LOVE'S GHOST (a romance) (15 page)

Eventually, Russell spoke: “Should I get us another drink?”

Even this was hard to answer. “No,” I said. “I have to go in a few minutes. I think it would be best.”

“Don’t go, hon.”

“It’s been a bit of a surprise. I thought you were going to end it once and for all. I just need to think about it.”

But it was Russell who was doing the thinking. I could see his eyes flicker. “Have you been seeing somebody else?”

Had I? What did my encounters with Carl constitute? Did it count as “seeing somebody”? Or did that imply a relationship?
 

And what exactly should I tell Russell? That, yes, I had cracked? That I’d felt so worthless and disillusioned that I’d cracked and given in to the approaches of a temperamental, yet exciting, artist?

I didn’t want to lie to him, but I didn’t want to tell him the truth, either. I didn’t know how he’d react. And I wasn’t sure he’d listen to any explanation. I just sat there looking at him. He had such a gorgeous face. Whereas Carl was all intensity and angularity, giving him a fierceness, Russell was softer around the edges, though no less handsome.

Russell took a deep breath, then said, “Because it’s okay if you
have
been seeing somebody. I’ve treated you very badly. I shouldn’t have bailed out like that. I’m not going to get hysterical if you have seen somebody. Just tell me.”

I spoke quickly. “Yes, I have been seeing somebody. Only very recently.”

Despite what he’d said, I could see that it shook him.

“Oh. Oh, right. Do you see a future in it?”

“I doubt it.” That was the truth. It was like a star in the sky that burned at its brightest just before it started to die.

“Well, okay. Then you take your time. I suppose. Can we at least agree to meet up again next week?”

I thought about it. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm in that. I still loved him. Oh, how I still loved him. He looked hurt and defenceless.

“Okay,” I said. “I’d like that.”

“Good. That’s great. Great news. Thank you.”

I stayed on for another drink and we exchanged memories. It was so easy talking to him after we’d got rid of the awkward questions. I’d forgotten just how easy it was to talk to him. I really enjoyed it, felt safe, just as I had when we’d been together.

I left the pub no less confused. But I was less anxious. I was glad I’d agreed to meet him.
 

But the shocks weren’t over for the night.

My mobile phone went off. It was a text from Carl. He wanted me to be his guest at the opening of his new exhibition at the Tate Modern. After I’d finished reading the text, I broke into a sweat once again. He needed to know by tomorrow, as security was very tight at these events and any guests given access to the VIP area needed to be vetted ahead of time.

I held the mobile phone in my hand for the entire length of my walk home. It was a second big decision that I had to make that night.

I CALLED EMILY to tell her about my drinks with Russell and the invitation from Carl. She had none of my doubts. She told me to make Russell wait and, in the meantime, to accept the invitation from Carl.

Her thinking went something like this: if I said no to Carl, I’d forever wonder if I’d done the right thing. She said I should stop punishing myself. Russell wanted to have his cake and eat it. He couldn’t just turn up after five weeks of silence and invite himself back, expecting me to welcome him with open arms. She said I needed to take time to consider my options.

Emily had a habit of cutting through the bullshit. Or that’s how she saw it. Life was black and white to her. My problem was grey. I still loved Russell, but that love had been damaged. Beyond repair? I couldn’t tell. I’d had a night to think about, and I still couldn’t decide.

But maybe Emily was right. Maybe I should treat the opening of the exhibition as a test. If I still thought about Russell while I was at the Tate Modern, then I should tell Carl that this was the case.

And that’s why on Wednesday afternoon I left work early. I didn’t tell anybody where I was going that evening. I was uncomfortable being the centre of attention at the office, so I just told everybody I had a friend’s birthday party to attend.

I knew that I would be expected to dress to impress, so I pulled out my Chanel little black dress that I’d been given by a grateful model. I could never afford one myself. But models get given these dresses if they kick up enough fuss. So to her it was just another freebie. Still, it was a nice thought.
 

