Burning Bright

by Helen Dunmore

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you,’ she asks, ‘being watched all the time?’

  He shrugs. ‘You get used to it. It’s just functional, it’s not important,’ he says. He’s kept his arm round her, but now, aware of the TV eye, she stiffens. At once he lets her go.

  ‘Coffee,’ he says.

  They return to the apartment and he settles Nadine on a long mole-coloured leather sofa while he goes to make coffee.

  ‘Take a look at the books – they’re mostly new. You might find something you like,’ he says, gesturing to the table. She wonders if he’s read any of them or if they are placed there freshly each month as the bestseller lists come out. There are two novels, a biography and a poet’s collected letters. She looks, but does not open any of them. The sight of the books depresses her. On top of them there’s a battered book on fruit-growing. There is a panel of stained glass set into the wall dividing the enormous sitting-room from the kitchen. The design is a dense abstract forest of greens, lit from the other side. As she looks the segments of dark and lighter green appear to lap and move, like leaves in the wind. Nadine sits upright on the mole-coloured sofa. She’s taken off her black coat. The smell of coffee begins to move through the room. He’s taking a long time – what’s he doing, grinding it, roasting it? Growing it, perhaps. It wouldn’t surprise her to find a small coffee plantation out there in his roof-garden. Nadine yawns helplessly. Her stomach feels empty with tension in spite of the summer pudding.

  Paul Parrett comes back and puts a tray of coffee and petits fours on the table. It touches Nadine to see a grown man like him keeping sweet things in his house.

  ‘I thought you’d like something sweet. I always get hungry after drinking,’ he says.

  ‘You didn’t drink much.’

  ‘No, that’s true. So there’s no excuse. Never mind. As long as you eat some, I can too.’

  Greedily they both stretch out for the marzipan, the almond, the dark bitter chocolate. He sits very close to her. Again they touch, or don’t touch, as the shaving of space shifts between them. She wonders if he can hear her heart. The coffee is hot and strong, perfectly brewed. She stretches out her legs, slips off a shoe, touches the soft carpet with a bare foot. Does he live alone? There’s no marriage as far as she knows, and she doesn’t think any children were mentioned in the profiles. You’d think he’d have children. There are no photographs in the room, no notes or letters or clutter, no pinboard, no sheets of telephone messages. She can’t even see a telephone. If she didn’t know who he was, she’d think it was an empty life. Paul Parrett puts down his coffee-cup and looks at her.

  ‘Light,’ he says. ‘Miss Light. It’s an unusual name. Is it your own, or is it professional?’

  Nadine stares at him. ‘I’m not an actress,’ she says, wondering what lies Tony’s told to make her sound more interesting. That explains why he didn’t want her to talk about her job. A curious expression flickers on Paul Parrett’s face. It’s the look of one who wonders how well a new actress is going to perform in a play he knows and loves. His small berry-like eyes shine. All at once Nadine looks behind her. She doesn’t know why she’s looked round, but she’s absolutely sure, suddenly, that they’re not alone in the flat. Someone else is here.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I thought I heard something.’

  He tenses, and in one movement reaches behind him and presses something. A second later a voice floods out of the grille above the hatch to the kitchen. She’ll thought it was a ventilation grille.

  ‘Is there a problem, Mr Parrett?’

  ‘Not immediately. Has there been any movement tonight?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Anything over the line?’

  ‘Nothing tonight.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Do you want a check, sir?’

  ‘Not now. Run the video through for me, would you?’

  ‘I’ll get Archard on to it.’

  The flat, matter-of-fact voice stops. There’s no click. The line’s open all the time. Is it two-way?

  Paul Parrett looks at Nadine as if there’s been no interruption. He must be so used to this that it’s like the water he swims in. Security. She’s never seen it in action before, not like this. Smooth and powerful like a current that flows so fast it doesn’t break the surface. As long as you’re going with it you don’t notice how fast the shore is going by. How far out to sea you are. It must be like this all the time for a government minister, especially one who’s had to make tough decisions in his time, like Paul Parrett. Nadine’s only ever glimpsed the outer flanks of Security. She knows about Underground stations taped off with red and white barriers, megaphoned voices telling everybody to leave the building by the nearest exit, cars racing through traffic lights with dark-smudged figures in the back, square miles of London sealed off for hours and no mention on the TV news that night. But she doesn’t know about a set-up like this. Where is she supposed to fit in?

