Love Me (23 page)

About two thousand years later the film ends and the compere announces that the band will be on shortly. I listen to them tuning up. No Spanish. There's a man trying his saxophone, and a tiny guy wielding a hefty double bass with inexplicable ease.

I'm strung high between the awkward layers of sound. The strings and the horn, the dull mournful cry of the bass. Underneath, the tinny pre-recorded music is rendered futile. There is chatter, people drawn tight around candlelit tables.

Where's Spanish? Maybe I got it wrong and there are two bands with the same name. That would be fun. The saxophone spills over the top of the DJ-spun music and oozes down the sides of the room, a disjointed soundtrack to my
nerves. My eyes keep twitching toward the door, but it's not him for a solid ten minutes.

Then, suddenly, it is.

And I'm reminded how hard and skinny and weird he is. The rips in his jeans, his cinematic bones, that angry walk. There's something about the injured angle of his shoulders that understands me. And maybe being understood is the closest any of us can ever get to not being alone. He looks neither right nor left on his way past, steps up onstage and drapes a guitar over his slim body.

‘I brought in some friends to jam with us,' he says. ‘Thanks for another chance to experiment.' All his stern confidence is startling. Attractive. And then he's singing:
Don't fight just let them do it to ya/ Break you open, get into ya/ Like a poison swimming through ya/ Black boy in your funhouse mirror/ Black girl in your funhouse mirror . . .

He does song after song, thickened by the bass and the sax. The people clap and cheer and feel understood and tired and stretched, and then eventually it's the end and I make my shaky way to the front.

‘Hey!' I croak, shaking. ‘Why didn't you call me?' This time I'll ask the hard questions. He can say
Because I didn't want to!
and it won't kill me, will it?

‘Eden!' he says, shocked. ‘Hey!' He leans over and hugs me hard. RJ and Sub nod at me with smiles and I go soft with relief. Eden still. Not just some would-be groupie they don't remember. The only person who isn't smiling is the female standing next to Spanish with bad skin and slightly dopey eyes. I think I've seen her before round the park on a Sunday.

‘Why didn't you call me?' I say again, stronger.

‘I wanted to but . . .' he trails off. He looks nervously at Bad Skin. Have they fucked before or something? Well I don't care. I don't care if she's his
wife.
I've made it this far. She
eyeballs me steadily, a cheap romance novel of a woman hanging off him.

‘You wanted to . . .?' I raise my eyebrows at him in encouragement. ‘What?'

‘I couldn't find the number.'

‘Oh.' I laugh. ‘OK.'

Dopey Eyes then decides to put her arm around his waist and interrupt. I can't hear what she's saying, but Spanish hasn't looked away from me once. She rolls her eyes like I'm a run in her stockings.

‘Oi! Can't you see that this is a private conversation?'

Oh Lord.
I
said that. I'm gonna get in a fight and get bloody deported. Spanish's eyes flick between us like he can't quite believe what's happening either. But it's too late to back down.

‘What?'

‘I said. This. Is. A private. Conversation.'

She lets go of Spanish and steps towards me. ‘Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?' Squares her bony shoulders.

‘I'm
trying
to talk to Spanish.'

She pushes me.

PAK!

It's my fist and her face and it hurts but I know it probably hurt her more 'cause she stumbles back on those ugly heels and my ears ring and my fist throbs and oh my God that felt good but damn. Ouch.

When she tries to rush me, Spanish grabs her from behind and tells her to calm down. ‘This bitch just fucking hit me,' she says, eyes glistening. ‘She
hit
me! Who the fuck are you anyway? Spanish, let me
go
! Get off me! Hey!' she screams at me. ‘If I see you in the streets, it is
over
, bitch! Do you hear me?
Over!
'

She doesn't stop shouting while he half leads, half drags her over to a seated area near the stage and deposits her in the care of a woman in a trilby.

‘Come on,' he says, ‘let's go before it gets uglier in here,'
and I finally uncurl my aching fingers. He throws his guitar on his back and makes various signals at his band mates and at an approaching bouncer. Wordlessly I manoeuvre my way to the exit amongst all the craning necks. His hand is steady on my waist.

