Until It's Over (6 page)

As the air cooled and the day faded, we saw another figure walking towards us. It was Miles. He didn’t say anything, just sat down beside me, so close that our hips touched and I could feel his warmth through the material of my jeans. I poured out the dregs of the wine for him, smiling at him to make peace. He put his hand over mine and I let him, just this once.

‘It’s fine,’ I told him. ‘Like you said, we couldn’t stay there for ever.’

‘She’s measuring windows now,’ he said gloomily. ‘You don’t think she could by any chance be pregnant, do you?’

I didn’t want the day to end. After everyone had wandered off to their own rooms, I went out into the garden. The last warmth of the day had gone and it was clear and cool. I sat on Dario’s creaky little bench for a while and looked at the house: the lights in the rooms went off one by one. Only the kitchen glowed. Then I stood up and walked to the end of the garden, where I stared out over the other houses stretching in either direction, with their fences and their long gardens, and beyond them the tall, patchily illuminated tower blocks. So many people all around me; so many strangers up close. In the distance, I could hear music, the bass note jumping. Then, abruptly, it stopped and there was a sudden, unnerving silence.

I turned back to the house and started. Someone was standing a few feet away from me. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You don’t have exclusive rights to the garden, do you?’

‘Why do you always have to be so aggressive? I’m not in the mood tonight, OK?’

Owen shrugged and struck a match; his face flared into view as he held it up to the cigarette between his lips.

‘Can I have one too?’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘I do, sometimes.’

‘Here.’ He held out the packet but I stayed where I was, so he was forced to cross the patch of grass separating us. He shook out a cigarette, handed it over, then lit it for me.

I felt a violent thrill of hostility towards him. ‘You won’t mind, anyway,’ I said, breathing a curl of smoke into his face.

‘Mind what?’

‘Leaving.’

‘It’s a pain, having to find somewhere new.’

‘You’ve hardly made an effort to be part of the house, have you?’ I continued. ‘You don’t see us, do you? You don’t notice when we’re there and when we’re not. We could be anyone. There are days when I can’t remember you even saying good morning or goodnight, let alone “Do you want coffee?” or “I’m going to the shop, is there anything you need?”’

‘I’ll try to remember.’

‘Don’t bother.’

He dropped his fag end and it winked like a small red eye between us. I threw mine after it. Then he put one hand against my stomach and pushed me so that I stumbled backwards. He stepped after me and pushed me once more. Now the tree was sharp against my back. I slapped his cheek and in the half-dark saw him wince. Good. He bent forward and kissed me hard. I reached up and put my hands in his thick hair and pulled him closer, tasting blood, his or mine I didn’t know. Layers of clothing coming loose, buttons snapping, zips torn apart, teeth on skin, hands on each other’s body, breath in gasps, muttered curses.

‘Not here,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ he said.

I couldn’t think why not. Couldn’t think. Now we were on the rough ground, pushed up against the fence at the back, pricked by thorns and bits of bark. It was messy and undignified. He had to tug my jeans off, and then he was against me, inside me, and all the bits of my body I’d thought were healed hurt again. Every bruise throbbed. His eyes shone in the night.

‘I don’t even like you,’ I said, when at last we rolled away from each other.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just lay with his arms outstretched, staring at the sky. Then he got to his feet, tucking his ripped shirt into his jeans.

‘Goodnight,’ he said, standing over me where I lay with my undone clothes and my battered body. ‘Or is it good morning?’

And with that he was gone. I waited a few moments before scrambling up and leaning against the fence, touching my puffy lips with the tips of my fingers. Then I, too, went indoors, into the silent, sleeping house. Owen’s light was already out when I crept up the stairs. I tugged off my clothes, washed myself in the basin, trying not to see my face in the mirror. I tumbled into my bed, and waited for sleep.

I don’t know what woke me. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t bothered to close my curtains, and I could see from where I lay that the sky was already getting light. Birds were singing violently outside. I turned my head and saw on my mobile that it was five o’clock. I closed my eyes again and willed myself to sink back into sleep, but it was no good. I remembered the previous night and felt heavy and sick, consumed with desire.

