What Red Was

by Rosie Price

  * * *

  —

  When she got back to the flat, still she did not feel secure. It was possible that he would arrive here, perhaps having followed her, perhaps with his cousins, opening for him the doors she had locked. She needed to call somebody, but she didn’t know who. She couldn’t call Max, and she didn’t want to call Claire: she still hadn’t told her what had happened to her, and she couldn’t do it right now. Instead she called Andrew; he didn’t pick up. Probably it was a good thing: it would be too much for him, too. She’d been guarded, the few times they’d met up, and at this moment she was sure she had the capacity to make the kind of drunken phone call that would end a relationship before it had even begun.

  Water. Water would help her pounding head. She took the glass from her bedside table and washed it out, refilled it. The outside of the glass was wet, her hands shaking, and as she turned from the sink it slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor. Numbly, she looked down at the mess she had created, just as she had on Christmas Day. She stood there for a while, eyes unfocused, balance unsteady, before getting down on her hands and knees. Carefully, she started to sift through the pieces of glass with her bare hands, until she closed her palm around a large piece with a long, sharp edge.

  Kate sat back against the cabinet and ran the piece of glass along her thigh, increasing the pressure and then releasing it again, tracing it below the hem of her shorts, lifting it and then following the groove of her hip bone above. Calmer, she was breathing again. She could have cut her body from cunt to throat, to try to reach the tightening wire that connected the two, embedded in the trunk of her flesh. But even then she could not have extracted it, because to do so would be to extract a terrible, essential part of herself.

  She didn’t stop as she had when she’d smashed the platter at her mother’s house. Then, she had fled the temptation. But now there was nothing to prevent her, and she pressed down on the glass, pushing it through the soft skin of her thigh, dragging it in a swift line, maintaining the pressure of her hand as best she could as the searing pain shot through her thigh and up her spine. Only when blood began to bead on the glass’s sharp edge did she exhale.

  * * *

  —

  By the time it was dark and Kate had cleared up the kitchen and the cut on her upper thigh, Max and Nicole still had not returned, nor had Max texted to see if she was all right. This didn’t bother her too much; he’d been wasted, and mostly she just felt relieved he had bought her excuse. She filled the bath, feeling calmer still, able to reflect on what she had done that afternoon. She ran her finger along the open wound. It was true that she’d been tempted before now, but this was the first time she had followed through. She supposed the impulse had something to do with expression, like her mother’s horrifying plaster-cast faces, but it was more private than that: it was expression that did not travel, expression without communication. What use were words, the image of wire, even slices in flesh, if the receiver did not know and feel intimately the network of raw nerves, the tenderness of the flesh around which those wires were entwined? Without that carnal knowledge, they might as well just be strands of loose thread.

  It was while she was bathing that her phone, left on the side next to the sink, began to vibrate.

  “What’s up?” said Andrew.

  “I was just in the bath,” Kate said. “I called you earlier.”

  “I was on set,” he said.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Nothing. You wanna come over?”

  “I don’t feel like leaving. Why don’t you come here?”

  Andrew hadn’t been to the flat before, and Kate made a halfhearted attempt to tidy her bedroom before he arrived. She put a plaster over the cut on her leg, hid the tissues she had used to stem the bleeding at the bottom of the bin, and opened the window to let in the fresh air. The times they’d seen each other since the night that Max had got thrown out of the Gristle party, they’d kissed again, had stayed out late enough and been loose enough for it to be easily implied that they both wanted something more. But whenever he’d got to the point of suggesting they go back to his, gripping her hips and pulling her toward him, looking down at her and putting on a low, supplicatory voice, she’d told him no and pulled away, frightened of what would happen.

  When Kate had first got back from the park, she supposed that part of her had decided that now was the moment to tell Andrew. Then, she had still been in the flush of panic and felt that she was ready, finally, to talk to somebody who wasn’t paid to listen to it all. But that impulse had passed, erased by the pain of glass: she didn’t need anybody, didn’t need to spill over, she could contain herself, by herself.

  * * *

  —

  Kate, when Andrew arrived, thought she was putting on a very good impression of sobriety, but he seemed to disagree.

  “Have you just been here drinking on your own?”

  “No,” said Kate indignantly. “Actually I was at a festival.”

  “I bought us food,” he said, putting a plastic bag on the table. “Well, I bought food for me. You can have some, if you want.”

  They shared noodles at the kitchen table. Kate, who’d hardly eaten all day, was suddenly ravenous, and she ate unself-consciously, flicking soy sauce down her chin and sucking salty bean sprouts from her chopsticks. Andrew tilted his chair back, taking in the room: the wooden worktops, the large dining-room table, the terrace.

  “What did you say your rent was?”

  Kate wiped the corners of her mouth, took a big sip of water. “Max owns it,” she said.

  “Oh yeah, mates’ rates.”

  “Do you want something to drink?” She got up, but he caught her hand, pulled her toward him.