When we get outside I can't look at him. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off and I can't believe what I just did. He must think I'm bipolar or on crack or something. He probably brought me out here to call the police. I stare at the pavement cracks and the yellow circles formed by the streetlights. We walk to the corner.

‘Eden.'

‘Yeah. I know, I know, I'm sorry but she—'

‘Eden.'

I look up and he's staring right into me. He almost smiles and I almost do the same.

‘It's uh. It's good to see you,'he says. ‘But damn, Eden. Damn.'

‘I'm sorry,' I repeat.

‘Why did you come?'

‘Do you need me to tell you? You usually just guess what I'm thinking.'

‘Come on,' he says, looking helpless suddenly. ‘I need you to be real with me right now.'

‘Well, you seemed like. Well, you were so angry at me the other day and I wondered why, you know? What I did. We were so cool and everything I thought we were gonna be friends.'

‘Is that all?'

‘Spanish. I don't know how you want me to answer that.'

His eyes are gold in the streetlights and he doesn't blink. Then he runs his hand over his face and says: ‘Shit. You know what? Me neither.' We stand there for a moment and then he asks me if I'm hungry.

‘Starving,' I tell him.

I'VE BEEN HERE
before.

Spanish and I arrive outside a spot call Joline's, with gingham curtains and a neon sign that reads
Open 24hrs
. It's the curtains I remember. And maybe it was only a place
like
this one. Me and Boy Toy came here once to wait for my mother who was, as usual, running late. I felt so grown up. He told me to meet him at Canal Street station because he wasn't driving that day. He bought me a peanut malted milkshake and chilli cheese fries.

Dominic looked distracted as he sat down. His hair was even longer than usual and matt rather than shiny. His leather-clad foot kept up a nervy tattoo on the linoleum but every time I caught his gaze he would smile at me. He was really trying. I thought he must really have loved my mother to try so hard.

‘Good huh?' he said as I took my first sip of the malt.

‘Yeah,' I said, wondering what everyone must be thinking of us. He didn't look old enough to be my father. And there was the shade of him, which meant he was unlikely to be my brother. I kept my eyes down, avoiding the questions in people's eyes. I felt a stab of anger at how complicated my mum had made everything.

‘So what you been up to this week?' he said, eyes darting every so often to the door. He checked his oversized nineties mobile for the millionth time.

‘I met a boy . . .' I stammer. ‘I mean, I met Zed, Uncle Paul's son. Zed and me. We went to Madame Tussaud's.'

‘Zed and you, huh?' he said and his tone shocked me out of my teenaged sulk. He laughed like he knew how it was for a name to have so much power you stumble on it every time. Tentatively, I laughed too. It was early days, long before I'd touched Zed at all. I was distracted, clumsy and firing with hormones. Just us two sharing a sentence was enough to give me mysterious twinges.

‘Yeah, it was cool,' I said. ‘Zed got to dress up like Darth Vader.'

‘Really?'

‘I got some pictures. It was, like, a fake
Star Wars
audition thing.'

I suppose that was the first real conversation he and I ever had. I told him about all the fun we'd had and what we planned to do next. My ever-present urge to say Zed's name would broaden that small moment of empathy into an unexpected friendship. And truth be told, I didn't really care if Boy Toy was being genuine or not as long as he didn't interrupt.

‘You guys should come and see the musical I'm starting next month. I'm rehearsing at the moment. You can come meet me at the theatre sometime if you're at a loose end,' he said with that crisp, fragile smile of his. Always he had the air of an abused pet. It amazed me that he cared what
I
thought of him. ‘I'll buy you lunch.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘That would be nice. You know Zed?'

‘Not really, but his dad brought him over a few times. Katherine and Marie are really close to Paul 'cause they all grew up together back in Saint Lucia but,' he laughed with a touch of bitterness, ‘I think the guy's kind of dull, to be honest. It's strange that Zed turned out so creative.'

‘He
is
really creative,' I gushed, despite myself.

