Where Love Lies (12 page)

Well, actually
you didn’t. I knew several artists’ models and they were generally nice, normal individuals. But this one probably targeted the women in the room, the ones who seemed flustered by his nakedness, attracted to him. He probably asked them all for dates and kept a score sheet, and then went to the pub with his mates and laughed about the silly art students. Even if he didn’t, I didn’t know anything
about him. I’d just spent an hour and a half staring at him and failing to draw him. I might not even like him when I spoke to him.

I was going home. I turned on my heel and had started to walk towards the bus stop when I heard him behind me shouting, ‘Hey!’

I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat with irresistible joy. ‘Hey,’ I said, trying to sound calm and failing. He was wearing
jeans and a leather jacket, in total disregard for the weather, but I didn’t really notice that because he was looking in my eyes again.

I felt drunk. ‘Do you … are you still up for that coffee?’ I asked.

‘There’s a café on the Caledonian Road.’

He was almost unbearably close. He was smiling at me with more than a little bit of triumph. As we passed the side of King’s Cross station, I decided
I’d forgive him that smile because I fancied him so much.

It was an Italian café, and it was even hotter inside. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair and I could see damp patches on his T-shirt. He was as comfortable as he had been naked. ‘What’ll you have?’ he asked me.

‘An espresso, please.’

He ordered two, then held his hand out to me over the table. ‘I’m Ewan.’

‘Felicity.’ I was too eager to touch him, so I took his hand casually, as if I couldn’t care less. His palm was hot, and he held on to my hand for a beat too long. When he released it, I involuntarily put my fingers to my lips, then realized what I’d done and blushed.

‘So, Flick. You’re an art student.’ He leaned back in his chair, resting his arm along the back of the one beside him. He had a
soft Scottish accent, burrs in his r’s.

‘Not really. I’m trying to be one, but I’ve spent most of the past couple of years travelling so I need to build up my portfolio.’

The espresso and the travelling were to impress him. He raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgement, and then the coffees came and he began ripping open sugar packets and pouring their contents into his cup. I expected
him to start talking about himself, but instead he asked, ‘Where have you been?’

My mouth seemed clumsy, prone to stammering; I took a sip of the blistering coffee and told him anyway. As I spoke the words, named the countries, it became easier, because I could see that he was listening. Actually listening, not nodding and waiting for his turn to speak. He asked me which had been my favourites,
what had been the most amazing thing I’d seen.

‘I’d love to do that,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘I will, one day. I’ll travel the world.’

‘Why aren’t you doing it now?’

He laughed, a sharp laugh that was almost a bark. ‘Haven’t got the dosh, have I? When I travel, I’m going to get paid to do it.’

‘As an artists’ model?’

He shook his head. His longish hair brushed his neck. ‘I sing and play
guitar. I’m in a band up in Glasgow. “Magic Fingers Ewan”, that’s what they call me.’ He held up his hands and twiddled his fingers.

‘Really?’

‘No, not really. But I am in a band. We’re down here in London trying to get signed. On the verge of it, too. I sit for artists for a bit of extra cash.’

‘Does it pay well?’

‘Not much, considering half the time I’ve got a cold breeze blowing up my crack.’

The laughter that exploded from me had less to do with how funny his joke was, than my needing to do something to release tension. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I don’t mind it.’ He shrugged, and traced patterns in the sugar he’d spilled on the table. He had a tattoo on his arm, a complicated woven Celtic symbol; I hadn’t even noticed it when he was naked. ‘It’s something to do with my days, anyway. This
artist mate of mine set me up with it. I’m doing it for this sort of semi-famous artist next week. So I might be immortalized for ever.’ He said it with just enough self-mocking irony for me not to mind. ‘Do you want to be a famous artist?’

‘No.’

‘I want to be famous,’ he told me. ‘Properly famous. Not for the money; I want to have people all over the world listening to my music.’

‘I just want
to find something I’m good at,’ I said. Inside I was marvelling. We’d known each other less than a couple of hours, had only been speaking for twenty minutes, and we were already sharing our deepest ambitions.

‘You will,’ he said. ‘I bet you’re good at lots of things.’

‘Even if I don’t find anything, I don’t want to be normal.’ My hands were shaking. I’d never said this to anyone before. ‘I
want to be extraordinary.’

‘You’re a beautiful girl. Really beautiful.’

