How You See Me (9 page)

3rd January 2006

Dear Mab –

I’m so sorry, but I had to do it. I just couldn’t face going back to the Studio. I suppose I reached my limit. There are so many other ways I could have left, I know.

I was just driving to the nearest shop for bread and milk. The radio was on and I was singing along to some pop tune and beating out time on the steering wheel, as I wound through single-lane roads with damp clumps of grass bursting their central seam. Then the road resolved into two lanes and then there was motorway being licked up under my tyres. I don’t know when I decided I wouldn’t stop, that I’d just keep driving. I know it was dark when I phoned Maggie and told her to pick up Dad and Tatty from the chalet, but I can’t have left him alone for more than a few hours.

I know he’s all right. That was the one thing Maggie would tell me when she rang back. I also know you must all hate me right now. But you must have known. Every letter I wrote to you was telling you this would happen. I’m sorry for the upset I’ve caused, but I can’t say that I’m sorry I did it.

Daniel

6th January

Manchester

Dear Mab –

It didn’t take you long to track me down. Yes, I am holed up at Aubrey’s. I should have known he’d sell me out straight away. And no, I’m not coming back. I’m needed here, Mab, and I need to be here. Aubrey has given me my job back in the ‘office’.

Well, I say that; actually he said I could only have my room back if I worked for it. I’m writing this between writing-up sessions. There has been quite a backlog built up in my absence.

You needn’t worry about Aubrey betraying your confidence in him. He’s been giving me hell. If it were up to him, I’d be swallowing pills like sweets and spending my few conscious hours laid out on his couch revealing my deepest desires to his willing ears. Just like old times. Either that or he’d have me hog-tied and posted back to Dad’s to please you. Anything to regain a little control.

Though, I think he must be secretly pleased to see me. He
has
let me stay, and – unless he’s grinding them into my tea – he’s letting me stay medication-free. I just have to put up with the constant ‘chats’ about my future and my past. If that’s not torture, I don’t know what is.

My main problem is my present. My Alice. I’ve been having trouble getting hold of her. She’s cancelled her sessions with Aubrey, as I suggested, but now she’s not answering her phone. I’ve tried to talk to Aubrey about it, but all he did was mutter jargon about relapses and destructive behaviour and then offer a brightly coloured tome from his self-help library. I have to see her and make sure she’s all right. I worry my disappearance has taken a greater toll on her than she’s liked to admit. She is, after all, vulnerable. How else would Aubrey have got his hooks into her? I hate to think she might be angry with me. That this is all some elaborate punishment for abandoning her for so long.

I know this must be hard for you to understand. You won’t believe either of us could have feelings this strong after knowing each other for such a short time. But there’s something remarkable about Alice and my relationship with her. I haven’t felt this way about anyone since Sarah. Believe my feelings are as strong now as they were then and you’ll have some idea how serious I am.

I’ve been to the Art Gallery, and the bookshop where Alice works. I’m going to her house tonight. I’m stocking up on clichés: flowers, chocolates, and pleas in the night. I’m willing to be whatever she wants me to be, if only she’ll forgive me. Do you know I even feel a little shy about seeing her again? I know I’m being ridiculous, but we’ve
communicated by letter for so long I’m scared she’s become accustomed to me as words on a page. Words seem so small and elegant compared to the great hulk of me looming in her doorway.

Oh, I wish you could meet her, Mab. Then maybe you’d understand. After I first met her at Aubrey’s, I went down to the bookshop to see her at work. She was so sweet and tender with the customers and their quiet purchases. I watched her slot books on to the shelves and press coins in change into the palms of a dozen strangers. Once I thought she spotted me, then I saw her cry silently when an old man came in and asked for a book. For an hour she danced between a table of paperbacks and the till, arranging a stack of new publications into a perfect spiral of spines. She pretended not to see me there and not to recognise me when I finally summoned the courage to make a purchase. But her smile was all for me, I’m sure, as she muddled about for a paper bag for my book. The type of bag they drop oranges into on the grocer’s stall on Church Street.

Leave me be, Mab, I’m just trying to be happy.

