Here’s Looking At You

James remembered saying, ‘What, flirted while flopped out? I have to admire his confidence.’

Eva had demurred with talk of strategically placed towels, and said something about how he was an up-and-coming who was signed with a major modelling agency.

James realised now that cocky Finn had made rather a big gesture in working pro bono.

Eva had gaily wondered which of her sixth formers might have a fling with him. James now detected the sleight of hand, with hindsight: it was Eva he’d met, before he posed. It was a gesture to impress her.

‘How old is he, Eva?’

‘Twenty-three.’

James put a hand over his forehead. ‘Twenty-three? What the—? You’re into kids now? Harold and Maude?’

‘Oh that’s right, start running him down and making your James jokes. Let’s not discuss this in a mature way.’

‘How do you expect me to behave? Did you think I’d be calm and reasonable in the face of finding out you’re sleeping with someone else?’

He nearly said how would you feel if the situation was reversed, then realised that question might not do him any favours.

She shook her head in a patronising way, as if it was James who had something to be ashamed of.

It was at this point that Luther decided to interrupt, the treacherous scruff-sack making distressed yowling sounds at Eva’s feet. She scooped him up and made extravagantly soothing noises, as if it was James breaking up happy homes and cat’s hearts.

‘I’m not having sex with him,’ Eva said, without much conviction, over Luther’s giant feather duster of a squirrelly tail.

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘Put that thing down, will you.’

Eva bent and dropped him.

‘We meet for coffee. I’ve only been to his flat once. To pose for him. He’s interested in art.’

‘What the …? I’m supposed to believe that you then put your thong back on and shared Muller Corners? And by the way, tell him not to give up the day job. You look like Richard Branson in that sketch.’

‘Posing is not a big deal for me. That’s a British hang-up, sexualising nudity.’

‘And Finn’s Scandinavian is he? No? British and male and heterosexual? Ah right. So you’re telling me nothing happened after that?’

‘Not … I told you.’

Her hesitation about how to categorise their activities was worse for James than an outright confession of Biblical knowledge. She might as well take a knife, slice a flap in his stomach, and tuck in with a chilled spoon.

‘If you’ve done things with him that would get you arrested if you did them in public, Eva, you’re sleeping with him. Sorry to be so old-fashioned. It’s just with me being your husband, I get terribly hung up on the detail.’

There was a pause where Eva didn’t demur.

‘Is it serious?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘All this for “I don’t know.”’ James put his hands on his head. ‘I’d prefer it if you said yeah, he’s the love of my life, it had to be done.’

He wouldn’t. James was picturing this Finn’s eyes, hands and possibly tongue on Eva and trying not to cry, vomit or punch a wall.

‘Maybe your inability to comprehend that this isn’t about someone else is the kind of attitude that put a distance between us.’

‘What the fuck’s that meant to mean?’

‘It means that the fact I could feel anything for Finn shows something wasn’t right with us.’

James swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple had apparently swollen. ‘I think you’ve got this back to front,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice even. ‘The whole point of being married is you resist the temptation of other people.’

Eva picked up her bag, eyes downcast.

‘Since we got married, things haven’t been the same. More routine, perhaps. I can’t explain it.’

‘There will be some routine in a marriage, that’s how it works. We have a home, and jobs.’

Eva looked at him contemptuously, as if to say is that it? That’s all you got?

‘Am I supposed to wait this out, while you decide if you’re gone for good or not?’ James said, though with less fire than before.

‘I’m not asking you to do anything, James.’

She was composed now, contrition over. That was Eva. Maddening, supremely self-assured Eva, who he was inconveniently hopelessly in love with.

James had no idea what more to say, or what to do. Any threats were bluffing. When someone took a shit on your heart like this, they either lost you, or discovered they had all the power.

‘When you’ve calmed down, we can talk.’ She let herself out, and left James slumped on the sofa.

Was it true? Had he trapped Eva like a schoolboy with a butterfly in a jam jar, and watched her wither? No, bollocks to that. Eva was no fluttering helpless creature, and North London had plenty of oxygen.

She’d spoken as if their life together was something he’d designed, and sealed her inside. They both wanted this, didn’t they? Looking at the house, it was Eva-ish in every detail, bar his PlayStation 4.

