Untouchable Things (7 page)

Michael threw back the covers, wincing at the boom of the teachers’ laughter in his head, torched all over again with that strange feeling of shame. Despite the assault of floral fabric softener he could still catch a whiff of the musty damp of the practice room where he’d waited the next day for his lunch hour lesson, staring at cobwebs he’d never noticed before, the yellow-toothed grin of the keyboard. The door opening and Mr Fleming’s eyes lighting up at the sight of Michael. The grotesque image of a dog bounding over to its master.

Michael sat up. He switched on the bedside light, but he knew it was too late. The scene played out in front of his eyes like a film.

Sorry, I got distracted. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.

You look a little pale, Mr Stanley. Is there anything else of note from that weekend?
Only… no. Nothing of note.

Scene 9

So you drove home, Miss Jarret?

Yes.

It’s hard not to tremble and look down as she says it. She knew from the beginning she shouldn’t be in charge of that car. But when she saw Michael’s face at the breakfast table what could she do? He hardly looked like he should be behind a wheel either. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses. Said he’d had a bad night. She insisted on driving.

At first it was a relief to be leaving the labyrinth of identical tree-lined suburban roads. Leaving her mother, her hen-pecked father, that house of disappointments where the music had been snuffed out. The car was straining towards London, mirroring her energy. She started to relax as they hit the motorway and she got the hang of power steering. Michael was already asleep, or at least his eyes were closed, frowning under a thatch of wayward hair. She was glad they didn’t have to talk. A squeeze of tenderness made her smile. He was always there when she needed him. He was a good-looking guy, intelligent, musical but somehow she’d never felt like
that
about him.

A pulse started inside her as she pictured Seth, green eyes teasing. He had exploded into her life like a firework, a Catherine wheel, turning and spinning and lighting her with energy. She struggled to remember a time before she knew him.

She breathed slower and deeper.

She is a concert pianist, making a name. She has a gig at the Wigmore Hall. Her dress, long and burgundy, her hair swept off her neck. She is playing Bach. No, she is at the Festival Hall performing the E minor Chopin piano concerto. Her hair is loose, her body a conduit for the music. She is playing how she has always wanted to play. He is watching her, transfixed by her, eyes spilling tears. The audience bellows and stamps when she finishes, the conductor takes her hand as if in shock, hardened orchestral players wipe their eyes. She goes to her dressing room for a few minutes alone. There is a hesitant knock at the door. He stands at the threshold, unable to speak. Slowly he reaches out a hand…

“
Catherine!
” Michael’s voice is a roar, a scream, a sound she has never heard before. And there’s another scream from the wheels as they leave their lane and she sees the barriers rushing up to meet them. One of them twists the wheel, sends them ricocheting back into lane but they don’t stop there and a horn bays like a wolf at their heels. Then they’re over in the next lane and she waits for the bang but Michael is holding the wheel with her, and together they steady the panicked car.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Every part of her is shaking.

“Pull over.”

“But you’re not allowed…”

“Pull over now!”

She turns the car onto the hard shoulder and brings them to a stop. For a whole minute they sit in silence, panting like they’ve been sprinting. Catherine lays her head on the steering wheel and her shoulders heave. His voice, that cry, seems to echo round and round them. She feels a hand on her shoulder.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“I – no – I just…” She doesn’t know what to say. She nearly killed them. She’s never gone that far before, lost herself so completely.

Miss Jarret?

Sorry. Yes, I drove. The journey was fine, from what I remember.

We haven’t yet located Mr Gardner’s car. Do you know where he kept it?

Oh. No, he dropped it off at mine and picked it up on Sunday. I think he rented a garage somewhere.

And you have no idea where?

Sorry, no. Do you think…?

Let’s leave it there for now.

Scene 10

And so your first meeting of the — what was it? — Friday Folly. Was it what you were expecting, Miss Laurence?

Expecting? She had no idea what to expect. Up until an hour before she was still considering a tub of ice cream and an episode of
Friends
as a safer alternative.
Hamlet
had just finished and she could feel the downer hovering over her like a cloud, looking for a point of entry. Something out of the ordinary would be more likely to fend it off.

