LOVE'S GHOST (a romance) (11 page)

“Okay.”

In truth, I didn’t mind what we did, as long as we did something to take my mind off Russell and Carl. And temperamental models. Portia had seemed so nice when we’d spotted her in Camden. Just like any seventeen-year-old out shopping. She had seemed sweet and a little shy. If she was going to act the diva at a simple photo shoot for her portfolio, what would she be like if she started getting attention from advertising agencies and fashion editors?

And as I was thinking of models, what was I going to do about Anna? It wasn’t fair not to tell her that she was no longer on the agency’s books. I still hadn’t mentioned to Polly that I had chickened out of telling Anna the bad news. Perhaps I should go on representing Anna without telling Polly. Not that there was anywhere left in London where I could try and get her a half-decent assignment. I’d tried every magazine lately, every advertising and promotions agency.

“Try one of these sausages.” We’d reached the food market outside the Queen Elizabeth hall. It appeared on occasional Saturday and Sundays. It was a great place to grab warm food and walk along the banks of the Thames. This part of the river wasn’t the same as the stretch near my home. Here it was wide and majestic, running through the tourist sites of the capital — St Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament all overlooked it.

Emily always went for the sausage. They weren’t like the puny ones you got in fast food restaurant. The ones on sale at the market were large and meaty. It was an obvious joke, but one too good to resist. We played it out with different variations each time.

“No, you have the whole sausage, Em.”

“I don’t think I can manage the whole thing.” The tomato ketchup was dibbling down her chin as she spoke.

“I think you’ve bitten down on it so hard, you’ve made it bleed,” I said.

This cracked Emily up so much, she nearly choked on her sausage. As she’d started laughing, her head had jerked forward, plunging the sausage further into her mouth. I leapt forward and pulled it out before it went any further. She was laughing so much that tears were falling from her eyes.

“Thank you.” She choked and laughed at the same time.

“Sorry, Em. I didn’t think you’d start choking.”

“It was worth it. I must remember that one.”

Emily had trouble finishing off the sausage. Every time she brought it up to her mouth she began convulsing with laughter. I wasn’t helping, humming the music to the movie
Jaws
, whenever the sausage approached.

We carried on walking along the South Bank, past the National Film Theatre and the National Theatre.

Emily was divorced. She’d married when she was very young, eighteen years old. They’d seemed to be the perfect couple, like a couple of decorative figures on a wedding cake. I’ll always remember the wedding photographs. I’d never seen two happier people. At weddings, brides usually look pretty and grooms look handsome. The splendour of the event gives the main protagonists a serene glow. But these two had looked even happier than most. Emily looked like she had been born in a wedding dress. And Jim was so devoted to her, so attentive and dutiful.

But the marriage wasn’t a happy experience. I remember doing my best to help her through the divorce. But she didn’t need any help. Despite the fact that he had constantly cheated on her, she never took it to heart. That’s the great thing about Emily, she is so strong. Nothing fazes her. She was determined to enjoy the rest of her twenties.

But what Emily forgets is that not everybody is as strong as she is. Not everybody wants to get up from the canvas straight after being knocked down. Some of us like to lie there a while and take stock of our injuries.

“Did you know
this
was on?”

We were standing outside the Tate Modern, a huge art gallery devoted to modern art that used to be a power station. It’s large chimney and famous Turbine Hall have become iconic images of London.

Outside the gallery there were posters advertising an exhibition that was about to open. It featured the work of internationally renowned artist Carl Rask.

“I had no idea, Fay. I’m really sorry,” she said in a little girl’s voice.

I looked her in the eye. “You knew.”

She skewed her face one way then another, as if she were Mr Bean. I couldn’t stay mad at her for long.

“Stop it,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“You should call him.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“If you don’t call him, the love gods will be angry and they might bring down great fires on the earth.”

“No, they won’t.”

“The love gods can be particularly nasty when you offend them. They once delivered me a gorgeous man, a true beast of power, with the most heinous bad breath.”