I swung my legs out of bed, pulled on my dressing-gown and opened the door. Not a sound from the house. Everyone was sleeping. I tiptoed along the hall, turned the handle of Owen’s door with an agonizing click. He was lying with the covers pushed down to his waist and one hand dangling over the edge of the bed. I closed the door softly behind me and crossed to him. He didn’t stir, until I climbed into the bed beside him and pulled the thin duvet over our two bodies and kissed his shoulder, his neck, his stomach. He gave a small groan but still kept his eyes shut and didn’t speak. He turned on to his side and slid a hand between my legs. The belt of my dressing-gown tangled between us and I wriggled out of it and threw it on the floor. We were very quiet. I put a hand over his mouth when he came.

‘You haven’t even opened your eyes,’ I said.

‘Perhaps you’re not who I think you are,’ he said. I rolled off the bed and pulled on my dressing-gown. He opened his eyes at last and looked at me. ‘And I haven’t even seen you naked, Astrid Bell.’

‘Nor will you. This is such a bad idea.’

‘It isn’t an idea at all,’ Owen said. He put out a hand, ran it up my leg, and I shivered helplessly.

Chapter Seven

‘That’s such a nice jacket,’ said Orla.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘I just wear it for my job.’

‘You a photographer as well?’

‘I’m a bike messenger,’ I said. ‘I’m being Owen’s assistant for the afternoon. Carrying his bags and holding up the silver umbrella.’

‘Where’d you get it?’

‘The jacket? Another rider gave it to me,’ I said. ‘He was from Poland. I think he got it there.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Owen, with a nasty politeness. ‘We haven’t really got much time.’

‘It’s great,’ said Orla. ‘Poland?’

‘I think so. Perhaps we should get on with the shoot, though. As Owen said, we are running a bit –’

‘Is there a toilet here?’ asked Orla.

Owen looked at her. His expression didn’t change but I saw him clench his fists. ‘Outside and up the stairs,’ he said.

‘Ta.’

Orla – allegedly one of the ten most promising young actresses in the UK – scampered out of the studio, pulling the door shut behind her with a loud bang. Owen rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and wandered over to the small window that gave out on to the street. He leaned his head against the pane and closed his eyes.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘What in hell am I doing here?’ he said.

‘It’s not that bad. It’s going to be fine.’

‘The picture editor wants “vivacious”.’

That morning, Owen had phoned me as I was cycling past King’s Cross and asked me if I would help him out. He didn’t ask me very politely and he made no reference at all to the fact that in the past few hours we’d had sex twice. ‘Say “please”,’ I said sweetly.

‘Please,’ he muttered.

I told myself it would be a change from delivering packages, anyway, and called Campbell to inform him that I wouldn’t be available for the afternoon. As a last-minute stand-in, Owen had been commissioned to take a portrait for a feature on young British talent. Nineteen-year-old Orla Porter, rake-thin, pasty and pouty, had been the star of a TV soap I had never seen and she was apparently about to become famous in a film that hadn’t come out yet. But she wasn’t a real star yet. She didn’t have an entourage, a press representative, a makeup artist. She had just shown up at Owen’s friend’s studio and said she had to, absolutely had to, leave by four. And she hadn’t looked vivacious once, except on the subject of my jacket.

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see. Vivacious. I see.’

‘She looks depressed,’ said Owen. ‘Depressed and ill. She looks like a rubber band. There’s no life in her. I hate jobs like this – artificial photographs of fake celebrities wearing too much makeup and too few clothes, who’ve been spoilt rotten by attention but who’ll get dumped next season. Look at the pages of the magazines – these women all end up looking the same. You can hardly tell them apart. And that’s what everyone wants. They don’t want a real photograph. It’s just a con and I’m part of the whole stupid process.’ He turned away from the window and faced me. ‘Why the fuck am I doing it?’

‘For the money?’

‘Yeah.
Money
.’ He snarled the word at me, as if it was an obviously bad thing.

‘What’s the problem? Don’t take yourself so seriously, Owen.’

‘That’s it. I’m out of here.’

And he actually started picking up his equipment and stuffing it clumsily into bags. I put my hand on his forearm, but he pulled away. ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘You’re just like the rest.’

‘The rest of what? The capitalist system? Humanity?’

I tugged at the bag he was holding but he wrenched it back and it fell with a thud. A zoom lens rolled across the floor. ‘Have you any idea what that costs?’

‘I’m just a stupid bike messenger, remember? But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s just money, after all.’

He gripped me by the forearm; I could feel his fingers digging into my flesh.

‘You’re hurting.’

‘You’re asking to be hurt.’

‘I never ask to be hurt.’

