Читать книгу The Book of You - Claire Kendal, Claire Kendal - Страница 17

When I hug Rowena just inside the restaurant’s entrance her breasts bounce against me without squishing at all. They are improbably high and seem to have grown two cup sizes.

Her first words to me are an answer to my unvoiced question. ‘Yes. I had a boob job.’ Her chest is shimmering, dusted with sparkling powder. ‘You wear your body every day. You’ve got to be happy in it.’

Rowena runs her own one-woman company. She is a Discourse Analyst. She looks at every mission statement, advertisement, and logo a business produces. Then she tells them what messages they’re really giving out. Maybe Rowena worked for a plastic surgeon and got seduced by the brochures she was supposed to critique.

‘Just because we are thirty-eight doesn’t mean we have to look thirty-eight.’ She is examining her face in her compact mirror, looking so worried it makes me think of the queen in ‘Snow White’ with her terrible looking glass. Rowena’s forehead is shiny smooth. It is out of synch with her jaw and cheeks.

I want Rowena to look less sad and strained, so I ask how she gets that dewy fresh glow; a little teasingly, but affectionately too.

‘I have a strong will not to raise my eyebrows at all, and to limit my expressions. Movement gives you lines.’

She’s not intelligent, Henry said.

There are different kinds of intelligence, I said.

Henry haunts me too, but not as much as you. You’re fast overtaking him.

Despite the freezing night and slippery pavements, Rowena is wearing a plunging sleeveless dress of deep purple velvet, and high heels. I think it’s a little odd, because it’s not like Rowena to make so much effort just for me. I tell her that her dress is beautiful.

‘So many women get stuck in their look,’ she says, and I’m pretty sure she means me.

Is this the Rowena who used to sneak her favourite clothes to me whenever I wanted to wear something my mother hadn’t sewn?

I glimpse my reflection in the window. My hair is piled on top of my head and held with silvery geometric clasps, though a few blonde wisps have escaped around my face and neck. The bodice and sleeves of my charcoal dress are tightly fitted, the skirt like the upside-down bowl of a wine glass, the hemline just above my knees.

Rowena looks down at her chest. ‘It’s not just to attract men.’ The emotion behind the last sentence is too strong; her mouth trembles as she struggles not to frown. ‘It’s for me. I owe it to myself. And these new boobs don’t move at all. They’re so pert and perky I don’t even need a bra.’

I think of the defendants jeering at Miss Lockyer. Look at her tits wobble.

Pert and perky are not Rowena words. When did they become so?

Rowena goes on, seeming to need to convince herself more than me. ‘The women at my gym are always asking, “Who did your face? Who did your boobs?”’ She speaks as if her body parts can be purchased by anyone, like a new gown or bag.

The defendants say tits. Rowena says boobs. I say breasts. I don’t know what you say. I don’t want to know. What I do know is that these differences matter.

‘It’s a huge compliment. You should try Botox, Clarissa. At the very least. If you don’t do something soon you’ll wake up one morning looking like a deflated balloon.’

She’s not even nice to you, Henry said.

She’s comfortable being honest with me, I said.

You have nothing in common, he said.

I blink hard several times, as if this will clear my vision so that the Rowena I thought I knew will come back to me. This version of her would probably advise Henry to get a hair transplant. I can picture his response if she dared: the scornful, incredulous eyebrow he’d raise, wordlessly. I think Henry is beautiful as he is, even if he’s no longer mine to think this about.

‘I’ll give it some thought. Are you well, though? Recovered from the operations?’

‘The only downside is that I can’t feel my nipples any more.’ Rowena says this mockingly, like a dieter who has given up chocolate but never liked it much anyway. I work hard to disguise my sadness for her, and my horror that she has mutilated herself and her own pleasure in this way. ‘The scarring’s rather shocking. But the surgeon’s hopeful it will improve.’

Is this the Rowena who used to float in the sea with her eyes closed, humming to herself and pretending to be a mermaid as she let the currents rock her?

