The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (17 page)

The next morning I woke up with Jan Borsos in his bedroom in halls. It was all nineties peach and muted mushroom, blond wood and frosted lightshades. His bed was narrow but his duvet magnificent. Heavy, warm and covered with a typically odd floral print.

I was deeply hungover and covered with a sticky film of sweat. I smelt bad. This was something I instinctively knew but, thankfully, the tiny room was full of the smell of frying bacon, so my foulness was masked.

Hang on. The tiny room was filled with the smell of bacon?

Yes. The tiny room was filled with the smell of frying bacon. Being Jan Borsos, he had rigged up a tiny camping stove in the corner of the room. He was standing at it in Y-fronts cooking bacon, singing softly to
Aida
which was coming out of a record player. Of course Jan Borsos had carried a record player across Europe. Every single thing about Jan Borsos felt like it was from the sort of film you’d never believe.

I tried and failed to remember what had happened last night. I had a vague notion of jumping on the MC’s mic at
one point, mumbling something about diggity-doggity, and a potential snogging/grinding incident on a street corner. But coming back to his room? Having sex? Nothing.

For clarification I gave myself a quick body-frisk under the duvet. I hadn’t had sex with Jan Borsos! There was fabric covering my lady parts! I stole a glance back over at Jan in his Y-fronts. He looked exciting and mad and really quite handsome.

As he flipped over the bacon, a pile of hair fell into his face. ‘
La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse
,’ he sang softly, and the richness of his voice made me shiver. Beyond him the morning sky was filthy brown and tempestuous. Jan notched up his voice a little more and I felt a rush of strange sensations. Another man had once won me over with his voice, far away in a poets’ café in Alphabet City. But the other man, it had turned out, was not to be trusted. Here in Jan Borsos’s nineties bedroom I felt I was as safe as I possibly could be.

‘Hello,’ I croaked.

‘Sally.’ He smiled. ‘I cook bacon.’

‘I know. It smells amazing.’ It did. I shifted up a bit, conscious that I was still only wearing a vest and pants. ‘Um, Jan, about last night.’

I waited for him to say that it was silly and we should forget about it. But he said nothing of the sort. Instead he hopped over the short distance to the bed and jumped in beside me, snapping his bacon tongs like castanets. He kissed me without any trace of shyness or morning-after reserve. The tongs continued to snap away to some Cuban rhythm that bore no relation to the melodic Verdi on the record player.

When I realized that I was far more interested in kissing Jan Borsos than I was in eating bacon, I grinned. I was glad we hadn’t had any sex yet. I was rather looking forward to it. We’d go on a date maybe early next week. And then another, and
then
we’d do it. Barry had always told me it was imperative I never slept with anyone until at least the third date. ‘
IMPERATIVE, CHICKEN
,’ I imagined him saying threateningly.

Suddenly Jan Borsos had put his hand inside my pants and
IMPERATIVE, CHICKEN
was forgotten. What was he … Oh my … ‘OH!’ Nerve-endings crackled between my legs. I wondered vaguely what he had done with the bacon tongs and then forgot to wonder.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ I heard myself say. Had I been more conscious of anything other than Jan’s hands I’d probably have started laughing. Me lying there, all sweaty and smelly, bleating, ‘Oh, my goodness!’ while Jan fumbled with my pants underneath a frilly duvet in Shepherd’s Bush. But this was no time for laughter.

Three seconds later, it was. Without warning, Jan leaned over and turned up the volume of the record player. The melody of the final duet blasted out, as Aida and Radamès prepared to die, and waves of pain and passion crested thunderously. Outside the sky exploded and a great boom of early-morning thunder rent the air. I started laughing. Jan’s face retained its customary glare but I knew he was laughing too. We were going to have operatic thundery sex. There was no doubt about it.

