Authors: S.E. Craythorne
How You See Me (12 page)
There was a new girl behind the counter. She looked young. She must have been older than she looked, because she smiled when I walked in. Girls my own age didn’t smile at me. There were smudges of glitter at the corner of her eyes and a ring through her bottom lip.
‘It’s Daniel, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘I used to go to school with your sister.’
I didn’t remember her, but for some reason I felt ashamed as I passed over my pack of sausages and my oven chips.
‘A friend of mine’s sick,’ I explained. ‘I’m looking after her.’
She nodded. She probably wasn’t much interested. I’d lost the smile.
‘You’ve given me too much here.’ She handed me back the second twenty-pound note, one of the two I’d slipped from Dad’s wallet that morning. ‘You’re lucky I’m honest.’
‘Actually, I’ll take a bottle of that brandy behind you.’
The girl was smiling again. Her lip ring bounced up to tickle her cupid’s bow. I wondered how anyone kissed her. She took a quick look around the shop. There were no other customers.
‘It’ll be good for your sick friend. My mum swears by it, says there’s nothing a nip won’t cure. Never had much of a taste for the stuff myself. Me and your sister always went for vodka. You should try that. Just mix it with a bit of lime cordial. Knocks you right off your feet and it’s half the price of this stuff. No? Well, it’s your money.’
She packed the brandy into a carrier bag, wedging the oven chips and sausages around it. She winked. ‘You have a good night, Daniel. Do something I wouldn’t.’
Behind the ring and the glitter, her face was childlike, her eyes a vacant blue. I wondered if Mab would remember her.
That was the night it all happened. I didn’t expect it.
Sarah’s laughter when I brought through the tumblers of brandy:
You’ve used the wrong glasses, Danny
. Our whispered talk in front of the fire. Her tearstained face
suffused in the flush of alcohol. My voice announcing that we should make a commitment to drink down to the belly of the bottle. My voice announcing toasts:
To Your Health! Bottoms Up! Up Yours!
It was the first time I’d ever been drunk. Laughter, so much laughter – not all of it can have been my own.
The fire dying and our stumbled walk up the stairs to the workroom. My hand reaching out to brush her behind as it swayed in front of me.
Play, it was all play. The thrill of the chase, isn’t that what they call it? The lover’s tussle: a mess of hands and nails and arms and fists. Sarah on the floorboards with masking tape in her hair. The surprising weight of her naked breast in my hand. My shirt torn. Peeling the band of my underpants over my erection with one hand, while the other explored her flesh laid open before me.
She was saying something, but her features were foggy; her voice a background whine. I was absorbed in the delicious urgency of it all. Her mouth open. I leant to kiss her silent. Her eyes closed. Why is she crying? Why, with so much pleasure, could she be crying?
And then there was Dad. Back early from the pub and ready to ruin everything.
(Later)
I upset myself, running back over the past. Why are you always preaching about it being so ‘useful’? I was so desperate I even tried another exercise of yours suggested for such situations. You can imagine how galling it is to eventually find perspective through your advice. Here are the results.
Ten things I remember about Sarah:
- She liked her tea stewed to the colour of a chicken’s egg. Brown, not white.
- Her lips were always dry. She would gnaw on them until they were raw and then paste them over with balm. Her mouth tasted sweet and smelt of strawberries.
- When she posed for Dad, she would always turn her eyes to the right. The direction liars look when asked a question.
- She liked to make faces into the bathroom mirror and watch for my reaction over her shoulder.
- She held a pen as if it were trying to escape from her. When she wrote, she pushed so hard into the paper that it curled.
- When she could afford it, she smoked vanilla tobacco in liquorice papers. She called it her ‘little luxury’. Dad hated them. He said they made her taste like burnt custard.
- We had a favourite joke, which both of us forgot. The punch line was ‘them’s the breaks’. She and I would just have to say ‘them’s the breaks’ to each other if we wanted the other to laugh.
- When she read
The End of the Affair
, she cried for a full hour just because Henry knew. - She often told me she loved me.
- She didn’t try to stop him.
