Ghosting (8 page)

‘You certainly did,’ she said.

‘If you say you’ll marry me, Grace, then we can become a family. I want to be your husband if you’ll have me.’

Without saying a word she went into the kitchen, recalling the excitement she’d felt when Pete had proposed – comparing it to this calm absence. There had been a time when she’d wanted this, but that time had passed. She’d often considered, on those nights he’d stayed over, whether she should invite Gordon to sleep with her. Not for sex, necessarily, though she did miss that – more a vague desire for arms around her and the nearness of a body.

As she made two cups of tea, she tried to imagine a life with Gordon, knowing that with three small children offers of marriage weren’t exactly going to be a regular occurrence in her life. When she said yes, he kissed her
finally with clumsy passion, as they reached for each other’s bodies for the first time, with
Z-Cars
on the television and two cups of tea going cold beside them.

When she’d agreed to marry him, she’d assumed he would continue in the RAF, progressing to higher rank. Grace had liked the lifestyle, and the five weeks in Malaysia had, in particular, opened up a way of being that suited her: the climate, help with the housework and children, the ready-made social life. She had thought that in marrying Gordon she might resume that life; hoped they might even live overseas; she’d said yes to the lifestyle as much as the man. So when he announced he was leaving the RAF for a job at Ringway Airport she was furious, accusing him of having deceived her. She locked herself in the bathroom, electric with rage, unsure whether she even wanted to marry him now. She went ahead, but it was a bone of contention for years.

AS SHE TRIES
to picture Gordon as a young man, the only face Grace is able to conjure is the one he wears now, and the distance between them feels monumental, all the years since her breakdown furrowed with a fertile loneliness. She feels exposed on a desolate planet. Had she cut him out or had he excluded her; or was it by mutual consent that they’d found themselves on different shores? Whatever it was, she knows their time together is over.

At around six-thirty she starts to get ready to leave After freshening up and changing into a light summer dress, she puts on an Elvis CD and parks herself in front of the mirror to put on some make-up, avoiding looking too directly into her own eyes for fear of what she might see there.

You’re going to meet him,
whisper the butterflies in her belly, and, excited as a schoolgirl, she grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and makes her way over to their boat.

The sky is filled with the meaningless light of a setting sun, and Linden is sitting on deck with a glass of wine. No sign of
him
. She stands up and greets Grace with a kiss on both cheeks, which, not being a way of greeting Grace is used to, takes her slightly by surprise. She hands Linden the bottle.

‘Thanks,’ says Linden. ‘Take a seat. I’ll get you a glass.’ And she ducks inside.

Sitting down, Grace spots a couple of neighbours walking by and exchanges greetings. She can almost sense their disapproval of the boat’s mad exterior, probably wondering what she is doing there.

What
is
she doing here?

Linden reappears and hands her a drink. ‘Luke’s not back yet,’ she says. ‘He went for a swim hours ago. There’s real time and then there’s Luke time. They’re very different, you quickly discover.’

‘Never mind,’ Grace says, masking her disappointment. ‘Cheers!’ They clink glasses. She takes a sip of wine.
‘I’m sorry about this morning, in the supermarket.’

‘You don’t have to apologise.’

‘I don’t know what came over me. That’s never happened to me before.’

‘As long as you’re all right.’

‘I am.’ She gives a fake smile.

‘I thought…’ Linden pauses, playing with the stem of her glass with both hands. ‘Well, to be honest – when I saw the mark on your face, I thought maybe your husband had hit you.’

‘Oh, God, no,’ she says, not missing the irony, ‘Gordon would never do that. He’s never done that. No, he’s away fishing with a pal. I tripped and fell over.’ She thinks about how often she’d lied about the marks on her face, or the injuries on her body, after Pete’s beatings. In the duration of the thought she decides against expressing it, saying, instead, ‘How are you?’

