“Sorry, sorry. That was stupid. Wait, let me get one more, then I’ll come home with you.” He gulped down half a glass of wine in one.
“Do what you want, Iain. You generally do.”
I walked out of the pub alone and into the shop next door to buy some Sunday papers I was probably too pissed and “bitter” to concentrate on.
When I started up the hill back to my flat, someone grabbed my arm.
I turned and we were suddenly facing each other.
You looked straight into my eyes in that way you do and my heart leaped.
That’s when I worked it out. I wasn’t just jealous of you. I was jealous of Iain. I didn’t like how you seemed to be shining your light on him, not me. I wanted to grab you and go somewhere else, so we could talk, so we could explore new avenues of thoughts and feelings and hopes.
“I’m sorry about Iain,” you said, and I was so instinctively pleased to see you’d made the effort to catch up with me, I didn’t even register the outrage of you apologizing for my partner’s behavior.
“What’s he doing now?”
“Having his one last drink.” And the way you said it made me believe you saw him for what he was, and even if I were to rubber-stamp you for him, you’d never take him up on the offer. It was madness, but for a moment, I wanted to say something to recommend him to you, to make my choice of partner seem more defendable in your eyes. I hoped Iain wasn’t making too much of a fool of himself.
“I’m leaving soon too, but I wanted to give you this.” You handed over a neat card with your prim handwriting on it. “It’s my blog. Please don’t judge the writing. It’s just something I do for me.” You pressed the card into my palm. “And please, don’t tell Gem you know about it. She wants me to keep my private writing and work life, like, totally separate. But, you’ll know what it’s like. When you’re a writer, there’s no such thing as clear boundaries, is there?”
At that you hugged me quickly before disappearing back into the pub to rejoin my partner. And instead of thinking about the horror of the two of you alone together, I was striding up the road to my flat as quickly as I could without breaking into a run. I couldn’t wait to see inside your head.
A few pictures of you looking stunning. A bit of blurb. A good number of posts entitled things like “10 reasons why interns should get paid” and “Why does everyone past 30 hate everyone under?” and “Sex for rent—a millennial housing reality,” none of which, of course, I bothered reading, especially once I’d seen the headline for your most recent post: “You feeling lucky? What I learned from a puncture and the bus that never came.”
My heart thumped in my chest. I knew it was going to be about me.
A sudden dread hit me. What would you say? Would you be kind or cutting? Would you let me get closer to the truth of you, or give me more riddles about how you came into my life? I left my laptop on the sofa and ran to the kitchen to find some booze. I poured neat gin urgently into a tumbler as I watched the screen from the other side of the room like a burglar I’d just invited into my house.
The most recent post on www.llllll.wordpress.com—tagline: Life, love, lessons, and learnings with London Lily—was waiting for me. I made myself walk toward it and read it.
HELLO, TAXI-SAVIOR LADY!
(POSTED MARCH 5, 10:16 P.M.)
Typical.
On the first day of my new job, sorry, internship (heaven forbid anyone my age actually gets paid for their work, Good Lord, what do you want to do, bankrupt the country even without Brexit? Next, you’ll be wanting rent caps and a limit to how many properties anyone over forty can own. Scandalous).
What is wrong with this town when twenty minutes can pass on one of North London’s major arteries without a bus? How, exactly, do we plan to compete when the EU is nothing but a warm memory?
Turns out, despite the early signs, it was actually my lucky, lucky day. It left me wondering if we should knock those ladder-retrieving over-forties quite so much, because one of them was kind enough to let me into their cab. An expenses job, obviously (and let’s try not to think about how long I could make the £60-odd quid she ended up spending last), but nevertheless, I got into work gratis and almost, nearly on time.
The lesson? Don’t judge a book by its cover? Sort of, but not quite. As the cover/appearance, whatever, of this book is pretty impressive.
I’d already seen Taxi-Savior Lady with her man around and about a few times since I moved here and it turns out our lives were already destined to crash into each other’s anyway.
I’ve seen them as they sipped coffee, walking through Clissold Park like there’s nothing to worry about in the world. I’ve seen her from my window, striding down her street to cross the road to the bus stop at the foot of my high-rise.
She leaves just after 8 (8:02/8:04 a.m.) every day.
It’s funny how you see so many faces, the diverse peoples of London, sometimes it just feels so noisy and your brain isn’t actually registering anyone or anything it absolutely doesn’t have to. The second your eyes snatch their image from the air, it’s just dropped straightaway, passes through your mind and out again like a ghost.
But every now and then by some miracle you come across an individual who, for whatever reason, your brain decides to push through the “background noise” and into the “actually seeing” bit.
I saw her. She caught my eye, my imagination, which meant I’d been seeing her doing things in her world for a while.
I spotted her, in fact, only yesterday on Church Street. I threw away the coffee I’d just bought (I know, £2.80 I won’t see again) just so I could follow her into the boutique she turned into. Like so many shops on Church Street, it’s a horrifically overpriced joint. I don’t want to sound unsisterly here, but I have to be truthful, it’s the kind of shop where women of a certain vintage buy oddly cut skirts and shirts that confuse the eye: A visible seam sends your sight one way, but a billow of fabric at the shoulder or hip confuses the direction of travel.
