Fire After Dark (3 page)

I’ll surprise Adam, I decided gleefully. He lived in his brother Jimmy’s house, paying cheap rent for the spare room. Jimmy was away so Adam planned to have a few mates round, drink some beers and watch a movie. He’d seemed disappointed when I said I couldn’t join him, so he’d be delighted when I turned up unexpectedly.

The memory is so vivid it’s like I’m living it all over again, walking through the darkened house, surprised that no one is there, wondering where the boys have got to. The television is off, no one is lounging on the sofa, cracking open cans of beer or making smart remarks at the screen. My surprise is going to fall flat, I realise. Maybe Adam is feeling ill and has gone straight to bed. I walk along the hallway towards his bedroom door; it’s so familiar, it might as well be my own house.

I’m turning the handle of the door, saying, ‘Adam?’ in a quiet voice, in case he’s sleeping already. I’ll go in anyway, and if he’s asleep, I’ll just look at his face, the one I love so much, and wonder what he’s dreaming about, maybe press a kiss on his cheek, curl up beside him . . .

I push the door open. A lamp is on, the one he likes to drape in a red scarf when we’re making love so that we’re lit by shadows – in fact, it’s glowing darkly scarlet right now, so perhaps he’s not asleep. I blink in the semi-darkness; the duvet is humped and moving. What’s he doing there?

‘Adam?’ I say again, but more loudly. The movement stops, and then the shape beneath the duvet changes, the cover folds back and I see . . .

I gasp with pain at the memory, screwing my eyes shut as though this will block out the pictures in my head. It’s like an old movie I can’t stop playing, but this time I firmly press the mental off switch, and lift De Havilland off my lap onto the sofa next to me. Recalling it still has the capacity to floor me, to leave me a sodden mess. The whole reason for coming here is to move on, and I’ve got to start right now.

My stomach rumbles and I realise I’m hungry. I go through to the kitchen to look for something to eat. Celia’s fridge is almost bare and I make a note that grocery shopping will be a priority for tomorrow. Searching the cupboards, I find some crackers and a tin of sardines, which will do for now. In fact, I’m so hungry that it tastes delicious. As I’m washing up my plate, I’m overtaken suddenly by an enormous yawn. I look at my watch: it’s still early, not even nine yet, but I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day. The fact that I woke this morning in my old room at home seems almost unbelievable.

I decide I’ll turn in. Besides, I want to try that amazing-looking bed. How can a girl not feel better in a silver four-poster? It’s got to be impossible. I go back through to the sitting room to turn out the lights. My hand is on the switch when I notice that the man is back in his sitting room. Now the dark trousers he was wearing have been replaced by a towel tucked around his hips, and his hair is wet and slicked back. He’s standing right in the middle of the room near the window and he is looking directly into my flat. In fact, he is staring straight at me, a frown creasing his forehead, and I am staring right back. Our eyes are locked, though we are too far apart to read the nuances in one another’s gaze.

Then, in a movement that is almost involuntary, my thumb presses down on the switch and the lamp obediently flashes off, plunging the room into darkness. He cannot see me any more, I realise, although his sitting room is still brightly lit for me, even more vivid than before now I’m watching from the dark. The man steps forward to the window, leans on the sill and looks out intently, trying to see what he can spy. I’m frozen, almost not breathing. I don’t why it seems so important that he doesn’t see me, but I can’t resist the impulse to remain hidden. He stares a few moments more, still frowning, and I look back, not moving but still able to admire the shape of his upper body and the way the well-shaped biceps swell as he leans forward on them.

He gives up staring and turns back into the room. I seize my chance and slip out of the sitting room and into the hall, closing the door behind me. Now there are no windows, I cannot be seen. I release a long sigh.

‘What was all that about?’ I say out loud, and the sound of my voice comforts me. I laugh. ‘Okay, that’s enough of that. The guy is going to think I’m some kind of nutter if he sees me skulking about in the dark, playing statues whenever I think he can see me. Bed.’

I remember De Havilland just in time, and open the sitting-room door again so that he can escape if he needs to. He has a closed litter box in the kitchen which he needs access to, so I make sure the kitchen door is also open. Going to turn out the hall light, I hesitate for a moment, and then leave it on.

