by Kate Forster
‘No,’ he said, ‘no girlfriend. Not really the relationship kind.’
Before Tressa could ask why, the waitress had appeared with their food.
‘What about you?’ asked Dan, as he ground black pepper all over his eggs. ‘Do you have a fella?’
She shook her head. ‘Not since university really, not interested. I like my own space too much.’
But as she said it she felt like she was telling a lie. She had like Dan’s company. He made everything fun and as though the colour of her world was brighter somehow. Everything felt different. The days were filled with surprises, with him insisting she accompany him on all the stories for the paper. Not that she minded so much, as he was great company, but she had less time for painting since Dan had come to Port Lowdy and he seemed to be in her head a lot.
‘Speaking of your space, can I sleep on your sofa for two nights? Penny’s kicked me out for her daughter and the wean and the hotel is full up with the telly people.’
Tressa paused, thinking about the sofa.
‘Of course, it’s fine if you can’t. I can sleep in the car with Richie,’ he said and she realised he was serious.
‘No, you can sleep on the sofa. I don’t know how Ginger Pickles will go with Richie but we can see.’
‘I can keep Richie outside?’ Dan suggested.
‘No, no, they need to learn to get along,’ she said. ‘At least for the time you’re at my place.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while.
‘Why do you like Lionel Richie so much?’
‘Because he’s a good singer,’ said Dan. ‘You should give him a try.’
‘No, really. Why?’
Dan looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Lionel Richie defied the odds in his life. I like that the most about him.’
‘How?’ she asked.
‘He grew up in Alabama when it was segregated, and he pushed ahead. He got onto his tennis team at high school. Tennis was a white man’s sport and there he was, just serving aces. He kept pushing into a world that wanted him to be one thing and he defied it. He remained true to himself and stayed focused and not only did he break through the ceiling, he also fecking danced on it.’
‘Wow,’ said Tressa, ‘you really are a fan. You know… my mum loves him, so you two will have something to talk about later.’ She was teasing him but Dan wasn’t biting.
‘Oh? Grand, I look forward to it. Let’s go, I need to check on Richie,’ he said and he went over to the counter to pay.
Tressa sat watching him. He’s not the relationship kind – he’s already told you, she thought. And anyway he wasn’t staying in Port Lowdy for long. Just friends – that’s enough, more than enough, she told herself, even when he opened the door of the cafe for her, and when he opened the car door for her and checked it was shut and hopped in the car and asked her if she wanted to listen to something besides Lionel Richie. Yes, just friends, she reiterated as she glanced at his forearms while he drove to her parents’ house, and when he parked out the front of the house and looked at her and asked if she needed a code word so he could get her out of there, because he could tell she was anxious and he didn’t want her to feel crap on such a special day.
And that was it; Tressa was done for. Just friends my arse, she heard in her head as they walked the path to the front door.
20
Remi was standing smoking a cigarette when a man came out of the pub and walked round to the side where he was and lit a cigarette also.
‘You work here?’ the man asked.
‘Yes, second chef.’
‘The food was very good,’ the fellow said. ‘As good as anything I’ve had in London or Paris.’
The mention of Paris made Remi’s head snap up.
‘You’re French?’
‘Oui,’ said Remi, ‘yes.’
The man blew a long stream of smoke out into the night air. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Only a few weeks,’ he answered.
‘Why here? You could be working in Paris, couldn’t you?’
Remi thought quickly. He hadn’t been asked this question yet. Everyone in Port Lowdy assumed he had chosen to be here because it was Port Lowdy, why would you live anywhere else? This question from this stranger was fair and reasonable, but he simply didn’t have an answer.
‘I don’t like Paris,’ he lied.
‘Fair enough,’ said the man, ‘not for everyone,’ but he looked at Remi longer than Remi felt comfortable with.
‘Your face seems familiar,’ the fellow said at length. ‘I lived in Paris six years ago – perhaps you worked at one of the places I ate at? Les Nomades? Figaro?’
He named restaurants that Remi knew but had never worked at, only passed them by as he walked to the bar wondering when his turn to own his own restaurant would come.
Remi stabbed out his cigarette against the wall of the pub and stood holding the butt in his hand.
‘No, I never worked there,’ he said. ‘I have to go and clean. Goodnight.’
On his way inside he threw the butt into the rubbish and washed his hands.
The odds of being recognised here were slim to none, or so he’d thought. If he left tonight, or tomorrow – where would he go?
He had started to wipe down the benches when the man put his head around the door of the kitchen.
‘I remember!’ he said and Remi looked up, noting that Melon had his earbuds in and Marcel wasn’t around. He waited for the truth to come out.
‘You used to work the bar at Bouillon Chartier,’ the man crowed triumphantly.
Remi laughed with sheer relief. ‘You have a good memory. I did work there for a year,’ he said.
‘And I drank there for a year.’ The man laughed and Remi could picture him telling his fellow diners about his clever memory and remembering the young man from Paris who served him steak frites and carafes of the latest vin du mois.
