Untouchable Things (17 page)

Twenty minutes later she knew all about the social problems in North East London. He was clearly passionate about what he did but she couldn’t escape the feeling of being lectured. Maybe that’s what being a teacher did to you. Still, he was intelligent and interested in theatre. They talked for a while about using drama to help socially deprived kids, and Rebecca found herself agreeing to run some workshops for him later in the term. Why not, it was probably that or more temping and here was the chance to do something useful.

Every now and then she noticed Michael glance towards the door. Was he hoping Catherine and Charles might come on after their concert? Once again she pushed Seth from her head. She needed to use the opportunity to get to know the others. She and Michael were running out of conversational steam and started to tune into the surrounding chit-chat. Everyone was knocking back the wine, even Michael, whom she had down as a lightweight. Anna was enthusing about her car, a soft-top MG, while José shook his head and Michael shifted pointedly in his seat. Then she stopped mid-sentence and pulled out her phone with a flourish.

“Aha.”

“What?”

“New message. Bet it’s from Seth.”

“What does it say?” Rebecca noticed José check his phone too while Michael muttered about mobiles.

“On my way.”

She could almost taste the change in energy. José went to the bar, saying Seth would want a bottle of beer. Michael’s restless glances at the door increased. Rebecca ran a hand through her hair and took a slug of wine.

Half an hour later and Seth hadn’t arrived. His bottle of beer stood in the middle of the table like a totem of his absence. Everyone kept checking their phone. Another half hour went by. In the end, Anna rang his mobile but it was switched off.

“Maybe he’s run out of battery and has got held up.”

“You mean he’s got a better offer. Typical Seth, doesn’t even let us know.” Michael’s lips were tight.

Anna glared. “Why don’t you get off his case? We don’t even know what’s happened.” There was a brief, tense silence where everyone listened to ‘Pump up the Jam’ with unprecedented concentration.

“Anyone for another drink? My shout,” offered José. Various murmurs of acceptance; Michael stood up.

“Well, I’m off. You’re all mad to wait for him.”

“We’re not waiting for him, Michael. It’s called having a night out.” Even José sounded riled. Rebecca looked down at her drink, feeling the hum of group tensions that were new to her. At that moment her phone pinged in her pocket. Frowning, she pulled it out.

Meet me in All Bar One round corner. Don’t tell others. S.

She assumed a neutral face as she pocketed the phone, heart thumping.

“Message?”

“Yeah, just Jason.”

“Another drink, Becca?” José had stood up.

“Rebecca, I’m off, I’ll call you about those sessions.” Michael lifted his hand as he left.

“Great, see you soon.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. “Date with Michael?”

“Yeah, right. I’m doing some workshops for him. Sorry José, no, I’m heading too, I think.”

Anna pulled a face. “Don’t mind her, mine’s a large glass of white. Catch you later, Becs.”

Rebecca said her goodbyes in a flurry, having to turn back for her bag before stepping out onto the street. The air felt sharp in its purity after the dense smoke of the bar and her chest tightened as she strode out towards Soho. Twice she looked over her shoulder like a spy in a James Bond film. Who did she think might be following her? Life had got weird.

As she entered the bar she saw him smiling at her from a free table, the post-work drinks crowd starting to thin. Rebecca opted for a semi-smile as she sat down. He handed her a glass of white wine and moved his Fedora hat from the table to the seat next to him.

“Did anyone see you come here?”

She laughed drily. “Sorry, have I just stepped into a John Grisham novel? Why the secrecy?” She felt spikier towards him after their last phone conversation.

He smiled. “Touché. I was heading over to meet you all when I suddenly thought, ‘I’d much rather see Rebecca on her own.’ Didn’t feel like doing the whole big group thing. So that’s why I sent the message. And you came.”

She looked down at her glass. “Yeah, I felt strange slipping away like that.” She wasn’t going to be won over quite so easily.

“Well, thank you anyway. No one would dream of looking for me here, amongst all these working types. How was the evening?”

She nodded. “Pretty good.”

“Just pretty good? Any domestics?”

Rebecca couldn’t help a smile. “Well, Anna and José got a bit annoyed with Michael.”

Seth made his eyes wide. “Why?”

