Summer Lies Bleeding (30 page)

‘Jesus Christ, I haven't got the time for this,' says Mark as he walks across to the en-suite bathroom and opens the door. ‘I need a piss. Now take your concern and your slutty clothes and fuck off.'

He slams the door behind him; unzips his fly and takes a long piss into the immaculate china lavatory. He hears the muffled sound of the room door closing.

He pulls up his zip then washes his hands slowly in the sink. Then he opens the bathroom door and calls out:

‘Oy! You better not still be there, you hear me?'

There is no noise; just the muted sounds from the street.

He steps into the room and smiles with relief to find it empty. Then he crosses to the bed and takes the notepad and pen; he must try to find the words again. But as he flips the pad open he is suddenly aware of an absence. The black bag that had been sitting on the bed isn't where he left it. He flings the covers back; yanks the heavy damask blanket off but there is nothing. Panicking he looks behind the curtains, under the bed, he goes back in the bathroom.

Nothing.

‘Fuck,' he screams and he pounds his fists against the bathroom mirror shattering it into spiky shards as a new reality dawns on him.

The gun has gone.

Stella and Seb walk into a wall of noise and colour and smells; so potent Stella feels drunk again. Moroccan music threads through the air, a repetitive, hypnotic melody being played on a guitar; live music, though she cannot see the musician as the place is already packed with people.

As they make their way through the restaurant she sees snippets of detail: red roses strewn across tables, terracotta bowls edged in blue painted flowers; warm flickering lights; velvet cushions. She sees the open kitchen up ahead just beyond Seb; hears the clatter of plates and the unmistakable smell of cumin – the earthy scent that transports her back to Andalucia. She remembers taking a boat with Paula from Tarifa where Southern Spain and Morocco almost touch and spending a morning wandering round the markets of Tangier, the smell of cumin and garlic hanging in the air, like it is now. It is a summer smell; a reassuring smell. She cranes her neck to see further into the kitchen, to see the person behind this;
the chef, the beautiful woman Paula had told her about, the goddess who had mended Seb's broken heart and given birth to a glorious girl.

A cloud of steam hangs in the air blocking the kitchen from view, but as they walk towards it, the steam dissipates and Stella sees her. She is small, definitely shorter than Stella, and her face, though contorted in concentration as she leans over the pass reassembling a dish of roasted aubergine, is certainly an attractive one. Yet she is not the great beauty Stella had been expecting, the Amazonian princess Paula had alluded to. She watches Yasmine clean the edges of the plate before clapping her hands at the waiters and disappearing back into the mist.

Stella feels Seb's body next to her as they squeeze further into the crowded room; he is still shaking. She takes his hand and holds it tightly, forcing him to look at her.

‘It's going to be all right,' she says, releasing his hand, but her voice evaporates into the steamy fug of the room.

‘There are too many people,' he hisses. ‘I told Henry but he wouldn't listen.'

‘Seb, what time did you say Cosima was getting here?' He has his back to her, and she can see his head darting from one corner of the room to the other; searching. She taps his back gently and he jumps.

‘What?'

‘I just asked what time Cosima is coming.' Her face is so close to his she can smell the orange squash on his breath.

‘Six-thirty,' he shouts, like a sergeant major issuing an order over a chaotic scene of battle.

Stella looks at her watch. ‘Well it's twenty past now.' He is not listening; he is scanning every table, every face. ‘Seb, I'm going to go and stand outside and wait for her, okay?'

He nods his head.

‘It's going to be fine, Seb. Just you go and concentrate on this fantastic evening, okay. I'll be with Cosima, I promise you.'

‘I haven't checked upstairs,' he says, and before Stella can speak he is gone, off towards the stairs, his tweed suit conspicuous among the muted navies and greys of the business suits that seem to make up the bulk of the guests.

