Under My Skin Read online

  ‘Service bells,’ he says and then the barman comes over and I move my lips and say a silent ‘Help’. We are almost out of time again. The night is slipping from me and he hasn’t found me yet.

  ‘Tell me about Larry,’ he says and here he introduces another person to keep me at bay.

  He smiles slowly at my silence and this triggers a laugh.

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ I tell him and at last the words are out.

  ‘What?’ he asks and here our knees are still touching. He puts his chin in one hand and waits, never letting me go with his eyes. There is a long pause and he does nothing to hurry me.

  ‘How do you see me?’ I ask him slowly.

  ‘As a friend. A woman who is bright, and who is a very good listener as well.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply.

  His answer sounds like something he has already written down.

  ‘I need something more from you,’ and each word comes out very slowly. ‘I want to be with someone… but not for ever – and I know you don’t… can’t do that.’

  He says nothing and looks away into the distance and my gin and tonic tastes like fear.

  He leans in and takes my hand.

  ‘So…?’ he offers and he speaks very gently, unsure of his space.

  ‘I want a month of your time.’ He frowns for a second and then looks away and now he is thinking about what this month could mean. He is a man who says he loves all women. A man who has run from every solid space. A man who says he has… needs, cravings… to use his own words – so he can see the appeal and yet when he looks at me he sees – in the same brief moment – that I am offering myself to him and he knows that I could easily break.

  He doesn’t speak.

  ‘I told you it wasn’t something small.’

  ‘It’s not small,’ he agrees.

  My hand is warm now and safe inside his.

  ‘I want you to belong to me for a month – and in return I will give you myself – and then we can both just be free… again.’

  I know he is capable of this and that he is also capable of being a cheat. I know somehow that he is capable of great kindness and love and freedom and that for one month of his year, of his life and mine, he is the only person I could ever ask for this.

  ‘I want to know you,’ I say simply, ‘and I promise to let you go – and you have to promise the same and nobody will ever say “I love you”,’ and I try to simplify it for us both.

  The old ladies’ eyes stare straight ahead as if they can hear and are horrified by my every word.

  He looks into my eyes for a moment and then gives the faintest flicker of a smile and then he looks down for a moment and seems to think.

  He is going to say ‘No’ and my stomach is knotting inside.

  He will refuse me and I will never be able to face him – or anyone – again.

  He finishes his drink and I want to take him home with me.

  We walk out on to the street and into the uncertain light of late August. I link his arm but his hand stays stiff in his pocket, not giving me any way in.

  ‘Let’s go out,’ I say suddenly and by now I am ashamed of myself but when you’re so far out of control, why stop now?

  ‘I would love to,’ he says, so much quieter in himself, ‘but it’s late.’

  We stand and face each other and when he hugs me I keep my arms folded across my chest. I am prepared to let him go now and he can sense it. He hails a taxi and watches me turn.

  And all I know is that I hurt. From my stomach up and that is where my heart is now, I think.

  He looks hurt when I turn towards the taxi. He is confused and watches me turn towards the car with a blurry cast-off goodbye. I am drunk and uncaring. I will go home to my flat and Doreen and he will go home to his boat on the canal. And we begin to leave each other now, in some sort of confusion, both hurt and in pain without really understanding why.

  He watches me turn away and in the second before I start to walk he catches my hand.

  ‘Take September,’ he says and he smiles.

  At the restaurant Frankie buys me a snow globe but he has to barter with the waitress first. There are high-backed Quaker chairs and rows of plates on every wall. I order corn on the cob and half a chicken.

  He smiles up at the waitress. ‘I’ll have the snow globe,’ he says, ‘and the other half.’

  He tells me that he has had his annual review from ‘Mr Angry’.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Angry,’ he replies.

  Around us there are businessmen with their ties slung across their shoulders. There are lunch meetings and in the distance one of our clients is meeting a friend.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I became Mr Humble,’ he replies.

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘He turned into Mr Helpless.’

  I smile at him and tell him I have bought him a present for his birthday. It is a miniature lifeboat and when he unwraps it he puts one hand over his mouth and begins to giggle helplessly.

  ‘I will keep this on my desk,’ he says in a solemn voice. ‘And only you and I will know its meaning.’

  He lifts his glass.

  ‘Here’s to freedom,’ he says.

  The waitress arrives with the chicken in two halves. There is a joke to be made but neither one of us can think of it.

  ‘I would prefer to leave on a high,’ he says then. ‘You know, win a big account and then… exit gracefully… hand it to them… and say, “Now, go fuck yourselves.”’

  And here we both start to laugh helplessly again.

  ‘We’re entitled to some anger,’ he says and he is shaking his head and wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

  Behind him an Italian couple sit close together at the bar and I envy them. She is about thirty and he is older than Frankie and me. How lucky they are, to be inside, miles apart in years, and still close together and in love. She is bright-eyed and very pretty and he watches her, like an old tugboat guiding her to shore.

  Doreen listens when I tell her about September.

  ‘OK,’ she says and she is leaning on the kitchen table and nodding into her shoes. ‘This is what I think… you have a great husband who you need to find… and instead of doing that you are going to do something that will completely derail your life.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I answer and I have never seen her look this serious before.