My shoes were by Jimmy Choo. Again, not bought with my own money. Polly had taken me to the Paris fashion shows a couple of years ago, mainly to carry her bags. She took each of the model bookers there in turn, ostensibly as a treat, but mainly to carry her bags. She’d taken one look at my shoes and wept. So she gave me this pair from her bag of freebies from a grateful fashion editor.

I was like a walking charity shop, albeit a very exclusive one.

Carl picked me up in a chauffeur driven car. The driver was wearing a uniform with a cap on his head. I felt like royalty. He got out and opened the door for me.

Carl, already inside, reached out his hand to help me in.

“You look infinitely beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

We hadn’t spoken since that amazing night at his house, followed by the not so amazing day. We’d corresponded by text since then. Our romantic assignation had been a week and a half ago now. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him. But I did wonder about his motives. And mine.
 

Was this what I wanted? To be with a man who saw me every couple of weeks when the mood took him? Or when there was an exhibition that needed to be opened? Or was this a more practical way to conduct a relationship in the twenty-first century?

I didn’t want to spend the evening comparing Carl with Russell. But when I saw those dark, intense eyes, I felt my upper thighs tense. It was a very inconvenient time to feel that reflex, but I did.

The car drove away from St Andrew’s Square.

“You like living in Surbiton?” Carl asked.

“Yes, I feel very much at home.”

He didn’t take his eyes off me. But I found it hard to talk. I was nervous in his presence, as nervous as I had been before the dates. I thought of things to say but the words seem to get strangled in my throat before they had a chance to get out.

Whereas my conversation with Russell had been effortless, even though I wasn’t sure how I felt, this conversation was stilted, almost non-existent, but I
knew
what I felt.

I noticed his hand moving towards me, across the cream-coloured back seat. A smile played on his lips but didn’t lessen the pointedness of his stare. My lips parted slightly — to help me breathe, I think.

When his hand rested gently on my thigh, I gasped inwardly. This wasn’t happening, I told myself. I mustn’t let him have this effect on me. I couldn’t be with somebody this temperamental, this up and down.

“You’ll be doing a lot of interviews tonight,” I said.

“No. I told the gallery that I would do all the interviews before tonight. Tonight, I will not leave your side for very long. I know these things are difficult if you’re not used to them. I wasn’t going to invite you, but I’ve thought about you constantly.”

“But you didn’t call.”

He stared down at the floor. “No, I didn’t call.” The answer appeared to hurt him.

“I wanted to call, Fay. But I find it hard.”

“What do you find hard?”

There was a pause. “I find it hard to get close to people.”

“Because of your work?”

He shook his head. The intensity in his eyes was replaced by a sadness. “No, it’s not just because of the work.”

“Tell me.”

But before he could, we arrived at the gallery. The car sped into an underground car park. A few photographers had been waiting for any arrivals, and I saw a few flashlights illuminate the outside darkness. But we were travelling so quickly that I doubt they photographed anything worthwhile.

A member of the gallery’s staff was on hand to greet us and guide us through the underground maze.
 

When we reached the huge Turbine Hall, that cathedral of art, I saw what Carl had done to it. He had created what looked like a lunar landscape. At the far end of the hall was a picture of the earth, as if you were viewing it from the moon. But although the earth was remote, there were sounds and images coming from it. Bursting forwards. Sometimes it was a news report, sometimes a weather forecast. Everything was exaggerated. It was an audiovisual delight.

There was a large, invited audience for this spectacle. There must have been around five hundred people. The great and the good milled around — celebrities, politicians, sports people. Anybody who had appeared in a newspaper or magazine in the past year seemed to be there, drinking champagne.
 

I wondered if I was the only person there who wasn’t famous, or married to somebody famous, or the daughter of a famous aristocrat.
 

I didn’t mean to be intimidated. I’d told myself that some people here were famous only because they were rich, and they were only rich because daddy was rich. But it was hard not to be dazzled by all the diamonds on show. Nothing puts you in your place like a diamond that reflects the gallery’s lighting like a laser.