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, I do,” she said, slipping out of his grasp. She made vodka tonics and came back to where he was sitting, holding one in each hand. He looked at the drinks, then looked at her, looked at her waist, her hips. He leaned forward, put his hands around her waist. She couldn’t control his hands, couldn’t push him off without putting the drinks down, and he took advantage of her momentary motionlessness, slipping her top up over her navel, kissing her there: her stomach was full, tender. She squirmed; he let her top fall back into place.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said. She took a sip of her drink; gave herself time to consider. She felt sick, but she couldn’t keep stalling. She stepped away and walked out of the room, still holding both glasses, looking back so he followed her.

  When they were still both dressed, even when he pushed her into the mattress, kissed her hard, she could handle it. She pulled him onto her. He was heavy, heavier than—she stopped herself. This was not the same; this, she wanted. When he took her jeans off, though, unhooked her bra, and she felt summer air coming through the window onto her skin, she knew she was nearing the edge of what she could tolerate and became still. She was losing him: his eyes unfocused, his hands busy, breath heavy, all dictated by desire. He would stop if she told him to. But if they stopped now, she might never be able to start again. She kissed him back, harder now, but now he was the one pulling away: for a moment it was as though he had sensed something was wrong, but she realized he was reaching for his wallet, for condoms.

  Kate pushed her underwear to her knees, so that she could move her legs apart but only just, and then pulled his hands to her wrists so that they were pinned above her head to the bed by his weight. The more he resisted pressing down on her, trying to shift his weight, the more she pulled back, pulled him onto her, into her. As he gave in, started to fuck her, both her legs hooked around the backs of his thighs, pushing him deeper, until the beginnings of that familiar, stabbing pain came, and her mind began to shut down, and her body woke into that familiar, constricted space. He’d closed his eyes. He was frowning, pressing his lips together, as
though remembering something, his face tilted slightly away from hers, and as he released the pressure for a moment on her right arm, she shifted his hand and closed his fingers around her neck, so that his weight was now moved to her windpipe, and as she tried to catch her breath a gurgling sound came from her throat which stopped only when she surrendered her breath. He didn’t resist, gripped tighter, even; came inside her.

  Afterward, he traced his finger along the plaster on her leg.

  “What did you do?” he said. They were half under the covers: outside the sky was pink, the air cool on their skin. Kate shuffled so that the duvet was covering her legs, she turned to face him.

  “Scratched it,” she said unblinkingly, her face close to his.

  He kissed her, deeply, held her chin, then slid his hand back around her neck, but gentler now, no weight behind his grip. When he spoke, his words were meant as a kindness, not a threat or even a friend’s warning. This Kate knew, but still what he said stirred within her a sense of profound dread in a place that Andrew did not yet know.

  “You should be more careful.”

  28

  Max knew Kate had somebody there when he got home the next morning because her feet were definitely not that big. They weren’t Elias’s trainers, either, because he’d just been with Elias. There were, besides, voices coming from Kate’s bedroom. He went to her door.

  “Kate?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Do you, um, want a cup of tea?”

  There was silence. Kate came to the door, pulling on a jumper, and opened it a crack.

  “You’ve literally never made me tea in your life.”

  “That’s not true,” said Max, craning his neck to try to see past her. Kate grinned at him and opened the door a bit farther, so he could see the end of her bed. Max saw feet, which went some way to explaining the shoes.

  “Hello?” said a voice—male—from within. Kate, giving up her attempts at discretion, opened the door all the way.

  “Hi!” Max said. “I’m Max. I know exactly who you are.”

  Without invitation, he came into the room and climbed into the bed on Kate’s side. Andrew shuffled up to make room and didn’t seem irritated by the intrusion. From where she sat at the foot of the bed, Kate could smell alcohol oozing from Max’s skin. He wriggled around to get comfortable.

  “Man, you’ve got too much energy,” Andrew said.

  “And you’re making my bed stink,” Kate said, hitting Max on the leg. He ignored her.

  “So, what did we all think of the after-party?”

  “I left, Max. Remember?”

  “OK, well, it was great, you should have stayed. They had these massive speakers and neon paint all over the walls. Wait, you were sick, weren’t you?” Max looked at Kate and then at Andrew. “Oh, I get it. Lovesick.”

  Andrew looked at Kate. “Did you bail to come and see me?” he said, half laughing.

  Kate flushed.

  “Well, next time you should come, you’re both invited. Except for Kate. She hates parties.”

  “It’s true,” Kate said gravely.

  Max sat up and ruffled Kate’s hair. He was pissed, showing off.

  “But we love her, so we don’t mind.”

  Kate batted his hand away.

  “Guys, I’d love to join you for brunch,” said Max, “but I’ve got to go and see my parents. I just came back to shower.”

  “We didn’t invite you for brunch,” Kate shouted after him, as he disappeared upstairs, leaving the bedroom door wide open.