With another impressive movement, Jan Borsos swished the duvet off me, although it was so thick and heavy that it got stuck around my knees and he had to
wriggle down to kick it off properly. He staggered up to a standing position above me, amid the lightning and the Verdi, to which he was singing sporadically. I lay underneath him, giggling and twitching, hoping for more fumbling very soon.

‘ “
Morir! Si pura e bella
,” ’ he sang. And then, in a variation on the traditional magician’s trick that I would probably remember for the rest of my life, Jan Borsos whipped out a condom from behind his left ear, which he then managed to drop down the side of the bed.

Another thunderclap tore through the sky, shaking the building, as he tried to pull the bed away from the wall to get at the condom. He failed. Anxious that it was because I was too heavy, I leaped out, then jumped under the duvet on the floor, suddenly shy, just as he wrenched the bed out from the wall.

It hit me on the forehead and I yelped. Jan Borsos yelped. He kissed my head, while reaching out behind me to rescue the errant condom. Clearly he couldn’t reach it because he leaned so hard on me that we both fell sideways into his lacy floral duvet.

I started laughing. Jan Borsos, furious-faced, followed suit.

‘Let’s start again,’ I said. I reached for my handbag and took my lucky condom out of my wallet, discreetly checking its best-before date. It had been a while. Jan Borsos heaved the bed back into place, pulled the duvet back on, then laid me on top of it, like a delicate princess. He was surprisingly strong for such a little man.

‘
Cariad
,’ he murmured, slightly to my surprise. Barry sometimes used that word. It meant ‘sweetheart’ in Welsh.
Jan stroked my legs reverently, as if their excessive width and dimpled texture was the most marvellous thing he had ever seen.

‘
Cariad
,’ he repeated, moving as if to sweep off my knickers casually with his stroking hand. Unfortunately, his watch caught on the cheap lace and we found ourselves stuck together. It took a lot of scrabbling and eventually a pair of scissors to unhook him. Any passion and spontaneity that still remained – and it was dubious as to whether there was any now – was finally destroyed when I raised my hips in that ungainly vertical pelvic thrust that allows knickers to be removed, just as Jan nipped down to remove them with his teeth. I hit him on the nose with my pubic bone. So hard that he gasped.

After another embarrassing hiatus, we got into a position and state of nudity that was actually conducive to sex. And just as I began to forget about the last abominable ten minutes, the bacon pan in the corner, which had been left unattended all this time, finally caught fire and the smoke alarm went off.

It was quite a surprise when, after a mortifying twenty minutes standing in a street off the Goldhawk Road, we went back inside and managed to have excellent, randy sexy sex with not a cock-up in sight. Except, of course, for Jan’s.

The day after I met Julian Bell I woke up and smiled right down to my toes.

I had met a man so amazing that my toes were smiling! And, rather than feel alarmed by the intensity of what had happened last night, I felt good. In fact, I felt so good that, for the first time in my life, I forgot to eat breakfast. I just ran around the living-room bit of our warehouse apartment squeaking, ‘Raaah!’ and ‘Feeeck!’ and ‘Eeeee!’ and when Barry wandered in and found me doing these very uncharacteristic things he laughed so much that he had to sit on the floor. Then he got up and joined me, and we raaahed and eeeeed for quite a long time. ‘SEXY MAN FRIEND FOR SALLY,’ Barry hissed, from time to time, performing a series of
grands jetés
across the floor in his pants. ‘SEXY TIMES!’

Today was Fiona’s twenty-ninth birthday, and Bea and I had planned a surprise party to which we’d invited all of the people we’d met since being in New York. I had ordered a massive cake from one of the stalls at the
Smorgasburg, a big food market for the trendies of Williamsburg. Barry had put together a ‘streetdance interpretation of Fiona Lane’ that he assured me would amuse rather than enrage (there was a fine line with Fiona when it came to laughing at herself). And, of course, there was also the small matter of a world-famous band playing. Raúl and his bandmates from the Branchlines had just finished recording an album and had promised to sing everything from their much-loved
Non-Sonic
album of 2007 and nothing from their subsequent recordings, which had been written for trendier mortals than us.

