Letters from Yelena (19 page)

‘Sounds lovely,’ I said.

‘Are you sure your housemates won’t object to you inviting a group of ballerinas along?’ Eva asked.

‘I mean it’s not something we’d usually tolerate, but it’s an important night for you three so I’m sure we can make concessions,’ Nick said with a smile.

‘You’re so kind,’ Erin said.

A few cocktails later, our strange group raucously wound its way down to Nick’s house. Erin already had her arm around Nick, who had tied a balloon onto each of her tiny wrists. I remember
her trying to stop him from doing the same to her ankles.

‘I really think you should let me,’ he continued, as she tried to stop laughing for long enough to fend him off her feet. ‘Wouldn’t it be great to just float into the
party? Then my housemates really won’t mind you being there.’

‘She only weighs about four stone,’ I called. ‘Any more balloons and she’ll float away.’

‘Then she can go ahead of us, and tell everyone we’re on our way,’ Nick called back. Erin slapped him as he pretended to write out a note to tuck into her ankle bracelet, as if
she was some sort of balletic carrier pigeon.

As we ascended a small flight of stone steps I saw that Nick’s home was not the bohemian out-house I had assumed it would be. I looked up to see an elegant townhouse, its large windows
filled with vague silhouettes. The sound of laughter and chinked wine glasses filtered down as your arm linked through mine. I could hear New Order’s
Temptation
playing above us. When
Nick opened the door he was greeted with a welcoming roar as we sidled in behind him. ‘You go out for a pint and then you come back with a group of supermodels,’ someone commented, as
we removed our coats. ‘We should have known.’

Upstairs, the chic furniture had been pushed against the walls, and the place seemed filled with the city’s wildlife. They sprawled over couches, blew smoke through opened windows and
flirted self-consciously with each another. The girls all seemed curiously doll-like, dressed in printed dresses; their dark hair held back with silver clips. The boys wore checked shirts, their
high quiffs bobbed as they laughed and their lips were constantly pursed, ready to roll the next cigarette.

You moved into them with such ease. ‘This is Yelena,’ you said, to everyone who smiled at you. As people welcomed me with open arms and sloshed wine into my glass I felt myself open.
I quickly learnt how to sip at wine while my eyes vaguely scanned the room, just as they all did when they weren’t speaking. I learnt how to draw decadently from a proffered cigarette, how to
touch up my lipstick while simultaneously talking, how to look up with cherubic eyes at any man who spoke to me. I saw the way people responded to me, and to fit the implicit expectations of their
treatment I became more elegant and more composed. I learnt to take compliments, to smile benignly, to detach at will. I did not stop to think how a new, seductive persona might invite
complications. Cameras flashed, their owners each time imploring us to bunch together. As each photo captured us I felt more startled, yet somehow calmer. My presence was in demand for the first
time, and it felt good.

‘So, how do you two know one another?’ Nick asked, refilling my lipstick-tinged glass.

‘Noah started coming to watch us practice while he was researching his next book, and then at the opening party we got chatting.’

‘And has he told you that he’s a famous writer? That he’s kind of a big deal?’

You looked frustrated, and shook your head.

I laughed. ‘I worked it out for myself. He was no help.’

‘Have you read his book?’

‘I haven’t read his book, no,’ I said, directing the remark to you. ‘Is it any good?’

You cocked your head, and looked blank.

‘It’s hard for me to say exactly, because I still don’t really understand it. Well, I don’t understand how a book about a modern messiah living on a council estate in
Holloway could get published when it was written by an author who’s clearly never been anywhere near a council estate.’

‘I have been near a council estate,’ you insisted.

‘Russian ones don’t count,’ he answered.

‘I didn’t think it’d get published,’ you said.

‘Neither did I,’ Nick answered. ‘It’s pretty depressing, but then all half-decent books probably are. I liked the bit when the messiah called people to his house via a
link on Youtube. What did he say again?’ Nick adopted a grand pose and a haughty tone. ‘Guttersnipes, underdogs, dreamers of the nation. Boys in satellite towns, girls waylaid at minor
train stations. Flock to me and I’ll shield you all, under my damaged wing.’