  They’re probably checking her now. After all, they don’t know anything about her. She could be anyone. White silk dresses would cut no ice with his people. They want to see through to the flesh beneath, to brain and bone. They need to know what she is thinking. Paul Parrett takes off his jacket. She smells the cottony scent of his shirt, and very faintly his sweat. He picks up her hand and holds it.

  ‘You have beautiful hands,’ he says, stroking the bones and the hollows on the back of her hands. She flashes him a look and their eyes meet in amusement. She could really like this man, if it wasn’t for Kai, she tells herself, knowing that she does like this man, in spite of Kai.

  ‘Don’t forget I work in a cinema,’ she says ‘I know all the lines.’

  ‘I was surprised when you said that. I thought you worked with Tony.’

  ‘Tony’s just a friend. It’s Kai I’m with.’

  ‘Oh? You’re with Kai?’ A quick look, surprised perhaps, as if this is something new to him. Not altogether a flattering look. Perhaps he doesn’t like Kai.

  ‘Yes,’ says Nadine. ‘Do you know him, or just Tony?’

  ‘Not really. We’ve met.’

  They sit quietly. It’s been a long day, thinks Nadine, going back in her mind to the sudden lurch of the train and the noise of the ambulance. When I was thrown forward, that must have been the moment the door hit her head. I wonder what happened to her?

  ‘Has Tony gone into the details with you?’ murmurs Paul Parrett, tracing the bones of her wrist.

  ‘Well, no, not really.’

  He continues to hold her hand, lightly stroking her wrist. Don’t stop, don’t move, she thinks. Keep doing this.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We’ll go on into my room in a minute. It’ll be easier to show you. It’s so tedious explaining things, don’t you think? Would you like some more coffee? Or brandy?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure? Or the bathroom? It’s through behind us.’

  ‘No.’

  They stand. He’s fractionally shorter than she is. She holds back, dragging a slow bare foot through the thick carpet. He’s assuming a lot, but never mind, she can soon put him right. And she flexes her toes in soft wool and lets the dress slither into shape around her and knows she doesn’t want to put him right about anything. It’s so nice here, so special and cut-off and secret that anything which happens only happens by rules which stop applying the moment you leave. It wouldn’t necessarily affect Kai…; or anyone…;

  ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you all evening,’ he says, ‘what a marvellous dress that is.’

  The flat is bigger than she thought. A corridor with several closed white doors leads to his bedroom. A big dark bed, severely made with white sheets and blankets, fills most of the small bedroom. The air is cool, neutral. There are no books or flowers or pictures. She’s still looking round as Paul Parrett bends down and pulls what look like crêpe bandages out from under the mattress. She touches one. The material is extremely strong and slightly stretchy when she
pulls it. It looks like some kind of orthopaedic apparatus. For a moment she wonders if he has a bad back and wants her to help him with his exercises. Or perhaps he needs support. The high hard bed might be a hospital bed. But it’s too big.

  One of the bandages is fixed at each corner of the bed and there are two at the sides of the bed, with a clip-lock at the end of each strap. Paul Parrett touches them lightly, just as he touched the leaves and flowers in the garden. A little more than a touch, a little less than a caress. Nadine stares at them blankly. She must be very tired. All this is brilliantly distinct, but it doesn’t make sense.

  ‘Here we are,’ says Paul Parrett.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m being stupid – I must have had too much to drink.’

  He touches each bandage in turn. ‘It’s easy, don’t worry. These go round my wrists – these are for my ankles. You clip these over my waist. You’ll have to check that they are absolutely secure, because there’s a bit of give in the fabric’ He guides her hand. She feels the give. ‘The key’s in the top right-hand drawer of my bureau. In there. I’ll beg you to unlock me but you mustn’t give in. No matter what I promise you.’

  ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘You stand there, so I can just see you if I turn my head. But I’ve got to struggle. You mustn’t make it too easy. Pull your dress up but keep it on, so it looks as if it might fall down any minute. You mustn’t come near enough for me to touch you. Then just masturbate the way you normally would.’

  ‘I don’t,’ says Nadine.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t masturbate.’

  ‘Come on. A lovely-looking girl like you. You must do. I would, if I were you.’

  That twinkling complicit smile again. His white shirt glows in the dusky room. She can’t help smiling back.

  ‘A beautiful girl like you,’ he amends it, once she’s got the joke.

  ‘All the same, I don’t. I never have,’ says Nadine.

  ‘For me?’ he says. ‘Surely you could manage?’ guying it slightly, turning his hunger into a game. For the first time he moves her. She feels something more than excitement and curiosity. Behind the twinkle and assurance she glimpses humiliation. This is what he has to have. He can’t do it any other way. A man like him with all his power and money and charm and warmth. A man at the top of a long slippery slope that lots of people would like to see him go sliding down, arse over tip. It can’t ever be easy to ask. Here are my straps. This is what I require. What tact he’s had to learn to be able to pass it off like this. He’s like a doctor explaining a tricky treatment. And he’s a conspirator too, a magician with his straps and his secret garden. How many times has he had to go through it all? And how many of the women have agreed? What about when he was young, before he had all his money? What can it have been like then? Perhaps he had a girlfriend and she went along with it at first, before she realized it was all he was ever going to want. To have her in his arms was never going to be the point.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you worried about cameras? There isn’t one in here.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t thinking about that.’

  He sits down on the bed. It’s as if they’ve just got married. Her white dress, his dark suit and white shirt, the severe hotel-type bed. Their awkwardness. Two people who have got to know one another in fully clothed public daylight wondering, ‘Where do we go from here? How do we start?’

  His smile is becoming fixed and the room fills slowly with embarrassment and something more familiar, something she wants to wipe out before it can grow any more: pain.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Tony doesn’t go into detail with you, then,’ comments Paul Parrett, and he bends down to untie his shoes.

  Blood shocks up into her face. The room seems to squeeze tight round her as her heart squeezes tight inside her. She stares at him.

  ‘How could Tony tell me anything? He didn’t know this was going to happen.’

  From a great distance she hears his voice, faintly protesting, faintly mocking, calling her to order. ‘Nadine!’ he says, like a parent told a transparent lie by a small child. ‘Nadine!’ It’s all still a game and there’s everything to play for. Then he looks up and sees her face. His fingers go still on the laces. He gets up from the bed.

  ‘That man’s an idiot. He told me it was all fixed up. Is this supposed to be some sort of joke? What he’s playing at?’

  He’s scenting it again, the old spoor of his humiliations. And he’s not putting up with it any more, not now. His eyes contract. They are dull and small and dangerous, staring at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Nadine, ‘Tony didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘The fucking idiot,’ says Paid Parrett.

  ‘You thought I was a prostitute,’ says Nadine.

  ‘I wouldn’t use that word.’

  ‘Why not? You thought Tony was paying me.’

  ‘And he’s not?’

  ‘No,’ says Nadine, and then she thinks of the fresh twenty-pound notes, the new knives, the cases of wine, the big house, and she sees herself at the kitchen table, drinking the smooth red wine she could never afford to buy, but she says again, ‘No. I don’t charge.’

  ‘Then what the fuck was he doing?’ says Paul Parrett. ‘Letting you come here?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck he was doing,’ repeats Nadine. ‘I’m sorry.’ She is hot with shame. The crêpe bandages hang flaccidly down the side of the bed. ‘I’d better go,’ she says.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he mutters. She looks at him. He’s amazing. He’s back in control. He doesn’t want anything now. He’s not angry about anything. It’s she who feels weak and apologetic.

  ‘I feel awful,’ she says.

  ‘He should feel awful, not you, as he’ll find out. But he’s not worth wasting time on. Whatever are you doing with a man like that?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not with him. I’m with Kai.’

  Briskly, he smooths down the bedcover which is dented where he has sat on it. He is utterly self-contained now, armoured against her. She feels a pang of regret for the steady warmth of his attention, gone now and never going to return.

  ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘No. Wait a minute. I’m thinking.’

  He sits on the bed again, hands on knees, silent. She can sense the energy of his thinking. Like his physical presence, it communicates. She feels it and she begins to be frightened. What if he’s thinking of the security implications, now that she knows what she shouldn’t know? These days even people who call themselves friends are on the phone to the tabloids for ten thousand pounds. What’s to stop her? Is he thinking about how he’s going to stop her? The walls of the room squeeze in again. She’s closed in by walls, by the corridor, the secure entrance to the flat, the TV eyes and the microphones, the sealed lift, the secure car park. No one knows she is here except people who are employed to look after the interests of Paul Parrett. And Tony. The white dress is sticky under her arms. Don’t say anything. Don’t blabber that you won’t tell, you’ll keep it a secret, please –

  He turns to her with a warm smile. ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘Forget it. Let me find your coat, and I’ll call my driver to take you to the hotel.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she says quickly. ‘I’ll pick up a taxi.’ If only she can get out on to the long dark blowing streets, into a black cab which has nothing to do with Paul Parrett.

  ‘No. My driver will take you. You don’t want to be out on the streets on your own at this time. When you see Tony, tell him I’ll be in touch.’

  His voice is not even menacing, but she feels a stupid impulse to defend Tony. ‘I ought to have guessed,’ she says. ‘I was stupid. I didn’t think.’ As soon as she says it she knows it’s true. Much more than stupid. Wilful ignorance, that’s what they used to call it at school. She didn’t know anything. But she knew everything, all along.

  Paul Parrett doesn’t
make any judgement. He leads her out of the bedroom, down the quiet corridor with its winking red eyes to the living-room. The roof-garden glows under its carefully placed lights.

  ‘Your garden is so beautiful,’ she says. If she thinks only of what is happening now, at this minute, she’ll be all right. She mustn’t look ahead.

  ‘Yes. It’s a wonderful occupation,’ he says. ‘But you’re too young to need occupations.’

  The leaves blow around the window, just touching the glass, feathering it. It’s well past midnight and the wind is getting up. The weather’s breaking at last, not with a storm but with the steady strengthening of a cold current of air from the northwest. Paul Parrett opens the french window and moisture flows in. There’s a slick of rain on the leaves. The wind carries a pungent smell of the first rain on city roads and roofs after a long drought.

  ‘I love that smell,’ says Nadine.

  ‘It’s caused by a microbe reaction, did you know that?’

  ‘No, we never did that at school,’ she answers without thinking, and feels him look at her. They move towards the window. The wind and rain in the air plaster Nadine’s dress against her legs and damp the short ends of her hair. She rubs her arms.

  ‘I didn’t show you my apple trees,’ says Paul Parrett, and they move over towards the edge of the roof. They are very high up. The city tilts and wheels under their feet. She looks out. A big plane winks its way westward to Heathrow, lumbering down the sky.

  ‘Here they are,’ he says. Sheltered by the low hedges there are six big tubs with branchless apple trees growing in them like fruiting poles. Immature apples cluster on the stems in bunches of six or seven.

  ‘Ballerina,’ says Paul Parrett, but the trees have no grace. They are maimed ballerinas with their limbs chopped off. He looks at them with satisfaction.

  ‘They’ve done very well up here. There’ll be a reasonable crop this autumn. See, this is where the fruit comes, near the stem. I’m going to try an espalier peach next, against that wall. With protective screening it ought to do all right.’ They stand looking down over London while he talks of his garden. A thin stream of cars races over Westminster Bridge. The night air tastes delicious after the trapped air in the bedroom. If only they didn’t have to go back into the flat, down the lift-shaft, into the glare of the car park. It is safe here, with the smell of rain and things growing. He seems to have forgotten what took place in the bedroom. He talks about his garden as if he’s in no hurry for her to go. But the intensity of his concentration on her has gone. Nothing will happen now. It wasn’t a beginning, it was just something short and stunted which could never have grown. She can’t help feeling sorry. In a moment she’ll have to go away from his hidden garden, down into London. She’ll have to start thinking then.