‘Oh, excuse me.’ Orla’s drawl made us spring apart. ‘Am I interrupting something here?’

‘Nothing at all,’ I said brightly.

Owen muttered something and retrieved the lens. I had thought Orla might have gone to the toilet to snort some coke. No such luck. She was as lackadaisical as ever, and asked if she could have something to drink before we resumed. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Coffee, tea, water, orange juice, cranberry?’

‘Do you have mint tea?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Or camomile?’

‘Just Tetley’s.’

She winced. ‘Is the coffee decaffeinated?’

‘Not as such.’

‘What kind of water?’

‘Tap,’ I said.

She made another disgusted face. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said.

‘Do you want a paracetamol?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to reschedule this for tomorrow?’ asked Owen. His voice was soft and creepy.

It didn’t bother Orla, though. ‘I’m on set tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Then we’ll just have to do it now, won’t we?’

‘S’pose.’

Owen unscrewed his camera from the stand and walked over to her. ‘I’d like to make things a bit more casual, less posed,’ he said. ‘But you know that the magazine wants you animated, happy. Do you think you could manage that?’

Orla just shrugged and stayed in exactly the same position, staring into the lens. Owen took some photographs and Orla was as unresponsive as it was possible to look. She didn’t even glower.

‘Orla,’ said Owen, eventually. I could see a muscle working in his jaw.

‘Yeah?’

‘You’re an actress, aren’t you? Can’t you manage one small smile? Look at you – you could be made of wax. Not my idea of sexy at all.’

‘There’s no need to be so rude. I think I’m going to call my agent and ask for someone else to photograph me.’

I looked at Owen, standing there clutching his camera as if he was about to bludgeon her with it. Then I nodded at Orla. ‘Can I have a moment?’ I said.

‘Astrid?’ said Owen. ‘You want a fucking girls’ chat now? You want to find out how she puts on her makeup?’

‘Behave,’ I said. I signalled to Orla to follow me across to the far side of the huge studio. We were standing by a window, latticed with steel bars, that looked out over the canal. It was raining, the drops dimpling the surface of the grey water. I took my jacket off.

‘You said you liked it,’ I said. ‘I want to give it to you.’

‘Are you sure?’ she said, unsurprised. ‘That’s really kind of you.’

‘It’ll suit you,’ I said.

She pulled on the jacket with the eagerness of a small child.

‘Could you do me a favour in return?’ I said.

She stood in front of a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the window and admired herself. ‘What?’

‘Like Owen said, you’re an actress,’ I said. ‘I know it’s grim and you’re tired, but for the next five minutes, could you play the part of a person who’s happy and vivacious and having a really great time?’

Orla’s expression was thoughtful, then she looked round at me and smiled, her eyes suddenly illuminated as if from the inside, her thin face radiant and sweet with imitation joy. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Astrid?’

We were walking back along the canal, through the gathering rain, both carrying a bag with Owen’s cameras and equipment.

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Except that I hate myself for not kicking her out on her little arse.’

‘Don’t hate yourself.’

‘I’ll buy you another jacket.’

‘I didn’t even like it that much.’

‘And you’re getting wet and cold. Put this on.’

He took off his own and put it over my shoulders. ‘Are you always this forgiving?’ he asked.

‘Of you or her?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

The rain was heavy now, ploughing up the canal and pattering in the leaves of the trees. It trickled down my neck and bounced off my nose. I could hear the water squelching in my shoes. Owen’s hair was plastered to his skull and his shirt was wet through.

‘Dario will have used up all the hot water,’ I said.

‘Do you want to get a bus or a cab?’

‘Not unless you do.’

‘I quite enjoy walking in the rain.’

We walked in silence, taking care not to touch and not looking at each other but staring ahead at the muddy path, the grey water. I was hot and cold at the same time.

We went under a bridge and in the half-light, without knowing we were going to, we stopped and kissed urgently, pressed up against the damp wall, water dripping from our hair and running down our cheeks like tears. Our wet clothes clung to us. Then we moved apart and set off along the canal again. Owen hadn’t even let go of his bag full of equipment.

‘Do you like being a despatch rider?’ he said.

‘Kind of. I don’t want to do it for ever. Who wants to be a despatch rider when they’re sixty? I’ve already been doing it longer than I thought I would. I thought it was just for a few weeks in the summer while I made up my mind what I wanted to do next, and that was a year ago.’

‘So why did you continue?’