Daniel

10th January

Manchester

Dear Alice –

Darling, where are you? I’ve tried your work and your house. I even tried phoning the emergency numbers in your file. I couldn’t get any answer.

It’s strange to be back, but it’s even stranger to be here without you. I got off the bus by the library and walked through to Albert Square, gave the poor prince a salute where he stood, still encased in his tower of scaffolding, and sat on a bench a while and watched the people go by. I couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to sit there with you under my arm. How I wouldn’t even notice the damp wood of the bench underneath me and the leaching cold of the stone under my feet. We would laugh together at the busy scuttle of people – those who knew the square angling their umbrellas just as the wind catches the water of the fountains and the tourists getting a sudden soak. I sat there until the rain started up again in earnest and then stumbled the cold out of my bones with a walk to the Northern Quarter and towards our bar.

The sex shop you always peer in at – don’t pretend you don’t – has boards nailed up over its window. Someone more curious, or less open-minded, than you must have put the glass through. The red light still pulses between the planks. Still open for business. I thought of calling in and picking you up something. But really, Alice, the place is ancient. I’ve never seen anyone come in or out, but I can almost smell the stale spunk and see the shifty eyes of men turn as I enter. I didn’t stop. You’re worth more than that.

Our bar is busy, but you’re not here. I stand in front of the mirror distorted by optics, waiting for the barman to notice me. I peel off my raincoat and rub a hand through my hair, scanning the crowd behind me for your blonde head. I suppose I should be glad you’re not here in this lively scrum of laughter and smoke. That you’re not enjoying yourself without me. But I never wished my own isolation on you.

I trust you, Alice. I know you love me, just as I love you.

A girl comes and leans on the bar beside me, a five-pound note tilted out of the pinch of her fingers and a painted smile ready for the barman. I’m on my third whisky. I’ve found a stool and I’m writing to you.

‘You a writer?’ she asks. The music is loud; I can feel the bass-line through my feet. The girl lays a hand on my arm. Chipped black nail polish; she must bite her nails. ‘Hey, lonely man, you writing a book or something?’

‘I’m writing to my girlfriend. It’s a letter.’ I try not to look up. Not to encourage her. Her hand is still on my arm.

‘Shame. I had a bet with my friends that I could get into your book.’

She is just a girl. Midlands accent, slurring towards northern. Probably just another student, fresh to the city, desperate for a story to prove she really is having the best years of her life.

(Later)

I drank with them for a while. The girl and her student friends. In fact, I drank too long. I allowed myself to forget about you for a couple of hours. Can you forgive me?

I started as a novelty: the lonely writer man Kelly picked up at the bar. We bought each other drinks and smoked each other’s cigarettes. They claimed our bar as a ‘find’ and questioned me about places to hang out. I told them about my afternoon on the bench and they laughed their public school laughs and called me a weirdo. Kelly wanted a job behind the bar and she had an eye out for the manager. I realised that was who she’d taken me for – a sour note to her flirting. But they were nice kids.

I suppose I drank too much. I sat next to Linda, the smallest and quietest of the group. They were all dressed strangely, but she was wearing an odd calf-length dress which looked as if it was made of paper. I couldn’t keep from touching it. ‘What is this? It’s beautiful.’

‘Hey! Hands to yourself, writer boy.’ That was one of the lads with them. A big rugby-type called Christian with hair styled so he looked as if he’d run up against a wall. But he was good-natured and smiling.

I laughed up at him, my fingers still folding and unfolding the fabric of Linda’s sleeve, suddenly finding skin with a quick pinch. She flinched away from me, but I laid a hand on her arm, just the way Kelly had done to me at the bar. I stroked the soft hairs of her arm as if I were petting an animal and let my fingers play over her black skin, feeling the flesh spring up under my fingers like piano keys. I whispered something to that effect into her tiny ear.

‘Seriously mate, let go of her!’ Christian again. He pushed his big manly body between me and Linda, and forced me up on to my feet. Big and manly, but not as big as me. To give him credit, he managed to hold his ground. He had enough pints in him to give him courage. Besides, the girls were watching us now, gathered round Linda as if something terrible had happened.