I picture Rowena’s areolas sewn on like buttons, a dark ring circling each one. For a few seconds my own nipples seem to burn and tingle. ‘I’m sure it will. I’d imagine it just takes time.’

She studies my face. ‘You’ve got circles under your eyes. You should cover them up. You should consider an eyelid lift. It’s very rejuvenating. You’d feel so much better about yourself. If the people you work with see you looking tired, they’ll believe you are tired. They’ll believe you’re not effective at your job, that you’re unprofessional.’

Many women are disinclined to tell others about what is happening to them.

I bite my lip. ‘I’m not sleeping very well lately, Rowena. It’s this man.’

She misunderstands. ‘I want to hear all about him. But can it wait?’

Is this the Rowena who rushed from Edinburgh to London so I could sob in her arms when my boyfriend broke up with me in my second year at university?

‘Of course,’ I say.

She only ever talks about herself. She’s not interested in you, Henry said.

But I’ve withheld the most important things, I said, to try to hold on to her. How can she be interested in me when I’ve kept the essential parts of my life hidden?

Both of Rowena’s husbands said they didn’t want children, then left her to have them with other women. She’d never have forgiven my taking Henry from his wife. Sometimes I even wondered if it was my guilt about what I’d done that somehow stopped me from getting pregnant. The attempted baby-making would certainly have infuriated Rowena further. Henry knew this, and helped me with the cover-up, though he mumbled about how one-sided a friendship it was.

She checks herself severely in the compact mirror again, and I realise that her failed marriages are probably what made her so susceptible to this cult of plastic. ‘Did I do the right thing with my face?’ She brushes powder above her eyebrows, which seem higher than I remember.

‘You did absolutely the right thing. You look like an American soap opera star.’ This brings a near smile to her lips, which I have just noticed are plumper. ‘If it makes you happy, more confident, then that’s what matters. That’s what shows.’

She nods in enthusiastic agreement. ‘It’s a firmer, more youthful and sculpted look.’ Henry would pull a face at this, but I do not.

The waiter leads us to a table in the corner. Hanging on the restaurant’s walls are pseudo Art Deco paintings of nude women, easily overlooked in the dimly lit room. I get sidetracked by one of them, of a dancer. It makes me think again of the men in the dock and how they forced Miss Lockyer to strip and perform for them. ‘What made you choose this place?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then who did?’

She ignores my question. ‘Do you think it looks natural?’ There’s a tremor in her voice that makes my heart hurt for her.

The flickering candlelight gives Rowena’s frozen face an illusion of expressiveness, though I’m alarmed by how pronounced her cheeks have become, and scared that whatever the beauty technicians shot into them might harm her. ‘I do. Like you’ve been to a really great spa.’

Is this the Rowena who used to play with my hair and tickle my arms when we had sleepovers, then swap places so I could do the same to her?

‘I believe that each of us has a responsibility to look our best at every age.’

Who are you, and what have you done with Rowena? I silently ask her.

I take her jewelled hand to get her attention. ‘I need to talk to you. It’s something very bad.’

She looks towards the restaurant’s entrance and it’s as if somebody’s flipped a switch: her dazzling white, cameras-are-on-me smile appears in a flash. She makes no attempt to restrain it.

I follow her gaze and nearly choke on the sip of water I’ve just taken. The warbling French jazz seems to grow louder and the room plunges from dim to almost dark. Have they done something to make the lighting even worse? Because I cannot process what I’m seeing.

What I’m seeing is you. Striding towards me like it is the most normal thing in the world.

There was no sign of you when I left my flat. No sign of you when the taxi dropped me off. No sign of you at all until now. How did you work out I was here? Only Rowena knew.

You are beaming. You look radiantly happy, so happy that I’m astonished by a small stab of sadness that I am the one who must wreck this crazy joy of yours. Something you make me do over and over. Don’t you know how exhausting it is? Doesn’t it make you tired, too?

You are moving your mouth, saying words I don’t understand. You are standing beside Rowena. You are bending to kiss her on each cheek.