Finally alone, she tries to recall the events of the night before. The man at the bar; the one who said he knew Seb, what was his name? She racks her brain but she can't remember. She hadn't told Seb; thought it was the last thing he needed, the state he was in. But it had to be him, Zoe's brother, it had to be, and she had given him the invitation, she had told him to come.

Her heart pounds as she makes her way to the door where two black-clad waitresses stand holding a tray full of drinks. As she passes one of them holds out a champagne glass.

‘No thank you,' she says, waving the glass away as she steps through the open door out onto the street.

The evening sun is warm on her back as she stands waiting for Cosima, though the pavement is glossy with shallow puddles. There must have been a shower of rain while she and
Seb were in the pub. Strange how the weather does that in late summer: volleys back and forth between elements, never settling on any one in particular.

She looks up the street, trying to spot a little girl in a green dress amid the crowds of early evening drinkers. She is glad to have the diversion of Cosima, glad not to be dwelling on thoughts of Mark. She takes her phone out to see if there are any messages from Paula; but there is nothing. She has probably been held up in the rush hour commute.

A few hours ago everything had seemed new and wonderful: she had felt excited about the future for the first time in years, about her new job and all the promise it held. Now, back in this street where she had felt such sorrow all those years ago, she feels her throat tighten and a familiar anxiety creeping up her chest. Seb and his family could be in serious trouble and it is all her fault. She wishes she had stuck to her guns and gone back to Earls Court then she would have avoided all this drama; all she wants is peace.

She looks at the people standing outside the restaurant, young women with back-combed hair, skinny jeans and tight-fitting tops; men in open-necked shirts and loafers – most of them puffing on illicit cigarettes – and she feels invisible. This street had once been her home; it was once impossible to walk its length without saying hello to someone she knew, now people look through her, beyond her. Seb had done the same thing, in the pub.

Everything about this impromtu reunion with Seb is making her uneasy, not just the thought of some deranged man issuing threats. Though it has been years since they last met, she can still remember the way he used to look at her, like she was the only woman, not just in the room, but on the planet. Someone once said that the act of writing is like being alive twice, but for Stella the same could have been said for being under Seb's gaze. It was like being projected onto a vast screen surrounded by a million twinkling lights. Ade used to notice it and say that if Seb wasn't such a nice guy he would have got a smack in the face for the way he looked at her. To be honest, it was Ade's reaction that first made her notice; she had been so mired in her own world she hadn't been aware of it. When they had met in the street earlier, when he stood back to say hello, when he walked back from the bar; it was no longer there, that look. She could be anybody; it was as though whoever he saw in her all those years ago, whatever light poured out of her to make him react the way he did, must have departed. It shouldn't bother her, but it does. All this time she had thought he was wildly in love with her. Now it all makes sense; he hadn't been looking at her, he had been looking through her, to someone else.

The girls throw their cigarette butts onto the ground and head inside, leaving a thin wisp of smoke in their wake.
Do you miss Middlesbrough, Zoe?
The words come into her head
unbidden but she is suddenly back there, back seven years to that night, to a row of sinks and a girl's bewildered expression. At the same time as Seb was folded up on that bench, she had been making love to Paula for the first time; and as she had curled up to sleep in Paula's arms, Zoe – a girl whose path she had crossed momentarily – had been fighting for her life in a dingy back street. It feels odd to think of all those lives, all those stories being played out at the same time because, for her, time had stopped for those few hours, real life had hung above the bed like a fly caught in a spider's web, dazed and immobile, while she and Paula had become one. Suddenly she feels Paula's absence, like a great hole has appeared in the ground beneath her and she is hanging over it, with nothing to hold onto.

She looks up and sees a red-faced man in a navy blazer standing in front of her. He is smiling and for a moment she thinks she knows him, but then everything about this evening is tinged with familiarity; everything seems the same though so much has changed.

‘Henry,' he says, extending his hand. ‘Henry Walker. Co-founder of the restaurant.'

She smiles and shakes his hand. ‘Stella.'