Linden slumps with a weary sigh and pulls a sullen face. ‘I’m a bit pissed off with myself, to be honest, Grace. I should have been in the studio all day today, but I got totally wasted last night and haven’t been as productive as I should’ve been. I’ve got a show coming up and I’m really fucking behind.’ She takes a sip of wine and then, more calmly, says, ‘I put in a couple of good hours this afternoon, though, so I won’t beat myself up too much.
Fucking superego
!’ She laughs, and Grace pictures something like a comic book hero. She takes in the girl’s beauty – the smoothness of the skin, the immaculate teeth and fine cheekbones – feeling a vampiric rush of
desire to suck the youth right out of her. Her blonde hair is plaited now, making her look younger. Her features, Grace thinks, are almost doll-like, though there’s a full sensuality in the way she is dressed: tight blue jeans and a skimpy vest-top. She thinks,
It seems so cruel that we have to grow old – like a punishment for having the audacity to stay alive.

‘What is it you do?’

‘I’m an artist. A painter. At the moment I’m working on a series of anamorphic portraits,’ she says, then, seeing the blank look on Grace’s face, ‘It’s easier if I just show you.’ Taking a camera from her bag, she says, ‘I’ve got some images on here that will give you an idea of what they look like.’

She holds out a digital camera and Grace looks at the image displayed: the melting head and shoulders of a blonde-haired woman in a red dress. The face is unrecognisable, the features washed out, eyes halfway down the cheeks, mouth drooping and dripping in a sad red. In contrast, the hair, shoulders and dress – and the patterned wallpaper behind – are all finely rendered, realistic as a photograph.

‘Obviously it’s much larger than that. Pretty much life-size, actually. But you get the idea.’

‘Yes,’ Grace says, not really sure she does. Linden clicks on to another warped portrait. A figure (a man?) in a photo-real blue sequinned suit and black spiky hair, with a melted face dripping down over his collar and blue bowtie. ‘Is Luke a painter too?’ Grace asks, keen
to learn something about him. To turn the conversation towards her quarry.

‘He’s a brilliant painter,’ says Linden, putting the camera away. ‘But he doesn’t paint any more, which is a real shame. He does performance art.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He uses his body to make art. He performs live actions.’

‘Like theatre?’ Grace says.

‘No, not really; there isn’t usually much speech or a recognisable storyline.’

‘Like those living statues in Covent Garden, then?’

‘Not exactly. It’s hard to explain. He makes a series of images by moving the body through time. His background is fine art, not theatre. And he likes to get naked in public.’

‘I see,’ Grace says, thinking,
Who
are
these people?

‘In our final year at uni,’ Linden is saying, ‘he did this piece where he shaved his legs in a claw-footed bath in the town square in Nottingham on a Saturday afternoon. Lying there covered in bubbles wearing nothing but a shower cap, surrounded by bemused shoppers.’

‘I see,’ says Grace again, taking a sip of wine and trying to think of a way to respond. She isn’t sure what she’d expected Luke to be; hasn’t speculated for a minute on what his life might look like.

‘He’s performing at Given’s private view this Thursday. That’s the guy who owns the boat. Come along if you’re free.’ Grace nearly makes an excuse,
never having been to a private view before, and unsure how she might cope right now in an unfamiliar social situation. But, she decides, it’s about time she did something new.

‘Well, I’ve nothing planned.’

‘Great. Come here around five and we’ll have a drink before heading over. Bring Gordon if he’s back.’

‘He won’t be back till Sunday.’

She looks across the water, following the sound of a moorhen. Turning back to Linden, she says, ‘Given’s an unusual name,’ not wanting to dwell on Gordon’s return

‘He’s an unusual man. He’s from Bristol. Black Jamaican father, white Welsh mother; both junkies. He never knew either of them. He grew up in care homes. He’s six foot three and so handsome it should be outlawed.’ She gives a laugh before continuing, ‘His last work just won a major prize. He cast a fighter jet in butter and exhibited it in a room where the temperature was regularly alternated between hot and cold, so that the butter would melt and then reset, melt and reset till after a fortnight it was nothing but a yellow mound in the centre of the room. His work is starting to sell and he’s making good money. He just bought a flat near Highgate.’

Grace wonders if it’s the man she saw with Luke at the ponds, and considers mentioning it but doesn’t, too ashamed of the memory of how she’d ghosted them. Linden goes inside to fetch another bottle, and Grace
checks her watch, willing Luke to arrive. A flock of Canada geese honks overhead and, looking up, she sees that the mottled underside of the moon has appeared faintly in the stillblue sky like a sleepy eye.