‘D-d-don’t touch her.’ I’ve never had a stutter, but for a few seconds I do. ‘G-go away.’

Rowena pulls out the chair beside her in welcome. ‘Rafe’s joining us.’

How can she know your name? None of this is making sense. ‘He can’t.’

‘I invited him.’ Rowena puts her hand on yours. You are first to break the contact but she seems not to notice. ‘Sit down, Rafe.’

My flight response nearly hauls me out of my chair, but I don’t want to leave Rowena alone with you and she doesn’t look like she’s going to follow me out anytime soon.

‘If you’re sure.’ You drape your coat over the back of the chair, declining the waitress’s offer to hang it up for you. I’m certain there’s something in the pockets that you don’t want to risk having discovered. I’m certain also that you want to keep your things near so you can grab them quickly to chase after me when I run away.

I look only at Rowena, as if she is a lifeline I must grab. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘We wanted to surprise you.’ Rowena adjusts her carefully highlighted brown hair.

I force myself to use my brain and use it quickly. I puzzle out how you linked Rowena to me. It must have been that awards ceremony for business women eight years ago. Rowena was between husbands, then, so I went with her. When they called her name I clapped so hard my palms smarted; I smiled so much my jaw hurt. There’d been a photo of me and Rowena, with both of us named in the caption. It’s the only thing that comes up on me in an Internet search.

‘We thought you’d be excited that we know each other.’ Rowena sounds hurt, but my horror of you is even stronger than my usual inclination to comfort and reassure her.

‘How?’ My vision is blurring in this stupidly dark room. ‘How do you?’

‘We met face to face for the first time at lunch today. But we’ve been emailing the last two months. It’s amazing how close you can get to a person when you write to each other.’ She waves away the approaching waitress. ‘Rafe follows my business blog. He gets his students to read it to enhance their employability. But he noticed a reference to my creative ambitions in my profile so he got in touch. He’s advising me on that memoir I’ve always wanted to write.’

The blood is pulsing behind my eyes. ‘He cyber-stalked you.’

‘That’s melodramatic. And paranoid.’ She apologises to you. ‘Clarissa didn’t mean it.’

‘Yes I did.’ Everything is in shadows. I shake my head several times to try to clear it and then I make myself focus on you, the very thing I hate to do. ‘You don’t know anything about writing a memoir. You’re just a literary critic.’ I say the last two words like they’re the worst insult I can think of.

‘I have a number of talents and interests you haven’t yet discovered, Clarissa.’

There you go again. Punctuating every sentence with my name in your freakish way. Why doesn’t Rowena see how weird it is? A sob comes out of my throat before I can stop it. ‘You don’t need him, Rowena. You can join a writing group. He’s using you to get at me.’

‘Not everything is about you. That’s so unbelievably arrogant. Not to mention ridiculous. Rafe and I only just discovered a few weeks ago that we have you in common.’

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again, not caring how peculiar I must look. ‘What a coincidence.’

‘Isn’t it, Clarissa,’ you say.

‘We both care about you,’ Rowena says.

‘Very much,’ you say.

‘Did he tell you about this morning? When he was waiting outside my house? When the taxi driver had to threaten him with the police? When he knew I didn’t want him to be there?’

You are shaking your head in a pantomime of how wounded and misunderstood you are. Your performance is clear even through the murky vapour of this awful room. ‘Clarissa,’ you say. ‘Oh, Clarissa. How could you think this way?’

I can barely stop myself from dashing your face with iced water from the nearby jug.

Rowena touches your arm. ‘Rafe’s concerned about you. That’s why I came down.’

The irony isn’t lost on me that it’s only because of you that she got in touch after two years of silence.

She is regarding me with disappointment. ‘He told me you haven’t been yourself lately. That you’ve been acting strange at work. I asked him to keep an eye on you until I could get here. I never dreamed you’d be so unkind to him.’