‘How do you do, Stella,' he says, removing his hand and taking a long swig of champagne. ‘So, what do you think of The Rose Garden, then?'

‘It's beautiful, though I haven't had a chance to have a proper look round yet. I'm waiting for someone.'

‘Well, when you go back in, make sure you take a look at the roof terrace. It's our recreation of a Moroccan rose garden – hence the name. It is absolutely stunning; there's nothing else like it in Soho. A first.'

He sounds like he is reciting a script, thinks Stella.

‘Which paper are you from?' he asks, narrowing his eyes. ‘I don't think I've seen you before.'

‘Oh, I'm not a reporter. My partner, Paula, supplied the jasmine for the restaurant. But I'm actually a friend of Seb's too …'

‘Friend of Seb's,' he repeats, but he is not looking at her, his attention has been diverted up the street. ‘It's not,' he mutters as he watches a figure come towards them. ‘It bloody is! Adrian Gill, how the hell are you?'

He strides towards the food critic, leaving Stella standing impotently. She watches them shake hands, watches as Henry steers Gill towards the restaurant and as she stands back to let them pass, Henry doesn't even look at her. She feels lonely, out of place and scared. All the bravado and confidence of the afternoon bleeds out of her and suddenly she wants to be back there; sitting in the little room with Dylan talking about Joyce and Woolf and Richardson; she wants to feel strong again. She closes her eyes and imagines life in a few months time: working in Bloomsbury every day. She wants
to be a million miles away from Seb and whatever twisted plot this Mark guy is hell-bent on carrying out. This is not her world; this is simply a fragmented collage of memories and hurt; of people that no longer exist; of dead girls and love that never was.

And then she sees it; a flash of green at the far end of the street. As it draws closer she sees the little girl inside the dress, the long dark-blonde curls bouncing as she skips alongside the small, red-haired woman who is holding her hand.

Cosima.

She is beautiful, thinks Stella, and now she can understand Seb's concern, she can understand Paula's need; the fertility clinic, Paula's disappointment when Stella didn't hold her hand during the scan. She had only ever imagined an abstract; an idea called ‘baby'; she had never imagined how it would feel to have a living child, to watch it grow, to look out for danger, to nurture and support it. As the little girl reaches her, she realises that now, in this moment, she can understand what it means to be a parent. She steps forward and puts out her hand.

‘Hello, Cosima,' she says. ‘I'm Stella.'

*

Kerstin opens her eyes. She feels groggy and her muscles have tensed up from lying in one position. She can hear music, faint strings, somewhere in the distance. It is pure and hypnotic, like church music.

She hears voices above the music and she stands up shakily and opens the door. The room is empty but she can hear her mother calling to her:

‘Kerstin, come on we'll be late.'

‘Okay, Mama,' she replies as she follows the voice out of the room.

Within moments she is in a crowded bar, but she sees nothing, her eyes seem to be shrouded in mist and the people she pushes past are a colourful blur; a series of waves parting to let her through. So as she follows her mother's voice out into the night air she doesn't see a suited figure step out from the crowd of drinkers and slowly follow her out onto the terrace.

The air feels magnificent on her face as she approaches, clean air, filled with a familiar smell that she can't quite place. It feels like she has woken from a deep sleep; like she is seeing things for the very first time. The cloud lifts from her head and she blinks into the light; she can see everything now.

Soft lights twinkle along the fig trees and rose bushes and as she walks towards the railings the familiar smell grows stronger. She looks down and sees two large terracotta pots standing on either side of the railings. She bends down to smell the plants and she is back in Cologne, sitting with her mother in their back yard eating marzipan sweets and drinking in the intoxicating scent of jasmine; the night plant, whose smell becomes more potent as darkness closes in. The scent is so heady Kirsten feels dizzy, but it is a good feeling.
She thinks of the dusty flowers in the office; the cardboard lilies and paper-thin tulips that smell of nothing; this is paradise, she thinks.