Daniel
12th February
The Studio
Dear Mab –
Clarissa Morrison arrived today from the agency. All spiky shoes, big hair and lipstick. She asked me to call her something that sounded like ‘Claggy’, so I avoided calling her anything. What happened to dreamboat Peter – why couldn’t he have come? And whatever happened to the dusty old chap who used to come for Dad’s paintings? I don’t ever remember him speaking. I don’t actually remember a moment with this one when she wasn’t saying something.
‘Ah, you must be the son. Daniel or Danny? Do you mind if I call you Danny? Things go so much easier if one keeps it informal, don’t you find? Had a devil of a time finding you. And here’s my card. Now none of that Clariss-a business, I’m [indecipherable ‘Claggy’ word]. Now let me in, there’s a darling. I’m simply dying to see the place where the magic happens. I’m a massive Laird fan and I mean MASSIVE. Never had the pleasure… oh, is that Mr Laird himself? I wasn’t prepared. Do I look all right? I can’t believe I’ll actually get to… Didn’t have much time with my hair, what with the drive and everything. I’ll just wander over and introduce myself, shall I?
‘Michael, can I call you Mike? I’m [indecipherable], from the agency, we’re
really
excited about the show and I mean REALLY. I’d be privileged if you could spare a couple of moments to chat. Just see if we can’t get a couple of novel quotes for the programme. Oh, I seem to have upset him. I see – in the way of the telly, am I? Well, we all like our favourite shows; wouldn’t like to miss them.
‘Danny, darling, is there anything that we can do for Mike to kind of… spruce him up a little for the show? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know these artists can be eccentric and all that, but we’re in a competitive market here. Hateful phrase, but there you are. We’re dragging people up from London and there are expectations to be met, Danny. If it’s a question of financing, then… Ah, really, no speech at all? We were rather hoping for a short talk of some kind. A little introduction, if you will. No? Well, not to worry, that’s why I’m here. We’ll find some workaround, I’m sure.
‘Now, these paintings, may I have a quick look-see? Oh, what a quaint little staircase. Quite a tight squeeze, but nothing I can’t handle.
‘Ah, I see. Yes, the canvases really are in a state. No, please don’t even try to separate them. Leave them as they are and we’ll pack them into the car. Get them straight to the experts and let them sort it out. That’s the way, Danny. Can you take one more? Perfect. Yes, well, I’m afraid I have what’s termed a delicate back. Have to rely on big strong boys like you. Let’s get these to the car. I’m parked just outside. Then we can get over to this wonderful space you’ve found. Oh, really? Well, surely he’ll be fine left alone for a few hours? Mike? [Cue painfully loud and slow voice reserved for addressing of idiots and small children.] I was just saying to Danny here, you’ll be fine on your own.
‘My goodness, what a noise! You horrible little dog, get off! Whatever is the matter? Am I in front of the television again? Really, I mean, is this normal? Danny, darling, do make it stop.’
I was really quite proud of Dad, but, despite his hollering, I was bullied into accompanying Claggy to the
workhouse. The woman from Smashing Plates was waiting for us, dressed in the uniform washed-out denim and floral patterns of the ageing hippy artist. Karen Appleby. Apparently I went to school with her son. Claggy barely acknowledged her.
We were shown into a large room on the first floor of the workhouse. Original windows let the afternoon light pour over raw red brick walls and fresh-stripped floorboards, which ached under our feet. There was an old potter’s wheel in one corner along with piles of dust sheets and a collection of cleaning supplies. The smell of dry clay dust and worked wood.
‘We took down the dividing walls last summer,’ Karen explained, cranking one of the windows open. ‘Thought it might make a good workroom or display room. But to be honest the space kind of got away from us. We have all we need downstairs. This building is quite a responsibility. It takes most of our effort keeping the kids out. Vandalism and that.’