  * * *

  —

  By the time Max arrived at Latimer Crescent, he was beginning to sober up. The sky was cruelly bright, the sun burning off the last of his alcohol haze. He put on his sunglasses as he walked from the Tube, hoping to soften the headache that was forming at the front of his skull. At the house, he announced himself by banging around the kitchen, slamming drawers and opening cupboards.

  “What are you looking for?” said Zara, coming downstairs to find him.

  “Medicine.”

  “Hangover?”

  “No,” Max lied instinctively.

  “That’s why you’ve got your sunglasses on inside, is it?”

  Max took them off. His eyes were red, and the rims of his nostrils, too. He sniffed.

  “Hay fever,” he said.

  Zara didn’t mind Max partying, and in fact she rather liked it when he turned up at the house needing care and sustenance. It made her feel necessary. She opened the cupboard next to the fridge and handed her son a packet of painkillers.

  “Here you are,” she said. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

  They had lunch out in the garden, Zara sitting back and soaking up the sun that came dappled through the leaves of the plum tree, Max with his sunglasses back on, piling his plate high with Parma ham and fresh bread. After the coffee, he’d moved back onto beer, and the bubbles were cold on his tongue.

  “It’s from the new bakery,” William said, as Max cut himself another doorstop slice of bread. “Wonderful little place. They have all these sourdough cultures.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Max.

  “You know, every baker’s hands carry different bacteria, so no two bakers’ loaves will ever be the same. The bacteria mixes with the culture when they knead it, and with all the different stages—pre-ferment, ferment, proving, baking—every loaf is days in the making.”

  Max chewed on the bread in a show of appreciation. He feared, given the state his insides were in, that digesting this slice was going to take almost as much effort as had apparently gone into creating it.

  “I’ve started my own sourdough, actually,” said William.

  “He has to find a way to keep himself busy, now he’s an old man,” Zara said.

  “I’m afraid your mother has become insufferable,” said William to Max, in a matter-of-fact tone. “She’s working on a new film, and she seems to be under the illusion that she’s gained another twenty years of life as a result.”

  Max laughed. It was a sign that they were both fairly content, when his mother and father were comfortable enough to publicly insult one another. “What’s the film?”

  “It’s a gem, Maxie,” said Zara. “I’ve got the script on my laptop, I’ll send it to you. Fantastic writer. Very dark, very funny. You’ll like it, I think.”

  “Are you directing?”

  “The original director had to drop out, so they got me on board. All very last minute. We film in the autumn for release next year.”

  “She dropped dead, not out,” said William. “Aneurysm. It’s dog-eat-dog, Max, the film industry. You ought to tell your friend Kate that.”

  Even after nearly five years of what Max was sure he had portrayed as a completely platonic friendship, William was still in the habit of putting a euphemistic emphasis on the word “friend” whenever he was talking about Kate. Max chewed, thoughtfully, wondering whether to call his father out.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. She’s not dead,” Zara said. “Just hospitalized. Kate will like it too. It will resonate with her, I think.” She raised her eyebrows at Max.

  “Oh,” said Max, “you know, she’s doing quite well. I think she might have a boyfriend.”

  “How wonderful,” said Zara. Max thought that she might have been more pleased by this, but then, he supposed, it would be odd if she were excited by the news that one of Max’s friends was sexually active. For a second, the thought came into his mind that both of his parents were now imagining Kate, with a new yet unseen boyfriend, having disinhibited, nonviolent sex. He regretted mentioning it.

  “Well,” William said, clapping his hands together, “how about I show you my pre-ferment?”

  Inside, William took from the fridge a jar containing a thick, white substance.

  “He’s qui
te a specimen,” William said, putting on his glasses and peering closely. “Only a couple of days old; another day or so and he’ll be ready for the next stage.”

  He handed the jar to Max, who looked at it. “Are you sure it’s a he?”

  “Don’t,” said Zara, following them in from the garden. “He’s already attached enough as it is.”

  The phone started ringing; Max and William ignored it. Zara went to answer.

  “It’s just the prototype,” said William. He took back the jar and turned round to double-check that Zara was gone. “If it goes well, I might open my own place. When I’ve retired, obviously.”

  “A bakery?” said Max.

  “It’d be quite something, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s a great idea, Dad.” Max was genuinely enthused. “There are loads of good places you could do it around here. And around where my flat is, actually.”

  “Not in London.” William lowered his voice conspiratorially. “That’s why we can’t tell your mother just yet. In Bisley.”

  “That was Rupert,” Zara said, coming back into the kitchen. “He’s coming over for dinner. Will you stay, Max? You haven’t seen him for months.”

  “Oh, I said I’d have dinner with Kate. But send him my love.”

  “I will.”

  Max heard himself ask: “How is he?”

  “He’s doing well,” William said. “Still volunteering, some of it paid.”

  “Oh,” Max said. “That’s good.”

  Both his parents stood, looking at him, waiting for him to say something else.

  “We’ll send him your love,” Zara said again, when he didn’t.