Mark seals the last envelope and puts it into the large jiffy bag that he bought at WHSmith at Darlington Station. He knew then that this was going to be a one way journey; that after the battle has been fought, the soldier must do what is noble. There is nothing left of his life now; the people who matter have left him – his father, Zoe, Ernie, Lisa and Rachel; even his mother, who, though physically present is but a shadow, an empty shell, rattling around the flat; her life frozen in another age.

He knows that a good soldier will sacrifice his life for the greater good; will go down fighting for what is right. As he places the envelope onto the bed and retakes his position at the window, he knows that it all ends here; that the ghosts of his dead family are too much for him to bear; their voices too loud to live with. He knows that when this task has been carried out; when the promise he made to his father has been fulfilled, he will join them, wherever they are; and they will be at peace.

But there is one more thing to do.

He walks to the bathroom and picks up the shards of shattered glass. He puts four of the longest, sharpest pieces into the inner pocket of his suit. A soldier must think on his feet; he must use his initiative and not give up even when it seems that the battle has been lost. Liv taking the gun will not stop him; nobody can stop him now.

*

Stella stands with Maggie and Cosima in the only available bit of empty space left: a small alcove underneath the stairs.

‘So it's your partner we have to thank for those amazing jasmine plants,' says Maggie, raising her voice over the band that has just struck up a faster number.

‘That's right,' says Stella, casting another nervous glance at the door. Would she even remember what he looked like? It was so dark in the pub last night; all she can remember is his voice: soft and northern, and the dark outline of his body. She wishes Paula were here; Paula would know what to do.

She looks at her phone again, but it is remarkably silent. On any other day it would be full of new messages from Paula. She tries not to worry; rush hour in London can add a good hour to a journey. She puts the phone into her pocket and smiles at Maggie. She looks rather awkward and Stella feels for her, it can't be much fun spending your daughter's opening night, wedged up in an alcove, and unlike the other guests neither she nor Maggie have had a drink yet. Stella tries to think of
something to say but there is only so much polite chat you can have with a person you barely know. As if reading her thoughts, Maggie rummages in her handbag and brings out a packet of cigarettes.

‘I don't suppose I could ask you to keep an eye on the little one while I just pop out for some fresh air,' she says, not even trying to hide the cigarettes.

‘Sure,' says Stella, wondering how much fresh air will actually reach Maggie's lungs when it is mired in cigarette smoke.

‘Aw thanks, love,' says Maggie. ‘You'll be okay with Stella for five minutes while Granny has a ciggie won't you?' Cosima nods her head then looks up at Stella and smiles. She has exactly the same smile as Seb, thinks Stella; wide and benevolent.

‘Good girl,' says Maggie. ‘I'll grab you a lemonade when I get back. Ooh look there's a couple of free chairs.'

She grabs two low stools from behind a pair of departing guests and plonks them down next to Stella and Cosima. ‘Here you go, girls, that'll save your legs.' She smiles and Stella watches her walk towards the door, stopping to take a glass of champagne from Kia's tray as she goes.

‘I can't see Daddy anywhere,' says Cosima, as she wriggles onto the stool.

‘Oh, he'll be about,' says Stella. ‘He'll have a lot to do tonight I expect.'

‘They're always busy,' says Cosima. Her smile has faded and Stella recognises something in her; a faint memory from childhood
of sitting all dressed up at her parent's annual New Year's Eve party, watching as the adults danced and laughed and drank champagne while she sat there like a spare part.

‘I hear you like animals,' says Stella. ‘Your Daddy told me you're something of an expert.'

Cosima nods her head. ‘How do you know Daddy?'

Stella pauses. How do you tell a child that you met her father while he was drinking himself into a stupor.

‘Well I used to know him a long time ago, when I lived just across the street from here. Your Daddy used to work nearby and I used to see him … around.'

‘Did you know that in South America, crocodiles are called caimans,' says Cosima, utterly unimpressed by the half-hearted account of Stella and Seb's meeting.