When I’d said goodbye to Julian last night, he’d said, ‘If I hadn’t lost my cell, like the total douche that I am, I’d be messaging you all day, saying what a great time I had. So I want you to pretend you’re getting those messages all day long, OK?’

I was doing just that, this morning, and I felt insane with excitement. I was happy! Everyone was happy!

Or so I thought.

Fiona, since giving up drinking, had got a lot better at mornings. But today, when I surfaced at ten, there had been no sign. For a moment I was mildly surprised: the narrative that had played out in my head was that while I had been doing hard romance on the Wythe Hotel balcony last night, Fiona and the others would have come home and gone to bed.

I’d forgotten she’d started drinking again.
I really hope she didn’t overdo it
, I thought nervously.

When Fiona and Raúl emerged from her bedroom at midday, all rat hair and vodka fumes, my heart sank. ‘Murgh,’ she said, when I bade her happy birthday. She
didn’t look in my direction. Instead she made for the fridge and drank some orange juice straight from the bottle. Then she stopped, looked at the nutritional information and put the carton away again. ‘Fucking America,’ she muttered.

‘Eh?’

‘They put sugar in fucking everything. Even in
juice
.’

‘Oh, Freckle, you have to have
something
in your belly …’

With a brittle expression on her face that I didn’t like, Fiona took a martyred and huffy glass of water from the tap and slunk over to Raúl, who was skulking around near the door, readying to leave.

This was the Fiona I was used to. Hungover and looking at calories. Seeds of worry began to sprout.

‘Fucking OW,’ she mewed at Raúl, pointing at her head, as he opened the door. I could tell she wanted him to stay longer, and knew that she would gladly cancel our birthday lunch if he did. But instead he kissed her politely goodbye, telling her to have a good day, and left.

They’d had a fight. It was obvious. Raúl, normally open and expansive, was folded tightly into himself and hadn’t even said goodbye to me.

After Fiona shut the door behind him she stood in front of the mirror and checked her arms, legs and stomach, pinching at imaginary fat and pulling her flat belly in so tightly that her ribs sawed at her skin. Her face had the furious look that I recognized as ‘My body is not as it should be.’ She slunk off to her bedroom, radiating anger. Shortly after that her door opened and my heart sank even further. She was all hectic and sniffy and pinched, and she was wearing her running gear. With her hair pulled
back in a severe ponytail she ran out of the door, ready to pound McCarren Park and work off all of the extra fat she didn’t possess.

I didn’t like it at all.

Not too long after she returned, though, the New Fiona was back. She’d showered, eaten something and was dressed in a pair of expensive trousers and a lovely vest. She had makeup on and was full of energy; she even came over to me for a birthday hug. I forced myself to write off her earlier performance as a one-off hangover.

As planned, we went for a low-key birthday lunch at the Smorgasburg. In keeping with tradition, it was just the four of us: Fi, Barry, Bea and myself.

And it was perfect. The air was hot but not humid; it smelt of cooking onions and seafood. Locals filled their bags with chutneys and artisan coffees, and a naughty dog ran around eating stray pieces of chorizo. We had juicy lobster brioche rolls with sauce dripping down our chins and, to my delight, Fiona ate most of hers. She laughed, gossiped and hopped around as if this morning had been but an aberration, although she did disappear quite a few times. And was perhaps a little on the irritable side when people bashed into her with their bags. And she had forgotten her wallet so we had to buy everything for her, which we would have done anyway, but she made it into quite a big drama. But it was mostly OK. Mostly.

Later, Fiona and I split off and wandered through East River State Park, down to the water. We sat on a driftwood log in the sun, covered our hopelessly white arms and legs with sun lotion and drank Brooklyn beer out of bottles wedged into the brown river sand.