But he was boring. Life with him was boring. How did you fix that? How did you make your essence interesting to someone again? He did want to fix it.

Whilst he hated Eva right now, and she was making him utterly miserable, he felt more addicted to her than ever.

When James was eight and his parents had sat him down and told him they were separating, he’d not understood why his dad couldn’t be around for some of the time. Surely to go from living together to nothing at all made no sense? Stay for weekends, he’d said. Or Wednesdays. Wednesdays were good, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was on and they had pasta bow-ties with the red sauce.

They’d both smiled sadly and indulgently. Now here he was with his own marriage falling apart, and although he now understood why they couldn’t be saved by scaling back their hours, he wasn’t sure he understood them any better either.

And yet again, Eva hadn’t mentioned the ‘D’ word. Knowing her, she’d probably stick it on a text. ‘Got Luther something 4 his tickly cough. PS Decree Nisi on way 2 U.’

James tried to push the bad thought away, the worst thought, even worse than her being scuttled by some idiot with a Smurf hat and no belt in his jeans. If she does come back, how are you ever going to feel sure of her again?

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Luther was in front of him on the rug, staring at James with an accusatory menace, breathing like Darth Vader.

‘C’mere, you grumpy git.’

James picked the cat up and held him to his face, letting his thick fur absorb the tears as he sobbed. Luther smelt of her perfume.

16

When she was eight years old, on a trip to see the Italian family, Anna’s dad had taken her to see the Ravenna mosaics. While her mother, with a trainee consumerist in Aggy, had done the rounds of the boutiques, Anna was stood with cricked neck in the saintly hush of the Basilica of San Vitale. Her father told a sketchy outline of the story of Byzantine Emperor Justinian and his consort Theodora.

It was enough to get her hooked. She was utterly lost in the story of the daughter of the bear-keeper of Constantinople’s hippodrome who became an actress, prostitute – her dad had gone with ‘she made money from her adventures’ but Anna wasn’t stupid – and Empress of the Roman Empire. She stared at the regal beauty depicted in those tiny glittering tiles and felt as if those lamp-like dark eyes were staring directly into her own, communicating across the distance of centuries.

It was as close as she might come to a religious experience; the sense of finding something you were looking for, being transformed in a moment. Anna’s family weren’t religious, but in some ways, Theodora became a deity for Anna. Here was an inspirational woman who’d travelled very far from her beginnings, who demonstrated that the start point need not define you. She was a heroine, a role model. Well, there had been some fairly wild activity in the process of making a name for herself, involving all the orifices, and Anna wasn’t going to try that. But in general.

Her parents had tried to slake her newfound thirst for knowledge by buying her one of those hardback A Brief History of All the History There’s Ever Been books, with lots of pictures. She devoured it in days and wanted more. Eventually her mum let her have free run of a library card and Anna was able to get to the good stuff, proper detailed lurid biography.

Books showed Anna other universes, promising her there was a big world beyond Rise Park. It might not be overstating it to say books saved her life. She never understood why some of her friends thought history was dry and dusty. Young Theodora was getting up to shit a sight more colourful in AD 500 than any of them in the twentieth century, whatever Jennifer Pritchard was claiming went on in Mayesbrook Park.

Some went into teaching because they loved imparting knowledge, or more often, bossing people about. Once Anna overcame her fear of standing up in front of an audience – through therapy and practice, and in the early days, a gin miniature – Anna enjoyed lectures and tutorials well enough. But for her the raw thrills were in research.

It was the ‘eureka’ moments – where she felt like the first detective on the scene, finding the vital clue. Then she wasn’t merely consuming historical fact, she was adding to its sum.

It felt like some kind of full circle, punch-the-air joy when lovely John Herbert, curator of Byzantine history at the British Museum, had got in touch and asked if she would help him put together an exhibition on Theodora. Her inner child, who’d stared up at that gilded, domed ceiling and been transported to another time, was dancing a jig.

Anna was translating texts and helping to choose and caption the exhibits. She couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than getting to fiddle around with bits of the past, to raise the dead in some small way. Anna had only assisted with the odd aspect of exhibitions before, a good excuse to poke around at the British Museum.

This was the first time she’d been a behind-the-scenes driving creative force. She’d worked late for months to prep for it, willingly.

