Pillow Talk (13 page)

Chapter Fifteen

On any given night there are 26,000 people sleepwalking in the United Kingdom. A child will walk in on her parents' dinner party and hold an engaging conversation of total gibberish before tottering off. A grown man in Sheffield will eat gravy granules and take a block of butter back to bed with him. A businesswoman will wake up to find soil under her fingernails and twigs in her bed. A fifteen-year-old girl will wake up in her nightie on top of a crane in east London and her story will make it into the newspapers.

Some somnambulists will shuffle around their homes mistaking the kitchen chair for the toilet seat. Some will take the pictures from the walls or ornaments from window sills and pile them up. Some will rummage through their wardrobes and quite willingly explain that they're looking for Tony Blair or Madonna or the Queen. Some will take off all their night-clothes, others will get fully dressed ten times over. Some will leave their homes: one or two will climb out of a window and make it onto a roof, one or two may even get into their cars and drive off. Some will sleepwalk vividly through a building that they are actually not in and will consequently be in danger of harming themselves.

Petra was one of those.

She thought she was at home.

Not home as in her rented flat in North Finchley.

Not home as in the student digs in Camberwell which she shared for four years with Eric.

Not the flat she lived in with her mum in West Hampstead once her dad had decamped to Watford.

Not Mrs McNeil's cramped quarters.

But through her childhood home. This is where Petra sleepwalked. The 1930s detached house in the outer reaches of Cricklewood, the house with the bay window and the part-glazed porch leading to the red front door. The house with the kitchen with the serving hatch into the dining room and the archway going from the dining room into the lounge. The fancy fireplace with marble surround and polished brass grate purely for display. Magnolia walls above the dado and restrained Anaglypta one shade darker below. The large cheese plant whose leaves were given a weekly wipe, on its own fancy stand next to the coat rack. Parquet in the hallway. 80/20 wool mix everywhere else. Brass stair treads that were a bugger to keep gleaming. On the first floor, the bedrooms off the corridor. Petra's little room overlooking the neighbours' garden. Then the spare room. The family bathroom. Finally, surveying the driveway and the Rover, her parents' room.

Go in. No, don't. Back up. The spare room. What's going on in there? Go in, no don't, go in, no don't. The door's ajar. What is
that
? Who
is
that? What are you
doing
? Why are you doing
that
? Turn and run. Run back to your room. Quickly. Don't let anyone know you're awake. Your bedroom door is open and you can dive into your bed. Quickly, just hide under the duvet and scrunch your eyes tight shut. Quick! Before anyone sees you, before anyone notices that you saw what you saw.

But you can't do this if you are Petra at thirty-two who hasn't lived in that house for over half her life. You can't do this if you are Petra who now lives in a rented flat in North Finchley. You can't do this because there isn't a door just there. There's a wall. If you try and run through that open door in Cricklewood, you find that you run hard into the wall in North Finchley. So hard that you'll actually knock yourself out and you'll wake up with hair encrusted with blood and a cracking headache. You'll have to go to Barnet General and wait four hours in A&E for butterfly stitches.

As Petra did.

Chapter Sixteen

‘Jesus Christ, Petra. What happened? Did you sleepwalk
again
?’

‘I'm OK, Eric. It's just a bump. Stop making a fuss.’

‘Oh yes, you're just fine and dandy for someone with stitches in her head and a right shiner over her left eye.’

‘Kitty—’

‘And you're limping.’

‘Gina—’

Petra, they say together, this is not good. We're worried. It's been two weeks of this.

‘It's always worse at times like this.’

‘Do you want me to stay with you for a couple of nights?’

‘Thanks, Eric – but no.’

‘How about I come? I'll bring a bundle of sage to burn – it's very cleansing. We'll do a release ritual.’

‘It's tempting, Kitty. But not just yet.’

‘Darling, I have bags of room – in fact, I have rooms and rooms. I'll pad out one for you, I'll put duvets on the walls and lock the door.’

‘Gina, you're really kind and I am so tired. But if I can't sleep on my own, where can I sleep?’

‘At mine,’ says Charlton Squire. Despite his bulk, he's been standing unseen at the back of the studio for a few minutes. ‘You can sleep at mine.’

They all look up at him, towering in black butter-soft leather, a silk shirt expensively crinkled, blackout sunglasses, hair coiffured camply like Tintin. They've heard all about Charlton Squire's house. It's in Holland Park and very grand, apparently. Ten years ago, when he was at the height of his flamboyance, he used to host parties there. The stuff of legend: Bacchanalian romps with a jaw-dropping guest list of louche celebrities.

‘Not in London,’ Charlton qualifies, ‘in North Yorkshire. I have a place there. A cottage. It's not really a cottage, really, it's single storey.’

‘Bungalow?’ Eric asks, unable to prevent it sounding snide.

‘Converted eighteenth-century stone stables,’ Charlton says, not bothering with eye contact.

‘I meant – good – no
stairs
to fall down,’ Eric backtracks meekly because no one in the jewellery industry ought to rankle Charlton Squire. ‘Petra once fell down the stairs when she sleepwalked at a friend's house and lost her hearing for over a month.’

‘No stairs,’ says Charlton.

‘I've offered to pad out one of my spare rooms,’ Gina says.

‘And I've suggested a sage-clearing at her flat,’ says Kitty.

Petra hears them all. Their well-meaning concern as they compete with each other's suggestions. Suddenly she thinks how they're exacerbating her headache too. She wonders if taking time off work and time away from London might not be a very good idea.

‘Really? Could I?’

They all look at her.