Too late, she realised her mistake. “Oh – I’m not really sure. I thought there was probably some sort of history there. But you’d know more about that than me.” She took a sip of her wine.

He gave her a searching look for a second then chuckled. “Fine, I’ll get it out of Anna. But let’s not talk about all of them now.”

Rebecca leaned back. “So what do you want to talk about?”

He fished a cigarette out of the silver box and spent a few seconds lighting it. Finally he sat back too and looked at her. “I think I owe you an apology. Well, I know I owe you an apology.”

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

“The other day when you phoned and I played dumb… I was a bit taken aback, to be honest. That you asked. But I do know what you were referring to.”

She took a sip of wine. “Oh. I’m sorry if I put you on the spot. I just felt a bit concerned afterwards.”

Neither of them spoke for half a minute. Seth tapped his cigarette over a thick glass ashtray.

“Rebecca, do you know what I mean by the black bird?”

“Blackbird?”

“No, the black bird. Churchill called it the Black Dog. To me it’s a bird that swoops down and hovers over your head.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. “I think so.”

“Do you? At the time I thought you did, you seemed to know how to respond to me, but later I wasn’t sure.”

It was her turn to struggle to explain herself. “I did know how to respond, I just had an instinct what to do – it was weird. But I’m not sure I’ve experienced the black bird myself.”

Seth exhaled smoke slowly. “You’d know if you had. One flap of its wings can snuff out all the joy in the world.”

Jack Chisholm
, she thought, her first heartbreak, those nightmarish few months before her parents packed her off to Cornwall. And something else, blurry and indistinct at the edge of her memory. She ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “Or maybe I do know. It’s a time in my life I try not to think about.”

He nodded. “The poem you read,
The Waste Land
– well, it has some particular associations for me. I thought I could handle it but clearly I couldn’t.”

She put her hand over his. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have let me read it.”

“No, I wanted you to – after all it’s an incredible poem. Eliot’s masterpiece. Far better than all the other stuff after he’d found God.”

She understood the squeeze of her hand was also a cue to let go; they both took a sip of wine. Seth leaned back. “I mean, why is it that angst and pain and despair makes so much better art than peace and hope and happiness?”

She thought about it. “Well, comedy can be a wonderful thing too.”

“Can it? Does anyone really prefer
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
to
Lear
?”

“Maybe not to
Lear
but certainly to
Hamlet
.” They both laughed.

“It’s the same in music. Mozart – well, I just can’t get worked up about him. Give me a bit of Beethoven or Tchaikovsky any day. Composers who knew about suffering.” She nodded, not sure she’d be able to tell any of them apart. Something crossed his face.

“What is it?”

His eyes trawled her face. “Nothing. You remind me of someone, that’s all.”

“Dare I ask who?”

He smiled. “My fingers are itching for untouchable things, Rebecca.”

Was he quoting something? She remembered his hands in her hair last time they met.

He stubbed out his cigarette. “You stir up embers I thought had long settled. And I find they’re still hot.” Watery lights came on, making them blink. He shook his head, breaking her trance. “God, is that the time already?”

“Drink up please, ladies and gents.”

“Hurry up please, it’s time,” she quoted, remembering
The Waste Land
, in her best Peggy Mitchell voice. Seth chuckled.

“This bloody country and its licensing laws. This wouldn’t be happening to us if we were sitting in a bar in Madrid now.”

“Well, there are plenty of other places we could go. If…”

He reached for his jacket. “Hmmm, tempting but I should probably shoot. Quit while I’m ahead.” Disappointment clanged hollow in her belly.

He touched her arm. “But Cinderella shall go to the ball. Special Christmas edition of the Friday Folly a week on Friday. I know it’s a bit early but it can get us all feeling festive.”

It was her turn to go to Milton Keynes that weekend. “Sounds good. Dare I ask what the theme is this time?”

He held open her coat for her. “Well, the theme is Christmas but there’s nothing to prepare. All will be revealed on the night.”

She laughed. “So once again I turn up at your house with no idea what I’m letting myself in for.”

He kissed her goodnight and stroked a strand of hair away from her face.

“You’ve got it.”

ACT 2 - Prologue

Time for a quick refresher while we reintroduce the players. Take your seats, here they come.

