‘Take your knickers off and bend over.’
‘What?’
He started unbuckling his belt. ‘You heard.’
He pulled me to him and smacked my arse. Hard. He did it again. I pushed him away and slapped his face. ‘Come at me again and I’ll knee you into oblivion.’
SHE’D TOLD HIM.
SHE’D FUCKING TOLD HIM.
Oh, she’s totally game and besides she needs it, you should think of it as a noble act, we’ve got to get her away from that douchebag so anything you can do really, she’s a bit Othello about the whole infidelity thing so it should do it – or you could get her a book deal? I dunno, whatever’s easier. The infidelity? Okay. Sure. Yeah, a bit of garden-variety S&M, nothing too rad, there’s a weird childhood spanking thing involving her sister that you could work with, that’s probably as deep as her perversions go
…
He was between me and the door. Fast mathematics, physics, logistics, spatial awareness, was he stronger than me, more fucked? I could draw on a lot cornered and reminded myself but still: orthodox terror, the avian curve of his mouth, arms that could break my arms. Without further assessment I shoved him to one side and unlocked the door, ran.
Tyler was standing on the bed holding court. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I retched. She got down off the bed and came and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘You need some water.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘No, listen, Lo, I put a rock in your drink.’
I retched again. ‘What?’
‘I put a rock in your drink, thought you could use it, so you need to loosen up and have some water or you’re gonna flip out.’
I put my thumbs on my temples, pounding, struggling. She was in my ear, her voice loud and hot and horrible.
‘Oh, Lo, have you forgotten the intense
joy
of getting fucked with someone when you know that later you’re going to fuck them? It’s the best feeling. I know you know that.’
Marty came out of the bathroom zipping up his flies.
All I needed was my bag.
As I slammed the hotel room door I heard her shout ‘You bailed first, Lo! Remember that! YOU BAILED FIRST.’
‘They’ve found it, Laura.’
A voicemail from my dad. I listened to it on the train, squashed into a window seat, hot and thirsty and heavy in the middle. My stomach went when I heard his voice. There was only one ‘it’ where my dad was concerned. I realised that the cancer coming back, a negative check-up, rogue cells gathering into a shadow on an x-ray, was still what I was expecting to hear whenever he or my mum called.
I called back and he answered before it even rang. ‘Laura – did you get my message?’
‘Yes. When –?’
‘Can you believe it?’
‘Uh –’
‘They’re being cautious, saying it’s just
Higgs-like
, but that’s scientists for you –’
I shook my head to clear it. ‘Dad, what are you talking about?’
A pause. ‘The Higgs boson.’
I burst out laughing. Then I remembered myself and stopped. ‘No way.’
‘Way, love. Way.’
‘Look, Dad, can I call you back in a bit?’
I got up –
Excuse me, sorry, sorry, sorry
– and walked down the carriage and then through the next carriage and the next carriage until I reached the shop. I picked up a paper and bottle of water. My jeans pockets were heavy with coins, pirate’s pockets: the result of spending notes and forgetting when you got change. As I stood in the queue I read the front page of the paper. Sure enough, there it was, albeit with a caveat (the restraint of scientists struck me as a more glorious thing than usual that morning): the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva had reported ‘a new boson with Higgs-like properties’.
I went back to my seat –
Excuse me again, sorry
– and devoured the story, thankful for the distraction. The text and the thrill of the news evaporated and I was left with guilt again, heightened by the thought of bodies – mine and my dad’s, of care and lack of care. I closed my eyes as the train flew through a tunnel. Always, always the fantasy of collision, of points not moved, of screeching, sparks, warped metal and fire-illuminated brickwork.
I hadn’t slept back at the B&B. I’d sat in bed listening to the street, waiting for the telltale splutter of a cab engine or the clatter of boot soles hitting stone. She hadn’t come back. I had a series of fast-dismissed sordid visions of what she might be up to with Marty in his hotel room. Bottles and furniture featured heavily. I tried to force a dream upon myself, backwards, one I’d had a few weeks ago, the strangest of my life so far. The only way I can describe it is that it felt like travelling through sedimentary rock. In the dream I’d murdered someone; had all the guilty horror of such a nightmare, the kind that normally stays with you all day, like a hangover. I came out of the dream through what felt like layers. First, the relief of innocence, but bodiless, a spirit; then the sensation of a body but not my body, a kind of physical peace; then up and up, through several more layers, each one a little more individually sentient, a fraction more sentiently filled until, finally, me, complete, Laura Joyce, in my bed in my bedroom, innocent (of murder at least). I was in bed with Jim and I’d rolled over and woken him.