‘I introduced him to some young producers and musicians I know, actually. He'll go far if his parents let him.
His mother wants him to go back and live with her in Atlanta when he's left boarding school, and his dad wants him to go to NYU, so I think it's a little confusing for him right now. I know how he feels; my parents were the same. My dad wanted me to manage his pizzeria – can you believe it? That's as far as his ambition went for his son.' He shakes his head. ‘I told Zed I'd be happy to help him pursue his dreams. His poetry is amazing, especially for his age.'

‘I know he's a rapper but . . . he writes poetry?'

‘You should ask him,' said Dominic with a smile. And then he checked his mobile again. The smile faded. A couple of beats later he said, ‘Hey, Eden . . . Did your mother make it down to see you on Tuesday?'

‘No,' I said, dumb as an empty plate, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but my own thoughts. ‘Was she supposed to come over? That's the day I went out with Zed, I think.'

‘Right. OK,' he said with a weird, artificial laugh. I'll always remember it. Always. ‘My mistake.'

‘What time is she coming?' I asked.

‘Soon,' he said.

Then, just as if he'd conjured her, she appeared outside the glass. She waved at us and mouthed an exaggerated ‘Sorry!' On her red-painted lips was an only mildly apologetic smile, one that already assumed she'd been forgiven.

‘And here she is,' said Dominic.

‘So what do you think of us?' Spanish says, nursing a glass of mineral water.

‘Reckless Gods?' I reply, dragging myself into the present.

‘No. The White House.'

‘Ha ha,' I say and he smiles. ‘You guys are really original. I dunno. Full of rage and innocence at the same time.'

‘All of that, huh?'

‘Yep.'

‘Sometimes anger is the purest and most innocent emotion going.'

‘Anger when it's hot, maybe. Not when it's cold.'

He begins to shred one of my napkins into a little pile on the table. We're at a corner booth. Laminated menu. Fluorescent lights. All we could manage on the walk over was a staccato rhythm of awkward glances and sparse chat about the weather and New York rats the size of Yorkshire terriers.

I look at the hollows in his cheek and fork some lemon meringue pie into my mouth. ‘Eat some pie.'

‘I'm fasting,' he says defensively. ‘Plus what you're eating has no nutritional value whatsoever; it's dead.'

‘I'm sure that's not true. Lemons are fruits, right? Plus, you're the one who recommended I get this!'

‘Are you enjoying it?'

‘Do you see the crumbs all over my face? Of course I am.'

‘Well, that was the point. I don't think everyone has to be like me.'

‘'Cause you're special, right? Not like the rest of us poor fat slobs?'

He shrugs again. I laugh and ask him when the fast is over.

‘Tomorrow.'

‘Wow. Bet you can't wait, huh?'

‘I can wait. I try not to get sensually involved with food.'

‘Right . . .' I stop eating for a second. ‘So who was the girl? At the Knitting Factory?'

‘Ivy? She's a guitarist.'

‘Any good?'

‘Pretty good. Unspectacular.'

‘Why was she eyeballing me? Is she a girlfriend or something?'

‘No. I told you I don't do that. She just,' he looks uncomfortable, ‘has stuff going on in her head. She has this image built up of me that's not real.'

‘You never defined exactly what it was you “didn't do”. What are you? Gay?'

‘No,' he cuts his eye at me. And then from nowhere he asks me how I know Zed and where I met him.

I look down at the table and up. ‘Our families know each other from back in Saint Lucia,' I tell him, slightly less than the truth and as much as I can bear to say. ‘How about you?'

‘We went to the same high school.'

‘But he went to a private boarding school . . .'

‘Right.' He looks at me. ‘Yeah.'

‘Did you get in on a scholarship as well?'

‘No.'

Neither of us says anything. The kind of fees charged at a school like that mean he must come from money. He silently dares me to question him further, but then the waitress comes along with that fantastic knack they all have of being able to smell tension. She asks if everything's alright. We say: ‘Yeah.' And I decide it's as good a time as any to change the subject.

‘So . . . you still haven't told me what exactly it is that you “don't do”.'

He drinks some water. ‘I'm celibate.'

‘No sex for the rock star?'

‘Yeah, that's what the word “celibate” is commonly thought to mean.'