Elegance and Innocence (47 page)

‘This is very nice of you,’ I say, stealing an almond. My voice echoes in the thick silence of the empty room.

Jake leans back against the banquette, stretching out his long legs. ‘Do you think I’m being nice?’

I look up. ‘Aren’t you?’

He shakes his head, staring at me steadily. His dark eyes
have flecks of green in them. ‘Nice is for nice girls. I had other things in mind.’

I can feel the colour rising in my cheeks again. I look away and say nothing, tracing my index finger very slowly along the cool edge of the glass table.

‘It’s OK,’ he adds, picking up his lager. ‘I can wait.’

His cockiness is exciting and infuriating. ‘What makes you think I’m not a nice girl?’

I can’t believe I just said that.

He laughs, throwing his head back. I blush even harder. But, when he speaks, his voice is low. ‘The company you keep gives you away.’

Suddenly, I feel uneasy.

‘I have a boyfriend,’ I hear myself say.

‘So you told me.’ He smiles again. ‘I’ll bet he’s nice.’

I should be serious, indignant. But instead I’m smiling back.

I like the way he looks at me.

‘Have you been here before?’ I ask.

‘Never,’ he confesses, letting me change the subject. ‘I thought it would be a bit more … lively. You know – full of famous people sipping cocktails …’

We both steal a glance at the corpse and giggle.

‘Are you trying to impress me?’

A smile plays across his lips. ‘I’m pretty sure I already have.’

‘So tell me something about your life,’ I demand quickly, pushing an almond around in the dish.

He sighs. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Let’s see … what are your family like? Where did you grow up? What’s your favourite song?’

‘Born and raised in Kilburn. Two parents, on a good day. None, on a bad. My grandmother raised my brothers and me – along with Jesus, Mary and the Holy Ghost. Went to a Catholic day school, run by a bunch of disgusting old priests. Sang in the choir. Typical working-class stuff …’ He stops. ‘Do you know what that means?’

I throw the parsley at him. ‘You won’t be inheriting the castle.’

‘It means I’ll be buying my own bloody castle!’ He flicks the parsley off his shoulder. ‘Now, the toughie; favourite song … either T-Rex, “Twentieth Century Boy”, or Mott the Hoople, “All the Young Dudes”, or The Clash, “Hateful” or …’ – he looks at me – ‘the one I’m working on now.’

‘Which is?’

‘Limey Punk Rock Faggot.’

I laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

‘You don’t like it?’ He’s staring at me closely. ‘I think it’s kind of catchy.’

He is serious.

I take a sip of my lager. ‘No, no it’s great. Just … different. Let me guess; it’s not a love song, is it?’

He takes a long swallow. ‘I don’t write love songs. I don’t believe in any of that.’

‘Oh.’ I try to sound as neutral as possible.

I push the almonds round and round in the dish.

He’s just sitting there, watching me.

‘It’s a great title,’ I add. ‘Really original.’

‘You don’t believe in all that, do you?’ He sounds incredulous, as if I’ve just admitted writing a letter to Santa Claus.

‘What?’

‘Love.’

‘Yes, of course I do!’ I’m aware of how uncool this is to say out loud, but I don’t care. ‘It’s the one thing I believe in above everything else. It gives life weight and meaning. How else can we leave the world better off than when we came in?’

And he smiles, despite himself.

‘What is there to push us on? Encourage us to be anything more than what we already are, besides love?’ I hadn’t realized how strongly I felt. Now the words come rushing out like a hidden manifesto, gathering speed and urgency. ‘I want that experience. I really do. I want to be passionately, blindingly, uncontrollably in love no matter what it means; no matter how it ends! Before I die, I want to know what it feels like to give myself to someone absolutely; to think of them more than I think of myself; to be moved by what moves them …’

His face has gone blank.

I’ve gone too far; said too much. And now I wish I’d kept quiet.

It’s too late now. I try to laugh it off. ‘After all, what else is there to believe in?’

He leans forward. ‘Fame. Fortune. Success. Not living in a fucking slum!’

This isn’t the answer I expected. ‘Oh. Well.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘If that’s what you want …’

‘It’s not about what a person wants …’ His voice is suddenly harsh. He sits back again. ‘You must come from a very good family to go to that la-di-da drama school!’