So she went, as Seth knew she would. Her newly washed hair had dried into soft spirals with no hint of frizz: a good omen. She arrived outside 15 Linfield Gardens at just gone eight – too eager, too early. It was one of those majestic rows of white, Regency houses where London showed its best side. She walked on for a few more minutes and stopped in the shadows to prepare, closing her eyes and breathing slowly as if she were going on stage. A lone breath of wind found its way down the neckline of her coat and made her shiver. Her cue.

As she approached the house she heard voices from an open balcony door on the first floor. She buzzed Flat B. For a second nothing happened. Then the intercom blared into life with the sound of raucous laughter and a man shouting, “Hello?”

“It’s Rebecca.” Now she wanted to go home.

“Come in, first floor.” She was buzzed into a grand old hallway with a marbled staircase and shiny black bannisters. She mounted slowly, admiring the carved cornices but in reality buying herself a little time. Chatter swirled above her head, increasing in volume as she climbed. And then there was Seth in a white shirt and jeans, smiling and holding open a black door.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Me neither.” She was held by his eyes, which caught the hallway light like algae on a sunlit pond. Waist down she was jelly already.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand.” And he did, gently squeezing heat into her palm as he led her into a white hallway. The first thing she saw was her own face smiling nervously into a huge mirror panel. She followed Seth down the passageway, which abruptly gave into an expanse of twinkling lights, people and laughter.

She blinked and wolf-whistled under her breath; she couldn’t help it. Seth was enjoying her reaction. “Does the lady Ophelia approve?”

How could she not? The room was at least forty feet long, hung with gilt-framed oil paintings, mirrors and a chandelier glimmering in the candlelight. Near her was a dining table set for dinner; at the other end she could see a blazing fire and dark wood furnishings. The back wall seemed to be one huge window where the brooding night sky provided a panoramic frieze. As she took it in her eyes fell on the painting nearest to her, showing a howling man on his knees.

“Oedipus.” He was following her gaze.

“Wow.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. The other side of the room seemed to be teeming with people, voices interwoven as they clustered round the fire. Set back a little, as though snoozing in the corner, was a grand piano.

“I didn’t know you were a pianist.”

“I’m not.” Before she had chance to ask more she realised the room had hushed and everyone had turned to look at them. Now she could focus, Rebecca was surprised to see how few people there were – maybe half a dozen. Still holding her hand, Seth led her towards the fire. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet the lovely Ophelia, who also goes by the name Rebecca.”

She felt like a child allowed into an adults’ party. There was a general murmur of hellos. She felt the heat from the fire seeping into her cheeks. The woman nearest to her, blonde and curly haired, flicked her eyes towards Rebecca and Seth’s joined hands before a kind-faced, bearded man came over and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Delighted to meet you. I’m Charles. We’ve heard all about your amazing portrayal of Ophelia from Seth. He hasn’t shut up about you, in fact.”

“And who can blame him?” A huge hulk of a man with a skunk-like stripe of blonde in his light brown hair grinned down at her. “I’m Jake. I’ll be your chef tonight. I ’ope you ’ave a good appetite.” Rebecca wasn’t sure if he was hamming up the strong cockney accent. He winked and she smiled back easily. Noticing neither of the women had approached her she moved towards the tall blonde as the others melted away. “Hi there.”

Seth stepped in. “Rebecca, this is Anna, the grande dame of the group. How’s life as a thirty-something, sweetheart?”

Anna pulled a face. “Ya cheeky fucker. Actually it’s fine now the hangover’s fading.” She spoke with a Northern Irish burr.

Seth dropped Rebecca’s hand to brush what looked like a sliver of potato crisp from Anna’s hair. “Anna’s a marketing whiz who likes to spend her free time with a bunch of no-hope creatives.”

“Ah there’s always hope – even for you, Seth Gardner.” She cocked her head and her smile passed over Rebecca as if accidentally. They were a similar height but Anna was considerably broader, with a huge bob of curly blonde hair and unmissable cleavage. Rebecca turned towards a third man, a mad professor type as her mother would say, with wiry hair and glasses, his eyes hidden as they caught the candlelight.