As he wiped down the benches, he heard himself sigh with relief. He had never worked at Bouillon Chartier but he would say he did until the end of time if it meant people didn’t know his past, and about Juliet.
*
Juliet worked with him behind the bar. She was pretty and young and laughed at all of Remi’s jokes and for the first time in his twenty-two years, he wanted to spend every moment with someone – with her. They would talk on their breaks, where Remi blew smoke rings to impress her, and she used to try and catch them like a child with bubbles in a park.
She was smart, working at the bar while also attending university, studying at the Paris School of Fashion, and she could push back at the customers who were rude or too pushy. Sometimes she and Remi caught each other’s eye at the bar and laughed at the crowds; and more often they just worked, without needing words to know what the other needed.
It was clear they liked each other and their friends at work teased them about it relentlessly, until finally Remi said to her that they should go out on a date, just to keep everyone happy and then they could shut up about it.
They decided to go dancing when they’d finished their shift.
There was nothing unusual about the night his life changed. They were busy, but Fridays were always busy. The crowds were thirsty and Remi couldn’t take his break when Juliet waved her hand at him, gesturing she was heading out to the alleyway to smoke.
He made a thumbs down, and she made a face and moved through the bar towards the back area for staff.
Remi kept working, watching the clock, wishing he could be outside with Juliet. After ten minutes he hadn’t seen her return through the door and go back on the floor. He tried to catch a glimpse of her red top and dark hair tied back with a red ribbon but he just couldn’t see her.
Telling the other bartender he would be back in a moment, he pushed through the crowd and went outside.
In the silence of the alleyway he heard Juliet call out and he ran to the sound of her voice.
The man had
her up against the wall, his hand at her throat, and was trying to kiss her.
He couldn’t remember what happened next. The man was on his back. The sound his head made hitting the ground was sickening and then he didn’t move.
Remi hadn’t meant to push him so hard. He tried to say so. Juliet was hysterical, sobbing and grabbing at him, while her knees kept buckling under her. He held her up until the police came and the ambulance who declared what he already knew: the man was dead.
Perhaps if he’d had more money, or a better background, or if Juliet wasn’t considered an unreliable witness because she couldn’t remember anything from sheer trauma, or if the victim hadn’t been the son of a well-known businessman – maybe Remi might have been able to get a lesser sentence. But nothing worked out that way, and he was sentenced to ten years, and served seven. Finally he got released on good behaviour, probably because the prison was overpopulated and he had never caused any issues during his time.
After Remi was arrested Juliet went home to her parents in Biarritz, abandoning her course. She gave a statement about the assault but didn’t give evidence at the court case. Remi’s lawyers told him that his victim’s family had been influencing the case. They didn’t want their son’s reputation tarnished by an attempted rape charge.
So many victims, he often thought.
Juliet tried to see him but he thought it better she moved on with her life, so he refused her visits. She didn’t need a jailbird for a boyfriend. She wrote to him for a while but he never wrote back. Though he kept the letters.
Not a single friend from the bar came to see him, and no one from his family. His father and grandfather had died when he was inside and he didn’t ask to attend their funerals. He didn’t care now. He was numb for seven years until he stood on the wall of Port Lowdy and watched a dog chasing after a seagull.
The absurdity of the dog lolloping after something he would never catch made him laugh until he cried. He felt like the dog, and Juliet was the seagull. He would never catch her now and all he had was the drawing Tressa had made of her from the photo he showed her. It was close but not close enough, yet he still looked at it every night, remembering her laugh and her smile.
Perhaps they would have gone dancing that night, and he would have kissed her and they would have ended up in his bed, limbs tangled together, gossiping afterwards about people at work. And she might have moved in and improved his clothing choices. She would have finally got rid of that green bomber jacket of his she always made fun of, and bought him something nice from a cool boutique in Marais instead. They would have gone to meet her family by the seaside and he would have taken her to meet his grandmother, who would have approved immediately and then nagged him about when they would be married. The endless dreams of possibility of what could have happened between them had been what sustained him during his time in prison – but now they felt empty in such a full world.
What hurt him most was how unfair the system had been. To be jailed for so long for trying to protect someone he cared about, to be essentially forgotten, and then removed from the only country he knew because France didn’t want him anymore, though he was a better person than the man who died. How was that fair?
Marcel had told him there was no such thing as fair but there had to be justice, didn’t there?
God knows he didn’t get justice in court or in life, but what power did he have now? He had no friends in France or England. Nor did he have any family.
21
Dan sat in the speckless living room of David and Wendy Buckland’s impressive home. Everything was so neat and ordered, he wondered if any living really happened in that room. Perfectly plumped silk cushions on the spotless cream sofas, and a plate of small biscuits so perfectly arranged that they seemed to be for looking at, not for eating. He adjusted the cup and saucer in his hand, wishing the tea wasn’t quite so milky.
Wendy Buckland was also spotless but so thin and dressed in such formal clothes, he thought for a moment when she first met him at the door that she had another appointment, perhaps with a local duchess.
She made too much of a fuss when Dan came in, then scowled at Richie. ‘Does he want to go outside?’ she asked, but he realised it was more of a request than a real question.
