Elegance and Innocence (55 page)

He turns into Acacia Road. ‘Me.’

‘You’re kidding!’ I look at him, then back at the photo.

His face softens. ‘You like the hair, right? That’s my rebellion phase. It didn’t last long.’

‘Rebellion?’ I can’t suppress a giggle. The idea’s ridiculous. It’s hardly the Sex Pistols.

‘Now you’re teasing me!’ he accuses.

‘It’s just, how much can one rebel against Mozart, Beethoven, Bach …’

Pulling up in front of the house, he switches off the engine and turns to face me. ‘You’d be surprised. It’s only natural if you love something violently. Like the way it’s impossible to sleep with someone you can’t fight with. Rebellion is a type of love.’ And he smiles, a wide, easy grin; the small gap between his two front teeth lends his face a disarming boyish charm. ‘Now, shall we go in and see what the babysitter who eats everything has left?’

As we get out, I remind myself I’m furious with him.

Karen’s slumped in front of the television in what used to be Harry’s old study. And judging from the assorted plates and bowls on the coffee table in front of her, she’s worked her way through a considerable supply of the house food. She stands up, jamming her hands into her combat trouser pockets. ‘Hey,’ she greets us, rocking back and forth on her heels. She consumes more calories a day than an entire professional football team, but still only weighs about a hundred pounds. She has the kind of miraculous, angular adolescent figure that defies all the laws of nature.

First, I check on Alex, touch his cheek lightly and kiss his forehead. He’s fine. Then the three of us examine the mirror. The cracked face looks as if someone’s struck it, with a small object or even a fist; shards of glass radiate
from a black central wound. We work our way through the house; nothing else seems amiss and I let Karen go for the evening. She ambles off, backpack over her shoulder, headed towards the tube station.

I close the front door.

Pale-blue light floods in from the street lamp outside, a soft glow of light on the floor.

A slinking woman. Who pretends to be invisible.

It’s not an attractive picture; not the image I’ve been trying so hard to project – of the sensible, responsible, capable woman, heroically looking after her only child.

Maybe Piotr’s vision of a naughty girl, roaming about in her knickers, stealing secret ciggies does have a certain appeal.

Piotr’s coming down the stairs. He stops on the last step.

I turn in the darkness.

‘I should go now and get Bunny and Allyson.’ He flicks his car keys back and forth between his fingers. ‘We taxi drivers never rest.’

But he doesn’t move.

‘Thank you for bringing me back. And for making certain everything is all right.’ I sound stiff and formal. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

He’s silent.

He’s seen through me, to a side of myself I’d rather ignore. ‘I didn’t do it to be kind,’ he says at last.

He goes to the door, opens it. He’s so tall; the street lamp outside casts its long shadow across the floor. ‘I didn’t
mean to offend you.’ He looks up. ‘But you’re not the kind of person who should be afraid. Of anything.’

He speaks with such conviction. Yet part of me can’t help but wonder who he’s talking about.

Of course what I should say is ‘I’m not afraid!’ with a defiant toss of my head. Or laugh, as if he’s got it all wrong.

But instead the real question that rushes to my lips is, ‘Why?’

Why shouldn’t I be completely terrified?

And for a moment I feel I am standing here in nothing but my knickers.

He closes the door.

I lock it, pressing my cheek against the smooth, cool wood.

And suddenly, inexplicably, I wish he were still here.

The Cave may be a dive but at 9.30 on a Friday night it’s packed to the rafters. Located under the Pier, it’s a vast cavern with a long bar against one wall and a narrow stage against the other. There are a few round tables and stools but for the most part it’s a dark, unfurnished basement that can be cleaned with a garden hose and broom if necessary. Tonight it will be necessary.

It’s wall-to-wall punters, drinking, dancing, shouting at the top of their lungs; girls with miniskirts and suede ankle boots; guys with Mohawks, spiky quiffs and pierced ears. Prince’s ‘Let’s Go Crazy’ is playing and as we push our way
past the bouncers, Jake waves to a group clustered around the bar. This must be the band.

‘Hey,’ Jake shouts, wrapping an arm round my shoulders. ‘I want you to meet my girl!’ They turn and I smile, pressing myself into his side, like Eve pressing back into Adam’s rib.

There are three of them: Brian, the bassist, older than the others, pudgy, with soft features and thin blond hair, Pat, the drummer, from Northern Ireland, wiry, mercurial and pale, and CJ, on lead guitar, black with thick dreadlocks and a cheeky, dimpled grin.