“I’m Michael.” He grasped her hand and a static shock ran through her, causing them both to jump back a bit.

They shared an embarrassed smile.

“Even his handshake is over-flowing with good intentions.” Seth’s voice was smooth, hard to read. “Michael keeps us on the moral straight and narrow. Unlike José.”

A short Mediterranean-looking man with closely cropped hair, neatly trimmed goatee and a tight T-shirt grinned and kissed her. “Welcome to the madhouse, darling.”

“Aww, he had to get up on his toes.” It was Anna to her left. “You’ll have to get your high heels out, José.”

“Stilettos or wedges, darling?”

“Enough, you two.” Seth waggled a finger. “Now, are we done? Ah, no, Rebecca, this is my Catherine.” Seth had put his arm round a mousy-haired young woman who leaned into it. Rebecca stuck out a hand pointedly. My Catherine? A sister perhaps? Her fringe grazed the top of her eyebrows like a child’s. A small, cool hand was offered and almost immediately withdrawn. They said a guarded hello.

“Now, who’s going to get Rebecca a drink?” Considering this was Seth’s house, he didn’t seem inclined to play host. The big man, Jake, put a hand on her back. “What d’ya fancy, Rebecca? I can do most things.” Clearly the accent was real.

“And he makes great drinks too.” Anna, it seemed, was always ready with a quip. Rebecca joined in the laughter, while peeking at the glasses around her. It looked like they were on cocktails but she played safe and asked for white wine.

“Anyway, this gallery is really worth checking out. They like taking stuff from virgin artists.” A previous conversation resumed to her right.

“I can’t imagine José fits either criteria then,” cackled Anna.

“Criterion,” muttered the bearded man, almost to himself, and then turned to Rebecca. “So, is
Hamlet
still showing? I might try to catch it.”

They talked theatre and before long Rebecca felt comfortable enough to ask his name again – Charles – and to run through the others. He had a slightly odd, asymmetrical face and she found herself studying it: his nose was flat-nostrilled on one side and flared on the other. She suspected the beard, which had a hint of red, softened the overall effect considerably, and his eyes were chocolate and gentle. At one point he sucked on a blue asthma inhaler, waving his hand at the stream of smoke snaking from Seth’s cigarette. Then Jake brought her drink, at which point Seth tapped the side of his glass with a spoon.

“Time for the main feature, ladies and gents.” There were mutterings of dissent.

“Do we have to?”

“Can’t we have another drink?”

Seth raised his voice. “Quiet, philistines, and take your seats.”

People moved towards an assortment of chairs and sofas, arranged in a rough circle near the fire. Rebecca noticed Catherine gathering up their empty glasses and putting them on a tray. Charles gestured towards the largest sofa – “You ladies may be more comfortable here” – and Rebecca sank down, grateful to take the weight off her heels. Still muttering and giggling, people found themselves a seat. Only Seth remained standing.

“Now, as it’s Rebecca’s first week she’s just going to observe, as she has understandably expressed the concern that we’re a bunch of psychopaths.”

Rebecca looked down and smiled over the cat calls.

“So, to put her mind at rest, or perhaps not, would anyone like to explain to her what this group is and what we do?”

“We fall on our knees to worship the God of Art. Naked, of course.”

“Thank you, José. Glad you’ll be putting on your usual show. Anyone got anything useful to say?”

Anna raised her hand. “Please, sir.”

“Anna?”

“We’re your trusted prodigies, brought together to entertain you through dark winter nights with sumptuous artistic delights.”

Seth smiled. “I think the word you’re looking for is protégés, though I do feel like I’m in a room full of children sometimes.”

“Ooh, sorry sir.”

Ignoring the sniggers, Seth turned to Rebecca. “It’s probably better to say as little as possible and leave it up to you to judge. Call it an open mic session without the mic. We might have a theme to get us started, hence the unusual postcard you were sent at work.” Various heckling. “I was rather pleased with it myself. A picture from Pompeii, a quote from
Hamlet
, with an overarching theme of female pleasure. Plenty to get us going. So to speak.”