A vein throbs in my forehead as I fully grasp how much trouble you took to set this up, how much time you spent plotting and manipulating, how much advance planning you did, how much patience and discipline you exerted over yourself in waiting for tonight. Rowena was the ideal target for you. She is visibly injured, her vulnerability and desperation carved into her new breasts and face. You groomed her. You totally manoeuvred her. You actually charmed her.

If you have friends in common he may turn them against you by dismissing your worries or claiming you behaved unreasonably to him.

It’s as if you’ve read the anti-stalker leaflets too, and you’re using all of their advice against me. We have no friends in common so you went and made Rowena into one.

My throat is tight but my vision is clearing. ‘That’s not how it was.’

You’re smirking now, enjoying yourself: two women fighting about you. You’ve put me in a position where I have to talk to you and look at you and pay attention to you. Already you’ve forced me to break the resolution of silence that I made only this morning.

‘You can’t not believe me, Rowena.’ If my own friend trusts your story over mine, if she actually thinks you’re plausible, then there’s no hope that the police will ever take me seriously. There’s no hope for Miss Lockyer either.

You are sucking on an olive, watching me. You take the stone out of your mouth slowly, sensuously. There’s a sheen of oil on your lips. It makes me shudder and I tear my eyes away, wishing my vision hadn’t snapped into this new hyper-acuteness.

Rowena pats my hand lightly. ‘Let’s change the subject, Clarissa, and put the evening back on track. You’ve always encouraged me to be creative, and Rafe’s got me started on writing about my childhood. I thought you’d be pleased. I told him the things we used to get up to when we were teenagers. I’ve been writing about when that girl beat you up on the seafront. Remember how horrible that policewoman was to you, afterwards?’

There’s a hot radiator on the wall behind me but I’m shivering in my wool dress. Goose bumps are springing up on my arms. The person I least want to be exposed to now knows every detail of the story I least want to tell. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

Rowena’s too excited to notice. ‘It’s all in the explicitness – that’s what Rafe’s getting out of me. Remember how I got you home and cleaned you up?’

‘I do,’ I say quietly. ‘Nobody could have helped me like you did.’

‘It’s a great story. Clarissa will be proud of you when she reads it.’

I’d kick you under the table but I don’t want to touch you even with my boot and I’m not about to let you prove to Rowena that I’m unbalanced. To my amazement, you stand up. For a second of reckless hope I actually think you’re going to leave. But of course you’re not. You’re just going to the bar.

I’m on my feet, ready to walk out, but almost immediately I sit down again. I couldn’t abandon my worst enemy to you, let alone my oldest friend, though right now Rowena is acting more like the first than the second. Whatever Rowena may be, I am my parents’ daughter; they taught me too well the importance of loyalty to friends and family, even when – especially when – that loyalty is tested. The Rowena I loved must still be in there, though right now she’s buried so deep I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to find her again, or if I even want to try.

It’s as if she gave you a tour of my underwear drawer. But I know I need to sound calm if I’m to have any chance of getting through to her. ‘I don’t want you talking about me to him. Please don’t.’

‘It’s my story. You just happen to be in it. You have no right to dictate to me.’

‘You may want him here, but I don’t. I’ve made that clear. Any normal man would respect my wishes. Don’t you see that?’

She doesn’t answer. For an instant I think she does see it. Rowena’s ears always redden when she’s upset and that’s what they’re doing now. Their heightened colour makes me notice the scars just in front of them, and I look away so she doesn’t see me seeing.

‘He tricked me into coming here. He knew I never would if you told me he was joining us. Don’t you think it’s odd that he asked you to keep it a secret?’

She hesitates, considering, but she wrestles with whatever doubts she may be starting to have about you and spits out the word ‘No’.

I don’t want to say what comes out of my mouth next, but I know I must. ‘He’s not interested in you at all.’

Rowena’s lips curl into disbelieving rage. ‘Not every man on the planet’s in love with you. You can’t take them all.’ Perhaps she has guessed the truth about Henry. Maybe you actually told her. You probably just let it slip out casually while talking about something else. That’s exactly the sort of thing you’d do.

