Innocence

‘And how is that?’ He takes another bite.

It’s far too late at night to unfold the facts of my failed acting career in front of a stranger.

But I make the stupid mistake of trying anyway.

‘Well, acting isn’t like music, Piotr. I mean, there are so very few jobs and so many people…’

He throws back his head and roars. ‘Ah, that’s true! There are hardly any classical musicians in the world!’

I’m blushing. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that…oh, I don’t know what I mean…’ I start again. ‘Well, I never got to play any of the parts I dreamt about. Never even got near them. I just ended up making B-rated horror films, a few commercials…’

‘You were an actress.’ He shrugs his shoulders again. ‘That’s what actresses do.’

‘No, that’s what unsuccessful actresses do, Piotr.’

‘No.’ He smiles. ‘That’s also what successful actresses do. It’s all the same thing, really’

Like Allyson, I’ve come smack up against the World According to Piotr Pawlokowski. The rules are different here.

‘Well, no…’ I fumble, trying to articulate a yet unformed argument.

‘You’re American,’ he diagnoses my deficiency with a single wave of his massive hand. ‘You make too much of this idea of “success”. No artist sees life as success or failure, profit or loss, good or bad. The point of art is lost if you measure it in commercial terms.’

I blink at him.

‘But it was awful,’ I bleat weakly.

He frowns, popping the last bite into his mouth. ‘And you believed it would be fun?’

There’s a long silence.

I’d never thought about it that way before.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I expected it to be much more fun than working in an office or teaching pensioners or…or anything else, really’

He laughs. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

‘Because that’s the way it used to be.’ I can’t help but smile to myself at the memory. ‘It always used to be more fun than anything else on the face of the earth.’

‘Don’t you enjoy playing the piano?’ Allyson comes to my defence.

There’s that shrug again. ‘Sometimes. But “fun” isn’t a word to describe a relationship with an art form that’s embraced every aspect of the human experience for centuries.’ He looks at me sadly. ‘You Americans, I’m afraid, are like children—you don’t like to grow up. What is it? “The pursuit of happiness”. What is that? “To be happy”. Where is the nobility in a life devoted to happiness? It’s a shabby little goal.’

‘Lighten up, mate.’ Allyson moves next to me; she loves confrontation. ‘No need to pick on her just because she’s American!’

‘I’m not picking on you.’ Piotr glances at me, then back to Allyson. ‘But there you go again! “Lighten up!” Nothing must be serious. Everything must be small, fast…light!’ He prowls the floor in frustration, reaching for the words as if they’re hovering in the air around him. ‘You are the hero of your life—especially in art! Without adversity, obstacles, where’s the hero’s adventure? What’s the point? Of course you do bad movies! Stupid commercials! So what? They’re your dragons; you slay them, you move on. You’re bigger than those things!’ He spins round. ‘What do you have to offer people, what experience, if life is only “fun”?’

I open my mouth.

Then close it.

It’s late; I’m overly sensitive. Instead, I focus on stacking the tea boxes in neat little rows. The silence builds, piling up between the three of us.

‘That wasn’t the only reason,’ I say. ‘My happiness wasn’t the only consideration.’

‘God, Piotr!’ Allyson shakes her head. ‘Could you be any more rude if you tried?’

‘Rude?’ He turns to her, baffled. ‘We’re just talking. A conversation, right?’ And he laughs, resting his hands against the counter. ‘What do you want? That we should stand here and flatter one another all night?’

There’s a long pause.

‘Oh. I see.’ His voice is sharp. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to offend you.’ For a moment his eyes meet mine. I’m startled by the kindness in them.

He turns away. ‘I forget how important it is that we agree about everything all the time. I’ll stick with the piano. Good night, ladies.’ He nods his head to each of us, a formal, slightly sardonic gesture, before heading up the steps easily, two at a time.

Allyson launches forward, nicking the mug I just put down and filling it with boiled water. ‘Well! Fuck me!’

The whole exchange has left me disorientated. I open the cupboard door, looking for something to eat. ‘I guess he has a right to his…’

‘God!’ She slams the mug down on the counter, half its contents splashing out over the sides. ‘I thought it would be brilliant to have a pianist in my own home to work with but I’ve never, not in my whole life, met anyone so fucking difficult!’ Plucking a knife off the carving board, she begins hacking at a fresh lemon, throwing it into the water along with a large dollop of honey. ‘What a fucking diva! And what was all that about? Americans and happiness and…Jesus! I would’ve hit him!’

I need to go shopping. I close the cupboard door.

‘His English is good…’

‘Should be! He studied at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Still bloody rude!’

‘Thing is, Ally, I’ve been here so long…’

‘Tits! I think I’m getting a cold!’ She wheels round, glaring at me accusingly. ‘Does Alex have a cold? I’d better not be getting a cold, Evie.’

I shake my head ‘no’, relinquishing any hope of actually finishing a sentence.

‘It’s the stress. The stress is outrageous! This concert is doing my nut in! Look at my glands, will you?’

I can’t tell you how many times a week I have to look at Allyson’s glands.

She sticks her tongue out. ‘Do you see anything? Is my throat red? Splotchy?’

No one is more paranoid about her health than Allyson. The kitchen counter is lined with vitamin bottles and herbal tinctures; her room emits a steamy, Arthurian mist from under the door, the result of a humidifier churning away constantly in a corner, and she sleeps more hours a day than a cat. Still, all her effort pays off: she has one of the clearest, most powerful singing voices I’ve ever heard.

I take a peek. ‘No, darling. It’s fine.’

‘Thanks. Oh God, Evie! What am I going to do?’

‘Well.’ I pick up another mug from the draining board. ‘You could always…’

‘Balls! I’ll have to call Junko again. But she’s like a robot; she understands nothing of the power and passion I need for these pieces!’ She looks at me. ‘You have heard about Piotr, haven’t you?’

I shake my head and she leans forward, her voice uncharacteristically low.

‘He’s the one who walked out in the middle of the final rounds of the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow a few years ago!’

She stares at me eagerly.

I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.

‘It’s the most famous piano competition in the world, Evie! He just stopped playing in the middle of his second concerto and left! When he was on the verge of winning!’

‘But why?’

‘It wasn’t good enough…he didn’t like the way he was playing.’ She rolls her eyes. Ally’s competitive nature is so keenly honed that the idea is clearly anathema. I find it quite intriguing. ‘He’s crazy, Evie! Insane! He was playing Prokofiev Three, with a full orchestra and suddenly he just stands up and walks away!’

‘So if he’s crazy, Ally, why are you so keen on working with him?’

‘Have you heard him? He was playing Gaspard de la Nuit yesterday and I thought I would faint it was so heart-breaking…Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck!’ She collapses her head into her hands. (If Puccini had been composing for Allyson, ‘One Fine Day’ would’ve become ‘Where the Hell Is He?’.)

I take a piece of cheese out of the fridge, turning this new information around in my mind.

‘And now he teaches at the Royal Academy’

‘But he could’ve been huge!’ she mumbles.

We sit a moment.

Eventually, she looks up. ‘You know what we should do? We should go out, you and I; just the girls! We could go dancing or something!’

Every couple of months she does this; she launches into a campaign to force me into socializing, usually just after she’s finished some big job.

‘Well, maybe. I don’t know, Ally. I think I’m a bit old for dancing.’

‘I’m older than you are,’ she reminds me.

‘Yes, but you’re, you know, trendy…’

‘You could be trendy. Let’s go shopping. It would be fun!’

She’s staring at me with those huge, unflinching diva eyes.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘You always say that. If I had your face and your figure…’

‘Ally! Stop it!’ Why am I so embarrassed?

‘You’re not even wearing make-up, are you?’

‘Please!’ I shake my head.

‘I’m just saying it’s a waste! I’m going to stop asking one of these days and then you’ll be sorry!’ Opening one of the dozen bottles, she tosses a few pills into her mouth. ‘So the old fart walked out on you, did he? You’ve mentioned him before—what’s his name?’

‘Mr Hastings.’

‘Poor Mr Hastings.’

‘Actually, he’s a very difficult character,’ I point out, suddenly defensive.

‘Yes, but you would be difficult too, wouldn’t you? If you’d never lived out your dreams. Makes people crazy, Evie.’ She retrieves her drink and kisses me on the top of my head. ‘Night, darling.’

Standing alone, I pour what’s left in the kettle into my mug. There’s not enough for a full cup, so I leave it. And I stare out into the vast black space that’s the garden in the rear.

I’ve never thought of Mr Hastings as having dreams. Or at least not any that extended beyond making my class a misery. The revelation that he might endows him with an unwelcome vulnerability in my mind. This, along with Piotr’s anti-happiness diatribe, has finally tipped me over the edge. I’m exhausted and unexpectedly riddled with self-doubt.

I’m done slaying dragons for today.

Moving mechanically, I wipe down the kitchen counter before turning off the lights. And I have that feeling I get at the end of almost every day: the sensation of having left my body and watching it from a distance—a kind of physical déjà vu. Walking back up into the hallway, I’m floating, insubstantial; repeating the same evening rituals; pausing to make sure the front door’s locked, checking and rechecking.

I turn to make my way up the stairs.

And there, sitting in the darkness of the living room, is Piotr.

He’s at the piano. But there’s no sense of impending action. No crinkle of anticipation, as if he might, at any moment, begin to play. Instead, a powerful calm surrounds him.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s all right. To break the silence, smoothing it over with noise, questions and conversation.

But then an unexpected intimacy overwhelms me.

His stillness is revealing. It’s as if he’s unfolding, very slowly, before me; invisible layers dissolving into the shadows. The longer I linger, the more I can see…

I step back.

This isn’t an experience I should be having with a man I don’t know. A man who doesn’t even like me.

And yet a fierce longing clutches at my heart: to be in a room where I’m not alone and yet where nothing—no words, no movement, no explanation—is necessary.

Walking upstairs, I move as quietly as possible but the third stair from the top creaks unbearably. She’s awake.

‘Is that you, Evie?’

‘Yes, Bunny’ It’s like being a teenager again.

‘Did you lock the front door?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Come in and say good night properly, then.’

I push open the heavy wide door. Her room’s spacious, with a set of small adjoining apartments which take up the entire first floor. She’s sitting, propped up in her lit-bateau bed on easily two dozen pillows, dressed in a linen nightgown covered by a pale-gold bed jacket. Across her lap, an ancient edition of Swann’s Way competes with the half-dozen copies of Hello! and Tatler which cover her bedspread.

Pulling off her reading glasses, she cocks her small silver head to one side, examining me thoroughly. ‘Oh, Evie! If only you tried a little! A bit of make-up, a nice haircut…’

I stare at the carpet and smile. ‘Now, why would I want to do that, Bunny?’

She pats the end of the bed, inviting me to sit down. ‘You never know, darling. Lots of girls meet lovely men at work. That’s where Edwina met her partner.’

(Edwina, her only child, came out as a lesbian and moved to Arizona with a woman from her father’s accountancy firm shortly after Harry’s death. Bunny stayed with them for a month last summer. They run an extremely expensive, chic little gallery specializing in Native American art and are not, as she puts it, ‘unfashionably gay’. ‘They’re really terribly sweet,’ she assures me. ‘Discreet, with very flattering hairstyles. And it’s such a relief not to have to humour them the way one must with a man. You know, Evie, as long as one of you can cook, it can’t be that bad.’ I’m not sure she understands that it’s more than just a convenient living arrangement; with Bunny it’s almost impossible to tell.)

‘Believe me, there are not lovely men where I work. Quite the opposite. And besides, you’re forgetting that I have a perfectly marvellous man of my own. How was he tonight?’

She smiles. ‘As always, the best. Although his diet is appalling, my dear. I made some borscht tonight. Did you see it? There’s a little left over in the fridge. I thought it might be nice, for Piotr, you know.’

‘But borscht is Russian, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, close enough. But Alex wouldn’t touch it. Can you imagine?’

‘Who in the world would turn down your home-made borscht?’

‘Well, Harry didn’t think much of it.’ She smoothes away a crease in the sheet. ‘But then, Harry had no taste. No taste buds, even. Too many cigars. Never allow Alex to smoke, promise me!’

‘I’ll do my best.’ I rise to leave and then stop. The mention of Harry reminds me…‘Bunny forgive me if this is in any way inappropriate and you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but…’

She laughs. ‘My goodness, Evie! So formal!’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’ How to put this? ‘Do you ever see Harry? I mean, now?’

She looks at me. ‘He’s dead, dear.’

I feel foolish. ‘Yes, I know, I was just wondering if you ever…I mean, if you believe that people can come back, you know, once they’re…’

‘Gone?’

I nod.

‘Well.’ She thinks a moment. ‘He sometimes makes an appearance in the mornings. Shuffles in wearing that dreadful old dressing gown and carrying a copy of The Times. Wants help with the crossword. Stuff like that. Chit-chat, really’

My heart dives forward in my chest. ‘And what do you do?’

‘Well, the shit knows I’m not speaking to him.’ She picks up her copy of Proust again. ‘I just ignore him and he goes away. It’s the cheek of it that’s so annoying; the fact that he thinks he can just pick up where he left off.’

She speaks without a trace of irony or insincerity…can it be true? At any rate, she’s begun reading again—her hint that our conversation is over.

I drift over to the door; still full of questions, but unable to arrange my tangled thoughts. ‘Sleep well, Bunny’

‘You too, darling.’ She looks up. ‘And honestly, if Harry starts hassling you for clues, just tell him to piss off. Never could spell.’

‘Right.’

She goes back to her book and I close the door. Like so many conversations with Bunny, I have absolutely no idea if she’s serious or just having me on.

As I pass by Allyson’s room, I hear her humming softly. Something lovely. Something I don’t know. Probably something German.

I climb the last flight, twisting the doorknob very carefully. Slowly, I creep through to the next room.

And there he is, sleeping. In his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Alex, my lovely, gorgeous, perfect four-year-old son. I lean down, softly kissing his forehead. And he shifts, brushing away the clinging attentions of his watchful mother, even in sleep.

I could spend all night staring at him, at the gentle curve of his forehead, the soft, smooth pink of his cheeks, the angelic (at least in repose) set of his mouth. Every day he grows more and more beautiful.

Like his father.

A cloud trails across the night sky. Cold white moonlight floods in through the window. Everything’s illuminated, the countless toys scattered across the floor, the second-hand rocking chair in the corner, the brightly painted toy chest…Here is a world where nothing’s lost for very long; where everything’s retrievable. A fragile, temporary universe.

I settle quietly, as I do so many nights now, in the wooden rocking chair and watch.

He’ll be bigger tomorrow and yet I’ll have never seen a glimpse of him growing in the night. But I’m here, nonetheless. A sentinel, standing guard against a whole, impossible, unknowable future.

And here, in the stillness of my son’s room, with the soft, sighing rhythm of his breathing for company, the thought enters again, uninvited.

Would I do it differently?

If I had to make the choice again, is this the fate I would choose?

I look out at the silent street below. At the daffodils bowed by the wind and rain.

It’s a fragile, temporary universe.

And always has been.

‘This is it,’ Robbie says.

We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.

I waver.

‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.

It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.

‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.

‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’

I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah…I don’t know…a beer, I guess.’

She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’

And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.

Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.

‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’

The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.

I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.

‘Well’—she pouts at herself in the mirror—‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.’

I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the Evening Standard.

‘Robbie…’

‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’

I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’

She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not cheap!’

I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the Evening Standard. Not a single petal in sight.

The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.

‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.

‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.

‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.

‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.

‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.

I blink.

‘Are they all the same temperature?’

He frowns. ‘Yeah.’

I choose the pump with a picture of a harp on it. That seems pretty. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself.’ And begins to fill the glasses.

It’s black.

I panic.

‘It’s black,’ I say.

He hands me the glasses. ‘It’s what you ordered.’ And removes the fiver from my hand. I wait for change but he turns to the next person. I guess that’s it.

I walk back to the table with the drinks.

‘I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s black. I think it may have gone off.’

‘It’s Guinness.’ She takes a sip and wipes the white foam from her upper lip. I hold mine warily. Warm and yellow is bad enough. ‘Don’t worry’ She nods encouragingly. ‘It’s sexy. And Irish.’

We wade through the Guinness. The music gets louder and so does the crowd. I go to the loo and come back. Then Robbie goes. She buys a pack of cigarettes and we bum a light. A couple of spotty city boys try to pick us up. The girls across from us leave with the guys at the next table. It’s 10.10.

I look at Robbie. ‘Well…’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m not worried.’ And she lights another cigarette, even though she has one burning in the ashtray.

At 10.20 a man appears in the doorway. He’s stocky, wearing a pair of round John Lennon glasses and sporting a shock of spiky, sandy-coloured hair. He’s carrying a slightly crushed single rose in clear plastic wrap.

Robbie spots him and stands up. Walking over, she takes the rose from his hand. ‘This is not a bouquet, Hughey, is it?’ She lets it drop to the floor, where it becomes a chew toy for someone’s dog. ‘Now, are you going to buy me a drink or what?’

He smiles and wraps an arm round her waist. ‘I’d have come sooner if I knew that you were going to look like this.’

‘You should’ve seen what I looked like an hour ago.’ She shoves him in the direction of the bar. ‘By the way, we’re drinking champagne.’

He whistles under his breath and saunters up to the bar.

Robbie winks at me. ‘I told you it would be OK.’

That’s when I notice the guy behind him. Tall and slender, dressed in a faded suit and T-shirt, he stands, lingering by the door, running a hand through his long black hair.

He looks up at me, tilting his head sideways. ‘Hey’ His voice is quiet but deep.

‘Hey’ My voice has gone quiet too.

He holds out his hand. ‘Jake,’ he introduces himself. He has soft dark eyes and the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.

‘Raven,’ I say, holding out mine.

He wraps his fingers round mine. He holds them just a moment too long.

And I let him. As far as I’m concerned, he can hold them as long as he wants.

‘No!’

‘Well, what about some toast, then? Most of the superheroes I know have toast for breakfast. Often with a little peanut butter and banana on it.’

Alex crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘Mummy, nobody knows a real superhero!’

‘I know you, don’t I? And you’re going to have to sit down properly. No standing on the kitchen chairs. Now, with peanut butter or not?’ I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

‘Good morning, mate!’ Allyson’s dressed in a white towelling bathrobe. She swoops down on Alex, scooping him up in a great big bear-hug. ‘Hey, mister! Where’s my kiss!’ she demands, tickling him under the arms.