The Things We Left Unsaid, page 14
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’d like that.’
Eleanor looked at Charlie with fresh eyes. Since her encounter in the kitchen with John she felt, how could she describe it – different? She had found herself staring at men, on buses, in shops, sitting in parks, and imagining herself lying with them, their lips pressed into her neck. That moment in the kitchen with John kept replaying itself in her mind: the strange, delicious tingle, the thread that kept pulling her back. Perhaps she should go to John’s studio and have her picture taken? She wasn’t sure she had the courage for it.
‘You really do look very nice,’ said Eleanor. ‘But you’ve nicked yourself shaving. Did you know?’
Charlie frowned. ‘Oh hell,’ he said, ‘where? I haven’t got blood on my collar, have I?’
‘Here.’ Eleanor reached into her bag and pulled out a compact. ‘Use that. It’s just there.’ She pointed towards the cut with her index finger. ‘I’ve got some Vaseline. You can use that too if you like. Always better than walking around with a lump of tissue on your face.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Charlie, looking at the compact as she held it out. ‘I’d rather not stand on Waterloo concourse looking at myself in a lady’s vanity mirror. Perhaps you could put some Vaseline on my finger and help me get there?’
‘Or … I can do it for you if you like?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie with a nod. ‘I think that’s probably best.’
Eleanor pushed her sunglasses up over the top of her beret, reached back into her bag and pulled out a small, round tin of Vaseline. Opening it, she dabbed a little on her middle finger and reached up towards Charlie’s face. ‘It won’t sting,’ she said. It seemed odd to be doing this when minutes before she was filled with dread at seeing him again, but all the same, she touched her finger to his skin. ‘There,’ she said, leaving a tiny dot on top of the cut, ‘all done. Oh. Wait. I’ve smeared a bit on your …’ She swept her thumb over his jawline, cleaning away the grease. It felt intimate but the ease of it shocked her.
‘Above and beyond,’ he said, smiling. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said, dropping the tin back into her bag.
‘How’s college?’ he asked. ‘You must have almost finished your first term, yes?’
‘Almost,’ she said, with a nod. ‘It’s been … interesting. Illuminating. I think I’m more confident. That happens, doesn’t it? When you get away from your parents?’ She smiled.
He smiled back. ‘It can do, yes. You look like you’re flourishing.’ He paused and looked at her. ‘And do you like the people?’ He widened his stance and put his hands into his pockets. He looked like someone checking a cricket score.
‘Yes. But I don’t mix with many of them. I’ve made friends with a man in the year above. Jake. He and I have been rather inseparable.’ She watched his face for a reaction.
Something flickered across Charlie’s face. ‘How exciting.’
Eleanor blinked. ‘I think I might be in love with him.’
Charlie’s eyebrows went up. There was something rather surprising about her openness. ‘And is he in love with you?’
She paused. ‘I don’t know.’ Her eyes drifted off, back to the clock. She had felt rather grown up dealing with a man’s razor cut, but now, talking about Jake, she felt girlish. ‘Maybe I’m not in love with him,’ she added, looking back at Charlie. ‘Maybe I just want to be in love. Oh dear. I suddenly feel rather silly. And there was I, impressing you with how mature I’ve become.’
‘We all like to think we’re in love with someone,’ said Charlie, putting his hand again to where the rings were kept. ‘Wouldn’t the world be dull if we didn’t?’ He looked at her. There was something a little sad about how he said it.
He was being kind, not wanting her to feel embarrassed. She was grateful. Eleanor thought for a moment about what he’d said. ‘Do you think you’re in love with someone?’ she said finally.
‘Not yet,’ he replied, casting an eye up at the departure board. ‘I’m far too busy. And loving people from afar is rather pointless. Isn’t it?’
‘What a serious conversation we’ve ended up having,’ said Eleanor, clasping her hands together. She paused and thought. ‘Can I ask you your advice,’ she said, screwing her eyebrows into knots. ‘Do you mind?’
Charlie looked back at her. ‘This is precisely why I was recruited by Agent Marjory.’ He folded his arms to make himself look more serious. ‘So no, I don’t mind.’
Eleanor took a deep breath. ‘There’s a photographer,’ she began. ‘He’s … different, a little older. He has quite the reputation. A proper rogue, my father would call him. And he kissed me at a party. And it made me feel … different. Alive somehow. And he wants me to go to his studio and be photographed. What do you think about that?’
‘Goodness,’ said Charlie, his eyebrows rising. ‘I’m not sure I was expecting you to be quite so candid. Would your mother be happy with you going to see this man in his studio?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘And, if you don’t mind me asking, do you want to go to his studio to be photographed or to be kissed?’
Eleanor stared down at her shoes. ‘I’m not sure. Photographed. No, kissed. Probably.’
‘And what does the young man you’re in love with think about it?’
‘I haven’t told him.’
‘Would he be upset if he found out?’
