Kiss Me First (21 page)

Simon, meanwhile, replied in his usual blunt manner.

Fairly cute, but I need to see him without the glasses. Eyes = windows to the soul, and all that.

I didn’t take much notice of this at the time. Simon was my least favourite of Tess’s friends. Whilst everyone else seemed happy to take what Tess said at face value, Simon seemed to see it as his role to challenge everything, as if he knew Tess better than she did. Obviously, I like people who think about things and take issue with stupidity but he didn’t do it in an intelligent way; rather, it was his default reaction to everything. He was also very shallow, only interested in socializing with the ‘cool’ people and judging others purely on what they were wearing. He did this even when they were supposed friends of his and Tess’s, like Joy, whom he disapproved of for
still wearing bootcut jeans
. Describing a night out to Tess, he said that the club wasn’t as glamorous as he hoped,
full of suburbanites and size twelves
.
He had nine hundred and thirty Facebook friends and his updates were meaningless and annoying, links to songs that he demanded everyone listen to right that second, or just updates of where he was –
Vauxhall. Home. Berlin
– as if the world was hanging on details of his whereabouts.

But his comment lodged in my head, because it chimed with something that had been bothering me somewhat about Connor: I didn’t really know what he looked like. In the only picture I had of him, the one in the park, he too was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t think I’d be able to spot him in a crowd. I had a sudden, intense desire to see his face.

It then occurred to me that, actually, seeing Connor in the flesh would be a perfectly simple thing to arrange, and not in the least risky. I knew where he worked, at a solicitors’ called Asquith and Partners in Temple. I knew vaguely what he looked like. And, from our emails, I had a pretty good idea of his daily routine.

My plan, then, was to go past his office at lunchtime, on a day I knew he was there and not in court, and wait for him to come out to get some lunch. I would then be able to get a good look at him. I rationalized it: after all, it could only aid my work for Tess to have a thorough knowledge of one of her correspondents. All the information I could gather on Connor was pertinent to my job.

That evening in our emails I asked him what he was doing the next day, whether he was going to be in court. He replied that he was stuck in the office, working on a particularly dull case. He asked me what I was doing, and I told him that I had a double session with Natalie, the girl I was tutoring, because she was preparing for a scholarship exam for an art school in Vancouver.

The next day I woke at noon, having slept through my 11 a.m. alarm, and didn’t have time to pick up my washing from the launderette, so put on the same track-suit bottoms and T-shirt I had worn the previous day. My outfit didn’t really matter, I thought: after all, Connor was not going to know who I was; he might not even notice me. I left the tube at Temple and my Google map directed me off a main road down an old passageway, not much wider than myself, at the end of which I emerged into a space which, had I been the kind of person to gasp aloud, might well have made me do so. It had the appearance of a secret, magical city. The streets were cobbled and the buildings ancient: there was a beautiful church made from stone the colour of Werther’s Originals. There were almost no cars or signs of contemporary life – it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Harry Potter film. It was quiet and peaceful, and everyone I saw seemed to be wearing a dark suit, as if there had been a sign advising a dress code which I missed on the way in. It was hard to believe that this place was actually in London, and I remember feeling a moment of regret that mum had never taken me to places like this, that we’d spent all of our time in the house.

It took a while to find the offices of Asquith and Partners, which were housed in a wonky, narrow building. Beside the black door was a plaque with half a dozen names on it. Connor’s wasn’t on there, but I knew that he wasn’t yet a partner in the firm, so perhaps that was why. There was a little park opposite, and I sat down on a bench to wait.

It was 12.50 p.m. when I arrived. I presumed that Connor would be coming out for lunch at some point between 1 p.m. and 2 p.m., but of course I couldn’t be sure. I had with me a free newspaper which I had picked up on the tube, and so pretended to read that whilst I kept an eye on the door.

Inconveniently, the park bench faced away from Connor’s office, so I had to keep twisting round. Although I had of course thoroughly examined his photograph, I was concerned I might miss him, because men in suits look quite similar. Besides, I didn’t know when that photograph he sent me was taken, and I reasoned he could have cut his hair or changed weight since then.

