Summer Lies Bleeding (22 page)

Paula looks at Stella incredulously as they step out of the cab.

‘Old Compton Street,' she giggles. ‘Stella, you're turning us into a walking cliché. Next thing you'll be standing on the bar giving it the whole Gloria Gaynor.'

‘Oh, come on grumpy,' says Stella, as they make their way into the Admiral Duncan. ‘It'll be fun. We haven't had a night like this for ages.'

‘I thought you'd want to go to The Dog and Duck,' says Paula, as they step into the packed pub. ‘For old time's sake,' she shouts above the noise of the bar.

‘No, I thought I'd save the whole prodigal daughter bit till tomorrow night,' says Stella, as they make their way to an empty table. ‘Frith Street can wait; for now let's just have fun.'

‘Okay,' says Paula, taking off her coat. ‘So let's kick off our fun night with some champagne. Who's buying?'

‘Tonight is on me, my love' says Stella, leaning across to kiss
Paula on the nose. ‘After all you've been through today you deserve to be pampered tonight.'

‘Hah,' says Paula, raising her eyebrow. ‘I'll keep you to that when we get back to the hotel.'

Stella smiles as she makes her way to the bar. If she can keep smiling; keep pretending all is fine then maybe it will be.

*

Jesus Christ, thinks Mark as he follows Liv into the pub.

He looks uneasy as they elbow their way past a group of men. One of them, a tall, thin Japanese guy in skinny jeans and a close-fitting striped top, steps out from his companions and stands in front of Mark.

‘Ooh, look. A real man,' he purrs, his voice light and slurry with drink. His friends gather behind him and nod their heads while the Japanese guy slowly licks his top lip with his tongue then kisses his hand and blows it towards Mark. ‘We like,' he giggles. Then he pats Liv on the arm and winks. ‘Lucky girl,' he says as he and the group make their way out of the door.

‘What the fuck was that?' Mark looks at Liv and she is laughing. He can't understand why she would be laughing.

‘Oh, come on, loosen up,' she says. ‘This is Old Compton Street; it's full of gay men. Anyway, you should be flattered, you nearly pulled there,' she says, putting her hand into his pocket. She tries to kiss his cheek but Mark is uncomfortable now and he pushes her away. Fucking shirt lifter, he should have smacked him in the mouth.

As they approach the bar, Liv turns to him and smiles.

‘Will you get the drinks? I just need to nip to the loo.'

‘What,' says Mark. ‘You're not leaving me here?'

‘I'll only be a minute,' says Liv. ‘I'm desperate. Anyway, you'll be fine, there's just a nice woman waiting to be served. No scary men,' she laughs, as she walks away.

Mark stands at the bar and sees the woman Liv had pointed out. Slim, dark hair, attractive face; she is just the kind of woman Mark would normally go for. She looks sophisticated; certainly not the type of woman who would wear cut off shorts and show off her knickers. He watches Liv as she disappears into the crowd and wonders if he should just leave now and get back to the hostel. Then he hears something that makes him want to stick around.

‘The Rose Garden, that's right.'

It's the woman. She's talking to the barman. Mark moves towards her so he can hear better.

‘It's been seven years, Frank. Can you believe it? And I haven't been back once,' the woman says.

‘Well, it's lovely to see you,' says the barman. ‘You haven't aged a day.'

‘Oh you're very generous, Frank,' she says.

‘So do you know Yasmine, then?' asks the barman, and Mark's heart leaps at the sound of the name.

‘No,' says the woman. ‘My partner knows her. Paula's a herb gardener. She supplied some rare plants for the restaurant roof
garden. I've never met Yasmine before, but I know her husband Seb. Do you remember him?'

The barman shakes his head.

‘No you probably wouldn't,' says the woman. ‘The Dog and Duck was his local. I don't think he'd ever step foot in here, no offence, Frank.'

‘Is he a dish?' asks Frank

‘Well he was a good-looking chap when I knew him,' says the woman. ‘Bit of the young Robert Redford about him.'

