by Lee, Mandy
‘There’s no point in fighting. Not this time. It’s well and truly over. That’s all I’m prepared to say. It’s private.’ I force out a dramatic sigh. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve waited this long to come and harass me.’
‘Dan told me not to, and so did Clive, but I’ve run out of patience.’
‘Already? It’s only been three days.’
And now I can’t help myself. The first contact with someone who’s still in his orbit, and I’m overwhelmed by the need for news. I’ll just have to do it subtly, in a way that doesn’t arouse suspicion.
‘How is he?’
Well, bugger it. That’s not subtle at all.
Lily’s eyes flash. ‘Ah, you still care then?’
‘No … I mean yes. Of course I do. I want him to be alright, but that doesn’t mean I want him back.’
She raises an eyebrow and I’m swallowed by panic. Am I giving the game away? Yes, probably. And that means only one thing: I need to come up with something else, and I need to come up with it now. Opening my mouth, I begin to ramble.
‘I can’t live with him, Lily. I just can’t deal with him. He hides too much, and he certainly can’t deal with me. I wanted him to be more open and he couldn’t do it.’ I sip at my coffee. ‘So, back to my question. How is he?’
‘Recovering,’ she answers, keeping her gaze levelled on me. ‘He’s in plaster now. Both arms, left leg. He had another operation on his right leg yesterday.’
‘It went well?’
‘They’re happy with the results.’
She turns her cup on the table, and I know there’s something else.
‘I sat with him afterwards.’ She eyes me closely. ‘I don’t know what sort of pain relief they were giving him, but it must have been pretty strong stuff.’
I pick up a teaspoon and tap it against the side of my cup.
‘It certainly loosened his tongue.’
The teaspoon stops moving. Sitting absolutely still, I wait for the next bit.
‘He kept asking for you.’
A prick of panic at the back of my brain. I drop the spoon. Here’s me, doing my level best to deceive the world and its dog. And there’s Dan, blabbing it all out under the influence of grade A narcotics.
‘Now, why would he do that?’ She leans forward, catching the edge of her jacket in a pool of coffee. ‘Why would he dump the love of his life, and then ask for her … again and again.’
‘No idea.’ I falter. ‘His brain was obviously scrambled.’
‘Well, that’s what Clive said.’ She leans further forward. ‘But I’ve got another idea. He’s made a mistake. The biggest mistake of his life.’
‘Too bad for him.’
‘I think he wants you back.’
‘It’s too late. What’s done is done and all that shit.’
‘Oh Maya. You know, you’re really crap at the hard bitch act.’
I shrug.
‘It’s not an act. He’s burnt his bridges.’ I try out a smile. Jesus, this is killing me. ‘Even if he has changed his mind, I’m not taking him back.’
Lily sits back. Running her fingers around the edge of her cup, she probes me with those dark eyes. At last, she seems to reach a conclusion.
‘Wooden acting, a thoroughly terrible script … and an awful storyline.’
‘Pardon?’
‘This show. I’m asking for my money back.’
I say nothing. My heart’s beating against my rib cage. Please don’t tell me I’ve already been rumbled. I’ve only just started my acting career, and I already seem to be on the verge of crash and burn. I take another sip of coffee.
‘Let’s not go on about it.’ I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. No matter what else is going on, I’m not going to make a fool of myself with my own coffee moustache.
‘What else is there to go on about?’ Lily demands.
‘How about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘You were seeing someone.’
‘Still am.’
‘Lucky you.’
She shrugs off my attempts to change the conversation.
‘I’ll get you and Dan back together. I’m determined. I’ll just give him a while, and then I’ll start to work on him.’
Oh Lord, that’s all he needs.
‘Don’t,’ I snap. Because he’s got enough to deal with. ‘You know what he’s like. Once he makes up his mind, that’s it.’
‘And he can get things wrong,’ she snaps back.
I roll my eyes.
‘He’s messed me about once too often, Lily. You can say what you like and think what you like, but I’m telling you, I’m done with him.’