I know, it’s childish to believe that light drives the monsters away and keeps the burglars and killers at bay, but I’m alone in a strange place in a big city and I think that tonight, I will leave it on.

In fact, even ensconced in the downy comfort of Celia’s bed and so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open, I can’t quite bring myself to turn out the bedside lamp. In the end, I sleep all night in its gentle glow, but I’m so tired that I don’t even notice.

Chapter Two

‘Hey, excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Lie Cester Square?’

‘Sorry?’ I say, confused, blinking in the strong, morning sunshine. Above me the sky is a clear blue with only the faintest suggestion of clouds in the distance.

‘Lie Cester Square,’ she repeats patiently. The woman’s accent is American, she’s wearing a sunhat and big dark glasses, in a touristy uniform of red polo shirt, loose trousers and trainers, with the obligatory small backpack, and she’s holding a guidebook. Her husband, dressed almost identically, is standing mutely behind her.

‘Lie Cester?’ I echo, puzzled. I’ve made my way from Randolph Gardens to Oxford Street, one of London’s main shopping thoroughfares, and am strolling along it, watching the crowds of people out even at this relatively early hour, and gazing in the shop windows. It’s hard to believe that all this bustle and commerce is going on just a five-minute stroll from Celia’s flat. ‘I. . . I’m not sure.’

‘Look, here it is,’ the woman says, showing me her map. ‘I wanna see the statue of Charlie Chaplin.’

‘Oh – Leicester Square, of course . . .’

‘Lester?’ she repeats, puzzled, and turns to her husband. ‘They say it Lester, honey. Honestly everything’s a trap around here if you don’t know.’

I’m about to tell her that I’m a tourist myself but somehow I’m a little flattered that she thinks I know my way around. I must look like a Londoner. I take the map and look at it carefully, then say, ‘I think you can walk there from here, look. If you go up to Oxford Circus, then down Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus and turn left, it’s a straight line across to Leicester Square.’

The woman beams at me. ‘Oh, thank you so much, that’s so kind of you. We’re kind of lost. It’s so busy, isn’t it? But we’re loving it!’

I smile back. ‘You’re very welcome. Have a lovely stay.’

I watch them go, hoping they’ll find their way to Leicester Square all right and that the Chaplin statue lives up to their expectations. Maybe I should try and find it myself, perhaps it’s worth a look.

I fish my own guidebook out of my shoulder bag and look through it as people swarm by in both directions. All around are large department stores and big chains: Gap, Disney, mobile phone shops, fashion outlets, chemists, designer glasses stores, jewellers. Along the wide pavements are stalls selling souvenirs, luggage, knick-knacks and snacks: fruit, caramel-roasted nuts, waffles, cold drinks.

My plan is go to the Wallace Collection, a free museum nearby that holds an extraordinary amount of baroque art and furniture, and then maybe grab some lunch somewhere and see what the afternoon brings me. I have that delicious sense of freedom: there’s no one to answer to, no one to please but myself and the day stretches ahead, full of opportunity and possibility. London has more to offer than I can ever take advantage of, but I plan to see all the big sights, especially the ones nearest to me: the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery and the British Museum. My degree is in History of Art and I’m practically salivating at the thought of all the things I’m going to see.

The sun is bright and the sky clear. I’m feeling almost jaunty. The number of people about is overwhelming but there’s also something liberating about it. At home, I can’t go anywhere without meeting someone I know and one of the reasons I found it so hard to venture out is that I knew that everyone would be talking about Adam and me, and what had happened. No doubt they even knew what we’d said in that final tearful interview when Adam had confessed that he and Hannah had been sleeping together for months, since before I’d returned from university. That had probably been the subject of hot gossip, too. And I came back, innocent of all of it, thinking that Adam and I are still one another’s soulmates, the centres of each other’s world. They must have been laughing at me, wondering when I would finally find out and what would happen when I did.

Well, they all know now.

But no one here does. No one around me gives a damn about my humiliation or my broken heart or the fact that I’ve been betrayed by the man I loved. I smile and breathe in the fresh summer air. A big red bus rumbles by me and I remember I’m in London, the great capital city, and it’s spread out before me, waiting for me to discover it.

I set off, feeling lighter than I have for weeks.

It’s late afternoon when I finally return to Randolph Gardens, a heavy carrier bag of groceries cutting into my palm, ready for a cool drink and keen to take my shoes off. I’m exhausted but pleased with everything I’ve achieved today. I managed to find the Wallace Collection and spent a very happy morning delighting in the rococo art and furniture within the extraordinarily beautiful Regency house. I revelled in the pink and white magnificence of Boucher, drank in Fragonard’s gorgeous floral fairytales and sighed at the portrait of Madame de Pompadour in her lavish gowns. I admired the exquisite statues, ornaments and furniture, and lingered over the collection of miniatures in the galleries.

I found a nearby cafe for lunch, where hunger helped me overcome my general shyness at eating alone, and then decided to see where I would end up if I simply wandered. Eventually I found myself at what I discovered was Regent’s Park, and spent a couple of happy hours walking around, sometimes through manicured rose gardens, sometimes along paths bordered by green expanses and shaggy trees, sometimes beside lakes or playgrounds or sports fields. And then, to my astonishment, I heard the trumpeting of elephants and saw in the distance the dappled neck and small head of a giraffe: I was near the zoo, I realised, laughing. And after that, I turned for home, stumbling onto a very smart street as I went that had, alongside chic boutiques and homeware shops, things like cash points and a branch of a supermarket that meant I could stock up on some food and other necessities. As I made my way back to Celia’s flat, with only a couple of stops to consult my map, I felt almost like a real Londoner. The woman who’d stopped me that morning had no idea I knew the city as little as she did, but now I was a little more seasoned, and already excited about what I might do tomorrow. And the best thing was, I had barely thought about Adam. Well, not that much. But when I did, he seemed so far away, so distant and removed from this life I was living, that his power over me was distinctly diluted.

‘Good afternoon, De Havilland,’ I say brightly as the familiar dark body awaits me inside the door. He’s delighted to see me, purring nineteen to the dozen, rubbing himself against my legs in ecstasy, not wanting to let me walk a step without him pressed close to my calves. ‘Have you had a lovely day? I have! Now what have we here? Look at this, I’ve been shopping – I can cook dinner. I know, I know, it’s beyond exciting. I bet you didn’t know I could cool but actually I’m all right and tonight we’re going to have a delicious seared tuna steak with Asian dressing, rice and stir-fried greens, although I’ll bet you that Celia doesn’t have a wok, so we’ll have to make do with whatever we can find.’

I chatter on to the little animal, enjoying his company and the gaze of his bright yellow eyes. He’s only a cat, of course, but I’m glad he’s there. Without him, this whole exercise would be a lot more daunting.

After dinner, which I managed to cook perfectly fine without a wok, I wander through to the sitting room, wondering if the man in the apartment opposite is going to appear but his flat’s in darkness

I wander over to the bookcase and start inspecting Celia’s library of books. As well as a wide range of novels, poetry and history, she has a wonderful collection of fashion books on everything from the history of famous fashion labels, to biographies of celebrated designers and large photographic volumes. I pull some out, sit on the floor and start flicking through them, admiring the stunning photographs of twentieth-century fashion. Turning the large glossy pages of one, I stop suddenly, my attention caught by the model in one particular photograph. It is an image from the sixties, and a girl of startling beauty stares out, her huge eyes made feline by the bat-wings of eyeliner on her lids. She’s biting her lip, which gives her an air of intense vulnerability that contrasts with her polished beauty, the carefully styled dark hair, the amazing lace mini-dress she’s wearing.

Tracing my finger around the girl’s face, I realise that I know this woman. I glance up to the framed photographs that cover a nearby side table. Yes, it’s unmistakeable. This is Celia herself, a modelling shot taken in the earliest days of her career. I turn the other pages quickly: there are three more shots of Celia, each with that delicate air alongside the high-fashion look. In one, her dark locks have been cut to a close crop, a gamine style that makes her look even younger.

That’s weird,
I think, puzzled.
I always imagined Celia as a strong woman but in these photos she looks so . . . not exactly weak . . . Fragile, I guess. As though life has already dealt her a blow. As though it’s a big bad world out there, and she’s facing it alone.