‘Because I never made up my mind what I wanted to do next. I was studying law, you know. That’s how I met Pippa. But I never really knew why I was doing it. I went travelling instead, worked abroad. It’s been fun, but at some point I guess I’ll have to get a grown-up job. It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, I look at someone like Miles. When I first met him he was radical and dangerous. He was always going on about individual freedom and the way the system imprisons you. But what was I expecting? That Miles should still be chaining himself to trees and Dario should do botched painting jobs and get stoned and I should cycle round London until I drop dead in the saddle? And that we should all live like students in Maitland Road for ever and ever? Maybe that’s why we’re upset about moving. Because it means we have to look at our lives.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Are we having a conversation?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps not. You’re doing most of the talking: I’m just letting you.’

‘Oh. Well, I won’t say anything else, then.’

But he took me by the wrist, pulled me to a halt again and stared at me in the streaming rain. ‘Listen. You know you said I didn’t even see you. It’s not true. I see you. Here, look at your cheekbones, you could be from Lapland. Your eyes are set wide apart. You’ve got quite a sharp collarbone’ – with one finger, he traced it – ‘and strong arms and a flat stomach. On your shoulders, under your shirt, you’ve got small prominent knots of muscle. But then you’ve got these full breasts and –’

‘You’re talking about me as if I wasn’t here. I don’t like it. Stop it.’

‘I’d like to photograph you.’

‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.’

‘All the contradictions.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not one of your subjects.’

‘A beautiful object, an object of desire.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘Black-and-white. By a window.’

‘I don’t think so.’

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me. ‘I’d like to photograph you, Astrid,’ he said softly. ‘Please?’

‘I tell you what. Let me look at your other pictures and then I’ll see.’

‘Come on, then.’

He set off at a stride, and I had to almost run to keep up, the heavy bag bumping against my shins. We got to the house and he took it from me, then helped me out of his sodden jacket. There was the tinny sound of a radio coming from the top floor, but otherwise it seemed empty. We went up the stairs together. He opened the door of his room and looked at me.

‘Now?’ I asked, running my hands through my dripping hair and feeling my jeans cling to my legs.

‘Unless you don’t want to.’

‘Of course I want to,’ I said crossly. ‘I’m just wet through and – oh, never mind. Show me.’

Owen’s room looked different now, in the daytime, when I was fully conscious. The previous tenant, a friend of a friend of Miles, had been called Annette. She was an insomniac accountant who used to make cakes in the middle of the night, and who’d left to move in with her boyfriend when she got pregnant. She had almost parodically female tastes: the walls had been pink, the curtains lilac, with a frilly valance round the bed to match; there was a dressing-table with a folding mirror in the corner – I hadn’t known anyone of our age ever had things like that – and several soft toys heaped up in the armchair. It was very different now. The pink had been painted over with pale grey; the bed had been replaced by a futon, there were dark blinds instead of curtains; a dressmaker’s dummy stood in one corner, draped with scarves, and photographs hung on the walls.

‘Yours?’ I asked Owen.

‘Only that one.’ He pointed at a black-and-white picture of a swimmer, her body almost entirely submerged; the water, and the light that bounced off it, distorted the figure into a series of impossible angles, so that the image became almost abstract. ‘The others are by friends.’

There were photographs leaning against every wall, and more stacked on the table under the window. I felt apprehensive and self-conscious.

‘Why don’t you sit there?’ he said, gesturing to the chair by the side of the table. ‘Here, rub your hair with this towel.’

I sat down awkwardly. Owen picked up a stack of photographs and put them in front of me.

‘This is some of my more recent work,’ he said formally.

I stifled the impulse to giggle or run away. ‘Right,’ I said.

‘I’ve been working on them during the last couple of weeks. I’m trying to put together a portfolio.’

I turned the first one and was relieved: it was simply of water, full of ripples and glancing light – like the image on the wall, but without the human figure. Then I felt a quiver of shock run through me. It wasn’t just water after all: there was a face beneath the dislocated surface, barely visible, eyes staring up, hair spread out like weeds. Like a suggestion of a drowned woman’s face.

I turned over the next one. A naked woman was lying on a stained mattress, as white and flawless as a marble statue, her long hair rippling over her face so that it was only possible to see her open mouth. One hand was flung over the mattress and open, with writing on the palm that I couldn’t decipher; the other was between her legs. It was both erotic and impersonal and I shivered in my clammy clothes.