‘Sounds lush,' says Frank. ‘Here let me get that champagne for you.'

Mark watches as the barman walks towards the fridge at the far side of the bar. He can't quite believe what he has just heard. A roof terrace. He didn't know the Rose Garden had a roof terrace. He thinks about the proximity of the hotel he's booked into tomorrow. It will be a waste of time if they're all up on the roof terrace. How the hell would he get to Bailey from there?

He looks at the woman. She is playing with her phone. He has to say something now, before Liv and the barman come back.

‘Er, excuse me,' he says, moving a fraction towards her. He can smell her perfume. Chanel No 5. Lisa used to wear it but it was too heavy a smell for his liking. He preferred it when she smelled of skin and baby powder. He blinks away the memory of his estranged wife and looks right into the woman's face. She's lovely and suddenly he starts to feel tongue-tied.

‘Yes,' she says. Her face is warm and friendly and Mark relaxes.

‘Sorry to bother you,' he says. ‘But I just heard you mention The Rose Garden. Is that Seb Bailey's place?'

‘Yes it is,' she says. ‘Well it's actually his wife's. Do you know Seb?'

‘I do, yeah,' says Mark, thinking fast. ‘My dad and his dad were in the army together. We used to play when we were little. God I haven't seen him for years. It would be lovely to catch up with him again.'

‘Wow, what a bizarre coincidence,' says the woman, as the barman comes back with a bottle of champagne. She opens her handbag and pulls a couple of twenty-pound notes out of her purse. ‘Thanks Frank,' she says. ‘What's your name?' she asks, turning to Mark. ‘I'll tell Seb you were asking about him when I see him tomorrow. I could pass on your number if you like.'

‘It's Denny,' says Mark, blurting out the first name that comes into his head, a familiar name stained with sadness. ‘Denny Lowe.'

‘Okay, Denny,' says the woman. ‘I'll tell him. Oh, hang on a sec.' She reaches into her bag and pulls out a piece of paper. It looks like a flyer. ‘Why don't you come to the launch tomorrow? Give him a surprise. Here, you can have this.'

Mark cannot believe what is happening. He holds out his hand and takes the invitation, recognising the black-and-pink
branding from the restaurant website. ‘Are you sure?' He looks at the woman quizzically.

‘Yeah, we've got loads,' she says, as she picks up the champagne bottle and tucks the two glasses under her arm. ‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Denny,' she says, as she walks away. ‘Might see you tomorrow.'

‘Yes,' says Mark, tucking the invitation into his pocket as Liv comes back from the loo. ‘Yeah you might.'

‘Here we are,' says Stella, as she places the bottle of champagne onto the table. ‘Is this sparkly enough for you?'

Paula laughs as Stella pours her a glass.

‘It's a bit flat actually,' says Paula, as she takes a sip. ‘Just joking. Oh, dear we forgot to make a toast.'

Stella winces. Please, not another toast. She pretends not to hear and instead takes a long sip of the ice-cold drink. She looks at Paula; she looks so much more relaxed now than she did earlier. Perhaps she can risk broaching the subject. She puts her glass down and leans forward.

‘Paula,'

Stella has to shout to make herself heard above the noise of the bar, even though Paula is sitting right beside her.

‘Are we going to talk about today?'

Paula folds her hands and looks up at the pearly fairy lights that are strung around the walls. Her eyes glisten and she lifts her head skywards and blinks into the light.

‘I'll be thirty-nine this year, Stella,' she says, her eyes still on
the lights. ‘Almost middle-aged,' she murmurs. ‘And one of the things I have always wanted to have by the age of forty was …'

‘A baby,' says Stella, holding her hand out to touch Paula's arm.

Paula turns and looks at Stella, her face half-lit by red light.

‘No, not a baby, though that has always been up there on the list of priorities. No, what I always wanted to have found by the age of forty was happiness, pure, uncomplicated happiness.'

Stella nods her head as Paula continues.