  ‘Translation…’ she says quietly. ‘Are you completely insane?’

  She shakes her head and looks out at the wet street. Her sudden concern is mixed with frustration.

  ‘You need your head examined,’ she says and now there is a small crying person sitting opposite her as well.

  ‘Find Larry,’ she says – and I tell her, ‘I can’t.’

  And when she looks at me now I have to look away.

  ‘Eclaircie,’ he says and he smiles at the sound of it. His true love is named after a break in the clouds. We stand and face each other.

  ‘It’s a noun,’ he says, still smiling, ‘it means the moment when rain stops and the sun comes out…’ and here he shrugs, ‘or a sunny spell in your life.’ The barge waits in silence for us, listening quietly under the trees as we talk about her name. Further down the bank, the heat has sent three white cows into the water to drink. When they lift their heads, they watch us with water spilling from their mouths.

  The chestnut trees are weighed down with leaves and conkers, and there in the sun-dappled shade Eclaircie waits. It is the first week of the month. Our month, the first and last month in our new short life.

  His hair is bleached blond from the sun now. His face weathered, his eyes still the same sparkling blue. He is in bare tanned feet with white toenails, faded denims rolled to his knees. His old white shirt has a torn pocket and the tail is hanging out. And he is still wearing the Claddagh – and his heart has turned as promised, for four weeks, for me.

  He stops for a moment and watches a jeep drive pas
t. The driver salutes him and he waves back. Then he looks at my luggage. One bag, that is all I am allowed. His eyes are saying, ‘What are we doing here?’ and mine are answering, ‘Don’t ask me.’

  Eclaircie is painted forest-green, her stern is ivory and she has ample breasts, snow-white in the sun, with a pink stripe on her hull. He tells me that this colour is called Californian Poppy but someone has scrubbed her down and painted those colours and I would never have thought him capable of that.

  ‘So she’s French,’ I say.

  ‘No, Dutch.’

  I might have guessed.

  Strong shoulders, stoic, formidable, impervious and moving into battle now.

  He tells me that she was built in 1902 and that she was a ‘Beutship’. A working vessel carrying passengers or freight.

  ‘Which am I?’ I want to ask and as if he can read my mind, he says, ‘We need a new name for you.’

  He tells me about her curved deck line and her sharp bow and she seems beautiful now. He points to a sky-blue bicycle then. ‘That’s for you,’ he grins. ‘For when you cycle to the bakery tomorrow morning. It’s a nice Jewish place on the corner. The best bagels ever and it opens at six.’

  He takes my bag and holds out his hand and as I step over the water, we can both feel her around us, holding us up, letting our short time together begin. He opens a low door and I follow him, my heart beating in my chest, and when I need to steady myself he takes my hand again. He looks away quickly then and we are both terrified now that the other one is afraid.

  We are standing in a small wooden space with a curved tongue-and-groove roof. There are bookshelves crammed wall to wall. There are books on the floor under the shelves and then stacked on top of more books until they reach the roof. The wood is polished beech. The floor is white painted wood. The walls are palest blue. His kitchen is at one end, green louvre doors on every cupboard, red mugs, and a low row of shiny copper pans. There is an old blue sofa under the window covered in a throw, two high-backed chairs, for reading, an old record player, shelves of LPs, jazz and blues. At the moment he is listening to Frank Sinatra singing about the summer wind. And right here at this point I feel so afraid and there is only him now, the bull and me, and I must turn to him for help.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks and his eyes are suddenly wide and full of concern. The only answer is my throat making a sudden swallowing sound.

  ‘Hey,’ he says and he smiles and steps towards me. It is only one step and I respond by stepping quickly back.

  ‘Look,’ he says then, ‘we don’t have to…’ He sighs.

  ‘You look really scared,’ he says and he begins to smile.

  I tell him I don’t like the song that he is playing because it is a song that reminds me of someone I used to know really well. He lifts the needle.

  ‘That’s what songs do,’ he says and he takes the record off.

  ‘Now we’re learning something about ourselves.’

  He walks through a small arched door behind the kitchen. ‘This is the guest bedroom,’ he says and he puts my bag down. ‘Your own bathroom here.’

  Across the sitting room is another arched door; this is the one that leads to his bed. The door is open, and there is a cream jacket hanging on a hook. His sheets are fresh white with one pale green stripe around the edge.

  He cooks dinner and we sit out on the deck and watch the sun going down. He puts a lot of food out. Big helpings of everything. Tall glasses of wine. Blue glass tumblers with ice for water. Three different kinds of bread. We eat in silence and there are two mallards watching us. Two males palling around.

  ‘They can’t find a mate,’ I offer.

  ‘Or maybe they just like it like that.’

  ‘Or maybe they’re gay.’

  And he looks at me.

  ‘They’re ducks,’ he says.

  And they move away silently with their shiny green heads, their dark earnest eyes, and those comical orange feet.