Carl was an impeccable partner. He sensed my nervousness and never left my side. Whenever somebody was introduced to him, he would make sure I was introduced as well. Part of me enjoyed the glittering occasion, part of me wanted to be swallowed up by one of the vast, brick walls.

Carl made a brief speech. He wanted me to come up onstage with him, but I resisted and waited by the edge of the podium.

The most awkward moment for me was when a couple of photographers approached us. Carl pulled me in close to him as we posed and the flashes went off. I wasn’t used to posing like this, but I flashed what I hoped was my best smile; although I had a suspicion that I only had the one smile — whereas those around me seemed to have hundreds.
 

Then the photographers asked for my name and what I did. When I told them I was a model booker, they seemed disappointed. I got the feeling they wanted me to say something like “socialite”. Even though that’s not a job it would have been more credible to their star-struck eyes. I’d never been so embarrassed by my job.

As the night wore on I became quite tired. I’d been to glittering occasions before, but not often, and nothing quite like this. I’d usually been that person in the background, pushing a model forward into the limelight.

Carl left me briefly to talk to a journalist from the New York Times who had missed his appointment yesterday.

“I thought it was you.”

I turned around to see Portia. She looked stunning in a gold sequinned dress that sparkled as brightly as Carl’s exhibit. I had no idea she’d be here.

“Good to see you,” I said.

Portia’s portfolio was proving to be a big hit with the fashion magazines. We’d already procured a front cover for her and a top designer wanted her to be the face of a new perfume. She was sitting pretty.

Portia tilted her head towards my ear and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m with Carl.”

“How?”

“I’m his date for the evening.” I could feel myself blush.

“You?” Her eyes widened with surprise

“Yes.”

“How did that happen?”
 

She made it sound like she was enquiring about a horrendous car accident. I didn’t feel like accommodating her with the details.

“I need you to do something for me,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yes, I need you to step aside and let me get some time with Carl. I want the paps to see me with the great artist. And you can feed them a story that I’m seeing him.”

This took me a little by surprise. “Portia, I don’t think Carl would like that. In fact, I know he wouldn’t.”

“I’ll sweet-talk him. You just be a darling and put in a good word.”

Fetching Portia her favourite coffee was one thing, acting as her pimp was another, especially with my own date.

“I’m sorry, Portia, I can’t.”

She looked genuinely perplexed. “Why not?”

“Because he’s my date.”

“But you’re my booker.”

“Yes, I’m your booker. But I’m not working tonight. I’m here in a social capacity.”

“But you’re my booker.” She repeated herself as if I was stupid or hand’t heard her the first time.

“Excuse me,” I said, and walked off to grab a drink from one of the liveried waiters. Carl reappeared by my side.

“Are you having a good time?”

I decided not to tell him about Portia. “Yes. It’s a glittering occasion.”

“It’s dull. Behind all the diamonds, behind all the bulging wallets, it’s nothing more than a big swinging dick contest. I hate openings. I think Banksy has it right. Put your art on street corners, that’s the way to go.”

I looked around at the lunar landscape surrounding us and the images and sounds being fired from the earth in the distance.
 

“It would be difficult to create this on a street corner.” I said.

“True.”

“Although there are some streets in London that already look like this.”

That made him smile that economical smile of his. It was difficult to look at him when he smiled like that and not throw myself at him. I think he must have had the same idea because he grabbed me by the hand and dragged me away from the crowd.

I don’t know the Tate Modern’s geography that well, but Carl seemed to be familiar with every corridor. He opened a door that took us down what looked like a set of catacombs. Through another door into another large room, there were generators and large ducts. Perhaps it was part of the gallery that hadn’t been converted from its former use as a power station.

He held the back of my neck and pulled my mouth onto his. My knees went weak as we fell against one of the walls. I pushed him away, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do. So I returned the favour and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him in to return the kiss. His tongue curled around the sides of mine as my lips ate into his.