‘When we were in the clinic today, and we were listening to the consultant I felt you draw further and further away from me until it seemed like I was quite alone, all alone with some mad woman's desire to have a baby.'

‘No, Paula that's …' Stella begins but Paula interrupts her.

‘Please Stella,' she says, gently. ‘Let me say this, I need to say this.' She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to go on. ‘When I was lying on the examining table, looking at my empty womb on the screen, the room seemed to shrink around me, it got smaller and smaller until all that was there, all I was conscious of, was the image on the screen and the rhythm of my heart. I stared and stared at that screen, waiting to hear your voice, to feel your touch but it never came. It was as though you had left the room, you were nowhere, I couldn't find you. And I realised, there in that moment, that I was asking too much of you. I have always asked too much of you. I have given you this
impossible task of being my happy ending and that is a heavy weight for anyone to carry.'

Stella shifts in her seat, leaning forward to listen.

‘When I'm with you,' Paula continues, ‘I feel elated, turned-on, unsure, worried, paranoid … but do I feel happy? I was happy tonight. When we walked into that garden, I looked at you with your beautiful face reflected against the lights and my heart hurt. It made me think of the day I first met you, that hot afternoon when you were sitting in your parents' garden reading
Mrs Dalloway
and you looked up at me and asked: “Are you the writer?”'

‘And you said, “Something like that”,' Stella replies. ‘I was wearing a big white sunhat and I thought you were the most amazing thing I had ever seen.'

‘But
you
were the writer Stella, not me,' says Paula, placing her hand on Stella's. ‘I remember you shouting at me in The Dog and Duck, the night we got back together …'

‘The night before 7/7,' says Stella, her mind suddenly full of old faces: Ade; Seb; the red-haired barmaid from the pub – what was her name again? Val. That was it, a real old Soho-ite.

Paula nods her head. ‘You told me I was a fuck up, that I had sold out, that I lacked the guts to be a writer. And all the time you were saying those things I was looking at you and thinking: “This is
your
dream not mine”. I never had plans to be some big-shot writer. I just wanted to find peace and I thought I had found it in you.'

Stella takes Paula's hands and turns them over, stroking the smooth skin as though making sure she is real. The rose petals she was rubbing in the garden have left pale pink stains on her fingertips and Stella threads her own fingers around them, a sensuous movement that seems out of place now, in the light of what Paula has just said.

‘Do you still love me?' Stella whispers, not looking up.

‘I will always love you,' says Paula, her voice cracking ‘You are my one true love, the dark lady of my dreams. I love you so much it hurts me … and I think my love is hurting you, it's holding you back. I heard what you said last night about not letting you recover, I know I'm controlling and overbearing and I hate myself for being like that. I feel like you're a butterfly and I'm this great big net always poised above you, waiting to swoop down and smother you.'

The words march up and down Stella's head like a thousand footsteps getting louder and louder. Happiness; love; happiness; love. Are the two interchangeable? Can you have one without the other? Would she be happy without Paula? She tries to imagine her life without Paula in it; she sees a university, a building peeking out of a London street, she sees the books on her shelf at home, the spider's web … she sees her happiness flutter down from the sky like thousands of petals, light and delicate and each with their own unique imprint. What does happiness look like? She sees the faces of her parents, her sister, her grandparents, her bedroom in
her childhood home on the moors; she sees the white stubbly town in Southern Spain; the old man with the kind eyes; she sees Frith Street in the early morning light, bleary eyed and virginal; she sees the flashing lights of Piccadilly and Dylan O'Brien's email; she sees a lifetime's worth of thinking and writing and discussing and learning. But though she tries, really tries to, she cannot see Paula.

Kerstin stands at the window looking out onto Dean Street. It is heaving with people; bodies stream down the centre of the street like a wave gathering more and more momentum.

‘Nice view isn't it?'

She nods as Cal comes towards her holding a glass of white wine.

‘I've fixed you a drink.'

‘No, really I shouldn't,' she says.

‘Go on,' he says, ‘One won't hurt you. Might calm your nerves. You seem on edge today, Kerst. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?'

‘I'm fine,' she says, taking the glass. ‘Just tired that's all.'

‘You work too hard, that's your problem.' Cal has returned to the kitchen and busies himself grabbing plates out of the cupboards and clattering them onto the wooden bench that serves as a table. ‘First one in, last one out. You're like a
machine; and you know what happens to machines when they get overloaded with data. They freeze.'

Kerstin doesn't reply. She is mesmerised by the view of the street; of the expressions of the people passing by below, they look so carefree and relaxed. It's like looking at visitors in a zoo; and she is the caged animal.

‘Grubs up.'

She turns from the window and sees that Cal has placed two plates of food on the table. He has also placed tea lights in the centre and Kerstin suddenly feels uneasy.

‘Where is your bathroom?'

‘Oh,' says Cal. He has already sat down at the table and jumps up immediately to direct Kerstin to the bathroom.

He takes her wine and puts it next to her plate then puts his hand on her lower back and guides her out of the open plan room into a dark, narrow hallway.

‘First on the left,' he says. ‘You might need to give the door a shove, it's a bit stiff.'

Kerstin stares at the wooden door. It is the same as the one at her flat and her skin starts to prickle as she remembers the series of rituals she has to undertake before she can even enter her home. She reaches out to turn the handle but some invisible force holds her back. She cannot touch it. So, instead she places her elbow on the top of the handle and pushes it until the door yields.

She feels Cal's presence behind her. He is watching her; probably wondering what the hell she is doing. Her neck prickles as she enters the bathroom and closes the door with her foot.

She hears Cal's footsteps disappearing down the hall as she approaches the sink. She counts to seven then runs the tap until the water is steaming hot, then plunges her hand under the water, scrubbing and scrubbing until her fingers resemble swollen pink sausages. Once satisfied that her hands are completely clean, she looks up and sees her reflection in the huge oval mirror. Her face is pale and her eyes look dark and hollow.

‘What have I done?' she whimpers. And suddenly she doesn't want to be alone; she needs to be near another human being, even if he is the most annoying man in the world. At least the noise of Cal's incessant chatter will drown out the white noise inside her head.

When she comes back into the kitchen, Cal has already started eating his meal.

‘Sorry Kerst,' he says, talking with his mouth full. ‘I was so hungry I couldn't wait. Don't mind me, I've got the manners of an alley cat, I have. Do sit down, won't you. And tell me if you need me to warm yours up.'

Kerstin stands by the chair and counts to seven and back before sitting down. Cal looks up and goes to say something but then seems to change his mind.

Kerstin sits down and looks at the gloopy red mass on her plate.

‘What is it?' She looks up at Cal, his plate is almost clean.

‘Chilli con carne,' he says. ‘I got the recipe off the Jamie Oliver app. Tuck in.'

She picks up her fork and tries to scoop some of the food onto it but there is no way she can put it into her mouth.

‘I'm really sorry, Cal, but I'm just not hungry.'

‘That's my cooking for you,' says Cal. He laughs as he picks up his empty plate and Kerstin's untouched one and takes them over to the work surface. ‘Can I get you anything else? Cheese on toast? Ham sandwich?'

‘No thanks, Cal,' says Kerstin. ‘I'm fine, just really tired that's all.'

‘That's cool,' says Cal, as he scrapes Kerstin's chilli into a metal pedal bin. ‘Have a drink of your wine and I'll show you to your room.'

Kerstin picks up the wine glass by the stem. She is thirsty and the wine is dry and cold and though she means to just take a sip, she ends up drinking half the glass.

‘Woah, steady,' says Cal, as he sits down at the table. ‘It'll go straight to your head if you haven't lined your stomach.'

But the wine has made Kerstin feel better. It has been a long time since she drank alcohol and it feels good; her mind relaxes and the sharpness of the day, though still there, is blunted. She takes another long sip and drains the glass.

