The First Time I Saw Your Face (20 page)

‘Not much difference between summer and winter,’ Doug said stripping off his clothes. ‘Just gan in as far as you can, stay in as long as you can. When you come out, the barbecues will be ready for the burgers.’ Doug was down to his underpants and, as they came off, he fitted the torch round his head and switched the beam on before turning and running towards the sea.

Mack scrabbled for his own torch and switched on the beam and watched this large, chunky, lovesick guy wobble towards the waves.

‘He’s got to be bloody joking,’ he said out loud, but Doug’s entry into the sea suggested he wasn’t. Mack stood up and saw Doug’s wobbling buttocks cresting a wave.

‘You don’t actually swim?’ he shouted after Doug, now only able to pinpoint where he was because of the big guy’s torch beam.

A faint ‘Canna swim’ drifted back.

‘Oh, bloody Hell,’ Mack said and started tearing his clothes off too.

Mack wasn’t sure how long they were in the water, but when he was very much afraid that his penis had shrivelled up and fallen off and he had bitten his tongue with the violence of his teeth chattering, he had to agree with Doug that it was a brilliant way to take your mind off everything. He’d once got his fingers stuck to an ice-cube
tray and the sensation he felt in the water had been similar. Except more all-enveloping.

With his clothes back on and wrapped in a blanket, his mouth full of beautifully burned burger, he worried about what was happening to him. He wanted to keep Doug’s secret for him, for a friend. Correction, for a marra. He took another bite of his burger and listened to the wave’s steady rhythm behind him, wishing he could stay on this beach forever feeling trusted, life and warmth slowly returning to his extremities.

CHAPTER 18

Finlay poked his head round the door of the Blue Room, where Jennifer was trying to mediate in a heated discussion between Lydia and Wendy about whether gold braid for the dark-blue doublet would or would not make Lisa look like a camp majorette.

‘I couldn’t borrow you for a few minutes, could I?’ he asked. ‘Wendy, Lydia, could I borrow Jennifer? I need her to work her magic.’

Jennifer hoped the magic she was being asked to perform involved a dorkish pirate, but it was Gerry, Steve and Pamela whom Finlay was steering her towards.

‘They’re trying their best, but not really pulling together as a team,’ Finlay said quietly. ‘No one is going to believe they’re thick as thieves and plotting to trick Malvolio.’

Jennifer had some sympathy with the three stooges who were now facing her. This period of rehearsal was always difficult, people trying to remember where to move, but still needing the odd check of their scripts. She looked across to where Doug and Matt were working on a scene
together, and was surprised to see how well they were moving and speaking. She felt slightly cheated of that rueful smile Matt Harper had worn whenever Doug crashed into him. Never mind, that new smile, almost as if he were proud of Doug, was doing just as good a job of sending little scurries of excitement across her chest. This evening perhaps she should act on Cressida’s lecture and talk to him rather than run.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘Steve, do you want to go from that bit about the letters you’re going to drop on purpose for Malvolio to pick up? Start with Sir Toby Belch’s line.’

Steve stood for a few seconds, obviously building up to it, before saying to no one in particular: ‘Excellent! I smell a device.’

There was a long pause, then, ‘I have’t in my nose too.’ Gerry made a big show of touching his nose, but not looking at the others at all.

Another long pause before Steve rushed at, ‘He shall think by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece and that she’s in love with him.’

They all waited and Pamela suddenly screeched, ‘Oh, it’s me isn’t it? Sorry. I was thinking it was Gerry again, but no, it’s me. Now … ah yes, here we are … “My purpose is, indeed, a house of that colour.”’ Pamela beamed at them.

‘Not house, you daft bint,’ Steve said, ‘it’s horse.’

‘Well, there’s no need to be so rude,’ Pamela huffed at him. ‘At least I just forgot it was my go, I didn’t keep everyone waiting for my line on purpose. And at least my
eyes weren’t all over the place when I spoke them.’ She looked at Gerry.

Jennifer raised her hand to cut off any response and wondered what to do with these two lumps of wood and the speak-your-weight machine.