As she tripped off for her first meeting about Operation Theodora, she enjoyed every second of the walk through Bloomsbury, even beaming foolishly at passing strangers. This was a chocolate-box pretty part of the capital, the London of films and TV. Peaceful, wide streets, the green space of Russell Square, red phone boxes that were now historical monuments themselves, existing only for overseas tourists’ photographs, ransom demand calls and massage parlour business cards.

She arrived at the back entrance of the museum, like a VIP. She signed in, with a nod of familiarity from the reception desk, and made her way to the meeting room. It was a blazing brilliant modern white, with desks arranged in a horseshoe, as if they were having a table read for a drama. Anna would’ve much preferred something full of careworn wood and leather that was reassuringly cluttered, dust motes dancing in cidery-yellow autumnal light. Order and fluoro-lighting reminded her too much of classrooms.

John smiled benevolently at the sight of her.

‘Ah, the woman of the hour. Everyone, this is Anna Alessi from UCL. She’s our academic liaison and resident expert. You might think I’m the resident expert. However, I’m a glorified shopkeeper. She sources the products, checks what’s fit for purpose for sale, as it were …’

As he spoke, Anna scanned the room, smiling and nodding hellos in turn, until her eyes met James Fraser’s.

She almost physically started with surprise, and couldn’t be entirely sure whether she made a noise.

Her bouncy cheerfulness stopped so abruptly it almost had a sound effect. She knew her face was a mask of repulsion but it was too late to rearrange it. What. The. Fuuuuccckkkkkkk …?

James looked very disconcerted, if not quite as ruffled as she did.

John was still talking: ‘… So this is James from our digital helpers over at Parlez. James is the project leader, and his colleague who handles the technical design and development, Parker …’

Anna mumbled a vague greeting at a skinny twenty-something with asymmetric hair, and dropped with a thud into her seat.

She fussed with getting the notes out of her bag as a way of not having to meet the eyes in the room. Her heart was making a ker-plunking noise. She could hear the valves pulsing, as if they were amplified.

How in the hell had this happened? What sort of grotesque prank was being played on her this time?

17

As conversation continued and John outlined the themes of the exhibition, Anna joined the dots; John joking about the necessity of having ‘the digital johnnies’ as well as marketing and comms people at the initial get together to discuss the exhibition.

At the reunion, Laurence saying of James ‘… digital agency, lots of big impressive clients.’

It was a gruesome turn of events. And it wasn’t lost on Anna that if she’d swerved the reunion, she’d have the upper hand. He’d still have no idea who she was.

So much for enlivening ideas about facing your demons. How long had that taken to bite her on the arse? Those demons weren’t meant to pitch up a few days later in navy John Smedley cardigans in professional interactions. Only this time, unlike the reunion, she’d been introduced with her surname. Would he realise who she was?

Oh God, she hoped not. It was impossible to know if he’d figured anything out. All she could do was to try to look aloof, dignified and glacially in control.

Conversation moved on, with John doing most of the talking. He concluded, ‘And now I should hand over to James, who will take us through plans for the exhibition’s multi-channel strategy …’

The academics in the room looked politely blank while Parker put both hands on his hair and shaped it into a quiff.

‘Erm, yeah, thanks …’ James said, clearing his throat. ‘Obviously, the principal thing we’ll be designing is the official exhibition app for iOS and Android devices and so on. This is key in giving the show a higher profile and will help with media coverage.’

He looked round the room and Anna thought sourly, hardly any need for this pitch spiel, when you’ve already been hired. She sensed he was nervous but she had no interest in empathising.

‘The app will include a lot of imagery from the show, and text from yourselves. Rather than merely transpose the material from the exhibition, we want to make the app hold real unique value, with original content. We were thinking of some talking heads …’

‘That’s experts, talking, not Talking Heads the old music,’ Parker said, tucking his pen behind his ear and grinning widely.

‘Old,’ John Herbert chuckled.

‘Yes. Thanks, Parker,’ James said, eyes narrowing. ‘And we want to build an A.R. layer for the exhibition, with digital versions of the artefacts we don’t have or can’t move here. What we thought we’d do is take personalities from the mosaics, and use actors in costume to film recreations of interactions. We can have them walking about the space. A virtual Theodora and Justinian and so on.’