But as it turned out I did recognize him, instantly. It was 1.17 p.m., and I was half-reading a newspaper article about a teenager who was stabbed to death, when the door opened and there he was.

I wasn’t prepared for the effect of seeing Connor in the flesh. I felt almost dizzy, my heart pounding; when I stood up, my legs seemed boneless. I think it was the subterfuge of it, as much as anything; I remember something of the same feeling from watching Mike from behind the curtain on Leverton Street.

He was with another, older man, both in suits. They appeared to be in the middle of a conversation and headed up the street together. Connor had his hands in his trouser pockets; the older man produced a cigarette and lit it as they walked.

My legs still feeble, I started to follow them, picking up pace until I was about ten metres behind. I reminded myself that there was no way Connor could know who I was. Obviously, I could mostly just see the back of his head. His hair looked different from the photo; now it was wet-looking and slicked back. Occasionally he would turn to say something to the man beside him and I would catch a glimpse of his profile, but from that position it was impossible to get a good look at his eyes.

I wondered whether the other man was his colleague Colin, whom he mentioned often in his emails. Colin was, Connor said, a ‘good bloke’ but had a tendency to be pedantic and dull, and Connor enjoyed winding him up. He had never mentioned that Colin smoked, however, and he didn’t seem to find this man boring. Indeed, Connor was laughing quite hard at something Colin said. From the glimpses I got when he turned his head, his eyes crinkled up when he smiled.

It sounds odd, I know, but when I saw them laughing together I felt a pang of discontent that he was finding someone else amusing and engaging. He had told me that writing to me was
the highlight of his day,
and so I suppose I expected to see him looking more miserable than he was. But almost as soon as the thought entered my head, I reprimanded myself for being unreasonable. I should be happy that he was enjoying his working environment and the company of his colleague.

The men walked along the street for a hundred metres or so before turning off into a smaller, cobbled road. They stopped at a cafe. It must have sold very good sandwiches, because the queue snaked out of the door. Connor and the other man joined the back of it. I hesitated, and during my inaction a woman got in behind them. I quickly moved to take the place behind her.

It was actually a good thing that I wasn’t directly behind Connor. My heart was still pounding so loudly I felt like everyone in the queue could hear it. There was an odd, hollow feeling in my stomach, not quite the same as being hungry but close.

Even with the woman between us I was near enough to make out some of the conversation between Connor and his colleague. They seemed to be talking about a footballer who had performed badly the previous evening: ‘What a joker,’ Connor said, ‘I can’t believe he missed that penalty.’ ‘Schoolboy error,’ his friend agreed.

At that proximity I could smell a lemony fragrance which seemed to come from Connor, and noticed that he had a patch of thinning hair, the size of a Wagon Wheel. The back of his neck was newly shaved, and I had a bizarre, fleeting urge to touch the skin there. I looked at his ears, which stuck out just like they did in the photograph, and thought of how, if I stepped forward, I could whisper things in them that would give him the shock of his life. Private things that he had told me in emails. He had confessed that when he was a teenager he had had a crush on the singer of a pop group, and even now the word ‘T’Pau’ made him shiver. I could have whispered that. I could have told him what he was thinking about in court the day before, during that hearing for the Polish shoplifter: about an article he had read in
GQ
magazine about an explorer in the Antarctic who had to eat emperor penguins to survive.

Of course, I didn’t actually say any of those things. The queue inched forward into the shop, where heaps of sandwich fillings lay congealing under a glass counter. I wondered which Connor would choose, and decided on something fishy: he had told me he was jealous of all the fresh seafood available on Sointula. I couldn’t help a quick smile when his turn came and he asked for crab mayonnaise on a white baguette. That he would accompany the sandwich with cheese and onion crisps I knew almost as a certainty, as he had confided in me during some of the ‘ironically trivial’ banter we had exchanged that he was worried he was actually addicted to them, and felt ill if he didn’t have a packet a day.