CJ has his arm draped over a very familiar blonde. ‘This is Jazz,’ he introduces her.

It’s the girl who came to the party with Jake.

‘Short for Jasmine,’ she adds significantly, as if we’re suddenly involved in an unconventional name competition and she’s clearly won.

‘How pretty.’ I smile.

What’s she doing here?

She’s wearing a short white jean jacket, a black-and-white polka-dot miniskirt and piles of crucifixes layered round her neck. Underneath her jacket the frilly lace of a corset peeps out. Her belt has a large gold buckle that reads ‘For Sale’. Suddenly this is the last place on earth I want to be.

Pat hands Jake a joint. He takes a drag, passes it on to me. It’s bitter, strong, burns the back of my throat; I cough
and splutter, and they laugh while Jake slaps me on the back. I pass it on to Jasmine. She purses her lips in slow motion, inhaling with ease.

CJ grabs another bar stool. I perch in front of Jake while Brian buys another round of drinks. Anxious sparks bounce around the conversation; everyone’s smoking, finishing each other’s sentences, stealing glances at themselves in the mirror behind the bar. Pat can’t keep still. Dressed in shorts and a vest, his hands are in constant motion, tapping out complicated rhythms with his drumsticks against the bar, a glass, Jake’s back …

‘So, Evie,’ he says, looking at everything but me – the crowd, the stage, Jasmine’s breasts, my breasts – ‘so what do you think of our new name? Do you think it will make it? Yeah? Do you think, it’s like, you know, the fucking thing, man? The shit? Or like, you know, what?’

I’m not sure it’s even worth trying to look him in the eye, which is about as easy as dodging a bullet. ‘Yeah, The Thrust is a great name.’

‘Oh, no!’ He’s staring at Jasmine’s legs now, the door, back to the stage, ‘We changed it. Yeah, Jake’s the man! What Jake says fucking goes! Right?’

Jake flashes him a look and he whirls away to pound on a stack of old kegs by the door.

CJ leans forward. ‘Andy wants to see you. He’s giving me a lot of crap about the takings being shit on the door. Fucking look at this place! Liar!’

‘Who’s Andy?’ I ask.

‘The owner,’ Jake says, stealing a drag from Pat’s discarded cigarette, left burning in the ashtray. ‘He never pays us, tight bastard.’

Jake catches Jasmine’s eye. She looks away.

Brian stands up.

I turn to Jake but he’s laughing now, grabbing the joint back from CJ. ‘Brian, what the fuck are you wearing, man?’

We all stare at Brian. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his black vinyl jeans. ‘They’re great, man! I got them at the market. I’m a fucking rock god now and you guys are just jealous!’

‘You look like Michael Fucking Jackson!’ CJ sneers, pulling Jasmine towards him, burying his face in her neck. She yields limply, sizing up her profile in the mirror.

‘You’ll be singing another tune when I fucking land all the pussy!’ Brian drags his hand through his prematurely thinning hair.

CJ and Jake throw each other a look and then howl with laughter. There’s something incongruent about the idea of Brian landing anything. I laugh too. Jake presses me close, his whole body shaking, clutching me the way a drowning man clings to a life vest.

‘Fuck you!’ Brian snaps, turning and forcing his way through the crowd. ‘You guys make me sick!’

‘Fuck him,’ CJ says, wiping the tears from his eyes.

‘Yeah, fuck him,’ Jake agrees.

Pat’s back, dancing around like a boxer, playing a tattoo against the bar-stool seat. ‘I gotta go to the loo again, Jake. OK, man? Like, I really need to go. So, are you coming with me? Yeah? Are you gonna come, man?’

Jake shakes his head, but rises anyway. ‘OK, Pat. But don’t get too wired, understand? Just a couple, until after the set.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Stay here with Jazz, OK?’

I hate the way he calls her Jazz. And I can’t think of a more unappealing prospect.

CJ drains his glass and bounces after them.

The crowd presses in, all elbows and brimming glasses of lager; I’m almost drenched by a giant guy, balancing three pints.

I look around at the crowd, glance over at the stage, but apart from all the equipment, there are still no signs of life. So, I force another smile at Jasmine who stares back, a flat, dead look. She rolls her own cigarette, holding it aloft until one of the bar staff leans over and gives her a light. ‘So.’ She inhales. ‘Who the fuck are you anyway?’

This is the kind of girl Robbie would eat for breakfast.

