Elegance and Innocence (50 page)

This is a major setback to our plans. Who can I talk to?

I find Robbie in her room, changing her shoes and checking her make-up. ‘What?’ she says when she sees me. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Jake’s here.’ I throw myself onto her bed. ‘And Imo’s gay boyfriend is receiving a blow job right now from our own lovely Pascal!’

‘No!’ She starts to laugh. ‘Well, that proves exactly nothing about his sexuality.’

‘Imo doesn’t know,’ I assure her. ‘But then Carlo’s putting the moves on her right now.’

‘Good.’ She nods. ‘Carlo’s not a fag. And he knows what he’s doing. Pascal could be doing Imo a massive favour. Who would’ve imagined Waterworks had it in her?’ Robbie turns her attention back to her hair.

The conversation is apparently over, neatly wrapped up as a simple partner swap. I watch as she reapplies her lipstick, smearing the edges gently with her finger to produces a soft, rosebud mouth. She’s a cherub; pale-ivory and pink. It would be a lot easier to make up with her if she weren’t so pretty right now. A self-conscious silence stretches out between us. I stare down at the ruffled bedclothes; at the mascara stains on her pillow.

I force myself to take the plunge. ‘Listen, Robbie …’

She cuts me off. ‘Turn the light off when you go,’ she instructs. She grabs a faded denim jacket off one of the hangers in the wardrobe.

I’m angry again. How can she be so dismissive of this mayhem and chaos? Of Imo’s feelings for Lindsay?

‘Where are you going? Hey! You can’t bug out now!’ I shout. ‘We’re in the middle of a party!’

‘Yes I can.’ She heads for the door.

I grab her arm.

‘What are you doing? What makes you think you can just fuck everything and leave like this?’ My voice catches, my skin’s hot. I’m not good at this. No one in my family fights; we go silent and sullen. But right now I feel like shouting.

Robbie pulls her arm away. ‘Grow the fuck up, Evie!’ She looks at me with contempt. ‘That’s life! Nancy Pants gets a blow job and Imo gets laid by a real man instead. Deal with it! At least Carlo’s good.’

I recoil. ‘Jesus! You slept with him! Is there anyone at this party you haven’t fucked?’

For a second it looks as if she might cry, but her fragility freezes into a mask of revulsion. ‘I’m sick of the sight of you!’ she hisses. ‘I’m sick of your whining, small-town, self-righteous shit! I fuck a lot of people. So what? A lot of people want to fuck me! At least I’m not simpering around, lusting after one guy while going on and on and on about some geek back home! “Ooooo, we’re going to live together in New York!”’

My eyes are stinging. ‘At least I’m not some stupid, wayward slut like you!’

I flinch; she’s going to hit me. But she says, ‘I’ve got news for you: you’re never gonna make it out of Ohio, baby! You haven’t got the fucking balls!’

Then she turns and runs out. The door slams. But I’m the only one to hear it above the music, laughter, chatter and noise.

I bury my face in my hands.

It wouldn’t matter so much if she weren’t right.

I have to speak to Jonny. It’s all gone wrong. I long for the sound of his calm, certain voice. Wiping my tears on the bottom of my T-shirt, I stumble out of the flat and into the hallway. There’s a payphone in the corner. Picking up the receiver, I press it to my ear. The line’s dead. ‘Out of Order’ a sign reads, taped across the top, printed in Mrs Van Patterson’s scraggly, old-lady handwriting.

Shit.

I lean against the wall. There’s a roar of applause and cheering; Jake’s finished another song.

I don’t want to talk to anyone right now except Jonny. Opening the front door, I fall out into the night.

There’s a phone box round the corner. Traffic whips past. The wind’s like a firm, flat hand pushing me backwards. I press on, shivering in my T-shirt. I pass a pub full of smoke and noise, next to a row of silent, empty shops. There’s the phone box, a glowing red rectangle in the distance. I’m
running now, pulling open the door, flinging myself inside. I pull out a couple of pound coins, jam them in. I dial the number and wait. Somewhere on the other side of the world, a phone rings.

‘Hello?’

He sounds different, younger … far away.

‘Hello?’ he repeats.

‘It’s me.’

‘Baby! It’s so great to hear from you! What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’ Can he tell I’ve been crying? ‘I … I just miss you, Jonny, that’s all.’

He laughs. ‘I miss you too, babe. It’s been really hard without you, if you catch my drift!’ And he giggles wickedly.

