Kitabı oku: «Pillow Talk», sayfa 2

Chapter Two

The morning after Petra sleepwalked towards Whetstone was the morning she would hear again “Among the Flowers” for the first time in seventeen years. But it wasn’t the song that woke her, it was the telephone.

‘Where are you? It’s bloody Wednesday – it’s your day to open up so I didn’t bother to bring my keys. Your mobile is off. Bloody hell, Petra.’

She clocked the voice: Eric. She noted the time. She had overslept and she still felt exhausted.

‘I can’t get hold of Gina or Kitty,’ Eric was wailing with a certain theatricality, ‘and I’ve been waiting bloody ages.’

‘I’ll be right in, I had a bad night. I’ll be there in an hour. Sorry.’

Petra flung back the duvet and stood up quickly which compounded the fuggy nausea of having been awoken with a jolt. Physically holding her head, and with her eyes half shut, she shuffled to the bathroom to take a shower. It stung. Glancing down, she saw that her right knee was badly grazed. Carefully, she flannelled off the small sticky buds of blackened blood and bravely ran the shower cold over the freshly revealed abrasion. Scrubbing dirt from her fingernails, she observed a blade of grass whirl its way down the plughole. She gave a little shudder. She hated these hazy half-memories of the night before. She dried herself, dabbing gingerly at her knee, smoothing on Savlon and sticking a plaster lightly over the wound. Jeans felt too harsh so she pulled on a pair of old jogging bottoms, hurried into a sweatshirt and odd socks and shoved on the bashed-up trainers she favoured for work. But she had to clench her teeth and screw her eyes shut at a sudden scorch of soreness from her feet. Easing the shoes off, peeling her socks away, she inspected large blisters at each heel; one had burst and was red raw, the other bulged with fluid. If I cry now, Petra told herself, I won’t make it into work at all. Bloody stupid sleepwalking – where was I going? What was I thinking?

She placed a pad of cotton wool on each heel, secured with Sellotape, slipped her feet into socks first stretched wide and then slid her feet into sandals. Sandals which she liked but which Rob referred to as ‘German lezzy abominations’.

‘If Rob could see me now,’ she muttered, giving her reflection a cursory glance before heading for the studio. ‘I hope he’s OK.’

Eric felt a little sorry for Petra when he spied her at a distance limping along Hatton Garden. He waved at her and she tried to pick up her pace. He gestured the universal sign-language for ‘Coffee?’ to which she nodded and clutched her heart so he nipped into the café outside which he’d been loitering and as Petra reached him, a comforting cappuccino was placed in her hands.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘and thanks.’

‘You OK?’ Eric asked, taking the studio keys from her as they walked in the direction of Leather Lane.

‘Yes, I overslept,’ Petra said.

‘You know, socks and sandals are generally unforgivable in all but children,’ Eric said with a superciliously raised eyebrow, ‘but mismatched white socks and spoddy sandals are a breach of the public peace. Gina will wince in pain and Kitty won’t let you hear the end of it.’

‘Spoddy sandals?’ It made Petra smile. ‘Rob calls them my German Lesbian Things,’ she confided, frowning guiltily at her Birkenstocks.

‘I know a German lesbian or two,’ Eric qualified, ‘and let me tell you, I have never seen them wear socks with those. They are spoddy sandals. They’re the summer equivalent of Nature Trek shoes. Without socks they are tolerable. But with socks they are indefensible.’

‘I have the most terrible blisters,’ Petra explained, as Eric unlocked the studio and they went about flicking on lights and hoicking up blinds.

‘Have you been hiking up mountains since yesterday evening then?’

‘You could say that,’ Petra said quietly. ‘I sleepwalked last night. Right out of the house. Almost a mile. In wellies.’

‘Dear God,’ Eric exclaimed. He took a long look at her. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

In the fifteen years he’d known her, since they were undergraduates in jewellery design at Central St Martins, he’d become familiar with her two very different morning faces. Her complexion soft and peachy after a good night’s sleep or, as today, sallow and slightly haunted from the disturbance of somnambulism. When they had shared student digs, Eric had been the only one amongst the housemates not to laugh at her expense, never to tease her, always to believe it was entirely involuntary and an onerous affliction. What Petra doesn’t know is that Eric used to wedge a chair outside her door and if it clattered he would wake and find her and gently guide her back to bed. He still brings in cuttings about the subject, buys Petra herbal preparations promising to rebalance the soul and promote uninterrupted sleep. He’s tried to monitor when it happens most, or when the episodes are more extreme or when they happen least but so far his analysis has established no set pattern or reason.