‘Hasn’t it all been great? Aren’t we having a great time? Isn’t it a nice day?’ Fiona chattered, gazing over at Manhattan. A large and impertinent-looking seagull sat on a ‘Danger’ sign staring rudely in our direction. Clouds moved lazily overhead through a bright blue sky that seemed almost to have been painted on to the ceiling of America. ‘Like, the best? I’m happy. Really happy. Like, HAPPY.’ She sniffed, wiping her nose on her trousers.

‘Borrow this, you minger,’ I said fondly, handing her a tissue. ‘Have you got a cold?’

She frowned. ‘Um, Sally, I’m not a
minger
. I’ve just got a cold.’ Then: ‘Sorry, that was unnecessary! I’m having a lovely day, Sal, a LOVELY day. All thanks to you. And a lovely time in New York!’

I looked back at the river. ‘It has been amazing,’ I agreed. ‘I really don’t want it to end.’

Fiona closed her eyes and leaned into my shoulder, playing an imaginary song on my arm with her fingers. ‘Bah bah
bah
,
bah
,’ she whispered. It sounded a bit like a rave.

‘Are we OK?’ she asked suddenly. The seagull barked at us. ‘I didn’t annoy you too much last night? Or this morning? I was just having a few drinks because, you know, it was a big night. And I’m just having this beer because it’s my birthday. Just one, OK? Then I’ll stop again. I don’t want you worrying about me.’

I was worried, but I told her I wasn’t. ‘Are you and Raúl all right?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Yep. Of course. I was being a dick. I created a fight with him. But I sorted it out.’

‘So everything’s fine?’

‘Everything’s fine. Why?’ She sprang up, searching my face. ‘Did he tell you it wasn’t? Has he been talking to you?’

‘No. He hasn’t said anything. It’s fine, Freckle. Chill.’

‘I am chilled!’ She dug her beer into the sand. ‘I’m FINE. Why are you coming over all earth-mother on me? I’m just having a nice beer in the sun on my birthday. I mean, it’s not like … Actually I need to go to the loo, I’ll be back in a minute …’

The seagull stared contemptuously at me for a few more seconds, then took off, shouting noisily as he swept out over the little wooden jetty that was rotting away in the water.

I felt odd. Splintered. Part of me was all curly golden swirls of excitement. I was going to see Julian later and he was
amazing
! Gorgeous, absent-minded, funny, kind. He seemed to really like me and we hadn’t even known each other twenty-four hours! And, irrespective of gorgeous Julian Bell, I was
happy
. I was enjoying my life, finally. I was taking risks and I was in mad, pulsating, beautiful New York where I could eat lobster rolls in the sun.

Yet another part of me was steely, tensed. Waiting for the storm. I was back in the watchtower again, scanning the landscape of Fiona for signs of trouble.

I didn’t want to be there. I thought I’d resigned.

By nine p.m., our apartment was full. Bea’s Brazilian masseur had exceeded expectations and arrived with a set of decks and trendy but very danceable-to music, and people were indeed dancing. At only nine o’clock! Our party ruled! The sun had long gone but the air was still warm and all of our windows were thrown open.

All I could think of was Julian. Gorgeous, nicely scented, warm, smiley, funny Julian Bell. He had marched over, taken me in his arms and kissed me in front of everyone when he arrived. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day,’ he announced. ‘Did you get my telepathic SMSs? Oh, I like you. Have you been thinking about me all day too?’ he asked, without any embarrassment whatsoever. That naughty, lovely smile was followed by a giggle and another big kiss. And a long hug. He was supremely beautiful, in spite of his creased shirt that didn’t know if it was tucked in or pulled out.

I was batty about him. I didn’t care that everyone was watching us. I was proud. And had I had any doubts that I’d fallen in love with him in two seconds flat, they were dispelled when I saw him sitting in the courtyard soon after, talking to the frog that lived there. ‘I had one just like you when I was ten,’ I heard him say, in that mad Devonshire-Brooklyn accent. ‘His name was Fun Frog. He lived with Big Frog and Mad Frog and Falsetto Frog.’