‘Of course,’ says Charlton. ‘The keys are at the gallery. Pick them up whenever you like – there's also some money for you, two of your necklaces sold. You can work there too, if you feel like it – there's a shed at the back of the garden with a bench and a skin and some tools. It's where I started out. It's a happy place, Pet.’

Chapter Seventeen

‘Boys. Boys. Come on, guys – I need your eyes and ears for just a couple more minutes, then you can bugger off for Easter.’

Like dogs in a fidget to be free from their leads as soon as the park is in sight, so Arlo's restless class could practically taste their Easter eggs and their three-week respite from school.

‘Homework,’ Arlo called out above the din. ‘You have your projects to tide you over and I want all of you to bring back music that you feel sums you up. OK? Nathan, if your parents have a copy of “Mad Dog” by Deep Purple, I suggest you bring in that.’

‘Mr Savidge, sir?’

‘Yes, Lars.’

‘If we do it, will you do it too?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Bring in music that sums
you
up.’

‘“Boy Named Sue!”’ came a voice from the back.

‘Who was that? Was that you, Troy?’

The class fell silent and Troy looked appalled. Mr Savidge milked it for a few moments.

‘Ten out of bloody ten for knowing your Johnny Cash,’ Arlo marvelled which made the boy audibly sigh with relief.

‘Are you going home, sir?’

‘Home's pretty much here for me.’

The uniform expressions of the class told Arlo they thought him mad and sad.

‘But I'll be popping down to London to visit my mum.’

Madder and sadder.

‘And perhaps go to some gigs.’

Wow. Cool.

‘Now bugger off. And have a good Easter.’

The parents had been charmed, the boys waved off, the dorms and rooms had been double-checked. Staff sunbathed on the cricket pitch, chatting about anything other than school; Nige and Arlo played tennis and relished swearing out loud at each other. On the gravel, Cook set up a trestle table laden with left-overs. ‘I'm off,’ she said, giving a roll of bin liners pride of place in the centre of the table. Headmaster Pinder bustled about, looking behind radiators and under benches, checking padlocks and windows, turning a blind eye to his staff in a state of undress on the cricket pitch and a deaf ear to the ripe insults ricocheting around the tennis court. They all convened, fully dressed and polite, for his headmaster's debrief and demob a couple of hours later. After that, the few staff not leaving that day rolled into Great Broughton for a nice relaxed pint.

Now, late evening, they were back, packing for their recess, tidying their quarters, ready to journey home, up and down the country. Arlo, who wasn't going anywhere for a few days and would be going for only a few days at that, meandered from colleague to colleague. Need a hand? No, ta, just taking a few bits and pieces home. Actually, you could bung in my washing for me. Sure, no problem. Oh, and could you keep an eye out for anything that looks like a credit-card bill. Sure, no problem. You're a sad fuck, Arlo – a couple of days with your mum and the rest of the hols up here? Yeah, well. Why don't you go away? I might. Yeah, right.

With all his colleagues preoccupied, the lights on in their follies speckling the school grounds like giant fireflies, Arlo sauntered over towards the main building, wondering if anyone had done as Cook requested and cleared up. But as he approached, he saw that the trestle table was still up, a little litter lying about, the bin bags ignored. He was quietly wrestling with a rustle of black plastic, trying to find which end had the opening, his mouth full of broken biscuits, when he clocked Miranda watching his every move from her perch on the stone steps a few yards away.

‘Hullo,’ she said, raising her hand then letting it drop as if it was heavy.

Arlo made a vaguely salutatory noise through a muffle of crumbs.

‘How many men does it take to open a bin bag,’ Miranda asked drily, rising to her feet and walking over to him. ‘Answer: none. Men are genetically incapable of opening bin bags.’ She took it off him, placed it between the palms of her hands, gave a single swift rub and one vigorous shake to open the bag fully. ‘Ta da. Not just a pretty face.’

Arlo, finding it difficult to swallow the biscuits with his mouth now utterly dry, gave her a round of applause instead.

‘I'm a bit drunk,’ she said.

Arlo coughed.

‘Christ, it may not be ladylike but it's not that shocking, is it?’ she asked, while giving him hearty thumps between the shoulder blades. To her, his back felt lovely through his cotton T-shirt and she turned her slaps into strokes and pretended she was drunker than she was so that she could change her strokes into a caress.

Arlo straightened stiffly and backed away. ‘I must tidy up. Cook said so.’

‘God, you're weird.’

Arlo didn't know whether to be relieved or affronted by the remark.

‘Aren't you going to wish me luck?’ Miranda said, all coy. ‘I'll hear about that job any day.’

‘Good luck,’ Arlo said. ‘Do you still want it?’

He regretted the double meaning immediately but Miranda enhanced her drunkenness to jump on it. ‘Oh yes, Arlo, I want it.’

‘Well, I hope you get it.’

‘Can I have a good-luck kiss? Please, sir?’

Arlo made to kiss her on the cheek. Miranda was ready for him. She turned her face quickly and their lips met. Before he could pull away, she'd flicked her tongue over his lips and cupped her hand over the groin of his jeans, arching her back so that her breasts pushed against his chest.

‘Miranda—’

And he pulled away.

And she stood there and thought, How dare he.

‘Miranda,’ he said again but she interrupted him before he could back it up with any explanation.

‘Yeah yeah. Miranda Miranda, it's late, you're drunk, we're at school, it's a Thursday, it's not a full moon, it's still Lent. Christ, Arlo – I don't want marriage and babies, I just want a shag.’

But Arlo was already walking away, across the lawns, to be swallowed by the dark Yorkshire night now illuminated only here and there by the lights still on in just a couple of the follies.