Elegance and Innocence (64 page)

When he speaks, he doesn’t look at me, his right arm cradling his battered guitar case. ‘Why are you making such a big deal out of it? It’s nothing – a way to make some cash. We could move out … get a place of our own.’

I’ve heard all this before.

‘It’s under control,’ he adds, ‘it’s not like I have a problem.’

‘So stop.’

‘I have.’

I twist my ring round and round on my finger. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Jesus, Evie!’ He looks at me, but I can’t see his eyes behind the mirrored shades. He’s out of money, the dole cheque long gone. His hands are shaking. ‘We can’t do this, you know that, don’t you? You don’t understand how hard it is.’

‘If you cleaned up, we could!’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I want it back the way it was – just you and me.’

‘It’s part of us …’

‘I don’t want a baby!’ he snaps suddenly. ‘I don’t want another fucking mouth to feed! Any day now, the band could be signed. And then what? Besides, I’m not doing anything that Keith Richards doesn’t do every day of the fucking week!’

‘Only you’re not Keith Richards, are you?’ I snap back. I’m hurt and scared; I want to hurt him too.

He runs his fingers through his hair, then covers his face with his hands. He sits that way for a long time. ‘You know nothing,’ he whispers at last. ‘Please, Evie! This is what I want so badly … I really do!’

‘Exactly what do you want?’ I’m crying. I don’t want to but as I wipe away one tear, another one follows in its wake. ‘Do you want me? Us?’

‘Don’t do this …’

‘I am doing it! I can’t live like this any more!’

I wait for him to say something. Anything at all.

But he just sits there.

I stand up.

‘Baby?’

I can’t look at him.

He gets up, pulls me close. ‘It’s not that big a deal,’ he whispers. ‘Most girls have them …’ I struggle but he holds me closer. And for a moment I let him, burying my face into his chest. This used to be the safest place in the world. ‘Come on, babe. Take it easy.’ He strokes my hair. ‘Where are we now, huh?’

The laughing little boy stumbles and falls; his cries pierce the air. His mother pulls him up roughly, yells at him and puts him back in his pram.

‘We’re nowhere.’ I push Jake away.

‘Evie …’

‘It’s my baby! I’ll do it.’ I can hardly see now; can hardly speak. ‘I don’t want anything from you. Ever.’

I start walking.

And then, suddenly, I’m running.

It’s a warm, beautiful summer’s day.

High in an office overlooking Soho Square, the pictorial editor of a magazine called
The Face
is flipping through a photographic portfolio. The photographer waits patiently, staring out of the window at the square below; cataloguing the figures there in his mind: two lazy strolling street sweepers, a woman with a pushchair, a girl, running …

The editor turns the page; a young man stares back at
him; angular, defiant, a guitar draped across his bare chest. ‘Who’s this?’

The photographer turns back from the window. ‘Oh, that! That’s a favour I did for a friend. Some band called Raven. That guy was unbelievably photogenic!’

‘Has it been published?’ the editor asks.

He shakes his head.

‘Well.’ The editor leans back in his swivel chair, props his feet up on the desk. ‘I think we have a cover.’

Two weeks later, right in the middle of a Friday night cream pie classic of
Othello
, I start to bleed. At first the audience think it’s some sort of effect but then I faint on top of a guy in the front row. A guy holding a cream pie.

In the ambulance, a young Australian paramedic holds my hand. He gives me an injection and tells me to count to ten out loud. I get to five.

When I wake up, I’m on a ward. I try to turn my head, but the pillow’s stuck. I raise my hand to my hair; it’s sticky, still covered in whipped cream. And then I notice there’s a drip in my arm.

A doctor appears at the end of my bed, surrounded by students.

‘Hello,’ I say. There are such a lot of them.

He picks up my chart. ‘Female, twenty-four years of age. Infection and complications resulting from a miscarriage. Treatment would be?’ He asks a pretty red-haired girl.

‘Standard D and C followed by a course of antibiotics?’ she suggests.

‘Good. But in this case the infection was complicated by a secondary long-term venereal disease. There’s lasting damage.’

The redhead looks at her notes. ‘And that means?’

He puts the chart back on the end of the bed. ‘She’s infertile now.’

‘God, The Sluts! Whatever happened to them?’

‘Hey! Turn it up, will you? Come on, Evie! Dance with me!’

Ally grabs my hands, trying to entice me onto the makeshift dance floor in the front room. It’s after one in the morning and the house is still heaving with people, spilling out into the hallway, swaying to the music.