‘Well,
Jazz
’ – I take a beat – ‘I’m an actress. And I’ve just been accepted into Juilliard,’ I lie. ‘I’ll be living and working in New York in a few weeks’ time.’

Saying that I’m in Juilliard is so wonderful; I feel ten feet tall and bullet-proof. I only wish it were true.

She blinks at me sullenly.

I lift my right eyebrow. ‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m a singer. And a model,’ she adds quickly.

‘How lovely,’ I say and I focus again on the stage.

The lights dim. A man dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, sporting an impressive beer gut, takes the stage. ‘One, two, three, testing! One, two three! All right, you lot! Pipe down!’ His face is red with the heat and he struggles to catch his breath, mopping his brow with the back of his hand. ‘You know the rules: no throwing stuff, no crowd surfing, and no spitting! And I mean it!’ he shouts, pointing to six enormous bouncers by the door. The crowd boo and he shakes his fist like a classic pantomime villain, with about as much sincerity. ‘Shut it! And now, it gives me great pleasure to present, all the way from London, formerly known as The Thrust, it’s Raven!’

I gasp. He’s named the band for me!

Jasmine glowers at me.

The band stride on, self-consciously cool and moody; Jake pulls his guitar over his head and a small clutch of girls at the front scream with delight. Leaning forward into the microphone, he brushes his long hair from his eyes. ‘This gig’s for Raven.’ He searches for me in the sea of faces. ‘The bird who stole my heart.’

Then CJ steps into the spotlight, launching into the grinding opening chords of ‘Limey Punk Rock Faggot’ and the room goes wild.

My heart soars. They’re above and far beyond all my
expectations; Jake smiles at me and I feel I might explode with pride and joy.

There’s a hand on my shoulder; I turn to find Hughey Chicken beaming at me. He leans forward and bellows in my ear, ‘So, what do you think?’

‘They’re brilliant!’ I shout back. ‘Absolutely fucking brilliant! What are you doing here?’

He laughs. ‘I’m not a musician but I have talents! This is Alan Weathers.’ He introduces me to a man in his early thirties, deeply tanned and clean-shaven, dressed in a sandy-coloured linen suit, worn with the sleeves rolled up so you don’t miss the enormous Rolex watch.

He leans against the bar, holding a Perrier with as much casual grace as possible in a room filled with gyrating sweaty bodies. He smiles broadly. ‘Pleased to meet you!’

‘He’s from this great new label,’ Hughey continues. ‘They’re called Virgin. Isn’t that great!’

Obviously struck by the naughtiness of the name, he sniggers into his pint like a great overgrown schoolboy. He’s certainly larger and probably hairier than when he was eight but, other than that, I suspect not much else has changed.

‘See! I’m always thinking, me. I’ll have these boys signed in no time! Hey! How’s Robbie?’ he asks, his round face suddenly clouding over.

‘So busy! School’s a nightmare!’ I lie and, changing the subject, gesture to Alan. ‘So, what does he think?’

Hughey nods his head to Alan, who gives him a thumbs up.

Jake struts across the stage, throws his head back, triggering another screech of hysteria in the female fans. Hughey and I laugh, delighted and relieved. They’re white-hot tonight.

Jasmine slides off her bar stool, slips off her denim jacket, showing bare shoulders and a pair of plumy breasts, perched in her lacy bustier. ‘So, who’s your friend, Hughey?’ She licks her lips, leaning on the bar next to Alan. She looks up at him with her sharp blue eyes. He blinks. She offers him her hand. ‘I’m a singer too,’ she says, pressing close, rubbing her hand against his thigh. Any minute she’s going to overflow that corset.

I don’t care.

Jake spins through the heat and noise, a golden, glittering being – Orpheus playing in the underworld.

We’re immortal.

Invincible.

In love.

‘They have a ride called The Blade, Mum! In the Forbidden Valley, Mum! And it goes really, really,
really
fast!’

Alex is dragging his red-and-white school knapsack on the ground, his coat shrugged off, dangling around his elbows. He’s dancing about four steps in front of me down
Ordnance Hill Road, where I’ve just collected him from school.

‘We’re not going to Alton Towers, honey,’ I say for the fifth time in about three minutes.

‘But
why
?’ He stops dead, stumbling over the rogue knapsack.

‘Because, we can’t afford to right now.’ I hate this reason and yet it’s the reason for so many things. I reach down to take his hand. ‘Maybe another time.’

He pulls his hand away. ‘There’s another one, an even better ride, called The Black Hole! With a water park and a runaway train! You get to stay in this red castle and there are chips for dinner almost every night …’