Move out of the way, you silly cow!’, ‘Oy, move it, woman!’

  At the end of the row I feel a rush of bodies coming towards me. My way is barred. Panic engulfs me as the crush gets stronger. I can’t breathe.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  There’s a hand on my arm. I look up and see a man in a red baseball cap. He has large blue eyes and a bright-red scar running from his left eye to his mouth. I look at him for a moment, try to speak, but no words will come.

  ‘Vanessa, come on.’

  Connor grabs my arm from behind and pulls me through the crowd. When we reach the exit he turns to me and shakes his head.

  ‘Did you really have to do that?’ he says angrily. �
�The fight was finished. There was no need to make a scene.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, putting my hand to my chest as I attempt to get my breath back. ‘It was just so hot … and the sight of the blood, it –’

  ‘Come on,’ he says, his voice gentle now. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat.’

  The last thing I want to do is eat but Connor is insisting.

  ‘I know a lovely little Spanish place near here,’ he says as we take a right off the high street and continue down a small mews. ‘Damian took me when I last met up with him. You’ll like it. The food’s great.’

  I try to explain to him that I’m feeling ill, that I can’t get rid of the image of that poor young guy being literally torn apart right in front of me, but he won’t listen.

  ‘What you need is something to line your stomach,’ he says as we approach the glass doors of the restaurant. ‘You came here straight from work during rush hour. That’s why you’re feeling funny.’

  He turns to me and flashes a smile. This would usually melt me but this evening, in the light of what I’ve just witnessed, his smile seems grotesque.

  ‘Okay, but I don’t want to stay out late,’ I say as we walk up the steps. ‘Just eat and then go home. I need to rest.’

  ‘Christ, you sound like an old woman, Ness,’ he says as we enter the bar. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure gone?’

  I don’t understand what’s going on here. Connor’s never spoken to me like this before. But then, I realize, I’ve never really said no to him before.

  ‘Hey, guys. Table for two?’

  A tall, olive-skinned woman with striking brown eyes and glossy black bobbed hair greets us at the door. I watch as Connor flashes her the same smile he just used on me a couple of minutes ago as she leads us to a candlelit table by the bar.

  ‘So what can I get you?’ she says, talking directly to Connor as though I don’t exist. ‘Some drinks to start?’

  ‘A menu would be great,’ says Connor as she pulls out a chair for him to sit. ‘And a bottle of Rioja.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, returning the flirtatious stare as she walks back to the bar.

  ‘A small glass would have been enough for me,’ I say, sitting down at the table, opposite him. ‘Not a bottle.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I’ll drink the rest. Look, Vanessa, what is this?’ His voice is loud and brittle.

  ‘What’s what?’ I say, sweat gathering on my forehead.

  ‘This anger,’ he says, leaning forward in his chair. ‘You’re totally wired, for some reason.’

  ‘Anger?’ I repeat, my head feeling hot and heavy. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I said was that I didn’t feel like drinking much.’

  ‘Yes, but you said it in a very aggressive way,’ he says.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ I say, feeling my chest tighten. ‘I said it in a normal way, maybe even a tired way, but I didn’t say it angrily. You’re the one who’s raising your voice.’

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ he says, lowering his voice now.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Projecting,’ he says, biting his bottom lip. ‘Making out that I’m the one ruining this, that I’m the pissed-off one, when you’ve spent the entire evening with a face like thunder.’

  ‘Your drinks.’

  He looks up at the woman and his face changes in front of me. The dark expression switches to a thousand-kilowatt smile in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he says as the woman places the glasses on the table and pours a small amount of wine in each.

  ‘And here are the menus,’ she says, handing one to Connor while putting mine down on the table. ‘Our specials are on the board.’

  She gestures to a blackboard on the wall to the right of us.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Connor as the woman walks away.

  ‘Well,’ he says, lifting his glass. ‘Let’s start again, shall we? Cheers.’

  I don’t feel like toasting. I feel like I want to get to the bottom of why he said I was angry, but the truth is I don’t have the energy. I feel hot and tired and still shaken up by the sight of that blood. So I let it go and take a sip of wine.

  I open the menu, but my appetite has gone.

  ‘I think I’ll just have a salad,’ I say, closing it.

  ‘You need more than that,’ says Connor, craning his neck to look at the board on the far wall. ‘Oh, look, they’ve got Rabo de Toro.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, dabbing my forehead with a napkin.

  ‘I shouldn’t say.’