‘Rob rescued me,’ Petra told him.

Eric pursed his lips to prevent himself from saying, Well, that’s a contraction in terms.

‘Actually, the police found me,’ Petra clarified, ‘and they called Rob.’

‘The police,’ Eric sighed but more because he had a bit of a thing about men in uniform.

‘Police?’ Gina exclaimed, having arrived at the studio just at that moment.

‘Oh fuck, not the bastard police,’ scowled Kitty, right behind Gina but hearing even less of the conversation.

‘Stop picking up fag ends,’ Eric said.

‘But you are a fag,’ Kitty snorted.

‘And we did come in at the very end of what you were saying, darling,’ said Gina.

Gina carefully put her cashmere cardigan on a coat-hanger before placing it on one of the coat hooks, hanging her butter-soft nubuck leather Mulberry bag beside it. She slinked her slender frame into a pristine white lab coat and swept her hair away from her face with a wide velvet hairband. Kitty meanwhile took off her black crocheted shrug and slung it over the back of a chair, kicked off her thumping great black boots with the integrated steel shin guards and clumped down into the old pair of black trainers she kept at the studio. It was only when she tied back the drapes of her dyed black hair that her eyes became visible, meticulously delineated by bold swipes of black eyeliner, shaded in with eye shadow the colour of bruising and emphasized by thick slicks of jet black mascara.

Jewellers Kitty Mulroney and Georgina Fanshaw-Smythe shared the space with Eric and Petra and over the years the four of them had formed a thriving community, each referring to the others as their Studio Three. They shared the overheads, divvied tools and equipment, pitched in for a compact kitchenette, divided the chores and dished out praise for each other’s work and support for each other’s lives too. Their studio occupied a section of the third floor of an old building on a narrow street running between Leather Lane and Hatton Garden. Though it was not a big space, toes were never trodden upon. But the true success of their working environment was due to their extreme differences on personal and creative levels.

The variously pierced and tattooed Kitty, with her kohlblack make-up, dark pointy dress sense, and hair the colour and consistency of treacle, nevertheless made jewellery of painstaking delicacy and femininity; beautiful filigree pieces, two of which were on display at the Victoria and Albert museum. She sparred with Eric, trading insults and nicknames – though she had checked in advance if he’d mind her calling him ‘Gayboy’ and she was actually quite flattered when he retaliated with ‘Jezebel’. She also had a gentle fascination with Gina whose vowels were as polished as her beautifully bobbed fair hair, whose tools were in the same perfect condition as her weekly manicure, whose domestic set-up appeared to be as neat and classy as the ending of a Jane Austen novel. In turn, Gina had nothing but awe and respect for the impecunious Goth from New Cross. She marvelled at Kitty’s sullen darkness, her apparent self-sufficiency when it came to love, her brazenness when it came to sex, her creative nonchalance when it came to money – not to mention her fascinating ways with black leather, black everything.

‘I’m two-a-penny in SW3,’ Gina had once said, ‘but you, Kitty, you are unique. Exotique.’

What was neither predictable nor dreary was Gina’s work; large and chunky, fusing tribal design with modernist juts and twists.

‘One thing you are not is predictable or dull,’ Kitty protested. ‘You have daughters called Harry and Henry – how much more rock-and-roll can you get?’

‘But that’s short for Harriet and Henrietta,’ Gina said.

‘But you call them Harry and Henry and when people see you loading them into your Sloane Range Rover, that’s what they hear.’

Eric Bartley, far more girly than any of the women, felt it his duty to cluck over them like a mother hen. He brought in cakes and treats and new-fangled organic tonics and was the one who made the tea most often, earning him the moniker ‘Teas Maid’. If any of the women seemed below par, he’d give them a grave, sympathetic nod. He constantly sought their advice: from Clarins versus Clinique, to his frequent relationship dramas and what to cook that night; from his hair colour or his weight, to whether to buy Grazia or Men’s Health. But when he was working on his strong, masculine, classic designs, he worked in utter silence, interspersing long periods of extreme concentration and productivity with bursts of manic chatter and scurrilous gossip.

Today, all eyes are on Petra. She may have washed the grass from her hair and restored its long, glossy mahogany curls, her fingernails may now be clean and jogging pants hide the plaster on her knee, however it is not the odd white socks and Birkenstocks which betray her in an instant, it’s her demeanour. Everyone is used to Petra being the quieter member of their tribe, but today she is exceptionally wan. It casts a pallid mantle over her already delicate features; darkened hollows compromising the rich hazelnut of her usually bright eyes. She’s slim, but today she looks brittle. Though her clothing rarely courts much attention, today she looks a mess.