He said it with emphasis. I knew I wasn’t beautiful.
He
was beautiful. I was the mediocre artist who couldn’t draw him. But that moment, I didn’t just desire him; I loved him for seeing me as beautiful. As extraordinary.

Ewan reached over the table and he put his hand on my wrist. ‘You should come to our gig at the Barfly
in Camden tonight,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a laugh.’

The room heaved and steamed, reeking of beer and sweat. I clutched half a pint of lager, was jostled on all sides. The floor was sticky underfoot.

There were four of them in the band, but I only registered them as variations of skinny and scruffy. My eyes were fixed on Ewan.

He was the lead guitarist and singer and he stood on stage like a young
god. Cocky, sure of himself in tight jeans and a shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, his guitar the same colour as his gleaming hair.

The music was loud and although I would learn all of it, eventually, by heart, that night I felt it rather than heard it, as a pulse through my body, a promise in his rough voice.

I shouldn’t be so obvious
, I thought, through the pounding and jostle and heat.
I should
be cool, play the game. Go outside and scrounge a fag. Speak to someone else. Maybe flirt a little with the barman
.

I couldn’t. I didn’t. I watched him, enthralled. His hands moved over his guitar, alternatively caressing and demanding. Every time his eyes met mine I burned.

When their set was over he picked up a bottle of beer from the floor near his mic stand and drank from it. I watched his
lips purse, his throat move. He drank and drank while the other band members left the stage, until the applause stopped and conversation swelled again, and then he put the bottle down, handed his guitar to someone, and jumped lightly off the stage near me.

‘Flick! Did you like it?’ He was breathless and his hair was damp with sweat.

‘I don’t think I heard anything,’ I said, basking in the fact
that he’d given me a nickname.

‘You were watching me the whole time,’ he said. His voice was hoarse, nearly ruined. ‘I didn’t think you’d really come.’

‘Ewan!’ called one of the boys from the band. I thought it was the drummer. His accent was stronger than Ewan’s. ‘We need you over here, mate.’

‘Just a minute.’

‘This is important!’

‘So’s this.’ He turned to me. ‘Oh fuck. I don’t know how
to say this.’

‘Say what?’

‘Want another drink?’

Mine was still half-full. I nodded. He took my hand and led me to the bar at the back of the room. I felt the calluses on his fingers against my skin. He ordered a pint and a half of beer and leaned against the bar. His thumb stroked the back of my hand.

Neither of us said anything, but inside I was jumping around. There was something different
about him. Something elemental and sexy. Something urgent.

‘Ewan!’ The drummer appeared over his left shoulder. ‘We need you over here. There’s A&R from White Angel, man. He wants to talk with us downstairs.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute. Promise.’ He never looked away from my face. Dimly, I heard the drummer make a noise of disgust and stalk away.

‘I need to go,’ he said, but he didn’t go.

‘That’ll be four pound fifty,’ said the barman who I’d neglected to flirt with. Ewan shook his head, as if waking up, and dug in his pocket for the money.

‘Listen,’ he said to me, pushing a litter of coins across the bar. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘You have to go to your band. I know. It’s okay.’

‘No, I mean – I’m not – there’s …’ He bit his lip. ‘Okay, the truth. The truth is, I wasn’t expecting
to meet you. Not someone like you. I wanted you to come tonight, but I thought it would be better if you didn’t. I shouldn’t have invited you.’

‘You shouldn’t?’ I stepped back and tried to pull away my hand, but he held tight.

‘I’ve a girlfriend,’ he said quickly. ‘In Glasgow. I’m sorry, but I do.’

It was like a concrete block on my chest, pressing out all the air. ‘Oh. I … I see.’

‘Ewan,
for fuck’s sake!’ Bellowed across the club.

‘Like I said this afternoon, we came down here to get noticed by record companies. Like the one here tonight. Alana has a job so she stayed.’

‘It’s okay. It’s fine. Thanks for telling me.’ This time I did pull my hand away, to flee through the crowded club.

Tears burned in my eyes. Stupid, stupid fool. I had only got two steps before I bumped into
someone, and they said, ‘Watch where you’re going, mate.’

I heard Ewan swear behind me and then his hands were on my shoulders, gripping me. ‘Stop.’

‘It’s okay, it’s just bad timing. I’ve got work to do anyway.’

He turned me around. One of my tears had escaped and it rolled down my cheek.