I laughed. You were still looking down.

‘I liked that bit. Shall we turn the music up?’ he asked, registering your embarrassment.

The room swelled until it was so humid, so fleshy, that it could not incorporate another body. At that moment the music was cut and Nick made an announcement. ‘Edna and Rupert next door
have asked that we cease and desist. I think that’s reasonable. So we’re going to The End.’

As one straggling procession, the party made its way up to the nightclub. From the outside it looked like nothing more than a black door amongst a row of indie shops. But as we walked up those
stairs the vibrant music from within reached our ears, and I felt adrenalin course through me. At the top, a woman with pink and green hair greeted you with a kiss and ushered us to the front of
the twitching queue. It gave me a guilty thrill to pass the assembled throng, and as the inner doors opened the music instantly ensnared our bodies, making us part of a single mass. The club was
one long rectangle full of nylon dresses, coiffed hair and shining stilettos. You placed a hand at the small of my back as we started dancing. The noise and the proximity forcefully encouraged
physical expression. All around us people moved from being strangers to being confidantes in one quick, physical negotiation.

Every few seconds another woman – usually flamboyantly dressed – greeted you with a cry of delight and kissed both of your cheeks. They were all quirky and beautiful, and as you
cupped hands over each other’s ears I wondered how intimately you knew each of them. Their sticky goodbyes, with their fingertips clinging to yours, suggested that you’d been close to
all of them. That and the way they only looked at me for a millisecond, with a flash of a smile, as you introduced me. I told myself to keep drinking and not question how you knew every woman in
here. I gradually grew familiar with the dull pain I felt every time you spoke and their mouths erupted with laughter. I thought of their faces twisting in pleasure as you found yourself inside
their long, shining bodies. But then the thought would be crushed by a huge whoop from the crowd as a beloved song began, causing every hand to push instantly into the air. And you’d take my
hand, spin me in a pirouette, and kiss my cheek.

After many clammy dances and cigarettes on the fire escape, you finally led me back down those stairs. It must have been about four in the morning, and only then did I wonder where Erin and Nick
had gone. I didn’t recognise the voice that came out of my mouth as we staggered outside. I sounded like one of your women: vulgar, confident, only interested in the next buzz. For a moment I
wondered if I was being moulded into someone, and if so where that might take me. But as we left the alleyway you held me still and kissed me, and I felt myself calm. I was glad to leave the urgent
desperation of the dance floor. It seemed to cover everyone in a sheen of denial, which I knew would stay on them long after they left.

You took me down to the quayside. Now devoid of people, it seemed to persist in a state of shock. The lights from the city, yellow and red, quivered on the water. Silence emanated from the
houses around us, settling our insides. We sat on the small artificial beach, enclosed by rope, above the water. It was almost too dark to see one another, and until the first light of morning we
built castles out of the damp, soft sand. Once they were made I placed my head on your shoulder I closed my eyes, only opening them when the sun began to rise.

We sat for a few moments in silence, watching the city return to us. Then you led me back along the road, before raising your hand at a lone taxi.

Love,

Yelena

Dear Noah,

In the weeks that followed I enjoyed complete freedom for the first time in my life. The day always began when morning light fell against the blinds in your room. It started as
a shaft of white that lit up my side of the bed, before gradually crawling over the rest of the room, lighting up the piles of books and all the discarded clothes. Having clung to one another all
night we’d reluctantly separate, and you’d stagger off to the university to give your morning lecture.