I glare at him, my anger rising. ‘They own a business. A business they built themselves! So, no. I don’t think I’ll be in line for the castle either.’

‘What kind of business?’ he counters.

‘An auto shop.’

His face softens. ‘Sorry … it’s just …’ he stops.

I wait for him to continue but he looks around the room instead, drinking his lager.

I should let the subject drop; what does it matter what he thinks?

But for some reason I can’t.

I brush the hair out of my eyes. What would Raven do?

‘So, you don’t believe in love.’

His eyes meet mine.

But this time I don’t look away. ‘I almost believe you,’ I say.

Something shifts beneath the surface of his features. ‘Why almost?’

‘Because …’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘You’re lying.’

We sit in silence.

I eat another almond; it crunches ominously. The temperature has cooled.

‘Do you like this place?’ he asks, after a while.

‘It’s a bit dark …’

‘You’re right.’ Taking a last gulp, he puts his glass down and stands up. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

And moments later, I find myself struggling to keep up with his long strides, as we weave through the empty corridors, all the while cursing myself. If only I’d just shut up, we’d still be there. But now it’s all over; the hallways are like a dark maze and he’s walking so quickly I practically have to run to keep pace with him.

We round a corner.

And then stop.

An immense ballroom opens out in front of us, bordered by dozens of round tables set for afternoon tea, with crisp white cloths and delicate gold chairs. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows a panorama of London spreads before us: the River Thames shimmers like a slick sheet of cool crystal in the late-afternoon sun. The view is dazzling, flooded with light. An orchestra’s playing. And all around them, dozens of well-heeled elderly couples, dressed in their very finest, are waltzing, weaving in intricate patterns round the parquet wood dance floor.

I pause to catch my breath. ‘Oh! How gorgeous!’ I lean my head against the frame of the portico.

‘Do you like that?’ He comes up behind me.

I nod. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to dance? I wish I could.’

We stand, watching.

Round and round they go.

‘Come on.’

I turn.

He’s abandoned his guitar case and leather jacket. ‘Come on!’ he insists. And taking my hand, he leads me onto the very centre of the floor.

‘But I don’t know how!’

He pulls me close. His arms are strong and firm.

‘Just relax. And let me hold you.’

My body softens against his.

He smells of cigarettes, the sweet perfume of laundry detergent and the distinctive, intensely warm scent of his skin. His heart’s beating against mine.

‘This is very nice of you.’ I smile.

‘You think I’m being nice?’ he whispers.

I nod.

We’re hardly moving; swaying ever so slightly back and forth. And all around us the old people are dancing, swirling and turning. The music swells; something familiar; a big-band tune my father used to play, and he spins me, faster now.

I close my eyes, laughing.

And when I open them, he’s staring at me.

‘Is that the way you feel, then?’ he demands suddenly. ‘About him?’

I look at him in surprise.

‘No,’ I murmur, my throat clinging to the word, reluctant to let it go. ‘Not at all.’ I feel an unexpected stab of disloyalty.

His dark eyes soften. ‘Good.’

He holds me tighter, lips brushing my hair.

And leaning my head against his shoulder, I close my eyes again.

I’m sitting in the staff room of the City Lit, working on my prospectus for next term. It’s like all the rooms at the City Lit, only there’s a slightly posher mix of furniture here; someone had a brainwave one year to upgrade the facilities and went mad at Ikea. The sofas still sag and are covered with tea stains but they’re bright blue with polished steel frames and there’s a wobbly beech-wood dining table and chairs, pressed up against the wall near the ‘kitchen’.

The kitchen is like all institutional kitchens: terminally untidy. There’s an ancient kettle encrusted with years of lime scale and an uninspiring collection of generic tea and instant coffee supplies. All the interesting offerings have post-its on them vehemently declaring ownership: ‘R. Fitzroy’ the organic camomile tea reads, ‘Hands off!’
and next to it a jar of Acacia honey with the same threatening note. (This does nothing to deter would-be thieves.) Above the sink a laminated notice reads in bold black letters, ‘Please wash up your mugs and spoons, THIS IS NOT A HOTEL!’ under which a stack of dirty cups and saucers sprawl. I recognize most of them from last week.