She leans down, opens her handbag and pulls out a notepad and pen. She scribbles down a number, tears out the page and hands it to me.
‘Here you go.’
‘What’s this?’
‘My number.’ Pursing her perfect little lips, she shoves the pen and notepad back into her bag. ‘For when you change your mind. Just get in touch.’
Without another word, she gets up, pushes back her chair and makes an exit, leaving me to stare at my reflection. My hair’s all over the place. My skin’s pale. Too much booze, not enough sleep, endless worry about Dan, a constant fight against the growing ache inside. No wonder I’m a mess.
‘So, that went well,’ I tell myself, remembering all too late that I’m not alone.
The man at the next table looks up from his mobile, holding eye contact for a few seconds before he too gets up and leaves.
I stop off for wine and make my way back down the High Street, peering over my shoulder every now and then, eyeing every single stranger who passes me. The man in the café is playing on my mind. It may be a fact that Dan’s never very far away … but then again, neither is Boyd. Shifting about in the shadows, he’s the cat and the mouse in this game, and it hits me again – wherever I go, whatever I do, I need to be constantly on guard.
I hear the music even before I reach the front door. Sliding the key into the lock, I’m greeted by a wall of sound, and a further wall of smell. I find Lucy slumped on a chair, a half-finished glass of wine in her hand, her head dipped. I can’t hear it above the sound of Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’, but I know she’s crying. Her shoulders are practically vibrating. I hit the stop button on her mobile and switch my attention to the frying pan. The brown goo’s transformed into a congealed, blackened mess – and it’s on the verge of catching fire.
‘What is this?’ I ask, turning off the gas.
‘It was lamb,’ she sobs, lifting her head. ‘And now it’s a mess.’ She blows out a breath. ‘Everything’s a mess.’
The urge to tell her the truth is almost overwhelming. I’m torturing my best friend by holding it back, and I hate myself for doing it. But judging by the state of her, if I let her know that Clive’s not lost, she’ll be off to see him in a heartbeat.
Very carefully, I prise the wine glass out of her hand, ease her off the chair and guide her to her bedroom. Once she’s tucked up in bed, I fetch the John Lennon CD from my bedroom, take it to the living room and slot it into the CD player. Locating track one, I lower the volume and listen. I know the song well. In each verse, Lennon struggles to say those three little words until finally, they come spilling out into the open, again and again.
Dan’s talking to me through music. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again. He loves his woman … and he always will.
Chapter Five
A good five hours of painting done today. Oblivious to the world and pausing only for cups of tea, I’ve been caught in a trance. But now I’m exhausted. It’s time to stop for the day. Perched on a stool, brush in hand, I stare at the calendar. Complete with three kittens in a basket, all glassy-eyed, October stares back at me. I lean over, flipping the calendar back to August and September, where I began to mark off each day with a blob of paint, a practice I quickly abandoned when I realised so many of the bloody things were slipping past. Si
nce then, I’ve paid little attention to time, barely noticing when it switched up a gear and took the fast lane. But today, of all days, it’s not willing to be ignored.
‘Happy fucking birthday,’ I mutter, thinking of the three cards sitting at home, one from Mum and Dad, one from Sara, and one from Lucy. I’m not surprised there’s nothing from Dan. After all, since the songs were played at Mangans, there’s been absolutely no contact. For some reason – and there must be a good one - he’s opted for silence.
I get up, move to the window and watch the clouds scudding across the sky. Two months in limbo. Two whole months since I last saw him. I can barely believe it. I’ve watched summer retreat and autumn quietly take its place, breathing a last rush of colour through the trees: red, gold, bronze and yellow. It’s in full force now, but it won’t last long. The leaves are already losing their grip on life, spiralling to the ground in ever increasing numbers.
I’ve spent the days here at Slaters, burying myself in painting. Nights and weekends, holed up in Camden, slugging back unhealthy quantities of wine, suffering through Lucy’s new-found obsession with cooking, and half-watching an endless stream of soppy films. It’s an uninspiring story, punctuated by the odd outing to a pub and regular deliveries of roses, all quickly consigned to the neighbour’s skip. And all the time the ache has grown, consuming every part of me. There’s no relief from it, not even in sleep. Over the past few weeks, Dan’s presence has faded from my dreams.
No wonder frustration’s a constant companion, plaguing every waking moment and blitzing me with countless questions, unending possibilities. It’s prompted me to search the internet, and that hasn’t helped matters. I’ve found nothing apart from a brief article about the CEO of Fosters recovering from a motorbike accident, and rumours of expansion. More than once I’ve picked up the phone to call Lily, always stopping before I go too far. It’s a bloody miracle I’ve somehow managed to keep a hold on faith, clutching at it like a comfort blanket. But it’s tattered now, worn and fraying at the edges. I’m beginning to doubt my own memories of what happened, the promises he made. I’m beginning to doubt everything.
I hear a door bang down below, the sound of voices in the stairwell. Giving up on the grotty Soho back street, I take my place back on the stool, and survey the room. Propped up at the far end, the triptych’s finished, waiting for a suitable home. And it’s lured me in a new direction, away from landscapes, further into the world of figure painting. I’ve been working on a series of self-portraits. Gazing repeatedly into an old mirror and using larger canvases, five feet by three, I’ve begun to mark out my time in isolation.
The first portrait’s leaning against a wall next to the stairwell. I’m sitting on a couch, wearing a long grey dress, legs curled up beneath me, gazing out of an open window at a vibrant blue sky. Summer light floods in from outside, playing against the rough texture of an olive-green wall and illuminating my face. It’s partly an experiment in still life, partly an exploration of composition. Leaving the space uncluttered to the right, I’ve focussed the details on the left-hand side. Beneath the window and next to the couch, there’s a wooden three-legged stool, adorned with a simple jam jar filled with pure white sweet peas, all glowing against the shadows. I’m more than pleased with the end result, how the lines draw attention to the flowers, how I’ve captured the texture of a red throw on the couch, the delicacy of the sweet peas, the sheen of the glass jar.
And now I’ve moved on to a second picture. This time I’m wearing a black dress. On the floor in front of the couch, with my knees pulled up to my chest, I’m staring straight ahead, into nothing. The window’s still open, but the light’s weaker, colder, barely touching the uneven plaster of the wall. The jar of sweet peas remains on the stool, the flowers faded, limp and lifeless.
‘Amazing work.’
I’m startled by a man’s voice. It’s deep and low, laced with an American accent. I find the owner standing in the doorway. Immaculately dressed in a tailored grey suit, he’s tall and perfectly proportioned, with thick black hair that’s a little overlong, giving him a rakish edge. His charcoal eyes sparkle with mischief. I take it all in, acknowledging the fact that he probably sends women wild in the head and weak at the knees … but he doesn’t have that effect on me. There’s no quickening of the heart, no sharp intake of breath, no twinges down below. Thanks to Dan, I’m immune.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Gordon,’ he beams, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. ‘Gordon Finn. Pleased to meet you.’
Striding forward, he holds out a hand. I slip my fingers into his, allowing him to squeeze the life out of them, while I wait for more information, but nothing arrives. He just carries on beaming and squeezing.
‘Can I ask what you’re doing up here? I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that …’
Just that what? I wonder. Just that you might be some hired nut-job coming after me on Boyd’s behalf? Well that’s a ridiculous notion. For a start, hired nut-jobs don’t wear beyond-the-radar-expensive suits. And secondly, nobody comes up here without being shown the way by Lucy, or one of the Steves.
‘I’m just taking a look around.’ He releases my hand. ‘Lucy said it was okay.’
Then I realise. He’s American. Some American chap. It’s been ages since I last asked about the gallery sale. The new buyer was being difficult, finding problems at every stage, and the longer the process dragged on, the more pissed-off the Steves became. Eventually, I thought it best to keep quiet. But now he’s here, the prospective owner of Slaters. And there’s a distinct possibility he’s acting for Dan. A frisson of excitement kicks off in my gut. For the first time in weeks, I’m being offered a tiny scrap of hope, and it’s my full intention to grab it.