This isn’t what I want to hear. Why can’t he be serious and romantic? And for the first time I feel embarrassed by Jonny. Ashamed of him. He seems to sense this and tries to shift the subject. ‘Hey, how’s that weird teacher of yours?’

I lean my head against the glass door. ‘Actually, he’s OK. Quite good, really.’

‘Oh. Well. He sounded pretty strange to me.’

Silence.

I can hear him stretching out on his bed. It must be early afternoon there. ‘So, you’re up late. What are you guys doing? Just hanging out?’

‘Well.’ I hesitate. ‘We’ve got a couple of friends over …’

‘Sounds nice.’ His voice is distant, neutral. He waits for me to continue.

‘Yeah … it is nice,’ I concede. Why am I so reluctant to fill in the blanks?

‘And what about the girls?’ he prompts me. ‘That Robbie seems pretty wild.’

‘We had a fight,’ I whisper, my eyes filling with tears again.

‘What about?’

I don’t want to tell him. He wouldn’t approve of Robbie – wouldn’t approve of so many things in London. Or rather, he wouldn’t understand them. And it strikes me for the first time that we’re not just on different sides of one world but living on totally different planets now. Something in me has shifted away from Jonny. It’s moved into an altogether darker, more unfamiliar place. It’s frightening. And at the same time exhilarating.

‘Nothing, really,’ I lie. ‘Just stuff.’

‘Oh.’ He can tell I’m avoiding him. ‘Is everything OK with you?’

I can’t speak; my throat’s tight.

I nod my head.

‘Evie? Are you OK?’

‘Yup. I just called because …’

The line starts beeping. ‘If you’d like to continue this call,’ a clipped English voice informs us, ‘please insert more coins now.’

I panic. ‘Jonny!’

Beep, beep.

‘What? What did you say?’

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

‘Jonny, I’m so sorry!’

The line goes dead. I’m alone, holding the receiver; the flat, insistent sound of the lost connection buzzing in my ear. I hang up, numb from cold, and step out of the booth.

There, leaning against the side of an abandoned betting shop, smoking a cigarette, is Jake.

He exhales slowly. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’ I step aside. ‘I’m finished now.’

His eyes meet mine.

‘I’m not waiting for the phone.’

We stand there a moment.

He hands me the cigarette.

I take it, drawing it slowly to my lips. He takes off his leather jacket and puts it round my shoulders.

We walk, side by side, not touching, not speaking, winding our way in silence through the empty streets. I don’t know where I am any more. I’m lost. And it doesn’t matter.

After a while, he flags down a passing cab. Opening the door, he looks at me. ‘I want to take you somewhere.’

I pull away. ‘Who’s that girl?’

He doesn’t even blink. ‘No one. Some chick Hughey thinks can sing.’

I get in.

I get in, knowing I’ve crossed a line. There will be more of them as the night goes on, things I’ve never done, things I’d never thought I’d do.

And I don’t care any more.

He lives in a bed-sitting room above a bicycle repair shop in Kentish Town. It’s one large room with a sink and a fridge in one corner and a mattress on the floor against the far wall. There are three more guitars balanced on stands next to one another, a portable amp, some sound equipment stacked in silver metal boxes, piles and piles of records and a sophisticated stereo system arranged on what looks like an old office desk, complete with a swivel chair. Ashtrays are everywhere. The walls are covered with posters of The Clash, Jimi Hendrix, Bowie, the Sex Pistols and the New York Dolls.

I sit on the swivel chair and watch as he pulls a tiny plastic bag out of his back pocket and takes out a small, framed mirror. I’m in a strange part of London with no money, no coat, and no keys. He arranges the lines of coke, rolls up a tenner and hands it to me. And leaning forward, I do what I’ve seen people in movies do, pressing one nostril shut, sucking the powder up. Then I move to the other side. It’s bitter, metallic; hitting the back of my palate like mercury.

He smiles and stands up, returning from the fridge with a bottle of vodka. And I take a sip, watching as he does the remaining lines.

He puts on Bowie’s ‘Station to Station’. It’s the best music I’ve ever heard. Someone’s pounding on the wall next door but after a while they give up and it stops. I feel languorous, the night has suddenly acquired a clean, hard edge. I’m no longer awkward and anxious, struggling to present a face to the world. I’m smart and sexy; more aware of my body, of every nerve of my being. And I love this music. Could listen to it all night.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Kicking against the desk, I swirl round, spinning in darkness, delighted at the rush of freedom.