  ‘Why? What is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s a classic Spanish dish,’ he says, leaning across and taking my hand. ‘Basically, after the bullfight, tradition has it that the bull is slaughtered and the meat fed to the poor. The tail is full of flavour and goodness, and they remove it immediately and make a stew.’

  ‘And that’s what’s on the specials board?’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But that’s sick.’

  ‘It’ll just be oxtail of some sort,’ he says, his eyes still on the menu. ‘As we don’t have bullfighting in this country, they won’t be able to serve up the tail of the freshly slaughtered bull. It’s just their take on it.’

  ‘It’s still sick,’ I say, the smell of the blood that filled the room earlier lodged in my nostrils.

  ‘I would have liked to try it but, hey ho, I’ll save it for another time,’ Connor says, taking a large glug of wine. ‘I think I’ll go for the octopus salad instead and the patatas bravas. Will you share some with me?’

  I nod my head. I don’t really feel like eating anything heavy but I don’t want to cause another argument.

  The woman returns and takes our order. Connor says something to her in Spanish. She looks at me and giggles, then, collecting the menus, walks away, still giggling.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ I ask, taking an olive from the dish the woman had put down along with the wine.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Just trying out some Spanish I picked up in Barcelona a few years back. I wanted to see if she understood.’

  ‘You said something funny,’ I say, removing the olive stone and placing it on the napkin. ‘And then she laughed at me.’

  ‘God, Vanessa, what is the matter with you today?’ he says, his eyes widening. ‘You’re in such a bad mood.’

  ‘I just wanted to know what you said to her,’ I say. ‘And why she laughed at me.’

  ‘She was being friendly,’ he says, sighing. ‘Smiling and laughing. Christ, is that a crime?’

  I don’t answer. If I do, it will only make things worse.

  We sit in silence for a few moments. Our food arrives and we begin to eat.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I say to Connor, doing my best to sound upbeat. ‘Particularly the potatoes.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, you know,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Pretend you’re enjoying this,’ he says, refilling our glasses with the Rioja. ‘It’s my fault. I should have gone to the fight alone. Plus, this part of London isn’t to everyone’s tastes. We should just stick to Chelsea and Clapham and Wimbledon for our evenings out, your comfort zones.’

  ‘No,’ I say, feeling genuinely aggrieved. ‘I’m not some sort of idiot who can’t handle being in the East End. It was just the fight. You told me it was going to be for show. No blood.’

  His eyes go cold then and he shakes his head.

  ‘What?’ I say, leaning back in my chair as the waitress collects our empty dishes. ‘What is it, Connor?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Vanessa,’ he says, nodding to the waitress as she departs. ‘I just feel like I’m the one doing all the giving. I helped you nail the US presentation, I sat up all night helping you come up with straplines for the new lipstick campaign, I helped you draft that tricky email when you had to let the new intern go, and I don’t mind giving you a hand, but tonight was just as important to me. I’ve been working on the brandin
g for UC Boxing for months now and I’d never been to a fight before. It was something I wanted to see, wanted to experience, so I could translate that into the branding. And I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it but there are times we have to do things we don’t like because life’s not all glitter and powder and lipstick.’

  I ignore the dig at my choice of career and let him continue.

  ‘I thought you would be more supportive, that’s all,’ he says, pausing to take a sip of wine. ‘Particularly after all the help I’ve given you. But you’re just like the rest of them.’

  ‘The rest of them?’ I say, feeling my cheeks burning.

  ‘Women are wonderful,’ he says, smiling. ‘I was raised by a single mother. I love them to death but there are just some things they’ll never understand. Sam was exactly the same when I took her to a fight.’

  He stops then, aware that he’s let something slip.

  ‘Who’s Sam?’ I say, feeling the wine in my bloodstream.

  ‘Oh, just a woman I used to know,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively.

  ‘A girlfriend?’

  ‘Girlfriend is a bit generous,’ he says with a frown. ‘I mean, she was more like a … well, it was just a physical thing with Sam. She was a bit of a psycho if truth be told.’

  ‘But I thought you hadn’t seen a live fight before,’ I say, my body tensing.

  ‘No, I said I hadn’t seen a UC fight before,’ he says, raising his hand to beckon the waitress. She catches his eye and is by his side in a matter of moments.

  ‘Another, please,’ he says, gesturing to the empty Rioja bottle. ‘Thanks.’

  She smiles and leans across him to take the bottle. When she has gone he sits forward and clasps my hands.

  ‘Listen, let’s not waste any more of this evening talking about exes,’ he says, squeezing my fingers tightly. ‘I know you get paranoid about other women, like the text from Sara the other day, but you have to understand that it’s you I love, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m bursting for a pee.’