Anyway, back to the lesson. Rather than books and covers, I think what “unlucky-puncture-no-bus-Monday” told me was that sometimes when you feel you’re having a terrible run, you’re actually in the middle of a lucky run.
The woman is Katherine Ross, my new boss, and I think she likes me.
She’s actually one of those women who are a brilliant combination of superconfident and really vulnerable (aren’t we all?). She seemed really nervous going to meet her new boss this morning (OK, full disclosure: also my aunt and my big boss too and it turns out she’s the Katherine Ross whose pieces I’ve been reading in the run-up to moving to London and starting my internship. Go figure!), but, hey, I took a chance and told her just to be herself (I know my aunt, she can’t stand fakers!) and she’d be fine. She seemed to respond to that, that and the fact that I was cracking on with some copy within my first hour of being in the building (just give me a second while I shine my halo). I just know she’s going to be a really important figure in my life. I knew before I’d ever even spoken to her!
Katherine, if you ever read this, let me tell you your picture byline does not do you justice and please, don’t freak out! I’m actually really normal!
My hands were shaking. I took a long draw on my drink to calm myself.
Since day one I’d had an idea there was something wrong about you and now I knew I was right. But there was zero satisfaction in it, no peace, only panic. How could I have let myself be that vulnerable? That stupid? I’d let you into my life, but you weren’t normal, you weren’t real. Was there anything you’d told me that I could believe? At least now I knew I wasn’t going completely mad.
Because you had been watching me. Following me. Tracking my movements. I’d “caught your eye.” Really? You’d been reading my work, but somehow didn’t recognize me from my picture byline? You’d followed me into my favorite sho
p. You said you’d watched my partner’s film.
No.
These were not coincidences or passing admiration. They were part of something deliberate, something sinister.
Pacing about my living room, waiting for you to release my partner, a question hammered through my stricken state over and over. Who are you, Lily Lunt, and what the hell do you want from me?
* * *
—
IAIN STAYED OUT at the pub with you for another three hours. Three hours. I thought of texting or calling him back to me like some old fishwife who wants ’im indoors where she can keep an eye on him. I thought of calling you and telling you, in no uncertain terms, to back the fuck away from me, my life, and my partner. I quickly moved on to considering going back down there to make like everything was just fine, that I wasn’t at all phased by your blog, then somehow making Iain come home with me immediately. It wouldn’t wash. I wouldn’t be able to keep my true horror hidden from you right now. That meant the only course of action was sitting on my hands and waiting for Iain.
I suddenly felt exactly like my mother. Face sour with disappointment, disapproval, and abandonment. Bitter. I hated both of you for doing this to me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as old and “un-me” as I did that first afternoon you spent with Iain. Every minute felt like an hour and each hour dragged me deeper into a dark blend of swirling anxiety, low self-worth, and blind rage as I read and re-read your blog, knowing all the while he’d be having the time of his life with you; alone, gazing into those black eyes for a second or five too long again and again, as he indulged your surely 100 percent fake interest in his “work.”
“It’s only me,” Iain boomed from the door when he finally returned. Thank God. It was time to make him scared of you, as I was.
“Nice of you to make it.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to stay so long. She kept wanting one more. I think your girl’s a bit lonely, if I’m honest.”
“Well, it was very charitable of you to help her while away the afternoon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger and you don’t even know what you’re dealing with. You don’t even know what she is.”
“What she is? You make her sound like some kind of…fiend.”
“I don’t know what she is. And neither do you. Here, what do you think of this?”
“What’s this?”
“Just read it,” I said, turning my laptop to him.
“OK, OK. Let me get a drink and I’ll take a look.”
He poured us both huge glasses of red from the box he’d brought home and started to read.
Over the minutes, I watched his face for signs of horror, disturbance, expecting him to stop reading at any minute and say what I needed to hear: This is messed up. Is she a mate of someone you’ve pissed off? What the fuck is this girl playing at? But what I saw instead was him smiling fondly, letting the odd whimsical sigh escape.
“What is it I’m supposed to be seeing here?”
“That she’s possibly a stalker, or at the least, really fucking strange. She’s been following me!”
“She just bumped into you on Church Street. Saw you about.”
“You can’t tell me you think this is in the realm of normal fucking behavior?!”
He laughed, shrugged his shoulders. I was starting to feel like the mad woman. How did you manage that? “And what about the fact she’s seen the film?”
“Quite a few have.”
“Oh yeah, how?”
“Youngsters, you know they have a way of finding and seeing all sorts of stuff. I think someone’s probably uploaded it online or something. It happens. Things become cult, years after. Anyway, that’s not important, but you know what is? Do you want to know what I see here?” He was overemoting now, overloud, properly pissed.
“Do enlighten me.”
“I see a young girl who’s a bit of a loner. Bit of a loner who’s a bit…crazy about you. Like I said.”