Anna’s nerves overcame her and she spoke before she could stop herself.

‘It’s not going to be all rotating 3D scans of people’s heads, like “Wooh, heads”’ – she made a gesture with her hands, thinking, I have no idea what I’m on about either, but I sound a bit angry so people won’t dare laugh – ‘And no text, is it?’

There was usually a small tension between academics and designers over such issues and Anna was minded to make it a larger one.

‘We’ll have space for captions with each artefact. Written by yourselves,’ James said, making an ‘I am taking you very seriously’ business face.

‘How many words?’

‘Around 150 or so.’

‘That’s not a lot.’

‘I think people have a limit for how much information they can take in per artefact.’

‘We were thinking the show might attract quite a few “readers”,’ Anna said, caustically.

‘Our research suggests people start skimming after 150,’ James said, tapping his pen on his pad.

‘Well, what does actors titting about really add? Do people need reminding what people look like? We haven’t evolved significantly since Theodora and Justinian. They didn’t have prehensile features.’

James blinked.

‘It’s a way of making the artefacts more vivid. The emphasis with what we do is on the experiential.’

Experiential. These people always brought their made-up words.

‘No, I mean it’ll get in the way of looking at the mosaics, which are the point of the thing aren’t they?’ Anna said. ‘Won’t it mean visitors spend their time playing on video games, instead of looking at the exhibits?’

James put his head on one side and made a ‘trying to find a respectful way to answer a question I think is stupid’ face.

‘It’s an “as well as” not an “instead of”. To help people visualise the world and bring the scene alive. We’ll tag the videos to objects so people can choose to watch the sequences if they’re interested.’ James paused. ‘It’s a modern way of engaging visitors.’

‘Ah, that’s the thing about history. It’s not modern.’

‘But the people going to see this are. Are you doing without electricity as well?’

James only half-phrased this as a joke and all the backs in the room stiffened. Except for Parker’s.

‘The point of the app is that it’s something different to the exhibition itself, something that complements it,’ James said, aiming for an air of finality.

‘I don’t understand why the emphasis is on recreating stuff that isn’t there, to distract people from stuff that is there. It’s as if the artefacts aren’t interesting enough in themselves.’

‘It’s about narrative. People are principally going to be interested in Theodora as a person, right? She’s the focus of the exhibition. Along with Justinian. They’re the story.’ James was matching Anna in vigour now. It was that kind of terse politeness that strained at the leash to romp into full-blown rude.

‘Yes but that’s not to turn the show into a Ye Olde Posh and Becks power couple.’

‘Justinian Bieber,’ Parker said, guffawing. Everyone in the room dead-eyed him.

‘We’re coming at this from different angles but our aims are the same,’ John intervened. ‘Wait until you see it, Anna. The Royal Manuscripts app was really something, I’ll get James to show it to you.’

James nodded. Anna simmered.

‘We’re drawing up some questions on the themes of the exhibition, to help us develop our side in line with your vision for the key messages of the show.’

Key messages! Like it was an ad campaign. Buy Zantium! That’s all these digital gits were, Anna thought. Advertisers, with a big shiny social media sheen pasted over the top. Might as well be flogging chamois leathers as the artefacts of the sixth century. James Fraser did look like Don Draper from Mad Men.

James cleared his throat. ‘We were playing around with a “medieval bling” theme for the digital pre-launch presence …’

‘Bling?’ Anna said, her intonation holding the word between finger and thumb, at arm’s length.

‘Yes …’ James said, but this time had the decency to look embarrassed.

‘You know, bling, like, big rocks, baller ass, fly, dope …’ Parker began.

‘We were thinking it was an accessible way to represent the wealth of the period,’ James cut in, desperately. ‘Obviously we can work on this in tandem with you.’

‘The “whore” angle is strong for grabbing attention, but causes problems with your younger, school age demographic,’ Parker said, in a solemn tone that made it sound as if he was quoting someone else.

School. Anna’s throat tightened.

‘We’ve been throwing ideas around, nothing’s set in stone,’ James said.

‘Not sure about the use of the word “whore” really,’ John the curator said, mildly. ‘It’s a bit of a value judgement about a female.’

‘Yes. It’s not as if you’d ever call a show Genghis Khan: Mongol Warlord, Massive Shagger

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