You won’t believe this dream I’ve just had.
Shhh.
But I think I’ve just travelled through my own consciousness.
You take too many drugs, Laur.
I haven’t taken drugs for – oh, never mind.
I called Mel from the train.
‘Minibus?’
‘Train. Listen, has Julian got any flats going? Anywhere. Anywhere at all.’
‘Have you won the lottery?’
‘No, but I’ll work more hours, I’ll get another job, I don’t care – look, just ask him for me, would you?’
‘Have you fallen out with Tyler?’
‘No – it’s just. Time.’
Train toilets offered little in the way of solace. All that plastic and crèche-style primary colours, plus the pressure of knowing someone’s likely to be waiting outside. In the early days of Pendelinos Tyler hadn’t realised she had to lock the door and someone had come along and caught her mid-wipe.
Could have been worse
, she reasoned,
I could been inserting a tampon. And anyway, they were so embarrassed they bought me a can of Stella from the buffet. Result.
Back in my seat I opened my laptop and took the lid off my tea. It was grey in there, weak and watery. It looked like the most unsatisfactory brew in the world. I longed for a whisky. The train was quiet. A woman and a little girl got on at Lockerbie. Age-gapped sisters, I thought at first, and then when I’d seen them interacting a few minutes I thought more likely mother and daughter. They sat on opposite sides of the carriage, the little girl stretching her legs out on the seat next to her, taking care not to put her shoes near the upholstery. She looked tired, like she could sleep if she lay down. They both looked tired. The woman was holding an open bag of chips. Now and then the little girl reached over and took a chip and then reversed back into the double seat, chewing on the chip thoughtfully for a few minutes in a sort of trance. The woman munched through the chips more quickly, sucking the salt off her fingers and shaking the paper so that more chips were loosed from the sides. When the chips started to run out, the little girl moved over and sat beside her mum. They got off at Carlisle.
My phone rang. An unknown number. Pluses and too many digits. Jim. I picked up. ‘Hi.’
‘Good night?’
‘Oh, you know.’ My voice was shaky. Thank god it wasn’t a video call. I felt like I was at work, carefully managing a situation.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m just on the train, you know what it’s like on trains.’
‘I thought you went in Tyler’s car.’
‘She stayed on.’
He tutted.
‘Sorry, Jim, bad reception – I’ll call you back.’
I hung up and sat there hyperventilating. The train picked up speed. I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at it, hard. I looked up to see a couple sniggering, a little way down the carriage. Had they heard what I’d been saying? Had they seen me gawping at my phone? Agonies! I glanced a few times to get the measure of them – she was a reddish brunette, he was wearing a flat cap, they looked trendy. Trendy. I hated the word and I hated them. I took a breath. They are a new couple and they are bonding and they are using me to do their bonding and that is fine, I am big enough to take this. It could even be their first date. In which case they’re welcome to ridicule me. They need all the help they can get. Make the most, young hearts. Run fucking free.
When I got up to get off the train I walked past to see that they were watching YouTube on a phone, sharing a pair of headphones.
At Jim’s I washed my hair and put on my pyjamas. Tyler texted. I didn’t reply. There were some eggs in Jim’s fridge, they would do for my tea. There was a bottle of wine in a gift bag in Jim’s dried-food cupboard.
No
, I told myself.
Hey, Laura. Just Say No!
Somewhere in a parallel universe, a Laura Joyce was constantly saying no. This thought was spiritually comforting for two reasons: a) that a version of me with perpetual willpower could exist, and b) I didn’t have to be her. (Tyler:
I DID say no, it’s just that the drugs wouldn’t listen
…)
I opened the wine and poured myself a glass. Mel called.