She set them some exercises. Pamela shrieked her way through the first one, where she had to fall backwards and trust the others were going to catch her. At one point it looked like Steve was contemplating a nasty case of ‘butterfingers’. Then they’d taken it in turns to think of an emotion, arrange their body and expressions to convey it and see if the others could guess what it was. Steve had got most of the ones right that Gerry acted out, which was something of a miracle as Gerry’s way of conveying everything from sorrow to anger looked as if he was having a particularly difficult poo.

Slowly, slowly they started to tune into each other’s body language and pick up on cues. Jennifer felt her shoulders relax, her neck feel less tense. A little victory. She hoped Matt Harper had been watching closely.

Her feeling of elation didn’t survive Jocelyn sauntering past and saying, ‘Teaching them how to make funny faces, Jen?’

She should have just caught hold of Jocelyn at that point and asked her exactly what her problem was, but she was too busy panicking that Steve had heard and his obvious shock would blossom into anger that would engulf them all in embarrassment. She could see Finlay frowning and moving his head, as if trying, from the other side of
the hall, to work out what had happened. More distressing was the knowledge that Matt Harper, wandering past to fetch his script, had heard the comment too.

She retreated to the Blue Room, seeking sanctuary and calmed her breathing enough so that Wendy and Lydia, immersed in a squall about the correct use of Velcro, would not notice her agitation. Uncanny how Jocelyn had the ability to say the things that wounded the most. No consolation that her vitriol was the juice of sour grapes: Jocelyn knew that if Jennifer chose to step on a stage again, she herself would be acted right off it.

Jennifer understood she was not alone in suffering the sharp side of Jocelyn’s nature; that Jocelyn’s father had been a vile bully and sarcasm had been Jocelyn’s only defence. She should feel sorry for a woman who eventually alienated all but the most hardy. She kept telling herself that and was sick of hearing it.

When Wendy and Lydia packed up to go home, Jennifer said she’d stay a while, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of needle through material. It was even more comforting if she imagined the material was Jocelyn’s backside.

Another few minutes and she would pack up too. The urge to talk to Matt, or just sit near him in the pub, gone. She was too distracted, fighting away this horrible mix of inky-black shame.

When the door opened and Matt walked in she couldn’t look at him and hoped he would be quick and go. She kept on sewing and breathing. Her face felt as if it was burning.

She heard him put his rucksack on the table and something else that crinkled. She glanced up. A Primark carrier bag.

He had wandered over to the rail of costumes and was looking at his brown doublet.

‘This is coming along marvellously,’ he said, and she said, ‘Mmm.’

She heard the sound of the coat hanger and presumed he had taken the doublet down from the rail and was perhaps trying it against his body. She couldn’t stop herself from looking.

Oh God, you look gorgeous, all dark and dishevelled. Just go, will you?

‘I’ve come straight from Newcastle today,’ he said. ‘I really liked it. Very vibrant.’

She caught the forced brightness in his voice and knew he was trying to cheer her up.

I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to feel … attraction, lust … oh, I don’t know, just not bloody sorry.

All Mack could think to do when faced with Jennifer’s obvious misery, was to go and try the doublet against his body. He looked down at it. Yup, that was going to make him look exactly like the turd he was.

Well, Plan A was in tatters, thanks to Jocelyn. Getting a lift home, all his pre-rehearsed patter about his family, which was going to lead nicely to Jennifer talking about hers, blown out of the water.

Just the way she was stabbing her needle into that material
told him that. It was a shame it was the only place she could think to put all that emotion: Jocelyn’s backside would have been better. He’d have helped her.

He probably shouldn’t have come into the room at all, he felt as if he was intruding. He’d do better going out again.

Then he thought of Fran in the playground, the other children jeering at her. A bewildered Gabi having to move to another city.

He picked out a suitably hearty tone and told her where he’d been today and how much he’d liked it, he left out the bit about meeting up with the Third Party again and wanting to vomit when he’d pressed some more of Tess’s post into his hand.

He chanced sitting down next to her and watched her needlework become less ferocious. Perhaps Plan A wasn’t dead.

‘I got my nieces some presents in Newcastle,’ he said, ‘couple of furry animals to add to the pile they’ve already got.’

