Under My Skin (18 page)

Larry stands behind the counter at Vertigo. He turns the bottle in his hands and pulls the cork. We have decided to get drunk together, slowly, quietly, easily; and then maybe whatever we’re looking for will just come back. He is tanned and lovely. His hair is getting long. He looks the way he always looks and
I also look the same. Not any taller. Not any smaller. Not any richer and just slightly different inside.

We say things like ‘Wine?’ and then, ‘OK.’

Or ‘Tired?’ and then, ‘Not really.’

Ask me how it happens – and I can’t tell you. He says something about working these long hours and then something about how I’m never at home, and I say something about trying to earn some money and the debt collector and then the next thing is we are standing facing each other and shouting. The first plate flies from me to Larry and then he picks up a loaf of bread and throws it against the wall. Then the cutlery tray goes. He picks up four dinner plates and sends them like frisbees at me. There is a sudden bang of thunder and outside it begins to rain. There are blue cups stacked high over the Gaggia machine and I run for them and throw them at him one at a time. I used to think this diner was our world. That no one existed or even moved outside Larry and Doreen and me.

Larry ducks from each one and gets in under a chair. He throws bread rolls. I throw coffee beans. He opens the fridge and takes out a chocolate cake. Last week he made this for me – for my birthday – and when I came home from work he had flour on his face.

The cake comes half-way across the room and then dies in mid-air and falls flat. He finds sausages and rashers and I find eggs. We throw everything we can find – and then I slide on to my knees and start to laugh – and Larry comes and stands over me and he is not laughing at all. He looks at me and when he turns around again a single dark curl hangs down over one of his eyes.

‘I still love you, Larry.’ I want to say it – this is the time to say it – but
I can’t
.

‘Hope…’ he says and then he stops, and now I am crying and he is crying too.

‘Hope,’ he says again, ‘what is happening to us?’

And there is no answer for this.

‘We were fine,’ he says. ‘We ARE fine.’ He puts his face into his hands and drags his fingers back into his hair.

I want to touch him but –
I can’t
.

Matilda writes a piece about the Flower District and Verdi Square. She says it is the start point of the Upper West Side. She says it is a place where couples sit and eat bagels and it is oddly romantic that people can screen out the noise of New York and fall in love. She has broken up with her boyfriend but she says deep down she knows that he still cares. She says she is thinking about cutting her hair and then going peroxide blonde.

Jonathan opens the door after one ring. There is an open suitcase in the hall and two books in his hand. His fishing rods are leaning against the wall and next to them there is a tennis racquet, a stack of CDs, his laptop, his mobile phone. He says, ‘Well, hello,’ as if we are old friends, and then, ‘I’m packing, I’m going away for the weekend.’

‘Is Nina here?’ I ask slowly.

‘No,’ he replies and now he is smiling and then he glances at the package under my arm. Around us our words are echoing in the white and cream marble and I watch as the fig tree loses one of its leaves. The doors are open on to the hall and a pale yellow lamp from his study sends out its glow. In
the background Maria Callas sings and her voice soars over us in Italian – and if the words were translated they would mean ‘tragedy’ and ‘jeopardy’ and ‘deceit’. ‘One week’ – that was what the debt collector said. His week ends tomorrow and my new week begins.

‘I want you to look at this,’ I tell him and I nod towards the package under my arm. It is wet from the rain and even now that I am here I do not want to let it go or even put it down.

‘Sure,’ he says, and when we walk into his study he turns the music down. His hair is wet from his shower. His shirt is creased. He is like any other boy now that we are not at work. I open up the paper and lay my father’s last painting out on the floor. He stands and stares down at it, his eyes fixed, his features perfectly still. I stay on my knees and I am still holding the edges with my hands. I can do this. I can do this. For me and for Larry. I can do this. Say goodbye. Say goodbye. It’s time to say goodbye.

Jonathan comes down on one knee and he is staring at the detail and still my fingers are on the canvas. First they are gripping and then just touching with their tips. It is all I have left of Pappy. In the threads of this canvas is his voice. In the paints are his bright days. In the brush strokes, the sound of his breath.

Jonathan walks to his desk and takes a chequebook out.

‘Name your price,’ he says and his voice is low and smooth.

‘Name your price?’ I think. ‘What price a life and sudden death?’

When the cheque is in my hand, my other hand still holds the corner of the painting.

Three fingers, then two and then one.

‘What happened?’ Jonathan asks softly. And taking a deep breath, I let the past go and it becomes any other painting on a floor.

‘He cut himself…’ The words come out and Maria Callas sings to them. She raises them up before they land and create some kind of horrible thud. But Jonathan says nothing. He just puts one hand on my shoulder as if to steady himself as he gets up. He walks to the kitchen and I listen as his footsteps echo down the long white hall. When he comes back he is carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses. We sit on the couch and he pours me a glass of wine and then another and then another after that.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says finally and he takes a deep breath, ‘and I can’t take the painting of course.’ He watches my face and then he says, ‘But… I would very much like to borrow it, so why don’t you take the money anyway… as a sort of retainer… and I’ll give the picture back when I’m tired of it… which will be… in about five years?’