‘Ju says there’s a flat if you want it. Just don’t piss him around, okay?’
‘Do I –? Okay.’
Jim got back a few days later. I was in bed and felt something move in the bed next to me and I woke in a blind panic, limbs flailing. Where was I where was I –
‘It’s me.’
‘You scared me to death.’
He put his arms around me and we lay like that, me on my side with my knees and feet together. I felt vertiginous. I wanted to shrug him off so I could balance.
The next morning over coffee he said: ‘There’s a party tonight at the town hall. A new signing by a classical publishing house. We don’t have to stay long but I thought it might be nice to go, together.’
‘I’m not sure I fancy it.’
‘Come on, party girl.’
‘Look, Jim, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m viewing a flat next week. One of Julian’s.’
He looked at me. I had to say more.
‘A stop-gap, if you like.’
A lie.
Fear – it’s an aphrodisiac. His thumb working its way from my knee along the tendon beneath, round to my inner thigh. Crossing my legs and squeezing his hand, rolling my thighs around his fingers, letting my toe nudge the hem of his jeans, up, up. Falling through the bedroom door and kissing him deeply, stretching my tongue, feeling the entirety of his mouth. The smells of him booming like pulses of sound, each stroke and slide a new reveal of sea and timber. In the bedroom he dropped to his knees and pulled down my skirt and pants, held his face down there for a moment and then clamped his mouth, his tongue wide and fat. The cold air made his tongue feel warmer. I ran my fingers through his hair, pressed the bands of muscle on his neck. He got up, kicked off his trousers. Sat down on the bed and reached for me, put one hand behind my head, the other in the small of my back, holding my hands there.
Don’t move.
Owning me. In that moment I think I wanted to be owned.
We missed the food but got there in time for the speeches. The Great Room was just that – majestic, candlelit, dotted with linen-draped tables and vases of flowers.
‘Classical publishers are like thoroughbred stables,’ Jim whispered as we walked in. I could smell myself on his breath. ‘New composers are rarely signed. Believe me, this is a big deal.’
A waiter went past with a tray of champagne and water. I took a champagne and downed it, not looking at him as I drank. I stared across the room.
‘Oh look!’ I said. ‘There’s Kirsten!’
For there she was, standing by a pillar, talking to a man in a tuxedo. She looked relaxed, her hair loose on her shoulders, her black dress flowing off her thighs and moving as she talked.
‘She’s talking to someone,’ said Jim.
She looked right past me a few times. I was waving for five minutes on and off before she spotted me and made her way over. She had a wicked weave on her, bumping into people, spilling drinks. Was she? Yes, she was. Absolutely fucking goulashed.
‘Hello!’ I said, gripping and kissing her. She swayed and righted herself. Still classy. Clean fingernails and smooth clothes. If you were truly classy then nothing could tarnish you, not even excessive alcohol. I imagined Kirsten spent weekends at the cinema or theatre when she wasn’t practising the cello in bijou hotel rooms around Europe. Her breath revealed her poison: brandy. Boy, was she classy.
‘James,’ she said.
I looked at Jim. He was looking at his shoes. Clearly classical musicians didn’t deserve a night off, even at a party. Perhaps Kirsten and I should just run away to a balcony and have a fag and shit-tons more brandy. I could hold her up. I wondered if she smoked. I bet she would smoke if I offered her one. It could be something we did together, something she always remembered from the beginning of our friendship.
I didn’t know how to smoke until I met Laura. Laura brought the joy of nicotine into my life.
No, not Laura. What would her nickname for me be? Something elegant. Lorrie. And I could call her Kirst, or Sten.
‘I like your jacket,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’d suit a leather jacket.’
Then someone tapped a mic and we all turned.
I suppose I should have known when she took two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and tried to hand one to Jim. I should have known when he refused the champagne in a tone of voice I couldn’t remember hearing before, more of a growl. I should have known when she poked him in the ribs with her finger when she thought I wasn’t looking. I should have known when she downed the two champagnes, got another two, and downed those. I should have known when she started talking softly but not that softly during the speeches:
You really have stuck to it, haven’t you?