‘In Primark?’ she asked.

‘No, that’s just a sweatshirt for me.’ He was certain he saw her mouth twitch.

Yeah, OK, I know what you’re thinking, but I only got the sweatshirt for the bag it came in, because it hides, beautifully, the pair of Paul Smith slim-fit trousers (zip detail) that I also treated myself to. A way of spending O’Dowd’s money and remembering who I am.

He steered her away from his sweatshirt and back to
his family. ‘I sent the furry animals straightaway, caught the post. Kind of thank-you present for the “Missing You” pictures they drew me.’ He wondered whether he should get the little sheets of paper out of his pocket before remembering Fran had written a convoluted riddle on hers about Bath and rain and having to have a Mack with you.

He saw Jennifer hesitate, and then she was looking at him for the first time since he’d come in. ‘My niece is only nine months old, she’s teething at the moment.’

He made sympathetic noises before asking if the niece lived nearby and soon Jennifer was telling him about her brother and his wife, and he supplied more information about his nieces and about Tess and Joe, and there they were chatting away. It felt easy and unforced until he got too relaxed and mentioned that he’d already met her mother. He saw from her reaction that this was news to her, and not particularly welcome news.

‘I miss my sister,’ he said quickly, ‘I’m very close to her.’

‘I miss my cousin; she’s in America at the moment. New Mexico.’

It was like laying a little trail of breadcrumbs.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I think Sonia mentioned her. Cicely, isn’t it?’

‘Cressida. Yes, I’m sure Sonia did.’

‘Gosh, sorry, Cressida. And are … are you close?’

‘Yes, she’s more like a sister than a cousin. I can talk to her about anything.’

Good girl, come on, gently does it.

‘That’s nice. Hard to chat properly on the phone though, isn’t it? I find that with my—’

They both jumped as Finlay opened the door. ‘Locking up in a minute, you two.’ He went out, giving Mack a ‘well done’ smile that made him feel even more shoddy than normal.

Somehow the interruption had swept away all the progress he’d made, and the piece of material was getting a real seeing-to again. He swore he could hear the upset and anger thrumming away in her over the sound of the cotton coming through the fabric.

‘I’m sorry. Really sorry,’ she suddenly said, and before he knew what he was doing he had put his hand over hers and stopped her sewing.

Jesus, Gods, what the Hell are you doing?

‘Were you apologising?’ he asked, bending his head towards hers.

She nodded and he saw her lips were pressed tightly together as if she was afraid she might cry.

There was something catching in his own throat and he only just got out, ‘Oh Jennifer, I don’t think it’s you who should be apologising.’

He heard her sniff and she turned her head a little to look at him. ‘Do you always do that?’ he went on, making his voice as gentle as he could, ‘take it upon yourself to make other people feel better when someone sours the atmosphere? You think perhaps you have no right to be upset or angry?’

She was looking right into his eyes now. Her hand felt cold under his.

‘That’s exactly how I do feel,’ she said.

The words stayed in the air between them.

Don’t answer her; don’t speak; get off this bloody chair and go.

He thought how different her eyes were from her mother’s, even though they were the same blue. ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he heard himself say, ‘because you had an accident; you didn’t lose your right to be treated with respect or get angry if you’re not.’

He no longer had his hand over hers, but was holding it.

Whaaat, are you channelling some kind of self-help book? Move your hand … now.

She was looking as stunned as he felt.

Take your hand away and move.

He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. ‘Why put up with things you wouldn’t have put up with before your accident? You haven’t changed, have you? Your face just looks different.’

That’s it, final warning, get up, get out.

Her nod had something of the punch-drunk about it.

He was leaning in closer, those blue eyes inviting him to do it. ‘You’re so much better than Jocelyn,’ he said, ‘in every single way. If the tables were turned, I can’t imagine you saying any of the things she says.’

Up. Now. Run.

‘You need to remember that, Jennifer.’

‘I … I’ll try,’ she said and blinked, and suddenly he saw how close his head was to hers, how it looked holding her hand like this. He gave it a final, consoling squeeze, got to his feet and managed a bright ‘Better be off’.