First up, it’s
Michael
, looking like he just got out of bed, but of course we know he’s doubly cursed with wild hair and a mind that rests on higher things. That gesture – taking his glasses off and squinting – is a bit of a trademark and not just because of the lights.

Following him is
Catherine
, or Cath-in-a-cardy as Anna might say. Mousy bob and an eye colour you won’t remember, she hates the spotlight. See her shrinking into Michael?

Approaching with something of a proprietorial air is
Charles
. He’s reaching for Catherine’s hand but it’s too early to bow so he just stands there looking a bit awkward. Coughing, probably, it’s too far away to tell.

Now
José
comes running up, nimble on his toes, big smile, no doubt wearing some shade of green. Yes, it’s his trainers tonight, he might be off clubbing afterwards. And where there’s José there’s
Anna
, striding forward, bouncing from her hair downwards, sounding off about something or other and laughing with a Northern Irish accent.

No need to tell you to look at the sashaying siren now claiming the stage. It’s
Rebecca
, the only pro, as if you couldn’t tell. Come on, you would if you looked as good as her. You’d certainly swish your hair over your shoulders like that if it shone like fire opal under the lights.

The group is parting now to let someone through. You know this one. Dark haired, moves like an assassin, face in shadow. But they’re all watching him so intently that they don’t notice the last person join the line.
Jake
. He’s hard to miss really. A blonde-streaked bear, if you can imagine such a thing. Chewing gum, as ever. It’s probably about time we heard from him.

Scene 1

The missing jigsaw piece. Thank you for coming in. Could you tell me how you met Seth Gardner? Sit back, Mr Etheridge. You look uncomfortable.

That obvious, is it? Yep, 1995 it was. May.

Tip-top morning, one of those days where summer suddenly arrives and people slide pasty legs into creased shorts. Everyone was out. There couldn’t be a better day to run a waterside restaurant. Of course Jake didn’t own the restaurant, but with the way he was bringing in the punters he hoped he might get a share in it soon. Today he’d do a couple of salad specials for the ladies and a barbeque for the blokes. A barbeque was perfect because it meant he could be outside, doing the hospitality stuff as well as the cooking. People loved that. It was his chance to show the front of house staff how charm was really done.

“Oi, Warren. Rise and shine, my lad. Them peppers ain’t about to peel themselves.” His eighteen-year-old sous chef was shaping wooden as ever, gazing vacantly through eyes that had clearly seen a lot of pints the night before. Kids today had no staying power. One night on the town and they felt they were owed a day off, probably with their mum’s cooking them a nice fry-up and wiping their runny arses.

Warren grunted and made towards the pile of peppers.

“Look sharp, they ain’t gonna bite you. And when you’ve done them there’s a load of mushrooms in the fridge that need chopping.”

Jake went over to the meat board, whistling. He resisted the urge to give a sharp pinch to Emma’s arse as it bustled past him. Not the done thing these days. Instead he tipped her a wink.

“Awright, darling?”

She grinned. Gloria, senior waitress and resident sourpuss, tutted at both of them. “There’s tables need setting out there, Emma.”

Emma saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” She winked back at Jake as she strolled towards the dining room.

By one o’clock the garden was packed with his target group: yuppies. High disposable income, no responsibilities, planning to stay in their twenties forever. Jake’s experience of his twenties could not have been more different. From having it all at twenty-six – wife, flash car, big house in the suburbs – to losing it all a year later, along with his freedom. Now at thirty-five and on his third lifetime, he was going to get it right.

A crowd was gathering round the barbeque, watching him whip fish kebabs, Texan steaks and veggie skewers on and off the hot plate, all the while delivering a running patter of what he was doing and how he’d prepared them. Better than Anthony Worrall Thompson or whatever his name was. Sweat ran down his hairline as he joked with his customers but the cheeky boy smile didn’t desert him once. ‘Cheeky boy’ was one of a number of labels that followed him around, along with ‘chancer’, ‘barrow boy’ and ‘gift of the gab’. It didn’t bother him; people could make him fit whatever stereotype they liked as long as he got what he wanted from them in the end. As Lester used to say, life was just a series of transactions – and he’d learned the hard way that staying in credit was the only thing that mattered.