I step back. ‘No, thanks. Maybe later!’ I shout above the din.

‘You always say that! One of these days, baby, you’re going to have to let your hair down!’ She twirls into the midst of the throng where Andrew, a big black baritone, shimmies up to her.

‘Why don’t we go aaaaaaall the waaaaaaay!’ Jasmine’s voice howls, above the grinding bass.

She grabs his hips, throws her head back, laughing.

I slip through the crowd, stepping over the bodies
perched on the stairs, deep in conversation, climbing up to the top floor. The music still thuds dully, but Alex remains fast asleep, sprawled across his bed. He was up until 10.30, running around in his pyjamas, eating too many crisps and trying to steal drinks. Allyson made a huge fuss of him, calling him her boyfriend and introducing him to everyone. Eventually I tracked him down, curled up underneath the piano, his cheek pressed against a pile of sheet music.

Closing my bedroom door, I wander back down the steps.

The first half of the night was easy: I spent my time filling glasses and taking people’s coats … but now that we’ve moved into the disco part of the evening I’m at a loss. It’s too noisy to sleep, not that I’d be able to … The air’s hot and smoky. Pausing on the landing, I open another window, letting in a blast of cool air. I lean out.

‘Don’t jump.’ Piotr’s walking up the stairs, holding a beer. In his black shirt and jeans, he’s handsome, sure of himself.

I smile.

I’ve been avoiding him.

He’s the reason I’m wearing this silky, lacy camisole; bare arms hooked into new, fashionable low-rise jeans … All night long I’ve known when he was in the room, who he was talking to, when he left. If I raised my eyes, his would be there to meet them, dark, confident. The tension, sudden and mysterious, winds tighter.

It’s dangerous.

‘You take the fun out of everything,’ I say, looking out into the night.

He stands next to me.

Just being close to him sends a rush through my veins, warming my skin. He’s wearing cologne; it smells of cedar and incense; fiery, profane, sexy.

‘You don’t dance either?’

I shake my head.

‘I’m bored.’ He sighs, rubbing his eyes. ‘Come. Talk to me.’

‘I can hardly stand up, let alone speak,’ I’m objecting. But not too hard.

The bathroom door swings open. A couple of girls stumble out, clutching each other about the waist, giggling hysterically.

He takes my hand. ‘Come on.’

I let him drag me across the hall into the relative quiet of his room.

We stand in the dark. The moon shines from behind a mass of black clouds; a clear, other-worldly glow illuminates the large double bed.

He closes the door. ‘Lie down.’ His voice is deep, intimate. ‘Talk.’

I brush my fingers along the cool iron bedstead. ‘Why?’

I want to be close to him; I want it too much.

‘Because’ – he stretches out, watching me – ‘it’s what I want, Evie.’

There’s a certain way he says my name, with those distinctive,
heavy vowels; it makes my breath stop, seizing a moment in my chest. This is foolish, I think, lying down next to him. I’m not a child. This is what’s clearly known as a compromising position. Yet there’s a slow, deliberate sensuality to my movements.

The pillow’s cool under my cheek. It smells of him.

‘Tell me about Paris.’ I turn to face him.

‘The library card.’ He smiles; that charming gap-toothed grin.

‘Yes.’

He exhales, as if forcing the memory away from him. ‘I did what everyone does in Paris. Studied. Fell in love. Grew a beard. Shaved it off. Grew a moustache. Shaved it off. Oh, yes! I also learned how to make Quarter Pounders with cheese at McDonald’s on the Champs Elysées …’ He laughs. ‘Le Big Mac.’

‘Did you wear a uniform?’ I tease.

He nods. ‘With a hat. Very attractive.’

‘Why Paris?’ My voice has dropped.

‘I was unhappy. If you can’t be happy, at least you can be in Paris.’ His eyes shine in the darkness. ‘Take your hair down, Evie.’

He’s so bold.

‘Why?’ I ask softly.

‘Because it’s what I want.’

I’m like some nineteenth-century courtesan, taking requests …

Reaching up, I give the band a little tug. My hair tumbles down, long, dark and silky across the pillow.

‘So you were unhappy …’

He curls a lock round his finger, very slowly. ‘I lost my way.’

‘How?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Tell me.’

He sighs. ‘I did a competition. The Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow. In the final round I walked out.’

‘I know.’