As she refills their glasses Linden explains that Given has only recently bought the boat, but had been too busy to collect it himself. She and Luke picked it up in Hertfordshire about a month ago. She names some of the places they stopped at on the way, some of which Grace knows.

Grace says, ‘How long have you and Luke been together?’

‘He’s not my boyfriend! He’s gay.’

Grace looks at Linden’s delicate, slender hand, laid out against her denim-clad thigh, and quells a sudden urge to crush her cigarette out on the smooth white back of it. Linden leans over and says, ‘Can you keep a secret?’

Grace nods.

‘Given’s my lover.’

‘Why is that a secret?’

‘The first time we slept together we both thought it would be a one-off, so we decided it was best not to mention it to anyone. And then it happened again, and then again. I’m trying not to categorise what it is. But he doesn’t want anyone to know. It’s a fucking pain. Not even Luke knows.’

‘But why?’ Grace says, wanting to add,
And why are you telling me?

‘I don’t know. Do you think I should be worried?’ Linden asks, looking suddenly deflated. The sun has begun to drop and the sky is now a vivid crimson.

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.

‘So how did you two meet?’

‘Me and Given?’

‘No, you and Luke.’

‘We met at uni about seven years ago. I clocked him on the first day and thought to myself, “I’m having that.”’ She laughs. ‘Me and every other woman in the place. Plenty of the men, too, I don’t doubt. I was absolutely gutted when I found out he was gay, but we became good mates once I got over the fact he wasn’t going to fuck me, ever. I just wish he was more fucking punctual!’

Grace looks across the marina, longing for him to appear. Linden says, ‘Are you missing your husband?’

Which one?

‘No, not really. I’m quite enjoying the time on my own, to be honest.’ Though she knows ‘enjoy’ isn’t quite the right word she can’t think of a better one; and she certainly doesn’t want to begin describing the emotional journey of the last few days.

‘Do you have children?’ Linden asks, and Grace gives the barest details of Paul and Jason before mentioning Hannah, because she always does. She won’t pretend she never existed, the way they do. She feels the old, familiar sadness as a lump forms in her throat. Linden places her hand on Grace’s arm, looking as if she might cry herself.

‘I named the boat after her,’ says Grace.
‘Hannah Rose.
Hannah after my grandmother, and Rose after Pete’s.’

‘I thought your husband’s name was Gordon,’ Linden says, and so, although she hadn’t wanted to go into all that, Grace now finds herself having to explain.

‘My first husband died just after Jason was born. None of them are Gordon’s. We didn’t have any together. Couldn’t.’ It seems like a statement not connected to her in the slightest; the details of another woman’s life.

‘How did he die?’

‘He drowned, off the coast of Malaysia.’ It feels like the kind of thing a newsreader might say. A bloodless fact.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be; I’m not. By then I hated him. He was a right bastard.’ She watches Linden start to roll a joint, and says, ‘He used to beat the living daylights out of me. If I was ten minutes late back from the shops he’d fly into a jealous rage, asking me who’d I spoken to; had any men spoken to me? That kind of thing. Always accusing me of going with other fellas, which I never did. He thought nothing of clouting me, especially when he’d been drinking.’

‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

‘I had nowhere to go. I had three kids! I couldn’t just leave them behind, and I couldn’t afford to support them on my own. Divorce was still quite scandalous back then. I didn’t know anyone who was divorced.’

Linden’s mobile phone lets out a trill and lights up, announcing the arrival of a text. She leans over and picks it up. ‘It’s from Luke,’ she says, ‘He’s not going to make it back tonight.’

When she offers Grace the joint she declines, with a frisson of disapproval, and wonders whether to mention the cause of Hannah’s death but decides against it, not wanting to dwell on it. Night has fallen and bats are now circling the trees.

Linden says, ‘I knew he’d do this.’

‘Oh, well,’ Grace says, crestfallen, ‘I’ll have to meet him another time.’

She asks Linden where she is from and she replies, ‘I grew up in Leeds, then studied in Nottingham for three years before moving here to do an MA at Goldsmiths, which I’ve just finished.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Nearly twenty-five.’

‘By the time I was your age I’d had three children.’

‘I think mine was the first generation of women to have our horizons expanded by feminism to the point where having children could become secondary to doing other stuff.’