‘Are you all right, Petra darling?’ Gina asks.

‘Because you don’t look it. You look crap,’ says Kitty, ‘if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘I had a bad night,’ Petra tells them. ‘I’m fine now. Just a bit tired.’

‘Rob?’ Gina mouths to Eric who shakes his head.

‘Not Rob,’ Petra hurries. ‘Rob came to my rescue. I just went walkabout whilst I was asleep. You know me.’

‘Right out of the house,’ Eric whispers to the other two. ‘She was walking to Whetstone.’

‘I don’t even know where Whetstone is,’ Gina says, as if it was possibly as far flung as the Arctic. ‘I thought you just tottered off to rearrange things in the kitchen, or bumped into the odd wall or door.’

‘I do, usually,’ Petra says.

‘Do you have any history there?’ Kitty asks darkly. ‘In Whetstone? A past life? Or ancestors? Bad blood?’

Petra smiles and shakes her head.

‘Then maybe you weren’t so much walking, as being led?’ Kitty suggests in a hush.

‘I just walk,’ Petra shrugs. ‘I don’t know where I was going, or why, because I can’t remember. But the police found me and Rob came for me.’

‘Did you hurt yourself?’

‘Bashed, bruised and blistered,’ Eric interjects, ‘the poor lamb. Look at her footwear – that’s necessity, not fashion.’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ Petra says, suddenly tiring of the attention. ‘I’m just knackered. And pissed off with myself because I haven’t actually left a building in my sleep for a good few months.’

‘Not since the fire-escape incident?’ Eric asks, with a sly wink.

‘God,’ Petra says, covering her face in horror.

‘You escaped from fire?’ Gina asks ingenuously.

‘You were in Bermuda, Gina,’ Kitty growls. ‘Petra was staying at a hotel in the country for her friends’ wedding.’

‘And woke up freezing cold and stark naked on the fire escape,’ Eric adds.

‘And the only way back in was through the main entrance,’ Kitty says.

‘And of course she didn’t think to take her room key,’ says Eric.

Gina is flabbergasted. ‘What were you wearing to Whetstone last night?’ she hardly dares ask.

‘Gumboots and an oversized Snoopy T-shirt,’ Petra mumbles from behind her hands.

‘Well, that’s better than nothing,’ Gina says kindly though the look from Kitty says that she begs to differ.

‘There must be something in it,’ Kitty says. ‘Whetstone, the wellies – don’t you think? Tarot will tell you. I have my cards with me – do you want me to read for you?’

‘If sleep specialists can’t tell me why I’ve sleepwalked since I was eight, then I’m not sure the answer lies in tarot,’ Petra says. ‘Not after nearly twenty-five years. Perhaps there’s nothing in it anyway. Maybe my body is just restless. Or my brain just can’t quite switch off. No one seems to know. It’s just my – thing.’

‘But the cards will know,’ Kitty says darkly, fiddling with the hoop in her right nostril.

‘Go on,’ Eric says, ‘let her read for you. You might discover you’re to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger.’

‘But I have my tall, dark, handsome Rob,’ Petra protests and raises her eyebrow defiantly at Eric who has already raised his at her.

Kitty shrugs. ‘Another time, then. I need to get on with my cuff.’ She unwraps from a soft cloth her current work in progress: delicate swirls and serpentines in white gold, like calligraphy in three dimensions, which she’s designed to be worn around the upper arm.

‘It’s stunning,’ Petra tells her.

‘Thanks,’ Kitty says shyly. ‘I just wish I didn’t owe my gem dealer so much – I really want those rubies for here, here, here and there.’

‘Those earrings you made for Gallery Tom Foolery – they’ll sell like hot cakes,’ Gina says encouragingly.

‘Hope so,’ Kitty smiles and tucks herself in to her bench.

‘Is it a Radio 2 day or a Classic FM day?’ Eric procrastinates.

‘Two.’

‘Two.’

‘Don’t mind.’

And the group settles down to work. Kitty filing and filing in pursuit of perfection; lemel, or gold dust, gathering like specks of wishes glinting in the pigskin slung like a hammock, hanging over her lap from the curved inlet of her bench. Gina is scrutinizing turquoise and amber. Eric buffs and polishes two wedding rings he’s just finished, his hair safely away from the spin of the machine in a girly topknot, his eyes protected by goggles.