‘What he does isn’t love. It’s the opposite of love.’ I’m speaking gently, softly, as tenderly as I can. ‘It’s as if he’s trying to steal me. And now he’s stealing you from me.’

‘I’m not yours to steal. You haven’t been real with me in years. You’re so full of secrets I hardly know you any more. Don’t you realise how much that hurt me?’ Her voice cracks at the last sentence.

I put my hand over hers, moved by this glimpse of the old Rowena’s need for me. ‘I know. And I regret that. But right now I’m trying to stop you getting hurt. That’s the only reason I’m sitting here when all I want is to run out that door. He knows that. That’s why he set this up.’

She rips her hand away. ‘How very generous and selfless of you.’ Her voice is cold, clipped. ‘You don’t want him. So leave him to me.’

‘He’s dangerous. He’s making my life hell. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a hard thing for me to trust anyone with. I’d call the police on him this minute but you wouldn’t back me up if I did, would you?’

‘You’re being hysterical. He’s an invited guest. I actually think you’re sick. I’ve got to know him well.’

‘You’ve no idea what he’s like. He’s just using you to spy on me.’

‘You’re the most egotistical woman I’ve ever known.’

Already you’re back and so is your smirk. ‘Peach Bellinis,’ you announce proudly. ‘Tonight’s special. The bartender here is great. That’s why I suggested this place.’

Rowena lights up again. ‘I adore Bellinis.’ She truly does like you.

I try to see you as Rowena does. Henry thought you were a buffoon, but he admitted that students sometimes got crushes on you. Tonight you’re wearing black jeans and a deep blue shirt, untucked. It’s my favourite shade of blue. Midnight blue. I actually like what you’re wearing. It occurs to me that Henry sometimes dressed like this, and you’re deliberately copying him.

You set the Bellinis on the table, and a bottle of French beer for yourself. ‘Let’s all have fun now.’ But you already are: the most fun you’ve had since November. ‘I hope you like Bellinis too, Clarissa.’ You look at me, then at the naked woman on the wall above the table.

She is sitting on a stool, her legs together at the knees to stop it being too graphic. She is wearing a suspender belt, stockings, high heels and nothing else. There’s a riding crop across her lap. You gesture towards the painting and arrange your face in a grimace of fake embarrassment. ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten about the décor here.’ But you and I both know you’re getting off on this public porn: on seeing me surrounded by these pictures. That’s why you chose this place.

‘I think it’s beautiful. Tasteful.’ Rowena reaches for her glass.

I wonder again about the wine you fed me in November. ‘Don’t drink that.’ I grab her hand but she snatches it away. I try again and she actually smacks my wrist – hard – and picks up the glass. After an absurd struggle I spill her peach Bellini all over the basket of dried-out baguette slices.

‘You’re being insane, Clarissa,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

‘I think Clarissa isn’t well.’ You manage to appear sorrowful. ‘She needs our understanding and support.’

‘She needs professional help,’ Rowena says.

I pick up the other peach Bellini. I don’t want to leave it on the table now that I’ve made Rowena so determined to drink it. I grab my bag and coat from the back of my chair. Like you – because of you – I have a habit of keeping my things close, so I can make a quick getaway. I consider rushing out of the restaurant, but I know you’ll only come after me and I’ll end up alone on the dark street with you. There’s only one place I can think of where I can call a taxi and hide until it’s here. And I have a plan, formed crudely only in the last few seconds. It means facing you once more, on my own, but it’s fairly safe and because of Rowena I can’t see an alternative.

You start to rise and my hand flies up in warning, like a traffic policeman’s. ‘Don’t you dare follow me.’ I can count on you to ignore my wishes. You always do. I’m so loud the people at the tables around us stare. I choke out a goodbye to Rowena but she doesn’t answer. I speed towards the metal stairs that spiral down to the basement, where the cloakroom is.