‘You’re thinking of buying this place?’
He wanders down to the far end of the room, shoes clacking against the floorboards. ‘No,’ he says crisply, eyeing up the triptych. ‘I am buying this place.’
‘And you’re only visiting now?’
‘I’m a busy man.’ He peeks out of the front window and returns to me. ‘The owners were prepared to wait. I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Don’t let me hold you up.’ He takes a few steps back, and then homes in on my current painting. As if someone’s slipped a handful of crushed glass into his super expensive underpants, he’s incapable of staying still for one minute. ‘And that is amazing work.’ He turns to the first portrait. ‘And so is that. And the triptych … well, that’s phenomenal.’
Ignoring my quiet ‘thank you,’ he returns to the three canvases. Folding his arms, he chews at his bottom lip, taking in one panel after another before leaning in to examine the naked male torso in the middle.
‘Daniel Foster,’ I announce, watching him closely for any sign of recognition.
He straightens up.
‘Who?’ He seems genuinely perplexed.
‘Daniel Foster,’ I repeat, this time with a dash of uncertainty. ‘My ex-boyfriend. Do you know him?’
‘Should I?’ From the frown on his face, it’s pretty clear I’ve just asked a completely ridiculous question. ‘Is he an actor? Or a model? He’s certainly got the perfect body. Great abs. I wouldn’t mind a set of those. He’s got to be a model.’
‘No.’ I smile. Disappointment’s sidling its way into my head. ‘He’s not an actor … or a model. Just my ex-boyfriend. I thought you might know him.’
‘Never heard of the guy.’
We lock eyes for a few seconds and while I have no idea what he’s checking for, I’m busy hunting down a crack in the performance.
‘Hello,’ he says, tipping his head forward.
‘Pardon?’
‘Are you actually trying to read my thoughts?’
‘No. Of course not.’
He shrugs.
‘Well, I can confirm, absolutely and without any shadow of a doubt, that I do not know Daniel Foster.’
I open my mouth. I’m on the verge of asking for a ‘cross y
our heart and hope to die’, but that would be childish. While I’m still clinging on to a scrap of dignity, I’d better stay in control.
‘So, what makes you think I know him?’
We lock eyes for a second time and I see no cracks, no flaws. Confident it won’t be shown the door, disappointment takes a seat and makes itself thoroughly at home. Mr Finn’s telling the truth.
‘No idea.’ I’ve gone too far. This random rich American thinks I’m an English lunatic. I need a decent excuse for my ridiculous suggestion. ‘He pulled out of buying this place. I thought he might have tipped you off.’
‘My agent tipped me off. She doesn’t know him either.’
‘Oh.’ Embarrassment floods through me. It’s definitely time for a little back-tracking. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little out of sorts today.’
‘Well, it is your birthday.’
‘What?’ I blink in disbelief. ‘How did you …’
And now I can’t quite work out what I’m seeing. His eyes glimmer momentarily. He glances at my lips. I blink again, wondering if that’s attraction on his part. It’s impossible to tell. The expressions on his face move quickly too. I can’t work out where one begins and another ends.
‘Your friend downstairs. Lucy. She warned me the artist in residence seems to be in a foul mood. Birthday-related. Beware.’ He shuffles from one foot to the other, finally returning to the triptych and leaving me relieved. At least he’s not examining me. ‘So this is you?’
‘Yes.’ The heat rises in my cheeks.
‘And it’s about?’ He waves at all three panels.
‘It’s …’
Oh God, no. I can’t go into that.
‘She’s in pain.’ He points at the left-hand canvas, and then at the right. ‘And she’s experiencing pleasure. And your Mr Foster’s in the middle, making his choice.’
I’m totally exposed, and I’ve only got myself to blame. Mr Finn’s spent less than five minutes in my company and he already knows what I look like naked. And on top of that, he’ll have guessed plenty about my sex life. If I’m not a deep shade of crimson by now, I must be at least bright pink.