Here's Looking at You (29 page)

‘I was thinking of getting a birthmark removed. A port wine stain in the shape of the words, “Sod Off James You Nosy Git”.’

‘Sounds like a talking point. I’d sell it to
Chat
magazine, make some money.
My very specific birthmark frightened lovers away
.’

Anna wiped under her eyes and sighed.

‘If you
must
know, and now sadly you sort of do, I had a low moment a year ago and considered a … chest lift.’

James wrinkled his nose. A nose that would be permanently ‘sold out’ if it could be ordered from cosmetic surgery brochures.

‘Why would you do that? I’m sure you’re fine as you are.’

‘Oh, dunno, hangover ennui. That arsehole boyfriend at uni said a few nasty things. But he said nasty things about most of me so it’s not a solid rationale.’

Anna knew her childhood experiences made her highly vulnerable to dumping her insecurities into her appearance, and tried not to do it. She suspected her scruffiness was partly due to a reluctance to pay it too much attention. Yet her bust was the only part of her that hadn’t emerged unscathed from being larger. When she lost weight, it deflated. Viewed side on, she worried her cans were what Aggy called ‘envelope flaps’.

There was a pause.

‘So you’re not going to do it?’ James said.

‘Doubtful.’

‘Good. It’s completely unnecessary.’

‘How do you know?’

‘If you had ones like icing piping bags or whatever, you could get it sorted for free on the NHS. The fact you’re paying is an admission it’s vanity.’

James Fraser was criticising her for vanity? Life’s journey took some very strange turns, sometimes.

‘And if it’s because you think men will care,’ he continued, ‘other than your arsehole ex, who’s both an arsehole and an ex, then trust me, they don’t.’

‘That’s sexist, assuming it’s all for the male gaze. Maybe it’s for me.’

‘Yeah, it’s not though is it? If Ryan Gosling approved them, as chairman of the board, you wouldn’t bother. Hence you’re doing it to suit the tastes of imaginary men in the future. And there’s no need. They’re definitely imaginary.’

‘Oh bloody hell, thanks!’

‘No! That was badly put. I mean their
preferences
are imaginary. Men are very binary. We either fancy you or we don’t. It’s not approval pending, like a Facebook friend request, until we’ve scored the bits and pieces out of ten.’

‘Who died and made Ryan Gosling boob arbiter general?’

‘Tell you what, show me instead then.’

‘You’re not serious?’

James nodded, rubbing his eyes. He folded his arms and leaned back.

‘Nice try!’ Anna squeal-giggled.

‘Hey, this is a win-win. You either get a compliment or a cast-iron unbiased opinion from a disinterested party that surgery’s the way to go. And before you say it, no, people you’re paying five grand to carve them up are not unbiased.’

‘Unbelievable!’ Hmmm. Disinterested. Unbiased. He didn’t have to hammer the binary lack of attraction element quite so hard.

‘You’d be getting them out for a bunch of strangers at a clinic. I don’t see this is so different.’

‘Anonymous medical professionals, not pissed-up James, taking the piss.’

‘Damn it. I really thought I had you there. Offer stands, anyway.’

As they laughed, it crossed Anna’s mind that this evening was involving a lot more assessment of body parts than she had anticipated.

James put the book back in its place and flopped down on the sofa, eyes gazing around the room.

‘What’s that …? That’s so strange. Hang on …’ James muttered. He’d bent his neck to the left and was staring across the room at something in the corner, at the base of Anna’s ancient Ikea floor lamp.

He was already on his feet and moving towards the target as Anna followed his line of sight.

If it was possible to sober up in four seconds flat, Anna did so, due to a stab of adrenaline so big it almost lifted her off the sofa in its sheer intensity.

The school portrait was A4-sized glass in a cheap gold frame, with a dappled studio background, supposed to resemble clouds against a blue sky. It had been taken at the height of the Aureliana agony years.

Her frizzed hair was dragged back in a plastic crocodile clasp at the crown of her head, a few curls escaping at her hairline and sticking straight up, creating a sort of Tintin effect. She’d flattened the whole thing with a gloopy gel product, but instead it looked as if she was experimenting with self-cleansing instead of shampooing, and the cleansing process had yet to kick in. It was the kind of startlingly unflattering, unhelpful style you had to be fourteen years old to attempt.