Above the wobbly beech-wood table there’s a bulletin board, covered in important information I rarely take notice of. The only announcement that catches my eye is the weekly update from R. Fitzroy: ‘
Would the person who absconded with my Oriental blue-and-white china cup and saucer please return it immediately! It was a gift!!!!
’

It’s this last, indignant line that intrigues me the most. Having never met R. Fitzroy, all I know of him or her (and I suspect it’s a her) is the delicacy of their taste and the imprudent insistence of entrusting such sacred objects, the tea, honey and what’s certain to be an exquisite china cup and saucer, to the wild, immoral elements of the City Lit staff room. Who would do such a thing? What kind of person brings anything of value here and leaves it overnight? And, more important, who gave them this precious token? A lover? A friend? Her mom?

Each week, I marvel in fascination at the fragments of R. Fitzroy’s life as they unfold before me. I could easily look up the name on the staff roll and introduce myself, but that would be cheating. There’s so little mystery in life as it is.

I remove the lid from my takeaway coffee and settle into the corner of one of the blue sofas.

Right.

Down to business.

The title of the course is ‘Poetry and Drama; the Beauty of the English Language’. A little non-specific, I know. I’ve tried proposing more focused curriculums: ‘The War Poets and the Language of Loss’ or ‘From Shakespeare to Mamet; the Evolution of Heightened Speech Through the Ages’, but it’s never taken off. What people really want is something more universal. A quiet, safe place to bring their favourite pieces. This course attracts a strange breed of students: the ones who haven’t made it through the rigorous auditions for more advanced acting classes – older students; shy ones. My class is definitely not for professional actors. Or for young ambitious undergraduates. My class is for people who queue to stand at the back of the stalls to see
King Lear
at the National, even though they saw it two weeks ago, because it’s their favourite play and they have nothing else to do on a Friday night. Or a Saturday night, for that matter.

I unpack my collection of poetry anthologies and play texts. Stacking them neatly, I arrange them in order of weekly classes: Shakespeare (two classes at least), Restoration Drama (special focus on the bargaining scene from
Way of the World
, the monologues from
The Rivals
and
School for Scandal
), a brief look at John Donne and the
metaphysical poets, and then a huge leap straight into Chekhov and the Romantic poets, for no better reason than I like them best.

I’m feeling quite smug and well-read, surrounded by all my great literature when Ellery King walks in. He’s the fight instructor on the proper full-time drama course. He moves with self-conscious feline grace over to the wooden cubbyholes that fill the far wall, functioning as staff mailboxes.

I shouldn’t stare.

Forcing my eyes back to my notebook, I pretend to be deeply absorbed in my own intellectually stimulating and highly worthwhile work.

‘Week one,’ I write purposefully, ‘the dramatic interpretation of Shakespeare’s sonnets. To include sonnets 154, 74, 12 and …’

Concentrate. What I’m doing is important and spiritually satisfying. I’m a teacher. A mentor. A guide on an intensely enriching spiritual journey of self-discovery.

‘To include sonnets 12, 74, 154 and …’

‘Hey’ His voice is low and inviting. ‘Why don’t I buy you a coffee?’

My head bobs up, cheeks flushed with excitement.

He’s staring intently into the eyes of a young, leggy drama student, as if she’s the most fascinating creature on earth. She says something and he throws his head back and roars.

Oh. My mistake.

He brushes his dark hair out of his eyes; drapes an arm round her shoulders, moving her towards the door. She nods like one of those toy dogs people put in the back seat of their cars.

I watch them leave. He hasn’t even checked his mailbox, crammed full of post. I cast an eye to the far corner where my mailbox is. Nothing.

I close my eyes and feel the rapid beat of my heart pounding against my chest. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t even know I exist. And if he did notice me, what would he see? A thirty-three-year-old single mother teaching adult education night classes? A woman whose stomach wrinkles up like an accordion when she sits down in the bath?

Get real.

I have more of a chance of seducing R. Fitzroy than I do Ellery King.

Flicking through my worn copy of the
Complete Works of Shakespeare
, I scan the first lines of the sonnets. Here it is: Sonnet 129.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame