Under My Skin (21 page)

But Glassman always looked over his shoulder now, for Matilda or for the person who he felt was following him, or for the next hint at death or a sign that might warn him in advance.

Instead now he saw Matilda and she was smiling and walking away from him and still wearing the black raincoat and Chucks – and she looked more beautiful than ever – because
she was still in love with him and she had convinced herself that she was carrying his child, a tiny foetus, created by him for her.

Discretion n. – 1. The good judgment and sensitivity needed to avoid embarrassing or upsetting others. 2. The freedom or authority to judge something or make a decision about it. 3. The ability to keep sensitive information a secret.

There is a bowl of red cherries on the table. The black Labrador sleeping at his feet. Apart from that, and Jonathan’s blue shirt, everything else is heavenly white. It is almost summer now and the afternoon sun moves in long shadows across the bare wooden floor.

He is in bare feet and I am fascinated by this. The shape of his toes. His heels. The cream corduroys turned up at the ends. He has been on holiday here for two weeks. He has stayed on the lake, fishing and swimming, and today he is somehow a new, more natural man.

‘You found me,’ he says. He meets me on the wooden deck in these bare feet and smoke curls slowly from his cigarette. His hands are not busy here. His smile is easy. He looks amused and as if he has never even owned a suit. Any minute and he might laugh at me. That is the expression on his face. When he turns there is a waft of aftershave and it is something light and fresh.

Inside there is very little furniture. A patch of sunlight on the gable. A wooden house painted white and, it seems, touched by God. A couch covered in a white sheet. Worn sea grass on the floor. Books filling every wall. An old gramophone. A hand-carved flying bird. And my father’s painting on
his wall. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked myself in the mirror and the girl looked back at me and shrugged. She was silent then and blinking and did not offer any words. She was still cloaked by Larry but ‘He’s gone now’, she said – out loud and into the universe and then she put her suitcase into the car.

The dog stirs and gets up and flops down in the shade.

‘Some guard dog,’ Jonathan says. He has planned every detail. Even what he is wearing. The blue shirt open and his cream cords. In the distance there is an open bedroom door, with sheets thrown back and dangling to the floor.

‘This way,’ he says. He is more than ten years older than me and beside him I feel like a little girl.

The bedrooms are at each end of the house. So we have the wide bright sitting room in between.

‘Her name is Florence,’ he says and he nods towards the Labrador. He gives half a smile and here his eyes rest on mine for a second longer than they should.

‘Did you bring your bathing costume?’ he asks. Even the words are embarrassing. It feels like a 1940s movie now.

Outside the summer light is beginning to fade. He knows the answers to every question – to all my questions. So I would like to ask, why am I here?

There is an Aston Martin parked outside. The leather seats are saddle tan. He owns a house in Ely Place. Another one on the Green. ‘Windsor Terrace was my first house,’ he says. He has a place in Mayfair. A yacht. A
gîte
in France. And this.

‘This is my bolt-hole,’ he says. ‘I don’t bring anyone down here.’

The house is white and made of wood. The double doors lead on to another deck that sits up over the lake.

He cooks lemon sole and we eat. In my mind there is a list of things I could say. I have never had to plan our conversations
before. I read the newspaper this morning. I listened to the radio on the drive down. And now that I’m here – he talks about fish – and the sun – how it will rain – and how good the swans look on the lake.

When the rain falls it makes a gentle sound on the water, like rain falling into rain. He carries the wine out and we sit on two wicker chairs. He smokes. His shirt is still open. I can see a silver chain from here. There is something disturbing about this.

I look back at him and he looks at me. The rain gets heavier.

‘Would you like to swim?’

‘In the rain?’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not a good swimmer. I don’t like water.’

‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Something else I didn’t know.’

‘It will get easier,’ he says and he is watching me all the time.

‘The separation,’ he adds and then, ‘You deserve to have a happy life.’

‘I had a happy life,’ I tell him and then I say ‘Goodnight’ and go to bed.

The bedroom is almost empty. There is a double bed with a white spread and a folded-up patchwork quilt. There is an old pine chest of drawers. A wooden fan on the roof. An old mirror leans on the wall. A picture of a ship. It has four red sails beginning to set sail. There is an embroidered cushion and three wooden elephants walk along the mantelpiece. I watch how they lift their heavy feet and I would like to follow them out the door. Why am I here? In the room across the sitting room he might be taking his trousers off. His shirt. His underpants. My boss. The silver chain bumping a little on his chest. My suitcase is still packed and I can see the Messerschmitt from here.

‘Save me,’ I whisper to it. ‘You’ve saved me before.’

I pick up the case and open the bedroom door and he is standing at the doorway in the hall.

‘Taking Florence out,’ he says. The sound of freeform jazz comes from the CD player.

‘Just looking for the bathroom,’ I reply.

‘Right there,’ he says and I walk towards it carrying my case. And of course he sees this. He has invited me to his house and now at night I am still carrying my suitcase around.

In the bathroom I check the window and it will open easily. Another white room. Another perfect white space. The porcelain bath. The new Jo Malone soap. The yellow and white candles. Everything smelling of lemon and lime. The towels are white. He has left a new robe hanging behind the door. Outside the rain has stopped and I try to pee silently into the bowl. Somewhere in my head, I thought this would be a good career move. In the room across the living room, he is curling up in bed and then stretching himself out. He is not able to sleep while this weird girl prowls around his house. The taps squeak. My suitcase opens with a loud snap. Deep breath.

And then I try to unlock the door – and try to unlock the door – and try to unlock the door.

Deep breath again.

The big key won’t turn.

The lock is jammed and suddenly I feel like crying. I want Larry back. I can’t be in a world where everything costs money and keys don’t turn. Somewhere I am telling Doreen about this and she is lying flat on the floor and laughing right up to the roof. I can hear Florence walk across the sitting-room floor. I am in hell. I wish I was dead. I wish I was the dog. The key is jammed. Give up. Look for another way.

‘Think,’ as Jonathan would say, ‘outside the box.’ I sit on the toilet and look at my case and I begin to think myself out of the room. Calling out is not an option. He is still awake now and wondering why I have not come out.

The windowsill is covered in tiny glass bottles. There are about a thousand of them. Each one has to be lifted down and put into the bath. Then the window opens easily. First the case goes out and then me. Dropping down into the rose bushes and shrubs. Now the prowling houseguest person is outside the house. And then I do what any normal person would do. I walk around to the front door and ring on the bell. And wait then and I am even whistling a little tune, with the suitcase on the wooden porch.

Florence gives one deep woof and I stand very still and wait. My life is leaving me out through my pores. The lake is on the other side. Calm and still.

I wish I was the lake.

I wish I was the car.

I wish I had never come here.

There are stars in the sky, that don’t have problems.

I wish I was the majestic moon.

I wish I was a star.

‘Who is it?’ he asks. He sounds older than before.

‘It’s me.’ My words are tiny, and posted in under the door.

Silence.

He is
surprised
of course.

‘Hope,’ I add then, as if there could be any doubt.

The door opens and he is wearing boxer shorts and a blue robe.

He looks confused. There is a quizzical look on his face. An all-round awkward moment I would say. Even the dog has to look away.

‘I got locked in the bathroom.’

‘Ah’ and ‘Oh’ he says and then we both laugh. And the suitcase, which has grown to three times its usual size, is carried inside – again.

‘I see,’ he says.

‘Did you bring the key?’

‘The key?’

And the tenth little Indian is ready to die.

The dog walks away. Then she turns back and just looks at me. The moon fades and the wind drops. He goes to his room. I go to mine. The night sky rests and it is safe to sleep.

There are birds singing outside. A long shaft of light, warm across my bed. Whenever we lose a pitch he says, ‘Tomorrow we start again.’ Whenever we win a pitch he says, ‘Tomorrow we start again.’ The dress is white cotton with red roses along the hem. I walk into the kitchen, ready to meet him and start again. He is reading his paper and when he sees me he looks up and smiles. It is the kind of smile that says we’re in a new kind of day. It is late morning. He has stayed inside and kept the dog quiet so I could sleep. He stands at the kitchen, and begins to turn the little knobs on his stove.

‘We have eggs,’ he says and, ‘We have ham,’ and suddenly from nowhere I can feel myself start to cry.

He frowns. Says nothing, gets busy with his apron string. He makes coffee, sits with his arms on the table talking about all sorts of things. The lake is good for fishing. He has a boat. ‘There is a canoe,’ he says and then he points it out. This makes me want to laugh. It is an Indian canoe, with the ends turned up.

‘We could go out,’ he says and he smiles at me suddenly
and looks right into my eyes – and on a day like this one, with the sun shining on the water, he makes all things possible now.

He scratches his face, grins at me, watches my every gesture. Then he takes me out in his car. We let the roof down and the wind lifts my hair. Florence yowls from the back. He takes me to a craft shop and when we stand side by side and look into the jewellery case I can feel his breath near my neck. Behind us the designer is busy at her work. We walk around the room. We walk up white wooden stairs. There are collars and breastplates on display. He stands close to me and we look into the glass case. Then he puts one hand on my waist and when I look up he kisses my bare shoulder and moves on. We stop for tea in a little hotel and he asks me about growing up in a country town. He listens to everything and tells me with an apology that he is a city boy. His nails are white and his hands must be soft. He always smells good. He cooks. His fridge is full. There is nothing to worry about. We drink. He lights a fire. It rains again and we stay inside.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ he says. His voice is level. He is certain of everything and I don’t know what to say.

These words are difficult for him now. From nowhere he is uncomfortable too. Saying words because he is compelled to. He sighs. Turns the wine in his glass and he runs one hand back through his hair.

‘I’m afraid to say…’ he begins and then he smiles because he is hanging on a ledge. He is standing on the top of a building and will not look down.

‘I’m falling for you,’ and the words come out quietly one by one.

Outside the moon moves from behind a cloud. We have the orange light from the fire and silver moonlight now.

He reaches out for my hand and I let him take it.

I can feel it all around me, how easily his power slips from him to me, and I love him for letting it all go so easily.