‘Wow, no I didn't know that,' says Stella. ‘Have you ever been to South America?'

‘No,' says Cosima. ‘But I'm going to go there when I'm older. I'm going to be a zoologist you know?'

‘Really? That would be a fun job.'

‘Yes,' says Cosima. ‘But I would have to pass lots of exams first and that would be a bit boring so I might actually become a vet instead.'

‘But wouldn't you have to pass lots of exams to be a vet too?'

Cosima shrugs. ‘I suppose so. But did I tell you that my friend Gracie Marshall has not one but five guinea pigs. I'd really like a pet but we're not allowed to have any in our flat
and Mummy says it's okay because we've got the zoo at Battersea Park to go to, but it's not the same.'

‘Well, maybe one day,' says Stella. ‘When I was a little girl I had a pink horse, can you imagine that?'

Cosima's eyes widen. ‘A pink horse,' she gasps. ‘Was it a unicorn?'

Stella giggles, remembering how as a child she had always wanted a pet unicorn. ‘No, it was just a horse, a strawberry roan. She had a blonde mane as well. Still, it would have been very cool to have a unicorn.'

Cosima nods. ‘I have a toy unicorn,' she says. ‘She's called Ursula and she comes from the land of spells. You know the only people who can see unicorns are the fairies. Granny Maggie told me that.'

‘Yes, that's probably right,' says Stella. ‘My granddad came from Ireland and he used to tell me stories about the fairies; about the forts where they would hide their gold. And they play tricks on people too. Grandad once had his bicycle stolen by the fairies when he was on his way to a dance; he had to walk two miles to the next town and when he got to the place where the dance was being held, there was his bicycle parked up outside the door. He always insisted it was the work of the fairies.'

‘But not all fairies are naughty like that,' says Cosima. ‘My mummy told me that when she and Daddy got married, the
fairies sent me down to them. That was a very kind thing to do wasn't it?'

‘Yes, it was,' says Stella, smiling. Talk of fairies is taking her mind off Mark. Just then her phone beeps in her pocket. She takes it out and reads the message:

Still at Carole's – she's in a really bad way so am staying a little longer. Will get there as soon as I can x

Stella closes the message and sighs. Paula to the rescue again.

‘I know a poem about the fairies,' she says, turning to Cosima as she puts the phone back into her pocket.

‘Do you? Is it the one about the fairy and the porridge pot? Daddy tells me that before I go to sleep.'

‘No, it's not that one – though that does sound like a good one,' says Stella. ‘I didn't know fairies ate porridge. Do you want to tell me about it?'

‘No,' says Cosima, matter-of-factly. ‘I'd rather hear yours first.'

‘Okay,' says Stella, pushing her seat back to let a group of people get by. ‘Gosh, I hope I can remember it. My daddy used to tell this to me before I went to bed.'

‘Like mine,' says Cosima, and she looks up at Stella with such an innocent look of expectation, Stella's heart hurts.

‘Here goes,' says Stella, and as she starts to recite, she hopes that by concentrating on the poem she can block out thoughts of Mark:

Mark takes one last look in the wardrobe mirror before he leaves the room. He sees a man in a suit: Denny Lowe off to seal a deal.

‘Win big, Denny, eh.'

His father's voice fills the room and he smiles as he steps out into the silent, wood-panelled corridor. He looks back at the jiffy bag lying on the bed; waiting for some nameless chambermaid to come and find it. As he closes the door he takes a deep breath and for once there is no crackle, no wheezing, no blockage at the base of his lungs. He feels more alive than he has ever felt before; his mind is clear, his body feels light and weightless; it's like he's on some wonderful drug, one that he will never come down from. As he walks down the stairs and into the grand entrance hall, he wonders if this is how his father felt the moment he went into battle; this surge of energy, this feeling of invincibility. He opens the door and steps out into the crisp evening air for what will be the last time. The hour has arrived; not a moment too soon.