Reaching out, he brushes a tendril back from my face. His fingers linger, caressing my cheek. ‘Do you?’ His eyes search my face. ‘I played like a monkey … performing. In the middle of the second concerto, I couldn’t stand it any more. I stood up and left. And then the nightmare began. It seems nobody does that. It was a scandal. As soon as I came off the stage, there were agents, record companies … It was worse than winning. Now I’m supposed to be daring, different. A rebel. But I knew nothing of what it would be like, playing night after night, travelling, reviews … At every concert the audience only wanted to see the pianist who walked out on the Tchaikovsky. That was who I was.’ His face clouds. ‘Before, I never thought of myself at all when I played; afterwards, that’s all there was. My freedom was gone. I was lost.’

‘So you went to Paris and grew a beard?’

He traces his finger along my lips. ‘Yes, Evie.’

‘And fell in love.’

He nods again. ‘Yes, Evie.’

‘And now?’ I’m speaking just above a whisper.

‘And now I teach and play chamber music and think too much …’

‘Piotr …’

‘Yes?’

‘I think you’re remarkable.’

For a moment he’s very still, looking at me. Then he slides his hand beneath the small of my back; scooping me into his arms. I press my cheek to his. ‘You’re extraordinary, exquisite!’ I lace my fingers through his thick hair. He holds me close. And the transparency that’s threatened since the first moment I met him shatters. ‘I’m lost too …’ I whisper.

He takes my face in his hands. ‘No.’

And then he kisses me … again and again and again.

‘You’re not leaving here tonight,’ he murmurs. ‘You know this.’

He covers my neck with delicate kisses; then the warm curve of my shoulder.

I close my eyes. ‘Why?’

The camisole slips away. ‘Because’ – his lips are everywhere – ‘it’s what I want.’

Jake’s on the doorstep, knocking to get in. The sky’s
black, wind howling. I can’t hear his voice over the gale but I know he’s calling; pounding his fists against the door.

I try to move but my limbs are made of lead. There’s something pressing down on me, a great black weight.

He’s calling. The storm’s breaking.

And I can’t move.

‘The water’s high!’

I look up.

It’s Robbie.

She’s sitting on my chest, crushing my ribcage, knitting. Long red yarn twists round her thin fingers, staining them pink.

‘It’s too high!’ She laughs.

Her mouth gapes open; a black hole. She has no teeth.

And suddenly it’s not Jake’s voice but Alex’s. ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

I try to push her off.

‘Mummy!’

My legs won’t move.

‘Mummy!’

I come to with a start.

‘Mummy!’

I jump out of bed. It’s cold. I’m naked.

This isn’t my room.

‘Mummy!’ He’s crying.

Piotr sits up.

I have no clothes on and not enough hands.

‘Alex!’ I plead. He can’t see me like this.

Piotr swings his legs out, pulls on his jeans. ‘Stay here,’ he orders, opening the door.

My heart’s galloping, bucking against my ribcage. Where are my knickers? I search for my top, pulling it on. What if he’s not all right?

I stumble over my shoes, yank on my trousers … I can hear Piotr talking to him, taking him downstairs to the kitchen. ‘She’s going to be back in a minute,’ he says soothingly. I peer through a crack in the door, watching as he carries him down the stairs. Alex rubs his eyes with his fists; tears on his cheeks.

My chest snaps in two with guilt.

My little boy’s been crying, alone in his room for God knows how long.

As soon as they round the corner I race up to the top floor. I check the alarm clock. It’s 6.35 in the morning. Throwing on a fresh shirt, I head down to the kitchen.

‘Mummy!’ Alex runs into my arms. ‘I woke up and you weren’t there!’ He clings to me.

Here is my whole world. My entire universe. This little body, pressed against mine.

What was I thinking of? How could I have been so reckless?

‘I’m making toast,’ Piotr says casually. He’s standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a loaf of bread.

‘No,’ I say sharply, ‘I’ll make it.’

‘Evie …’

‘I’ll do it.’ Scooping Alex up, I sit down in one of the kitchen chairs with him on my lap. ‘I’ll look after him.’

‘He’s not a baby.’ He sighs.

He doesn’t understand; he’ll never understand.

‘And neither am I. I’m fine on my own!’

‘Evie!’

‘Please, Piotr, just leave us alone!’

Alex is crying again. Piotr flings down the bread knife and walks out. I’m left, holding my son; the smell of burning toast fills the kitchen.