  When the light fades, he brings up a hurricane lamp. He pours more wine and slides down into his chair. The village begins to come to life then and someone whizzes past on an old black bike. Couples appear and sit outside a pub and everyone watches the canal bank. A dog yaps somewhere and small squares of gold appear as kitchen lights are turned on. I try to think of something to say and then I realize that he lives here because he doesn’t have to talk. He is different now, as I have never seen him, sitting in peaceful silence and letting everything else wash over him.

  And the water is quiet around us. There is no sound at all as we sit in silence and float.

  He wakes me by gently tugging my hair. It is cold and dark and there is just the light from the cabin below. We walk down the steps and stand with both doors open now. He is older and stronger than me and I want one of us not to be afraid.

  When I turn he sighs and sends his hands down deep into his pockets.

  ‘I would prefer it if you shared my bed,’ he says and the words come out, simple and without further complications from me.

  There is nothing like fear in his eyes. And I follow him through the doors and we lie side-by-side, facing each other and talking in whispers before we fall asleep.

  In the morning the sun has gone and the September sky hangs low into a mist. The water seems darker and the air has a new fresh chill. He is up before me and I lie on and listen to his feet walking across my roof. He makes coffee and he has already been to the bakery and back.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says and then he trips over my shoes. He picks up a book I have been reading and puts it back into its place. Then he gets up and closes the door.

  ‘You leave doors open,’ he says.

  ‘You snore,’ I tell him.

  ‘So do you,’ he replies and the two ducks are back and listening in on this. I am beginning to think about the bull now in a different way and imagine what he would be like minus the Claddagh and in a nice black suit.

  We are different to last night. We have not touched each other yet and we are colder now in the morning light. When he washes up, I watch. And then he stops what he is doing.

  ‘You like to be waited on,’ he says. His voice is firm and matter of fact. He has left the Claddagh ring on the windowsill beside the open window and then I lift my hand and just knock it out. We watch each other closely now. His forehead moves very slowly into a frown and somewhere inside I want to laugh. The worst part is that it makes a tiny splash.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ he asks ‘Why did you do that?’ and he turns around and walks out.

  ‘Where are the angels?’ he asks. We are standing in the foyer of the Conrad Hotel ready to attend the Angel Ball. He looks good and he is polite and well-behaved in his tuxedo after all.

  ‘I am sure you will be able to account for two places at the table,’ Jonathan said. He came into my office and stood watching my spider plant. He is expecting me to arrive with my husband and now I show up with the bull. We sit in a wide circle. Mrs Kirk is sitting beside him and when her shoulder strap falls, he kisses her shoulder and pulls the strap back up again. We arrange ourselves so it is

  – boy – girl – boy – girl – boy – girl – bull.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ Jonathan asks.

  ‘I train racehorses,’ the bull says and I suddenly want to laugh. They are all there with their wives and they are trying not to ask who the new man is. Jonathan’s wife wears a diamond tiara. The only angel at the table so far. Later I dance with him and the bull waits at the bar. Then I find him sitting on his own in the foyer.

  ‘Those people,’ he says, ‘are the reason I left my job’ – and he hails a taxi and goes back to the barge.

  Doreen says that the sex could be amazing. ‘It will be completely savage, or great,’ and then she says, ‘Either way, it will be great.’

  The bull talks about his father. He chooses small words to fill up his empty space.

  ‘It was bad,’ he says. ‘He left,’ and then he shrugs.

  Whe
n Eclaircie moves she is quiet and respectful. We pass quiet streets and sleeping houses and if someone is up as early as us, we always wave. We leave the city and towns and villages behind and move from canals to rivers and quite suddenly there is just sky and a blue horizon ahead. He does not speak at all and suddenly we move in silence out into an open lake. The wind lifts and he is calling out orders and pulling down ropes. I can feel myself panicking already as we move into the centre and further away from the safety of the riverbanks and the shore. Then he kills the engine and pulls a rope and Eclaircie, dull Dutch woman that she is, becomes something completely different as she sets sail.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I tell him, breathless, and the wind is blowing out every other thought.

  ‘She’s full of surprises,’ he says and he is glowing with pride and we are moving along at a fair speed.

  ‘And you ask why I want to live like this?’ he says. When we anchor, he stands on the deck in shorts and dives in and I wait and am silently praying that he will come back up.

  He dries off on an old red towel. He rubs it over his hair until it stands on end.

  ‘Tell me,’ he says simply and we drink tea on the deck and the story of Daniel comes out. Three sentences. That is how quickly I can tell it now. His face is still damp from the water, his lips cold when he leans in and kisses my mouth. And then the clouds turn dark and the only sound is the wind in the fallen sails, and the noise the rain makes on the lake.

  We walk downstairs where we are safe in our watery cave. He turns on a light and the room is warm and yellow now. I want to touch his skin and make him warm because he is cold. I want to pull him inside me because I know nothing about him except that he is almost always alone. I know what we promised, there will be no holding and keeping, but we need to mark each other somehow until we know where we both belong. And Eclaircie holds us and each footstep is steady as we walk across her worn sea-grass floor, and each little creak like music, as we move towards his bed.

  Outside the rain spills down on to the roof and the sky is lower, pressing down on us now, and there is a roll of thunder and still Eclaircie has folded her sails and is discreet and matronly now.