‘So, then,' says Cal, folding his arms. ‘What do you fancy doing? We could watch a DVD or go and have another drink
– on me of course. You can pay me back when you find your wallet.' He laughs and the noise makes Kerstin jump. Of course she can't go out. The police are out there, right now looking for her. She just needs to lie down; she needs to sleep.

‘I think it might be best if I go to bed, Cal,' she says.

‘No worries,' says Cal, standing up quickly. ‘I'll show you to the room. I thought you could take my bed tonight – it's nice and clean, I just changed the sheets – and I'll take John's room.'

Kerstin nods. Clean sheets. There is no such thing anymore. As she follows Cal down the hallway, the image of Clarissa flashes in front of her: the thin papery skin, the hands dotted with brown liver spots and bulging blue veins; the blood smearing the floor.

‘Here you go,' says Cal as they reach the small bedroom. ‘There's a bedside lamp if you need it. I'll shut the curtains too, it gets really bright with all the neon from the street. But it shouldn't be too noisy. It's double glazed and we're on the top floor, so you should manage to get some kip. Right then it's all yours.'

Kerstin stands at the door, looking at the bed: someone else's bed, with someone else's germs saturating it. There are a hundred rituals she would need to attend to just to touch that bed let alone climb into it. She counts to seven and steps into the room.

‘Kerstin, you know there are people you can go to who can help.'

Cal's face is suddenly serious and he sits down on the bed and looks up at her.

What is he talking about? He knows; he has figured it out or else he has heard something on the news. Kerstin turns to run, but he stands up and touches her arm gently.

‘It's okay, Kerst,' he says. ‘It's a very common condition, OCD. My cousin had it. She couldn't stop cleaning, morning till night, you should have seen her hands, they were like sandpaper. But she got help. CBT, they call it: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I can ask her to talk to you about it if you like, give you some phone numbers.'

He's talking about the counting. Thank God, she thinks, yet still she feels exposed; as though he has seen her naked. She didn't think people noticed the counting; in the office she always did it under her breath.

‘Honestly, Cal, I'm fine,' she says. ‘Just tired and I get more uptight when I'm tired. Thank you again for letting me stay. You've been a great help.'

He lets go of her arm and smiles. ‘Okay, Kerst, I'll leave you to it.'

He walks to the door then turns.

‘Night night. Sleep well, yeah? Oh, and if you get cold, there's some extra blankets on the top shelf of the cupboard there.'

‘Thanks, Cal,' she says and she watches him close the door.

She hears him cough as he walks away. With tentative steps
she goes towards the bed. She holds out her hand, but it's impossible; she cannot touch it, let alone sleep in it. But her body feels like it is closing down; her eyes are heavier than she can ever remember. It feels like she hasn't slept for days though it has only been a few hours since she fled Old Church Street. She looks at the floor; it is wooden. She could sleep on that; hadn't Cal said there was a blanket in the cupboard; a washed blanket, she can lay it over her feet so it doesn't touch her face; so she can't smell it.

She pulls her sleeve over her hand and turns the metal handle of the cupboard. Inside it is half wardrobe/half shelves. Cal's suits are lined up neatly on the right hand side; on the left are various sweaters and tops, again neatly folded. Kerstin is surprised at the order; Cal is always so chaotic at work. Maybe he has a cleaner. She reaches up to the top shelf and feels thick wool under her fingertips. This must be it, she thinks as she pulls it down. But something else comes with it, clattering to the floor with a loud smash. Kerstin looks down at the heavy wooden box, lying at her feet and the scattered objects it has released and she can't believe her eyes.

Her things.

She looks at her possessions and can't work out what they are doing in Cal's cupboard: her memory stick, she knows it is hers because she had written her initials on it in black permanent marker; a bottle of Aveda shampoo for dry hair – the one that had gone missing from her bathroom cabinet; and a
set of keys attached to a square, white key-ring with the words ‘Elizabeth Lord Estate Agent' printed in red lettering. Her keys.