‘I think it’s time you left.’ That was Kelly, stepping in to line with their champion. No trace of the northern twang now. No friendliness either.

‘And don’t forget this.’ Christian tossed the pages of this letter at me. I walked out into the rain. I didn’t want to fight children. Somehow found my way back to Aubrey’s and it was there I remembered you.

You see what happens when I’m left alone? I need you, Alice. You are the one who keeps me safe.

Forgive me,

Daniel

15th January

Manchester

Dear Mab –

It’s always puzzled me that you never wanted to know more about my work with Aubrey. You must think me a kind of glorified secretary. Maybe that is what I am. But us copy-typists are in demand, I’ll have you know. Aubrey’s lucky to have me. Unfortunately, I have to have him at the same time.

‘Let’s talk about the paintings for a while.’

‘Let’s talk about me getting out of this room for a couple of hours. I have things to do, Aubrey.’

‘Relax, will you? Oh, go on and smoke if you must.’

‘You’ve got me for five minutes. Why do you want to know about the paintings? We’ve talked Dad’s work to death. Why do you want to bring all that up again?’

‘Your sister mentioned some new works. I may have seen some photographs…’

So you told him about them, did you? And you’ve been sharing pictures? Nice. You and he have such a beautiful relationship, sometimes I’m loath to get in the way.

‘Yes, I found some old canvases when I was at the studio. Portraits, would you believe? I bet you’ve read all
there is to read about Dad, so you must know how he felt about portraits.’

‘I think “obscene” was the term that stuck in my mind.’

‘Yes, well. Always good for a joke, was Dad. And never one to let anyone throw a word at him that he couldn’t throw right back.’

‘I think we’re getting off point here. It was the nature of these portraits that I wished to discuss with you. Or, should I say, the subject matter?’

‘Oh, now we’re really treading old turf. You really want to go back over that old business? Again? OK. OK. He’d painted me, Sarah, and himself. The self-portraits were the most interesting. I never thought he – ’

‘When do you think these portraits were painted? Could you tell?’

‘I don’t know. Probably after he kicked me out. OK, if I’m honest, straight after he kicked me out.’

‘And how did they make you feel?’

‘Does it ever bother you? Being a walking, talking cliché, I mean? I don’t know how they made me feel. They’re paintings. You know I can’t really ever
see
my father’s work the way other people can. It’s too close. I can’t get it in focus. Maybe I’m just not as willing to lay a load of claptrap on top of it as others seem to be. They fucking love it.’

‘But this is the first time he painted you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come now, Daniel, you must have had some reaction? Wasn’t there anything in the paintings that you responded to? Which triggered memories or emotions.’

‘Not really. They’re good, I suppose. That’s all. It’s Dad’s work – what’s it got to do with me? The subject doesn’t paint
the picture, does he? Now, you’ve had your five minutes. Goodbye.’

You see how he tries to get into my head? I have the feeling you encourage him. Please stop.

Daniel

15th January

Manchester

Dear Alice –

I must have missed you again. Ridiculous. I’ve had so much time for so long and now I’m close to you I can’t get my hands on you. Instead, I’m stuck with Aubrey all day and standing at your door in the dark, pushing these letters through your letterbox.

I thought I saw you today in the women I passed. I’m putting you together piece by piece from the faces and bodies of others. What I want is the complete picture. What I want is you, my darling.

Daniel x

18th January

Manchester

Dear Mab –

What have you said to Aubrey now? This is my life, Mab. How dare you try to manipulate my friends? And
he is my friend, you know. I’ve certainly spent more time with him than either you or your mother have. I know I let you down with Dad, I know you think I just ran out on my responsibilities and my promises to you, but I don’t deserve this.

I have a girlfriend, whom I love, here. I have a job, which I tolerate, here. I did have a home of sorts, until you started bullying my landlord. Aubrey is so despicably weak when it comes to you. He’ll believe anything you tell him. I dread to think what you’ve been whispering in his ear to have him react the way he did last night.