Emily stopped messing around with her face. “Didn’t you even google him?” she asked.

“No. I made a particular point of not googling him. After our ‘date’, for want of a better word, I thought it best not to know anything about him. I’m just going to get on with my life. I don’t think he was interested in me. He just left me there on the jetty, remember.”

“But only because of Russell.” Emily sighed.
 

She had a good heart, was always trying to do good. But sometimes her efforts were misguided.

“Well, I can’t just blot out Russell. I’ve tried. No matter how attractive and talented Carl is. Besides, he definitely has his own issues. How many times, Em?”

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine. Look, we’re here now. The café has stunning views and I could do with a coffee. Hopefully, there won’t be too many of these giant posters on the way.”

We went to the café and treated ourselves to a cappuccino. It was a beautiful spring day with very clear skies. We managed to find a couple of stools facing the window so had a panoramic view of the skyline, its buildings looking like pages from a history book.

“I’m really, really, really sorry,”
 
Emily said.

“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing her back for reassurance.

“I think I have this rose-tinted view of life. I just want you to be happy.”

“Well, if I’ve learnt anything over the last few months, it’s how wonderful my best friend is. Whatever you do, I know you’re looking out for me.”

“Shucks, you’re making me blush.” She playfully shoved me, so I shoved her back.

We settled down and Emily checked her phone for emails.

“That’s weird,” she said. But she didn’t add to it. Instead, she busied herself on her phone. I tried to see what she was doing. She was following a link to a website.

“Oh, wow.” she said.

“What?”

“Forgive me. I told Jemima that you had a date with this Carl Rask. She’s really into her art, knows all about him. She sent back this link. I didn’t know this about him.”

Her face went all serious.

“What is it?” I asked.

 
“It’s nothing really. Just a curious fact.”

“Tell me,” I begged.

“It’s nothing.”

“Then tell me.”

“It’s just that he’s been married once, and had another long-term relationship.”

But I could tell by the tone in her voice that she hadn’t finished, that there was more.

“And both women committed suicide.”

I was shocked. At first, my face just froze.

Emily obviously saw my discomfort. “I feel terrible for the guy. Apparently, both women gassed themselves. And before you ask, he didn’t murder them. He was out of the country on both occasions.”

“I
wasn’t
going to ask that,” I said.

“It reminds me of a poet I read about when I was at school — Ted Hughes. Same thing happened to him. Both the women in his life killed themselves.”

“Yeah, I remember reading about that. I think his mistress said that Ted Hughes made love like a butcher going about his work.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “Sounds… I don’t know if that’s erotic or just makes me hungry.”

“I’m trying to imagine it. But images of a horror movie keep flashing up in my head.”

“You’ve got to feel sorry for the guy,” Emily said. “Carl, I mean. That’s a lot to go through. A lot to carry around with you.”

“It must be.”

I tried to imagine myself in the same position. What if I’d returned to the apartment and Russell had been lying on the floor? I don’t think I’d have recovered. The guilt would have been horrible. We all know that we shouldn’t blame ourselves when something like that happens. People who reach that point, where suicide is the only option, are difficult to help. Even skilled professionals sometimes can’t get through to them. But I suppose human nature makes us blame ourselves.

“I don’t know how anybody would deal with that.”

I was drifting with my thoughts when I heard a voice behind me. It was assured and resonant. “Deal with what?”

I nearly fell off my stool. It was Carl Rask. He was dressed head to toe in black again. But his black hair looked more ruffled than I’d seen it.

Emily’s jaw dropped. When she recovered, she pointed at the poster that hung in the café. Then, as if in some catatonic state, she just managed to get out the words: “That’s you.”

Carl looked round at the poster. “Yes, it is.”

The poster only showed half his face, the edge of it running down the middle of his nose. But the marketing department obviously knew that they didn’t need more than one of his eyes to make a bewitching impression.

“I asked them not to use my face,” he said. “I’m against the objectification of the arts.”

There was an uneasy silence. Then Carl said, “Do you mind if I join you? I could do with a break.”

