Authors: Charlotte Oliver
It turned out that Jemima was the artist. Or the photographer. Or sculptress, maybe. I forget.
After she’d finished nuzzling him, Jack turned to face me and said, “Jemima, I’d like you to meet Ava. The answer to all my prayers.”
A flush of happiness burst through me.
She smiled broadly. “You have no idea how much you’ve simplified dear Jackie’s life,” she cooed, patting me on the side of the arm. “He was
so
in need of someone.”
“Nice to meet you,” I mumbled as I tried to untangle some gratification from my envy and resentment.
You’re going to have to get used to this,
I scolded myself.
You can’t expect his friends to be any less glamorous than this.
After exchanging some more flirtatious pleasantries, Jack and Jemima swept off into the gallery, with me following pathetically behind, half-heartedly pretending to look at the stupid pictures.
The rest of the evening consisted of her energetically escorting Jack around, introducing him to everyone she could find. I soon cottoned on to the fact that, basically, Jemima was trying to insinuate as strongly as possible to all prospective buyers that she had a powerful patron supporting her work, and if they knew what was good for them, they would drop their investment dollars on someone with clout. I wasn’t particularly welcome. I found the bar, got a Coke, and plonked myself on an open sofa.
I was drunk enough to feel philosophical. I’m one of those people who goes on a crying jag when I’ve had too much to drink. You know how sometimes one silly thing will happen, like you knock over a bottle of beer that belongs to a boy you’ve just met, and because you’ve had eight pints of cider because it’s the end of exams or what-have-you, you take it far too hard and start apologising and then you feel so bad you start crying, and then someone steps on the side of the new sandals that you bought that day at Zara and sort of scuffs them, so you cry some more, and before long you’re crying about the sweatshop child labour that got you your now-ruined sandals (the boy with the beer is long gone), and then about animal testing and baby seal clubbing and that time you got a C for your ballet exam and the instructor told your Mum you’d never make it onto pointes, and before long your friends are splitting the cost of your cab and muttering things like
depressive
tendencies
under their collective breath, while you weep ceaselessly into your handbag? Well, that’s me.
I admit, sitting there alone on a couch, in a room full of people I didn’t know, things could easily have taken a turn for the worst. I caught myself thinking, moodily, about how Mia was right; men like Jack needed a heavy hand. Jemima and Mia were of the same stripe—gutsy enough to get what they wanted.
I scanned the room, resigning myself to people-watching in the hopes that it would pass the time quicker. Every so often, I would feel my eyes roll in their sockets; it was hard to keep myself from nodding off. Every time I nearly did, I blinked hard and looked around, trying to find something to focus on that would keep my attention.
Funny how it’s almost always the women that you look at, isn’t it? The men just
are
. They stand around, unruffled, secure, knowing that even if everyone in the room hated them or thought them ugly, they’d still be
themselves.
But the women aren’t like that—at least, nine times out of ten they aren’t.
Most of the women, you can tell, want other people to like them. They smile; they nod enthusiastically when others speak, or if they’re brave they affect disinterest, as a kind of bluff that they hope will pay off. You can see that they dress strategically, in order to make as plain as possible what it is that sets them apart: Jemima’s clothes and bearing, for example, said “Rich; Bohemian; Available Subject To Negotiation”. Another woman, an icy blonde in pale grey-blue and white, said “Otherworldly; Hitchcockian; Worth The Effort”. (I wondered what I was saying to the world. “Excellent Telephone Manner; Clean; Makes Good Tea”, perhaps?). The only thing that differed from woman to woman is whether they’re more concerned about men liking them, or other women. It was rarely both, and when it was, the woman in question spent her life doubly exhausted.
I understand why,
I thought.
It’s because men can be happy on their own. Women can’t. Or they can, but it’s so much harder.
The thought filled me with despair. What was the point of all this scrambling around for a career? Who cared about Mia’s stupid degree and how clever she was? Look where that got her—divorced, unemployed, depressed, living with her Mum after ten years out of the house.
But what was the alternative? Join a dating site, carry on at a crappy job and sit at home waiting for a call from Mr. Right?
My eyes tried to force themselves closed again, and I forced them open. In an attempt to keep myself awake I stood up, shakily. For the thousandth time, I let my eyes drift across the room. Then something vaguely familiar caught my eye. I squinted a little; it was a woman, leaning against the bar, a drink dangling from her hand. Where did I know her from?
Then I realised I was looking at the redhead. Funny how Nobu seemed years away by that time of the evening.
Her hair looked unbrushed, like she had just climbed out of a limousine after having had a shag on the back seat—which is probably exactly what had happened. But something must have changed since our early dinner. She had a look of utter desolation on her face. Her eyes, a bright, pale hazel, were sunk into her head and her mouth was set into a hard line. I was shocked at how ugly she looked.
Cheer up,
I thought disapprovingly.
If it were me who’d just had sex with my boss I think I’d be able to muster a smile
. I scanned the room for him—Mr. Hammerhead, I mean—and I found him quickly.
He was deep in conversation with Jemima, his hand resting proprietarily on the small of her back. She was smiling, laughing, her teeth perfectly white and even, her eyes flirtatious. Jack, whose arm she was still clinging to, looked embarrassed. I felt a surge of fierce pride. Jack was too lovely and open-hearted for these people; he was so different from then. How uncomfortable he must be! Just then, he caught my eye, and appeared to excuse himself; Jemima waved him away and drew closer to her admirer, even reaching up to brush imaginary dust from his immaculate dark-grey suit.
I glanced back at Red as Jack approached. She looked stricken, but in an instant a veil of resignation had settled across her face. She gulped down the rest of her wine and turned around to order another glass.
How horrible it must be to have to share him with everyone
, I thought, sympathetically.
How it must break her heart.
She could just finish with him and find someone decent
, said another, sensible voice in my mind.
But maybe they’re soul mates,
I thought back.
Maybe she can’t love anyone else but him. Maybe the whole world looks like ashes without him, so all she can do is wait until he sees sense.
Don’t be ridiculous,
said the sensible voice.
What is this, 1955?
Just then Jack appeared at my side, grabbing hold of my upper arm in a gesture that shocked me with its intimacy. “Come on,” he murmured, “let’s go.”
“Ugh,” he spat once we were back in the Jag. “That was dreadful. I’m so sorry it took so long.”
“It didn’t,” I said, still a bit shaky from being frogmarched to the car. It was far too long since I’d last been manhandled like that.
“Well, it seemed far too long to me,” he said, sounding irritable and tired. “Why are people so hell-bent on ruthlessly promoting themselves? It’s so obvious. It’s so off-putting.” He shook his head.
So he realised what she was doing
, I observed to myself.
What a gentleman he is not to say a word, just to disappear politely.
“Where do you know Jemima from?”
“Jemima? Oh, university, I think. Yes—that’s it. We were in the same law of intellectual property class at some stage. Listen, do you want to come and have a late supper with me? I’m never full enough after sushi. Matthew can take you home afterwards, don’t worry about missing your bus. Go on, it’s the least I could do after starving and boring you all evening.”
“I—OK,” I managed. He sounded so peppy and upbeat when he suggested it, I didn’t want to disappoint him—especially after he’d been so disappointed by his friend’s behaviour. I ignored the twinge of nervousness in my stomach.
Manny, the concierge, smiled as he waved us in. Jack never used his little electronic tag thing to get into the building, it seemed. I felt a pang of shame at what Manny must have been thinking of me, coming home late on a Friday with my boss—and then I dismissed it. For heaven’s sake, he was a concierge. What did I care?
Back upstairs in the kitchen, Jack took out another bottle of wine and began to open it. Then he looked up at me and said, “You’re far too tired to finish another bottle with me, aren’t you?”
Of course I was, but the last thing I wanted to do was be a killjoy. “I’ll have a glass, if you do.”
“Are you sure?” Concern made his eyes burn with intensity.
What a lovely man.
“I’m sure,” I smiled, forcing some cheerfulness into my face.
“Tell you what—let’s make it a real nightcap.” He touched me on the shoulder and steered me out of the kitchen door. “Go and put your feet up.”
“That sounds lovely,” I said, truthfully, and dutifully trudged off.
The sitting room was softly lit from the doorway of the kitchen, through which I could see Jack cooking something up. My mouth watered in anticipation. But my alcohol-fuelled hunger was no match for the powerful fatigue that was dragging me down into the underworld of slumber. Within moments, I was dozing, feet curled under me.
I half-woke as he sat down next to me. “Scallops on toast,” he said.
“Mmm,” I said, trying to pull myself into consciousness by force of will. Had he really said he’d made me scallops? His fridge was like the inside of Harrod’s. I straightened up, trying to locate his face.
“It’s dark,” I mumbled in the little-girl voice of one who needed her sleep.
He laughed, a low, sweet, indulgent sound, and I was alarmed by the throbbing that started down deep inside me. “Come on. It’ll only take a moment to eat.”
In the brief moments that I’d dropped off into slumber, something had changed. Something was different. I struggled into consciousness, trying to put my finger on it—but I couldn’t. So we sat up in the half-light, staring toward Jack’s Rauschenberg, swathed in darkness, silently sipping Jack Daniels and eating scallops. This wasn’t the first meal he’d made for me, or the first one I’d eaten with him, of course. It wasn’t the first time I’d been alone with him. Yes, it was late at night, but it’s not as if we’d just come in from a nightclub or a party; we’d been working all day and were only now winding down. But something was different.
I could hear a clock ticking in the kitchen.
I moved from awake, to guarded, to hyperaware. What was the time? Was Matthew really waiting outside?
Every few seconds, his arm brushed against mine, sending electric sparks rushing over my skin—and I could almost hear the far-away whine of a siren.
Danger,
it sang.
Danger. Danger . . .
By then I was panicked. As soon as I could, I placed the empty plate on the coffee table and stood up, making a great show of finding my shoes (which I had kicked off without even thinking about it) and handbag.
“Well,” I said brightly, “it must be terribly late, must get going, got so much to do tomorrow, anyway thanks for a lovely evening, even though it was for work, and the sushi was lovely, oh, and so were the scallops. Lovely. Thank you.” I could hear the hysteria rising in my voice. Jack was sitting with his empty plate on the table in front of him, sipping his drink. I’d left half of mine on the table top, hoping he wouldn’t notice it—or worse, refill it.
The top button of his white shirt was undone. There were dark circles of fatigue under his eyes, but he was looking levelly at me, his stare unwavering and somehow invasive. His shirt and trousers were rumpled, as was the white slipcover of the sofa—he lay back, languid, and the complete stillness of his body was unnerving.
Oh, shit,
I thought, realising what was happening.
“Could you a-ask Matthew to come round to the front?” I asked, trying not to let it sound like a plea.
“No,” he said, evenly. Adrenalin sprang into my veins. The siren song was louder, clearer, more obvious. It was too late. Too late. Too late.
“Why?” I asked, trying to smile. Isn’t it funny how you always know exactly what’s going to happen next, even though you pretend you don’t? Even though you might really
believe
that you don’t?
He put down his glass and stood up, without dropping his gaze. I stood, paralysed, in the light of the doorway, shoes on, handbag in hand.
He loped toward me, with that loose-limbed grace that he had had in the first moment I had seen him, at the gallery. His long legs, snake hips, his broad and beautiful feet. Why did he always take his shoes off? His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His top two buttons were undone.