There’s another piece of fake Art Deco porn down here, just outside the cloakroom. This one is of a man and woman together, to show that the cloakroom is unisex. In keeping with the rest of the art, they’re both naked. He’s standing, looking down at her. She’s on her knees before him. The view of her is from behind; her head blocks the centre of his body.

The cloakrooms are so trendily dim I feel blind again. I head towards a stall, hurling the peach Bellini into the chrome sink as I move. The stall has the kind of door with no gaps at its top and bottom, so there’s no chance of you crawling under or peering over. I phone for a taxi. The dispatcher tells me a driver will be along in ten minutes. I plan to stay behind this locked door for the first nine of them.

When I emerge you’re in the room, just as I expected. You’re barring the exit. The cloying smoke of the incense they’re burning down here makes it hard to breathe, and you’re blocking what light there is. My head is pounding, maybe from eye strain, or maybe because I’m being choked by a poisonous fog of synthetic jasmine. I remind myself that the taxi driver will come into the restaurant any second to ask for me. I calculated before I came down here that someone was bound to walk in, so I don’t think you’ll risk doing anything too uncontrolled. Still, I don’t want to be trapped here long enough to find out; I’ve staged this collision with you as exactly as I could, leaving the smallest amount of time possible to say what I need to without Rowena hearing.

I get straight to it. ‘I’m not going anywhere near Rowena again. Hang around her all you want. I don’t care. It’s not going to help you get near me.’ I know you. I know Rowena won’t be in any real danger from you. Rowena is throwing herself at you. You’re not interested in women who actually want you. Only the ones who clearly don’t.

‘I care about what you care about, Clarissa. I want your friends to be my friends. I want to help Rowena. For you, Clarissa. I’m only interested in her because you are. Don’t be jealous.’

‘I’m not—’ Your last point is so outrageous I begin to deny it, but I manage somehow to bite back the end of the sentence. I start again, trying to sound indifferent and cold. ‘Rowena and I have grown apart. It’s been too long. She doesn’t interest me any more. I don’t even like her any more.’

As soon as the forced betrayals are out of my mouth I want to disavow them. But I can’t, despite my spasm of grief for Rowena. It’s impossible for me to try to help her as a friend should. Or her me. Not now that you’ve hijacked her. Saying these things is all I can do for her: I need to make sure she’s of no use to you. But she won’t thank me for it.

I take a small step towards the door. ‘Get out of my way.’

You don’t move.

‘If you don’t get out of my way I’ll make you.’ It sounds ridiculous as I say it. We both know I can’t make you do anything.

You smile, indulgently. ‘You’re charming when you’re angry, Clarissa.’

My hand is curling around the frosted glass soap dispenser. It’s heavy. It’s as ludicrous as everything else in this supposedly atmospheric, irritatingly trendy unisex cloakroom.

‘It pleases me that you’re jealous, Clarissa. I want to pull those clips out of your hair and run my fingers through it and kiss you. I want to see what you’re wearing beneath that dress.’

I raise the soap dispenser as if it were a weapon.

You actually laugh out loud. ‘You’d never be able to hurt me, Clarissa. I know you.’

My hand stops doing what hands are supposed to do. The soap dispenser slips from my fingers, shattering like a bomb on the monochrome-tiled floor just as the main cloakroom door slams into you, propelled by Rowena. You stumble and then skid on the mess of liquid and glass, only just catching yourself by grabbing the sink. The whole evening has been a surreal nightmare, but the unintended choreography caused by Rowena’s entrance is straight out of a slapstick comedy.

‘I have to go, Rowena.’

She seems not to know what to do. For an instant, her face softens, and her eyes fill with tears that she manages to keep in. Then she says, ‘Nobody’s stopping you.’

I stagger up the twirly stairs and out of the restaurant and into the waiting taxi. My lips taste of salt because I’m crying; I realise I must have been biting them, because the tears are stinging. Rowena is lost to me. Lost to herself. I saw that in my first few minutes with her. Even before you walked in and did what you did.