Emily jumped in before I could say anything. “No, no, no. Not at all. Join us. Please, join us.”

“Thank you,” he said and turned to make his way to the serving counter.

“Oh my God,” said Emily. “Oh my God. I’m speechless. The photographs don’t do him justice. How can one man hog so much beauty? I don’t usually use the word ‘beauty’ in relation to a man. But, it’s the only word that comes to mind. I’ve never actually gone weak at the knees before. I didn’t think I could. But I swear, don’t make me get up from this stool, because I will just crumple. Don’t get me wrong, you’re Russell is a handsome man. A very handsome guy.”

“Still is,” I pointed out.

“Yes, absolutely. But… I. I don’t know, maybe the artist thing is working on me. But he’s just gorgeous.”

Carl returned, carrying his coffee. I jumped down from my stool and put some space between myself and Emily, so that Carl could drag a stool into the gap and sit between us.

“It’s a nice day,” he said. “Have you ladies been round the gallery?”

Emily had the silliest smile on her face. “Not yet. No, not yet,” she said.

I sipped my coffee, unsure of where to look. Carl turned to me.

“How are you, Fay?”

“I’m good, thanks. I see you have an exhibition opening here in a week’s time.”

“Yes. I’ve been busy checking the layout. The curator and I have different ideas about the effects of space on the emotions of the viewer. It’s very frustrating.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Emily said. Though I knew she didn’t. She’d gone before we’d sat down.

“Be careful when you stand up,” I said. “Your knees have been playing up, remember?”

Emily’s mouth twitched but she stopped herself laughing.

When she’d gone, Carl spoke to me quietly: “I owe you an explanation for not calling.”

“No. No, of course not. I understand. You made yourself clear when you dropped me off.”

“I don’t think you do understand.” His voice was tender.

“I had a very nice boat ride, and it was lovely to see your beautiful house.”

He hardly let me finish before he said, “Would you have dinner with me this Friday?”

I wasn’t expecting an invitation, not after the way the previous date ended. “You said I was haunted.”

“Yes, I think you are.”

“And I didn’t think that I had a place in helping you with that. But maybe I do.”

I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that I was showing any emotion, but somehow he worked out that I needed reassurance. He lay a reassuring hand on my upper arm.

“Friday, I’ll pick you up in the boat at the same spot?”

I was confused. But I nodded.

“Could you apologise to your friend for me? I have to get back to work. I’ll see you Friday.”

I nodded again.

Emily was very disappointed to see the empty stool when she returned. I told her about the second date and she got very excited on my behalf.
 

I don’t know what I felt. It was a combination of feelings. Excitement, yes, a sexual thrill, yes, but trepidation too.

At the height of this emotional confusion, I sensed Russell sit down next to me. Not the real one, the one in my head.

“You’re going on a second date? Seriously?” he scoffed.

I FELT A little silly standing on the wooden jetty, waiting for a boat to come and pick me up. People walked by on the river bank and glanced at me. Did they think I might be considering jumping in? I tried to reassure the occasional passer-by with a slight smile, but that seemed to freak them out even more.

It was a warm evening for spring, very warm. The river had a mist rolling across its surface. When I first spotted Carl sailing towards me, I couldn’t see where the boat met the water. The mist obscured the water line.

Carl brought the boat to a halt next to the jetty and held out my hand to help me board. He was dressed in a tuxedo and looked amazing. I hadn’t known what to wear. I’d gone with a three-quarter length black dress with a halter neck. To keep me warm I wore a black and bottle-green mohair shrug.

I can’t lie, I was nervous.
 

On the way home from the Tate Modern I tried to understand why I’d said yes. Was it just because Carl Rask was so good looking? It was true, my body went into overdrive every time I saw him. It was hard to ignore that kind of physical reaction.

But Russell was good looking, too. I’d never had to slum it in that department. And Russell had a master’s touch in bed. But that was six months ago. Was it just my body saying enough is enough, I have needs?