‘Flick, I want—’ he began, but the drummer appeared again and grabbed Ewan’s arm.

‘What the fuck are
you playing at?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve got to get over here –
now
.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ewan again, and this time I broke free and ran downstairs and out of the building, onto the hot Camden street.

TEN YEARS LATER
, I pause in the doorway of the gallery café. Quinn is sitting at a table by the window. He has two pots of tea in front of him and he’s reading the
New York Times
, which he’s carried rolled up in his jacket pocket since this morning. His cheeks are rough with the stubble he cultivates to look older and there is a faint line between his eyebrows as he concentrates
on his newspaper. He says he’ll need glasses before long.

Quinn is grown up. We’re both grown up. Grown up isn’t meeting a man posing naked and immediately throwing all thoughts and plans to the four winds, forgetting everything in the hope of touching him again. Grown up isn’t sitting with your hands shaking because you’ve told someone you want to be extraordinary, whatever that means.

Grown
up is here and now, with my husband, both of us at thirty years of age, with me not able to tell him when I don’t want something that he does.

I don’t know quite how this happened. I can remember every decision and every step, but not how it led to adulthood, to responsibility. To home ownership and a steady income and insurance payments and lunch every Sunday and a schedule to follow and the
baby that may be growing inside my womb.

To the loss of walking lightly. Or ever walking away.

My husband looks up from his paper and when he sees me, the frown grows between his eyebrows. He jumps up and takes my elbow. ‘You’re not well,’ he says.

‘I’m all right.’ But I feel dizzy, as if I’ve landed in the wrong time.

‘You’re pale as a ghost.’ He helps me into a seat and pours me tea. ‘Oh
dear, it’s gone cold. Hold on a tick, I’ll get some more.’

‘No, don’t bother, it’s fine.’

‘I’ll put some sugar in it. That’ll help.’

‘Sugar isn’t going to make any difference.’

He’s tearing off the top of a packet of sugar, but he stops. ‘What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick? That could be a good sign, couldn’t it?’

Only a man obsessed with having a family would be optimistic about his wife
being unwell.

‘No, I’m not sick,’ I snap. ‘I’m exhausted from being dragged around New York to a schedule and then tour-guiding you around an exhibition of my dead mother’s work.’

He puts down the sugar. ‘I’m sorry.’

I shouldn’t lose my temper, but it’s a relief after pretending to be pleased all day. ‘I didn’t want to come to this, Quinn. I tore up the invitation.’

‘You said it was all right.’

‘I
had
to say it was all right! You’d made such a bloody great effort.’

‘I said, several times, that we didn’t have to come in if you didn’t want to.’

‘And how kind would that have been, to make you turn away when you’d spent so long planning it as a surprise?’

‘More kind,’ he says quietly, ‘than arguing with me about it in a café after it’s too late to change.’

He’s right, and I should stop,
say something nice. But after so much silence, I can’t stop the words. ‘My mother’s dead, Quinn. It hurts me to remember her, even if it’s to satisfy your curiosity.’

‘I’m not curious, not merely curious. I want to know you better.’

‘Well, now you know me better. I’m the type of person who gets upset thinking about the past and what I don’t have any more. Are you satisfied?’

I’ve hurt him;
it’s clear on his face. I bite my lip, too late.

‘What’s happened?’ he says. ‘You were fine a few minutes ago.’

‘Let’s just go,’ I say, exhausted, sick of myself. ‘Let’s just go back to the hotel.’

I lie in the hotel bath, letting the hot water lap around me. The mirrors are fogged up and droplets of steam float in the air. The door is closed.

I left Quinn lying on the bed, reading the
New
York Times
again. Dinner tonight wasn’t anything near as joyful as our dinner last night. No surprises, no applause, no kisses. Barely any conversation, even though I said I was sorry, and afterwards we sat through the show side by side without touching.

This is my fault. My husband has done absolutely everything he can to make me happy.

We’ll fly home tomorrow and I’ll apologize again. I’ll
tell him I’m tired. And this could all be down to hormones, after all, although when Quinn dared to suggest that before dinner, I nearly bit his head off. There’s nothing quite as infuriating as a man refusing to take your emotions seriously and putting them down to mysterious female chemicals, as if women were inherently irrational. As if the female mind were nothing more than a loosely connected
bundle of electrical impulses, blown willy-nilly by the slightest physical influence.