Do you remember how you used to always hurry back for me? I’d be awoken by the clatter of your keys on the table and the sound of your coat falling to the floor. As you bustled into the
room I’d sleepily pull my hair from my eyes. The sound of your belt unbuckling would always fill me with excitement as you slipped into the sheets beside me. I’d help you ease off your
trousers, conscious of my creased appearance but excited by the intimacy that would follow. You’d let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed against me, kissing me as if you hadn’t
seen me in days. I’d prise myself from the sheets and lay on my back, wriggling as you rolled my panties from my hips. And then I’d sigh loudly at your audacity, as you first kissed my
neck and then eased yourself carefully inside me. Our hands would clamour over each other’s backs, our eyes would widen, and your hand would gently press over my mouth so the neighbours
didn’t hear us. We’d grasp each other joyously in our moment of release, before curling our arms around each other through the few minutes of calm.

I saw what a fine instrument my body had become, honed by years of discipline. Slowly I learnt to see it as more than a medium of expression. You showed me that my body was mine, and therefore
ready to issue pleasure at any moment. Every second of pain it had experienced had refined it for every second of pleasure now. I gradually learnt to use the skills I had gained to give us both
pleasure, and by enjoying my body for the first time with you an unassailable bond was forged between us. I feared the consequences of entering this bind – would it only resonate on a
physical level with you?

It shocked me to learn that I had unwittingly possessed such abilities for so long. In those secretive, rapturous mornings we created an atmosphere of intimacy and decadence so potent that I
knew we could step in and out of it at will. We started to map out with one another all the desires that we had long kept within ourselves. I realised that within us all there exists a crystalline,
half-buried world of desire that can only be completely excavated if we meet the right person. It had been buried so deeply in me that it was almost irretrievable. I grew to love the decadent
thrill of absenting yourself from the world and taking desire to its very extremes. On those excitable, urgent mornings we fully excavated those half-buried worlds. We learnt how to kiss and goad
one another, how to delay and how to enthral. I learnt how satisfying it felt to allow another to find the root of their desire in you, expressed through the simple undulations of your body. I
learnt how it felt to be so urgently desired that your mere presence became all that another could experience until they had finally found satisfaction.

It was not only physical intimacy that I came to enjoy. When we would lie in the sheets afterwards we slowly began to open up to each other, revealing the many zones we had kept hidden inside.
In the past I had wondered how much one can endure before they’re no longer able to speak openly again. At what point the cynicism and caution, cultivated by pain, becomes too stifling. I
thought I had long passed that point. I didn’t know that the shadow of caution could always be dispelled. It simply required the right person.

The closer we grew, the more I sensed that there was something important that you were holding back from me. It was apparent in the way that you always cradled your head on your fist and focused
the conversation on me. And one morning, when you had been particularly evasive, I decided this needed to be addressed.

You had mentioned Elizabeth before, as the last woman you had called your girlfriend. I’d also heard the name Hannah mentioned a couple of times, but I had never enquired about her
further. That morning I felt we were at the point where such names could become uncharted territory, but I also feared the impact of finding out something I did not want to know.

You were half out of the bed, perhaps trying to escape my apparent resolve, when I asked the question.

‘Who’s Hannah?’

You dropped your shirt and turned to face me. ‘Have I not told you?’ you replied, reclining on the pillow beside me. ‘Hannah is my daughter.’

‘Your daughter?’

‘Yes.’ You looked apologetic, suddenly vulnerable. ‘She’s five years old. I had her with Elizabeth.’

‘You had her with Elizabeth?’

You lay flat on the bed, looked squarely at me. ‘Somehow, I thought you knew. I’m sorry. We should have talked about it before.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘I was… I don’t know.’

‘I know,’ I said.

You smiled, awkwardly. Then I smiled back, as if that could restrain the huge tension I’d felt suddenly arise in me. I feared that if this revelation did not knock me over now then it
might do at a later date. I remember that for some reason I couldn’t even look at you. I started fiddling with the blinds, all the time feeling your eyes on the side of my face, narrow with
concern. As if you knew exactly how painful this conversation was for me.

‘I’m still good friends with Elizabeth,’ you said. ‘Just friends though. I see Hannah every weekend – well every weekend that I’m in the country.’

You moved closer, and placed your hand on my cheek. My face must have grown cold, because your hand felt hot and heavy.

‘How do I not know this?’ I said, struggling to meet your eye.