Petra wonders what she actually has the energy to do. She has some out-work from Charlton Squire, the gallery owner and jeweller who takes a sizeable commission of her sales but who keeps her earnings a little more constant by giving her his own designs to make up. She sips tea. She is starting to feel more human. She sends Rob a text to say sorry bout last nite – ta 4 saving me! hope meeting v.g. luv u! p xxx

Spring sunshine filters through the dusty studio windows. Eric looks so comical and sweet. Kitty is stooped in concentration, the cuff sending out dazzles of light as the sun catches it. Gina is beating life into silver by beating the hell out of it, singing along to the radio between clouts from her hammer.

I like this song, Petra hums to herself. She analyses Charlton’s design, sticking the papers to the wall in front of her. She chooses her tools. A sudden thunder of hammering from Gina drowns out the presenter’s rambling and when Gina stops, the next song playing is one she doesn’t know and therefore can’t sing along to.

But Petra knows it.

Instantly, Petra is wide awake and utterly alert, transported back seventeen years, back to school, back to being fifteen. Back to that strange lunch-time after she’d first met Mrs McNeil, when she was serenaded across the packed school hall by a Sixth Former from Milton College. Arlo Savidge.

The song playing just now is “Among the Flowers” and its exquisite melody and gentle lyrics drift out of the communal stereo straight into Petra’s soul.

Chapter Three

But it’s not Arlo’s voice. At least, I don’t think it is. In fact, I’m sure it isn’t. His voice is still crystal clear in my memory – though I’m having to rack my brains to remember exactly what he looked like.

Arlo Savidge. I wonder whatever happened to Arlo Savidge. Who would know? I don’t keep in touch with anyone from school and I never heard from or of him after I left. It wasn’t unrequited love – because he never actually asked and so there was never anything I could actually answer and of course nothing ever really happened. But it was love, in its own gentle, quirky way. A love without a kiss, without a single touch, let alone a declaration. More pure, probably, than any physical relationship I’ve had. It was all so beautifully and yearningly unsaid. And yet we only knew each other for just under eighteen months.

I felt as though there was a spotlight on me, during that one song in that one lunch-time at school. As if Arlo had told an invisible lighting technician that there was a girl in the Lower Fifth, milling with her pals in the middle of the crowd and when I sing I’ll be singing to her so can you shine a light and pick her out so she knows. So that she knows how I feel and so that she will feel special.

And his song was the light and I knew all right. I felt it. It was odd and I felt as though I didn’t know where to look, as though I wanted desperately to look away but of course I couldn’t because I was transfixed. I do remember his eyes even though he was over there, up on the stage. It was only later that I knew what colour they were. Blue. Very very blue. His eyes were locked onto mine – even when he closed them with emotion, he’d open them straight into my gaze. He didn’t glance away once, he didn’t look at anyone else and I don’t think I even blinked. And I do remember his lanky physique, his white school shirtsleeves rolled just above his elbows, the lovely strong forearms of his burgeoning masculinity. You could see his muscles delineate according to how passionately his played his guitar. He stood, legs slightly apart but relaxed, one foot tapping the rhythm, lips right against the mike. He had nice hair, I remember at the time thinking he had cool hair – in retrospect, it was nice and cool in that archetypically schoolboy way – just about within the school regulation side of Jim Morrison. Carefully unkempt curls and waves. Sandy rather than blond.

But it wasn’t him as a package that I fancied. In fact, I didn’t ever really fancy Arlo – I bypassed that stage and fell in quiet love. Fancy was too vulgar a reaction to being serenaded. I remember loving him in an instant because he was singing to me, because, somehow, he had written that song for me. And the magic between us must have come from him not knowing he’d written it for me until he saw me that day and me not knowing what it felt like to be at the centre of someone’s world until just then. I think he felt that way too. But I don’t know because he never said and I never asked.

Is she walking all alone

Is she lonely in the flowers.

But this voice, today, is not Arlo’s. It’s his song but it’s not him. Though no doubt his voice will have changed over the intervening seventeen years, it won’t have changed into this. It’ll probably have just deepened a little, lost a slice of its purity, gained a little worldly gravel to its timbre.

Whatever happened to Arlo Savidge?

I remember feeling woozy, a little breathless, that lunchtime. It was so thrilling – me, a Lower Fifth Year, being the focus of a Sixth Former. It was, I suppose, the most romantic thing that anyone has ever done for me. Rob took me to Claridges for my thirty-second birthday in December, but that was ostentation, not romance; we’d only been together a few months. And he bought me a pen from Tiffany for Christmas and red roses on Valentine’s Day. But all of that is relatively easy if you can afford it. Back then, Arlo only had pocket money yet he created something unique and beautiful and precious. And lasting.