I managed not to blush, wondering if my initials are still alongside yours, carved in the stairway on the far side of the building. Claggy was in raptures about the light, which seemed pointless to me considering Dad’s exhibition is at night. She sniffed around the dust sheets and felt the walls, talking all the while about ‘progression of images’ and ‘ideal locations’. Finally she turned on Karen with questions about parking, reception rooms and ‘ambience controls’ (which I eventually translated as the removal of all evidence of Smashing Plates’ trade before the show began). There was no need for me to be there. In the end – or should I say when I realised there was no end in sight – I made my
excuses and walked back to the studio. I don’t think Claggy even noticed me leave, but the Smashing Plates woman looked close to tears.
Dad was fine. Still watching the TV roll ever onwards with Tatty at his feet.
Love to Freya and to you,
Daniel
12th February
The Studio
Dear Freya –
I hope I haven’t written anything to offend you. Maybe you are just busy with all your friends and schoolwork? I hope so. I would be grateful if you could spare the time to put pen to paper and tell us all about it. I make sure to read your letters aloud – when we get them – so Grandad and Tatty can hear your news. Tatty is a wonderful listener. She sits up with her back straight and perks up her ears. Well, I should say ‘ear’. One of her ears must have been through a bit of a battle, because it doesn’t stand up like the other one. Her past is a bit of a mystery. Just like your present.
Do write soon,
Uncle Dan
16th February
The Studio
Dear Alice –
I’m writing this letter in the bath. This is not as complicated as it sounds: Dad has one of those bath-tidy things made of wood. I have a bottle of cold beer propped up next to these pages. It’s all very cosy. So you don’t need to worry that this letter is marked by lonely tears; it’s just me being careless with the bathwater. Well, mostly that.
It seems unnatural to keep my hands out of the water. I can feel my body pumping the heat through my blood up into my wrists. I can almost see them steaming. I like a hot bath. I like the water. I can rarely wait until the tub’s full before lowering myself in. I like to squat, with my hands and feet submerged and my arse pulled up to keep my genitals out of the water. I let them steam a little before I introduce them to the heat. Once my cock and balls are in, I’m in. I throw my head back and under and listen to the water from the taps thrum against the bottom of the bath. The only sound in my own world. No TV noise; none of Dad’s weird complaining keens; no Maggie, barking orders; nothing but my thoughts of you.
How I’d love to take a bath with you. To introduce you to the hot water, piece by piece. There would need to be bubbles and perfumed liquids to pour under the running taps, the scent lifting up to mingle with your own. Candles too, with their private, finite flicker, gathering us closer to each other. A licking light, in which I would wash you gently, as you stood before me, calf-deep in the water. I’d rub the bubbles up your body, up your flanks, my face so
close I could feel the bubbles break under my breath, hear their crackle as they stretched over your skin and slid back towards the water. I’d ease you down between my knees and soap your wild hair, snatching kisses from your upturned lips as I brush the suds away from your closed eyes.
Or maybe I’d just like to watch you bathe. Watch you, without you knowing you are watched. So that you are perfectly natural. I wonder how you get into the bath; how you strip off your own clothes when you’re alone, without my eager eyes upon you; what you do in that private world behind the bathroom door. My only private place of late. My own private view and there’s only one invitation. To you. Accept this, my darling, please. I need you here.
Missing you always,
Your Daniel
21st February
The Studio
Dear Aubrey –
I had a letter from Mab. She’s arranged for one of the theatre companies she makes masks for to do some kind of a performance the night before the exhibition. So, I guess she’s coming. It’s turning into quite the family affair. Maybe I should do card tricks or juggle oranges in the corner?
Apparently the dreadful woman from the agency talked her into getting involved. You can see their reasoning, I suppose. Masks and portraits, it’s all about faces after all. The London élite get to make a weekend rather than a night of it
and they get two Lairds for the price of one. But I’m surprised at Mab. I never thought she’d hold her own work up against Dad’s. She’s always claimed they have nothing in common. Perhaps she hopes to outshine him. Or maybe she just needs the money more than I thought. Even more than me.
I don’t really understand your pressing me now about getting back on to the medication. This will be simple. I will soon be free. The last thing I need at the moment is my head clouded by prescription drugs.
By the way, you’re not invited to this either.
Daniel
1st March
The Studio