What didn’t occur to me, however, was that it would soon be my turn to be asked for my order by the brisk man behind the counter. I was caught unawares, and said the first thing that came into my mind: a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

It was only when the man asked me for 50p in return that it struck me that I hadn’t brought any money out with me. However, I remembered there were often some coins in the lining of my coat that had slipped through the holes in the pockets, so I ran my fingers over the material in order to feel if there were any hiding there. I found some promising hard discs, but then had to work them through the lining to get them out, and ended up ripping the hole a bit bigger to allow easier access.

I was so absorbed in the task I only faintly registered a loud sigh from the server man, and his ‘Yes, mate?’ as he went on to take the order from the person behind me. After a minute or so, I had rescued five coins from my coat lining. Laying them out on the glass counter, I saw that they only added up to thirty-eight pence.

By now the man had started serving the people behind me in the queue, leaving the bag of crisps beside the coins on the counter. I was counting the money again when an amazing thing happened: Connor stepped forward. He and his colleague had been standing to one side, waiting for a sandwich to be toasted, and he must have observed my fumbling. He placed a ten-pence piece and a two-pence piece on the counter beside my coins.

‘There you go,’ he said, and gave me a wonderful smile. I stared at him. His eyes were light blue, and they almost disappeared when he smiled. Then the man behind the counter handed his colleague his sandwich in a white paper bag, and Connor turned to leave the shop with him.

I was tempted to follow them back to the office, but I was feeling so churned up I turned the other way and walked down the cobbled street, trying to calm down. I couldn’t even eat my crisps. I wandered around for twenty minutes or so. Then I sat down on a kerb and logged onto Tess’s Gmail account from my phone.

I felt a great need to see an email from Connor. I wanted to see if he mentioned the encounter he had just had with me in the cafe. The first time I logged on there was no new email from him, but then, twenty minutes later, there it was. However, all it contained was a link to a clip on YouTube, with the message: I think she looks rather like you. No mention of the incident at lunch. Although mildly disappointed, I concluded that he must practise these small acts of kindness all the time: for him it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

When I got home I clicked on the YouTube link. It was a music video of a singer performing a complicated, mesmerizing dance alongside lots of people in brightly coloured leotards. ‘One, two, three, four, tell me that you love me more,’ she sang. The woman had some similarities to Tess – thin, with dark eyes and a fringe – but she wasn’t quite as attractive.

I think I’m prettier,
I replied.

Goes without saying,
wrote Connor.

It’s 5.20 a.m., and my battery icon is flashing red. The tent is still zipped up but I can tell it’s growing light; the canvas is brightening and the birds are starting their manic chatter. I just saw a shape scurry past, which made me jump, but I presume it’s just one of the dogs, or Milo going to the lavatory. I hope. Good night.

Monday, 22nd August 2011

I told Annie about mum this evening. I didn’t intend to, and what concerns me is less the possible consequences – I don’t think she’ll tell anyone – than the fact I let it slip. I think I might have been under the influence of drugs. Not that I took any myself, of course, but everyone around me did, and the air was thick with sweet smoke which it was impossible to avoid ingesting and may have resulted in a weakening of my faculties.

What happened was this. At around 3.30 p.m. I was woken by Annie, who informed me that it was time to start preparations for the ‘Full Moon Feast’. I ascertained that whenever there was a full moon, the commune residents cooked and ate a meal together, and everyone was expected to ‘muck in’. I explained to her that I was unaware of this custom and would not be participating, but she said, ‘Oh shuddup, come on you,’ and I ended up getting off my mattress and following her and the children to the main clearing.

Outside the big tipi a temporary kitchen had been set up, with some rusty, rudimentary cooking apparatus and buckets of vegetables on trestle tables. Some of the residents were milling about, chopping and carting things and generally expending more energy than they had done all week. I recognized most of them now from my enquiries: Davide with the tiny shorts; Johanna, the German with silver studs on her eyebrows; Maria, who had thick multicoloured knots in her hair with rings around them, like fingers; the French man with the terrible spots. Deirdre, who was one of the few people on the commune who wasn’t thin – rather, tall and thickset, like a fridge – appeared to be in charge of proceedings, and announced we were making a vegetable stew. I was shown a bucket and assigned to cut up the carrots, along with Annie and Milo and Bandit, a slight Spanish man.