‘Thank you, Jonathan,’ and he brushes these words away lightly with his hand. When I stand up he stands too and then he leans down to kiss my forehead and as he leans I decide to look up and that is when it happens and the kiss falls like a soft whisper on my lips.

We stop.

Frozen.

No part of us moving.

Just our breath, in and out, to keep our hearts from stopping, and I keep my eyes down and then I look into his – ‘Just once,’ I am thinking, ‘I want to look, just once,’ and we kiss again. And one more time, for luck.

‘I have to go.’

‘Wait… Hope…’

‘I have to go.’

‘Hope…’

‘Larry is waiting… I have to go.’

Larry turns the sign on the door. He shoots the bolts and pulls down the blinds. He takes a bottle of beer from the fridge and gives it to me with a smile. Then he slides into the red booth and puts his arm around me.

‘How was your day?’ he asks kindly.

‘Larry – I need to tell you something,’ and the words come out slowly. He lifts his eyebrows and the colour of his eyes seems to change a little. Dark brown and then just dark.

‘It’s about Jonathan.’

‘Jonathan?’ he says and his voice is confused and full of surprise.

‘I’ve borrowed some money from him.’

‘Jesus,’ he replies and he is shaking his head and looking at the floor.

‘And… there’s something else.’

Outside the rain pounds down on the street. It makes little rivers and puddles and the cars splash through. There is no easy way to say it, so the words just have to be pushed out.

‘We kissed…’

‘What…?’

‘It was nothing,’ I tell him.

‘Nothing?… nothing?… oh, Hope…’ and I can’t look at him so I just keep staring straight ahead.

‘What happened… after you kissed?’ he asks and his voice is shaking.

‘We kissed again,’ and I whisper these words and I still can’t look at him.

‘How did it feel… to kiss him?’ and his voice is low and sad and he also looks away now when he speaks.

And I can hardly answer him because I am beginning to cry now.

‘It felt… Idon’t know… sort of nice… I suppose.’

He doesn’t say a word to me. He doesn’t even breathe. He just stands up and not seeing the downpour and without thinking about a coat or his keys or even looking back at me, Larry turns quickly and walks out into the street and the rain.

Email to Jonathan Kirk 8.05 a.m.
From Hope Swann
Re: Social Committee
Jonathan,
Just to let you know – we’ve had three committee meetings and I’m ready to present some of our thoughts to you.
Please let me know when you’re free.
Thanks,
Hope.

Email to Hope Swann 8.06 a.m.
From Jonathan Kirk
Re: Social Committee
Hope – When I asked you to head up the social committee I
expected you to take responsibility. Not hand it back to me.
By the way… where is the strategy document for the Heinz
pitch?
Jonathan.

Bastard n. – 1. A person born of unmarried parents. 2. (informal) An obnoxious or despicable person. 3. (humorous or affectionate) A
person esp. a man, ‘you lucky bastard’. 4. (informal) Extremely difficult or unpleasant, ‘that job is a real bastard’.

Email to everyone 9.01 a.m.
From Hope Swann
Subject: Glad Tidings Comrades
Hi everyone,

Following a number of social committee meetings we have decided to make the following changes to our work place.

1. From now on everyone will get an extra day off as part of their annual holidays.

2. There will be no production meetings on Monday mornings.

3. The agency will now close an hour earlier on Fridays to give people a chance to beat the traffic. Hope.

Email from Jonathan Kirk 9.04 a.m.
To Hope Swann
Re: Glad Tidings Comrades
Drop into my office.

Larry puts two t-shirts into a bag. He finds his toothbrush and taps it on the side of the sink. The bed is not made, the sheets are twisted and the pillows are flat. Last night we could not sleep. When we tried to make love, it felt desolate and cold. His eyes are bloodshot. He is quiet and I cannot seem to help him. He seems so sad and he still wears his wedding ring on his thumb. He pulls the zip up on his bag. He sits on the bed and takes my hand.

‘I gave the keys of the diner to the debt collector… we don’t owe him anything any more.’

‘Larry…’

‘I need to be on my own, Hope,’ and I turn towards him again.

‘And this is the part when you beg me to stay,’ he says and he gives a dry little laugh. Then the silence fills up the room. He smiles at me. He puts one hand on my forehead. Taking my temperature. He should. I am not well.

‘What a strange girl,’ he says and he has said this before. ‘Of all the strange girls, in this strange world, I had to meet and fall in love with you.’

I pull my knees into my chest and hug them to me now. I want to be smaller than I am. I want to sink and become invisible to him and to myself.

‘So,’ he says and he sniffs suddenly and then sighs. Two different ways he has to cover up tears. He stands and picks up his bag.

‘Hope,’ he says sadly and when he leans down he kisses the top of my head.

‘We both need to be free,’ he says simply, ‘and if we are meant to be together, we’ll find our way back.’