Her naan bread face was near-spherical, resembling a Cabbage Patch doll. Her forehead was speckled with teenage acne that she’d covered with a heavy pan-stick layer of Rimmel’s Hide the Blemish in beige, which created a curious lunar landscape above the black smudges of her caterpillar brows, which met in the middle.

Worst of all, possibly, was her expression. Aureliana hated cameras, as much as they hated her back. Therefore she was looking into the lens with the grimace you’d give a loathed enemy. Less a smile, more the twisted mouth you might see on the disembodied head of a traitor on a spike. It flashed a hint of her train-track metal braces.

Anna thought such highly classified material had been binned or burned, with only one last school photo remaining, wrapped in brown paper, at the bottom of her mum’s bedroom drawers. Anna hadn’t the heart to rob her of every last one. Yet somehow, this additional grotesque reminder had slipped through the net.

As her breath came in rapid bursts, her mind raced: how had this happened? She never had any artefact from her past in her flat, let alone on show.

The answer dawned. It was poking out of the lumpy sack of bric-a-brac from the loft, the one she’d yet to unpack. It had fallen on its side and the weight of the portrait had meant it had slid from the bag and out onto the floor. She’d thought the stiff, rectangular object inside had been a school folder. Her reluctance to probe things that would remind her of the past, and slack attitude to tidying up, had well and truly caught her out.

‘How on earth do you know
her
?’ James said, tugging the photo out from the bag an inch further, revealing the straps of her homemade pinafore dress uniform and multiple gold chains from Argos she liked to wear under her shirt collar, for a touch of glamour.

The revelation was on its way but hadn’t quite formed fully in James’s mind yet.

Anna was struck mute. Then panic and horror spurred her to act.

‘Stop looking at my things!’ she screamed, launching herself across the room and grabbing the photo, yanking it from the bag. She turned it towards her stomach, arms clasped over it protectively. ‘You’ve been looking through my things all night, you nosy TWAT!’

‘Eh?’ James said, startled by her volume and intensity. ‘It was lying there. Why do you have a photo of that girl from school who – wait, she was Italian—’

His blue eyes, the rich purple-dusk blue of her Gatsby poster, widened. Eyes that Aureliana had once spent a whole chemistry lesson transfixed by, even though he was in those ridiculous spoddy safety goggles. James put a hand over his mouth and shook his head. His palm dropped from his face again, his mouth slightly open.

Anna’s chest heaved.

‘You aren’t …? Alessi. But she was called … Ariana? Is she your sister?’

‘Aureliana,’ Anna said, hearing the tremor in her voice. ‘My name is Aureliana.’

Making that announcement herself gave her a moment’s relief. She’d asserted herself. Then the pain came rushing back as James’s face contorted in disbelief, amazement … and amusement.

He laughed. He actually laughed, a snort of incredulity.

‘Oh my
God.
Anna? Aureliana. You’re her?
That
was you? I don’t believe it.’

‘You’re laughing at me?’

‘I’m just slightly stunned. This is the strangest thing ever. Why didn’t you say …?’

‘Do you remember what you did to me?’

James shrugged.

‘You don’t remember?’ she repeated, forcefully.

The only way Anna could deal with this was to go on the attack as a form of defence, to convert the sting of shame into savage fury.

‘Uh … it was a while back. Excuse me while I catch up with this, you’ve had longer to get your head round it than me. You’re so different …’

‘By different, you mean less fat? Less ugly? Less bullied? That last one might jog your memory.’

The atmosphere in Anna’s front room was now nothing but confrontation and danger, and James’s own instincts to defend himself had arrived. He looked uncomfortable. And aggressive.

‘Sorry, where’s this banshee thing come from? You’re the one sneaking around, not saying who you are, acting like a nutter.’

‘Nutter!’ Anna shrieked. ‘You’re calling me more names? Fucking hell, you’re no different though, are you?’

‘Why are you screaming at me?’ James said. ‘Calm down.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ Anna shouted. She winced at how crazy she sounded, but her emotions were not under control. ‘I’ll remind you what you did. You tricked me into getting on a stage in a fat person fancy dress costume and had the whole school throw things at me. While you laughed, you and Laurence stood there and laughed at me. And you called me an elephant.’

James’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled.

‘Uhm, OK. Do you want me to apologise for some daft kid thing that happened nearly twenty years ago?’

‘Acknowledging it would be a start.’

‘Have you got any idea how mental you sound? You’re acting like someone else is responsible for this turn of events. You were fine with me until now.’

‘
You’re
responsible! I’m reacting this way because of you laughing about what you did.’

‘What? I’m a big enemy all of a sudden? I was over and above worse than everyone else at school, was I?’

‘You were the worst.’

‘Hah. Right.’

‘It’s true. You did the out and out nastiest thing of all. You knew I liked you and you used it against me. No one else could’ve got me on that stage.’

‘Stop being hysterical. It was a stupid prank.’

‘The fact you can dismiss it shows what kind of person you still are.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t pin the fact you were a freak back then on me.’

‘
Freak?
You bastard!’ Anna spat, trembling with rage. ‘You absolute, utter and complete bastard.’

James looked slightly scared. Then disgust settled across his haughty face. The sort of expression she fully expected to see, once her identity was known to him.

‘I’m out of here. You’re plain fuckin’ mental,’ James said, snatching up his coat. ‘Bye.’

The front door slammed. Anna hurled the photo, face down, across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed face side up. She let go of a howl, darted forward and grabbed it, flinging it again. This time it hit a bookcase and the glass shattered, sending dozens of minuscule glittering diamond shards into the carpet. James’s allegation of mentalness wasn’t looking entirely unfounded.

That
bastard
. How could she, for a single moment, have kidded herself he was any better than the boy who could do a thing like that? How could she let him in here?

She sank onto the couch and sobbed. Snotty, hacking sobs that came from the lower abdomen and felt as if she was emptying her soul out through her eyes and nose.

It had been a long, slow, tortoise-and-hare pursuit, but Aureliana had finally caught up with Anna, and they were united as one in hopeless lonely misery.

On the stereo, ‘You Make Loving Fun’ started up.

‘The poultice is the must-try according to
GQ
, apparently,’ Laurence said, scanning the menu, as they nursed tobacco-flavoured Old Fashioneds in a tiled booth of the basement bar at the Spitalfields Hawksmoor.

‘The poultice? A Victorian medicinal thing for extracting boils?’

Laurence checked again.

‘… Poutine, I mean. It’s from Quebec. Fries and curds and whey. Like, deconstructed cheese.’

James was doubtful and opted for the short rib that came with its own silver salver jug of French dip. Laurence’s plate was awash with brown liquid.

‘We are living in the Chinese year of the gravy,’ James said. ‘Isn’t this all like a fancy chip shop order?’

‘Nmmmm,’ Laurence said, through a mouthful of it. ‘S’well nice. You know the brass walls are from salvaged lift doors at Unilever House. Repurposed Art Deco.’

He rubbed his mouth with a napkin as his eyes followed the swingy behind of a woman cat-walking across the parquet floor. ‘… I like the interiors in here.’

‘Curds and whey,’ James said. Laurence still wasn’t making eye contact with him. ‘Wasn’t that in a nursery rhyme? Little Miss Muffet?’

Laurence turned back.

‘Tell you what, I would like to be the spider that sat down beside her.’

‘Oh, no. Leave her tuffet be.’

‘And her muffet, Jeeves?’

‘You need bromide in your drink.’

James took a deep breath and prepared to drop the A-bomb. He’d thought of little else since that night and he very much wanted someone else to tell him he didn’t need to feel the guilt that was plaguing him.

‘This’ll distract you. I’m going to tell you something about Anna the Italian that is going to blow your mind and beggar your belief.’

‘It’s not my mind I want her to blow. Wait. You haven’t slept with her, have you?’ Laurence said. He looked authentically pissed-off at this notion, even angry.

James was slightly taken aback.

‘No. Why? Would it matter if I had?’

‘Yes it bloody would matter. She’s mine. I saw her first. Hands off.’

‘Don’t Anna’s feelings matter in this hypothetical rutting? I haven’t noticed her scrambling to sit atop you so far.’

‘And she’s not into you either, so the only way it would happen is if you put the sly moves on her. Which under this verbal contract is a clear contravention of mates’ code of honour.’

James squinted.

‘Right. Glad that’s clear. Anyway, I’m going to tell you something that proves she’s never going to be into either of us. Remember that Italian girl at school, Aureliana?’