And then it stops.

Jake pulls me up. He presses his mouth over mine. And he tastes just the way I imagined he would. He’s sweet and salty, all at once. The leather jacket falls away. He peels off my T-shirt and bra. I watch, floating somewhere outside myself, as he bends down, kissing my breasts. Arching my back, I weave my fingers through his long dark hair. He unzips my jeans. I step out of them. He kicks them out of the way and, a moment later, tears off my pale-pink panties. They’re the colour of cotton candy. My mother bought them. He pushes me back into the chair and I pull off his shirt, sinking my mouth into the warm flesh of his shoulder. Then he tilts the chair back and spreads my legs wide.

Jonny disappears; is obliterated.

Jake takes possession.

We snort more lines and he fucks me against the wall. Bowie plays on a loop again and again and again. He pulls me into the shower with him, rinsing my face clean, untangling my hair with surprising gentleness. He wraps me in a towel, carries me to the bed. He’s hard again. I go down on him and then he turns me over.

‘I wanna fuck your ass,’ he says.

And I laugh. Everything’s so funny tonight. The coke’s almost gone. We share the last lines. And everything, anything, feels good. He moves slowly, then faster and I think my head’s going to explode.

It’s 5.33 in the morning. We’re lying still, tangled around each other, a mass of knotted limbs.

‘I gotta go,’ I say.

‘OK.’

We lie there.

I make a move. He pins me to the bed.

‘Not so fast,’ he whispers, kissing me.

It’s 6.42.

‘I really gotta go,’ I say.

He sighs. ‘OK.’ And throws an arm over me.

It’s 7.20.

I’m stumbling around, looking for my jeans.

‘Here.’ He hands me a cup of tea.

I get dressed. He lends me a black oversized jumper. My hair’s dried into a strange, almost sculptural shape. I try to press it down with my hands, wetting them with water.

Looking out of the window, I search in vain for some familiar landmark. ‘How do I get home?’

He unrolls the tenner lying on the mirror. ‘I take you.’

We stroll arm in arm to the main road. The air is delicate, clear and cold. We catch a bus, sitting on the top deck at the front. I rest my head against his shoulder.

At Baker Street we get out and walk. And as we approach the flat, he hands me a tightly wrapped piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’

He tilts his head to one side and smiles. ‘Consider it an invitation.’

‘To what?’

But he just leans forward, brushing his lips very softly against the curve of my cheek.

‘Why don’t you come in?’

‘Na, I fancy the walk. See you later.’ He strolls up to the corner, a long, lean figure against the pale morning sky.

I wait until he rounds the corner before unfolding the little paper parcel.

‘Welcome to Raven’s World’ it reads. And underneath, his address is wrapped round a small silver key to his flat.

I ring the bell and after a while a dishevelled Coffee Carlo appears, looking, ironically enough, as if he could use a cup of coffee. He’s spent the night, along with Jean Luc, sleeping on the floor in the front room.

‘Where’s Imo?’ I survey the damage from the night before with a curious sense of detachment.

He’s sheepish. ‘She’s sleeping. Quite alone,’ he adds, looking at me. ‘I didn’t want to leave her here on her own all night.’

My cheeks flush; I turn away. ‘I’m going to lie down,’ I announce, heading towards my room. ‘Just knock if you need me.’

As I walk in, the image of Pascal and Lindsay pops into my mind again, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine. I examine the bedclothes cautiously, then peel them back. I kick my shoes off and curl up in my jeans and Jake’s warm, woolly jumper.

So much to think about. So much to make sense of.

I’m made of glass; transparent and fragile. My head’s buzzing. Even though I’m shattered, I can’t sleep. I turn over onto my back and stare at the ceiling in the grey half-light.

Everything’s different now. Everything’s changed.

It’s as if, after a lifetime of believing in gravity, I’ve been taught how to fly. The view’s so indescribable; the air finer, more refined. I’ve been transformed from an ordinary person into a creature of rare gifts.

I’m in love.

It’s exquisite; excruciating. A blinding, soul-searing light, illuminating even this shabby little room.

And I’m certain I’ll never sleep again.

A knocking at my door wakes me.

I turn over, rub my eyes. I try to sit up. My head’s too heavy. I fall back into the warm, soft pillow.

‘Evie!’ Imo hisses in the dark.

‘What?’ My voice sounds like sandpaper over cement. ‘What time is it?’

‘Two thirty. Something’s happened to Robbie. We have to go now.’