“You have been blinded. One flash of those perfect teeth and tits and you’ve gone. You’ve got to think there’s something not quite right about her? All the ‘coincidences.’ She’s been practically stalking me, for Christ’s sake. It was her idea to make her aunt buy the magazine. She’s…She’s got an unhealthy interest in my life. She’s trying to take over the awards; everything I do at work, she tries to undo, tries to undermine me. She invited me out for a drink, got me to spill my guts, all the while telling me absolutely nothing about her and pretending she’s getting pissed too. Then she manufactures the invite for lunch today with you. It’s like she’s forcing her way into us. Why? Why would she do that?”
“Look, we’ve been around long enough to know life’s full of weird coincidences. These things happen and, you know, sometimes, they happen for a reason. With the work stuff, I think you’ve just been feeling, like, really insecure for a while now, and that’s not her fault, but you’re coming out fighting and you’ll be back on top again. And anyway, do you have to be ‘strange’ or whatever to be interested in you? To think you’re amazing? Come here, love.” He meant it all; he still really meant it then, he was still mine. So, I let myself be pulled toward him and sink into him. I allowed myself to feel safe again.
“It’s still weird. She’s weird. I’m not making it up. You think I am, but I’m telling you, this isn’t in my head. We need to be very careful around her.”
“Young people. They’re all weird. I honestly don’t think we’ve anything to worry about.”
“Do I not need to worry about you then?”
“No. No. She’s a lovely wee girl, but she’s just a girl. It’s not like that.”
“Good, because I don’t think I could cope with you, or me, doing anything with anyone else. Not yet. I don’t mean forever, just not now and definitely not with her. OK?”
He came to hug me and we stayed like that for a moment.
“You know, for what it’s worth, I think she could be a good influence on us,” he said above my head. “You should keep an open mind about this copy camp thing. I might even let her kick-start my writing again. She goes to this creative writing group. It’s on our doorstep, just over the park at The Rose and Crown. It’s an open session type thing, loads of different people.” Iain let go of me to get himself a glass of water, something he never normally did unless I nagged him to. His back was turned to me as he kept talking. “She’s invited me along. I was thinking about getting my arse down there next time. It could be just the thing I need, but I won’t go if we’ve got plans.”
Of course, we had no “plans” and he knew it.
I hated the idea of you two doing something together, texting beforehand, swapping encouraging messages afterward; you looking at my Iain across the table as you read something brilliant you’d written to him and a group of people as annoyingly young and as confident in their creativity as you. My heart began to blacken at the idea of it being you who was so obviously reigniting him, not me.
But if I said no, put a stop to Iain going to your group without a decent excuse, what would that say to you? I risked you backing off him and me too. There might be a chance I wouldn’t get to spend any time with you again.
And that’s exactly what I needed to do.
If I was going to investigate how and why you’d come into my life, I needed to stay close. “You’re like a dog with a bone,” one of the old directors at Leadership used to say to me, when I was on to something, when there was an angle I knew I needed to work until I’d got to the real story. So yes, while you’d made it so I was beginning to be afraid of you, you’d also done something else: reawoken my curiosity, my need to know. Like blood returning to cold, numb fingers. Sensation again.
“You should go.”
MARCH 11—SUNDAY LUNCH
The Partner is such a sweet, sad man. I planned to show a little of who I was today, and, thankfully, he’s easy to talk to, so it didn’t feel too much like hard work. He’s also even simpler to read than KR. In some ways he could be the easiest thing about this—it won’t be like being with the concierge or anything, that much I can tell. But I can also tell I shouldn’t be too on-the-nose. Him and her, they are set fast in their co-dependence. It won’t be completely straightforward, chiseling him out of it.
So, I talk plenty about her, to avoid looking too obvious, yet. But I make sure I use the little bit on “Hungarian New-Wave cinema” from his IMDb as best I can. I also make sure my leg touches his. At first, he moves his knee, suspects it’s accidental. Eventually he stops creeping away from me.
She sees something happening, or she thinks she does, until I follow her out of the pub. Because it’s time to let her see my blog. See what reading the post I wrote just for KR does to her.
Once she’s gone, I turn on “Lily the wasted firecracker,” the one with shades of KR. It’s the version of me I know Iain will like more than any of the others.
“Do you know what, Iain, I think Sunday is my favorite day to get wasted.”
“I thought most people your age didn’t get pissed?”
“I think you’ll find I’m not most people.”
“I think you’re probably right there.”
“Like, I fucking love where my thoughts go when I’m pissed. It’s not just about losing your inhibitions with other people, it’s about losing them with yourself. That’s why I’ve always made sure my little group of writers meets in a pub and we never get started properly until we’re at least two drinks down. Makes sense, right?”
“Makes a whole lot of sense to me.”
“Here, let me get two more of these.” I stand and squeeze past him, facing him, my body in his space and I know he has to pretty much sit on his hands to stop them reaching for me. I can feel it. When I come back with the drinks, I sit where KR sat. I can tell I’m leaving him with a hunger he won’t be able to place yet.
Precious You Page 10