He has been in the flat; her flat. He has taken her things, moved them around. She thinks about her ripped purse; the unsaved reports. She has to get out of here now. But before she can move, she hears his footsteps outside the door; her head starts to pound and it feels like she is going to be sick. She hears the click of the door opening but it is a fuzzy shape that enters the room and before she can work out who or what it is, everything goes black.

*

As they step out onto Old Compton Street, Mark puts his hand in his pocket, making sure, for the fifth time that the invitation is still there. As his fingers touch the embossed lettering, he smiles. It couldn't have been easier.

The air is warm and sticky and as he and Liv make their way through the crowded street Mark feels a dull pain in his chest. Crowded places always make his asthma worse; he just wants to get out of here, get back to the room and lie on the bed. He breathes out slowly as they continue up the street. He can't sense Zoe in this place, she won't have been here, he can tell. The alley way was full of her, he could hear her voice, smell her perfume, she had permeated that space. Don't think, don't think, his sober voice intercepts his thoughts. Just one night without thinking about it, one night in seven years is allowed.

He can hear Liv chattering beside him, pointing out various
bars and landmarks she thinks he should be aware of, and he nods his head, makes encouraging noises, but really he just wants to get out of here. He wants to be alone; to scrutinise the invitation and plan his next move in peace. But he can't get rid of Liv yet, he will just have to go along with it for another hour or so, then turf her out.

They turn right at the top of the street, Liv leading the way, and then take a left onto a wider road. Mark reads the names of the neon-lit shop fronts: Soho Original Bookstore; Madame JoJo's; Soho DVD. It's a worn, shabby street, he thinks, dated and decaying. It smells like rotten eggs, like sour breath and old food. His army mate, Tony, had told him about the deserted villages in Afghanistan; the army would come in and check for signs of life, a flutter of curtain, smoke from a fire, cooking smells. They would step across the remnants of a community, a place where life once flourished, where bonds were made and broken, children were born and raised, marriages were sanctified, funerals conducted, the whole spectrum of a life. And when you went to these places, Tony said, it was like stepping into a graveyard; everything that made it vital, that gave it purpose and energy had been eliminated, its inhabitants had gone, dispersed like migrating birds, and only the husk, the discarded shell remained. This is what this street feels like to Mark; like the end of the line, the end of the world.

They stop at a side street and as they go to cross, he feels Liv's arm tighten.

‘I hate that place,' she whispers.

Mark looks at her and she nods her head towards the street they are about to cross. He turns his head and sees a dark, narrow lane, lit with muted neon signs: Floor Show; XXX; Models.

‘Really, it's more like a pantomime now,' says Liv, her voice low and serious. ‘There's even a nightclub down there that celebrities go to – play-acting prostitution, what fun! It's out there on the street for all to see but what about the ones you can't see, the ones outside of Soho, across London, the trafficked girls who get picked up at Victoria Station with the promise of work. I wonder if the celebs would still see it all as a big laugh if they saw where those girls ended up.'

Mark stares down the street. The red neon ‘Model' sign is flashing on and off; there are a couple of women standing underneath the sign. They are smoking and the smoke rises above their heads like a ghostly veil. One of them is wearing a hood pulled up over her head, hiding her face and in the half-light she looks like some medieval monk. Mark shivers. The place is giving him the creeps but he can't draw himself away from it; its revoltingness seems to be enticing him, pulling him into its folds.

‘Over the border,' he mutters as they stand rigid at the edge of the kerb.

‘What's that?' asks Liv. He feels her hands wrap around his arm. They are cold.

‘It's the place where the prozzies stand in Middlesbrough,' he replies. ‘When me and my mates first learned to drive, we'd pile into a car and drive past them for a laugh. They were a right bunch of skanks; crack whores the lot of them. You'd have to be desperate to want to shag one of them.'

‘Drug addiction leaves a lot of women vulnerable to prostitution,' says Liv. ‘That, and abuse in childhood …'