I wonder if he has ever stopped to wonder, over the years, whether I’ve been walking all alone, whether I’ve been lonely in the flowers? Rob sent me flowers last month after that blazing row when he stood me up but when they were delivered I buried my nose in them and as I inhaled their heady scent I sobbed. I felt desperately alone in those flowers.

Things seem to be quite good at the moment. Or at least, they’re getting better.

But just perhaps, just say things were better way back then. They say that our school years are the best years of our lives. Do I agree? Is that true? Is it still too early to tell? But I think back to all I achieved, to the colourful mix of my schoolmates, to the eccentricities of my teachers. Have I ever been part of such an intense mêlée of uniqueness since? We had school uniform – yet though young and not quite formed, we all stood distinct. When I went to college, all we students shared an unofficial, interchangeable uniform of our own which made everyone blend and bland. Slouchy grouchy stressed and broke. I don’t even know where Arlo went to university. Maybe he’s a super rock god in America. Perhaps he jacked it all in and is an accountant. Maybe he’s an impoverished musician in a garret in Clerkenwell. Or perhaps he’s a middle-class husband with 2.4 kids. Perhaps the litheness and the curls are gone and he has a paunch and a bald patch. I don’t know. But how beautiful that his music will always exist. What a legacy. It’s on the radio. It’s finishing.

‘That was Rox and a hit from five years ago, “Among the Flowers”. Beautiful. And it’s approaching midday so it’s over to Annie for the news and weather.’

Did you hear that? It was a hit five years ago. Where was I back then that I never heard it? Nowhere in particular. It just passed me by. How odd. Am I that square not to know what was top of the sodding pops five years ago? I have heard of Rox. But I didn’t know they covered Arlo’s song. I wonder how they came by it? Are there other bands out there covering his other tracks? Is he some hugely successful songwriter? Why am I even wondering about any of this? I saw him so rarely, if I think about it.

My school and Milton College used to join up for activities like choral society and pottery and drama club. I was never outgoing enough to go for drama club, and choral society was a bit naff, but I was very good at pottery. That summer term – the term after that lunch-time gig – I used to walk over to Milton College with Anna and Paula on Wednesday afternoons to do pottery. Some of the boys asked us if we’d come because we were good with our hands; I took it as a compliment and said yes – but Anna and Paula took it as a come-on and they were delighted and said things like, That’s for us to know and you to find out, guys.

We were good with our hands, us three. Very good. Paula and Anna took to the wheel and threw gorgeous pots and bowls. I liked working more organically and constructed great big urns that were really glorified coil pots which I’d burnish and burnish and then scarify the sheened surface with these dense little marks like hieroglyphics. I spent hours on them. Because it was summer, Mr Whatever His Name Was let me sit outside with my pots and my tools and that’s when I saw Arlo again. He walked across the playground over to me, like a strolling troubadour, strumming and humming until we shared a great big grin. Then he sat a little way off, playing.

Every Wednesday afternoon after that, during that summer term, he’d somehow appear when I appeared, mostly with his guitar. He never sang ‘Among the Flowers’ for me again. Not from beginning to end. Not with the words. Every now and then he’d hum it and strum it but very delicately, slipping a few bars in between other melodies. We kept each other’s company, those Wednesday afternoons, though we didn’t say much at all. I asked him what A levels he was doing. I can’t remember now. He asked me how many O levels I was taking. Christ, how many did I take? Eight. And passed seven. He told me about some of the mad teachers at his school. I told him all about Mrs McNeil. And then I didn’t really see him until the following spring because I chose print-making during the winter term. And though he’d’ve been swotting for A levels, he did find time most Wednesdays to find me. And we just picked up from where we’d left off.

‘How’s your little old lady?’ he’d ask, when we were sitting not talking and not really working. I’d tell him some of the stories she told me, some of the funny little errands I ran for her. Once he covered his eyes and winced and I asked what was wrong and he said my halo was so shiny and bright it hurt his eyes and I chucked a little wet clod of terracotta clay at him and he laughed. Mostly though, we shared happy little interludes of chat in an otherwise quietly industrious atmosphere. I was engrossed in my terracotta urns and he was deep in thoughts of chords and riffs. Out in the playground, in the warmth of his final summer term at school. We’d sit together, though we were actually a couple of yards apart. We were certainly sitting together none the less, separate yet united in our little hive of creativity and tenderness every Wednesday afternoon.

And now I make jewellery. I wonder what Arlo does because he used to make music. And, for the first time in seventeen years, I’ve just heard the song he wrote for me. On national radio.