Eventually, Bea detached me from his side so that she could cross-question me about last night. We stood in the jungly courtyard, which Julian had vacated, and glass after glass of champagne went warm in my hand as I talked excitedly and forgot to drink.

In the kitchen Barry had set up a cocktail dispensary. ‘You can’t have
anythin
’ until you’ve tried one of my Blue Fionas,’ I could hear him shouting. Bea smiled and left, saying she needed to go and see a man about a dog. I wandered happily into the kitchen to try a Blue Fiona.

Speaking of which, where was she? Pretty much everyone invited to the party was there, apart from Fiona. She’d
gone up to Raúl’s earlier to get something and I hadn’t seen her since.

‘Fi’s not still in your apartment, is she?’ I asked Raúl, offering him a plate of Parma ham and cheese things that we’d bought at the Smorgasburg. Something flashed across his face that I didn’t like. ‘Oh, actually, yeah, I think she might be,’ he said, with unconvincing casualness. ‘I think Julian’s up there too.’

‘Oh.’ I was surprised. I scanned around and found that he was indeed absent. ‘Is she … Are they coming back down soon?’

‘Sure. Hey, what time do you want us to play?’

He was trying to change the subject. I decided not to push him any further. If Fiona was being impossible, Raúl probably hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. So far he’d only known the nice, sweet, bubbly Fiona so the dark and difficult version must have been quite a shock.
I
still found it hard and I’d had nearly thirty years’ practice.

I hoped Julian was faring OK. It was very good of him to keep her company or listen to her ranting. Or whatever was going on.

‘How’s about you play at elevenish?’ I said to Raúl, slipping back into the crowd, then out of the door.

Raúl’s front door was ajar and I knew Fiona was up there before I so much as walked into the room. I could feel the nasty, brittle energy that came off her when she was in one of her moods. Something clawed at my stomach. Why was this happening again? She’d told me! She’d said she didn’t want to be difficult any more!

She doesn’t always have a choice
, said a voice in my head. There was a darkness in Fiona that was sometimes bigger
than her; bigger than all of us. Sensing that darkness, respecting its immense power, I always forgave her.

But as I arrived in Raúl’s flat I felt that forgiveness might be beyond me.

Fiona was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, bony shoulders swaying rhythmically to Irene Cara, whose voice was pounding out of Raúl’s sound system. In other circumstances I’d have enjoyed this impromptu disco, but at that moment she was racking up a line of cocaine and Julian was sitting next to her, chatting away as if she was baking a cake.

I stared at their two backs, devastated. They were facing out over New York together; Fiona was saying something low and fast to Julian and he was smiling, watching her tidy up the line. To their right was a MacBook with a picture of Fiona on it, mid-arabesque.
The new Royal Ballet website
, I thought blankly.
Yes, they said it would go live around now
.

Just as Fiona bent down to inhale the line, Julian held out his hand – to take a line himself, perhaps? – and said something. She listened, then smiled before inhaling deeply, hoovering up stray powder with her finger. She passed her rolled-up banknote along the table to him.

I’d seen enough. The opening bars of Odyssey’s ‘Native New Yorker’ spilled happily out of Raúl’s speakers, clashing with the pounding bass I could hear coming up the stairwell behind me. A film of thick sadness settled over me. Fi was not any better. She was taking drugs at a counter-party for two while her own party, which I’d so carefully planned, went on downstairs. And Julian Bell, who had been giving me butterflies all day, appeared to be at it with her. I couldn’t stand it.

You should have known
, a voice in my head said.
Of course it was never going to be a fairytale. You idiot. You fool. You silly, fat –

I ran off down the stairs, slamming the door behind me. As I tore down I could see someone looking over the banisters from above, then heard Julian’s voice calling my name, but I carried on running. I ran past our front door, out of which drifted happy laughter and cool music, then into the street.