‘He would love to,’ he said and turned to Tressa. She had slumped her shoulders and her head hung down. Her hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail and her hands were in the pockets of her jacket.
‘Hello, dear.’ Wendy kissed Tressa on the cheek.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Lippy on the teeth, sweetie,’ Wendy said and she mimed cleaning her teeth with her finger.
Dan watched the interchange with interest. Tressa had lost all her energy and Wendy seemed on edge, as though waiting for an accusation or an argument.
‘Come through,’ Wendy invited brightly, and the two of them sat on the sofa in the lifeless living room and balanced tea on their knees while David Buckland grilled Dan about his story on the hospital in Ireland and why on earth he wanted to live in Port Lowdy.
Wendy asked Tressa questions about George and Caro but nothing about her job, or her art. It made Dan furious. They didn’t even ask about the gallery visit.
Ignoring David’s question about healthcare in Ireland, he looked at Wendy. ‘Did you know Tressa was seeing a gallery today? They are going to show some of her pieces. She’s very talented. Such a wonderful opportunity for more people to see her work, don’t you think?’
Wendy frowned. She looked first at David and then at Tressa. ‘You didn’t tell us that? That’s wonderful, darling, really. Are you having a show?’
Tressa shook her head. ‘No, she took a few pieces on consignment and will see how they go and then maybe I can build up to a show.’
‘How wonderful,’ David said. ‘Which gallery?’
Dan thought he sounded genuinely proud and it made him like the man a little.
‘St Ives, on Fore Street,’ said Tressa.
Dan watched Wendy look surprised. It seemed she even had to pause for a moment before speaking. ‘Oh, really? But that’s actually a lovely place. I’m very proud of you,’ said Wendy and Dan watched Tressa barely acknowledge her mother’s words, giving a sort of moderated nod of her head.
‘Tressa was quite cross with me when I put her art in the paper. But she really does deserve a wider audience for her work.’
‘Oh we definitely agree, don’t we, David?’ Wendy said but Dan thought she sounded tense, as though she was performing the role of the perfect mother saying all the right things at all the right moments.
He took a biscuit and took a bite. On the marble mantelpiece were photos of Tressa, and presumably her siblings. There were only two of Tressa and three of her brother and five of her dead sister. Not great, he thought, and looked around the room for at least some of Tressa’s art but it was all boring, pale prints of flowers in colours that matched the walls.
‘Do you have any of Tressa’s art hanging anywhere?’ asked Dan. ‘I’d love to see how her style has changed.’
‘There isn’t any,’ said Tressa, putting the cup and saucer down. ‘They don’t work with Mum’s aesthetic.’
‘That’s not true – we have some in the guest room. You said they made you embarrassed to see them on the walls.’
Dan watched David’s face flinch at his wife’s words and he felt Tressa’s body tense on the sofa. ‘I don’t remember saying that,’ she snapped at her mother.
‘It was when you were starting art school.’
‘A long time ago…’ Tressa’s voice drifted off.
‘I saw in the paper that one of the fellows you went to art school with just had a show at a new gallery in London. He’s friends with James Middleton now. Quite the coup.’
This woman was outrageous, he thought. Putting her daughter down so slyly, mentioning some geezer she went to college with who was out doing bigger and better things with his career. He was about to speak his mind when Wendy spoke a
gain.
‘But I would like to have some of your paintings on display, Tressa. Dad took my favourite one of the geraniums in front of the blue house to his office at work, which was rude of him; he knew I loved it.’
Tressa looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know you had that one at work, Dad.’
‘Patients love it,’ he said. ‘They say it’s very soothing to look at, all that sunshine.’
Dan noticed that he didn’t say he loved the painting, only that the patients did. These parents were awful, he thought.
‘We need to go, Tressa,’ he said, remembering how it felt to be dismissed as a child. No matter how old you were, it hurt. A parent’s meanness, not being able to recognise a talent that didn’t come from them, and that they couldn’t own. It hurt more than a red-hot brand to the skin, he thought.
‘Oh,’ cried her mother, ‘why?’
‘Yes, we have a dinner date and Richie and I are staying the night,’ he said and he pulled Tressa up by the hand.
‘How exciting,’ said Wendy. ‘I didn’t know you two were involved.’ Somehow she pronounced quotation marks around the word ‘involved’.
Tressa looked at Dan and laughed, and he smiled back at her and raised an eyebrow.
‘Time to get Richie and hit the road,’ he said. And he led Tressa by the hand on the way to the back garden.
Richie was in the middle of doing his business and Dan waited for a moment until he finished. He’d leave that for David or Wendy to clean.
Tressa was still holding his hand when they went to the front door and then down the stairs and along the path. Her parents followed, nattering about the dog and about the weather.
‘Righto, off we go,’ he said and Tressa let go of his hand and kissed her parents goodbye.
Dan shook their hands, pretending not to notice Wendy went in for a kiss, and soon he had beeped the horn twice as he turned the car outside their house and drove towards Port Lowdy.