Eleanor thought about Jake. She thought about the moment after the kiss in the kitchen and the moments since. ‘I don’t know. I’d like to think he might be jealous but actually, I’m not sure he’d care at all. Oh dear.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Here,’ said Charlie, pulling a beautifully laundered handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Take that. Look here, I don’t know your chap, but if you were my girl I’d be bothered beyond belief. People treat you the way you let them. And it strikes me that you wouldn’t be considering going to this photographer’s studio if you knew for certain that your chap loved you in return.’
Eleanor wiped at her nose. ‘I’m sorry I’m blubbing. I’m mortified.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Charlie. ‘If you really want my advice, this photographer sounds a bit off. And if your mother would be appalled, then take note. Mothers have a terrible habit of being right.’
Eleanor gave a sniff.
‘If I were you, I’d go and find your chap. Be honest. Tell him how you feel. The worst that can happen is you’ll find out where you stand. And that’s no bad thing.’
‘I don’t know if I want to know.’ Eleanor twisted the corner of the handkerchief in her fingers.
‘Of course you do. If you’re trying to convince me you’re a shrinking violet, I’m afraid I’m not buying it.’
Eleanor let out a laugh and looked up into Charlie’s eyes. They were kind and compassionate and concerned. It was good to have a friend who was older. He seemed more sure of himself than anyone else she knew. She put her hand on his forearm. ‘Thank you, Charlie. Sorry. It’s all been a bit pent up. You won’t report back to Marjory, will you?’
‘No,’ said Charlie, putting his hand on hers. ‘I won’t report back to Marjory.’
Eleanor glanced over at the platforms. Agnes had arrived. She gave a little wave.
‘Hello, who are you?’ Agnes said, looking straight at Charlie, her duffel coat done up to the top.
‘This is my little sister, Agnes,’ said Eleanor, putting the handkerchief into her pocket. ‘Agnes, this is Charlie.’
Agnes’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no, the awful spy from your letters!’
Charlie gave out a laugh. ‘The very same. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to take down all your details … how old are you?’
Agnes look worried. ‘Thirteen.’
‘Height?’
‘I don’t know!’ She screwed her mouth into a grimace.
‘And how much do you weigh?’
‘How rude,’ said Agnes. ‘Everyone knows a gentleman should never ask a lady how much she weighs. You really are a terrible spy.’
Charlie and Eleanor both roared with laughter.
‘It’s fine, Ag,’ said Eleanor, putting her arm around her sister’s shoulder. ‘He’s teasing.’
Charlie glanced up again at the departure board. ‘My train’s on the platform. I should go.’ He turned back to address Agnes. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Agnes. And Eleanor, if you ever need a cup of tea …’ He gave her hand a squeeze and walked off, his tailcoat bobbing behind him.
‘Thank you. And good luck with today!’ called Eleanor as he strode away.
He stopped at the platform’s end and waved back at them, and they both stood watching as he disappeared.
‘He’s very handsome,’ said Agnes, looking up at her sister.
‘Oh, come off it,’ said Eleanor. ‘Now where do you want to go?’
Chapter Twenty-two
Eleanor, her mind still swirling with Jake and John, had decided to take Agnes into Soho. They’d ended up in a café on the corner of Wardour Street and Agnes had sat, bacon sandwich in hand, agog at the troupe of dancing girls who’d traipsed in on their lunch break from the notorious nude revue next door. It was a cultural visit of sorts, Eleanor had argued, just not one their mother ever needed to know about.
It had felt strange, returning to an uncomplicated but deeply ingrained relationship. With Agnes, Eleanor had slotted straight back into her role of Girl from Brill, making polite enquiries about their parents, listening as Agnes rattled off pointless gossip about girls she was at school with.
Anxious that Agnes was going to return home and report all, Eleanor had taken her to the National Gallery next, and made sure to buy her a few postcards she could present to their mother.
‘Can’t I stay with you?’ Agnes pleaded when they were back at Waterloo again. ‘I could turn my knickers inside out and borrow your toothbrush.’
‘No, Ag,’ replied Eleanor, handing her a cheese roll, ‘Mummy would have a fit. Show me your train ticket.’
Agnes scowled, reached into her duffel-coat pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. ‘It’s in there,’ she said, with a pout.
Eleanor opened it and, having checked it, handed it back. ‘Have you had a lovely time?’
‘Not really,’ said Agnes, staring off into the distance.
‘Don’t fib. And don’t pretend you’re livid.’
‘I am livid,’ said Agnes, her eyebrows knitted together. ‘I can’t believe you’re sending me back.’
‘I’m not sending you back. It’s time for you to go home. There’s a solid difference.’ Eleanor looked up at the departure board. ‘You can catch the quarter to. Platform four. Come on. I’ll see you on.’
‘But I haven’t met any of your friends!’
‘Quite right. Don’t want you corrupting them. Now come here, and give me a hug.’
Eleanor felt a soft burn in the soles of her feet. She’d seen Agnes safely back on to the 5.45 train and, despite having walked all day, she decided to take Charlie’s advice. Jake would be in Soho somewhere. She needed to track him down and find out where she stood.
She stopped at the midpoint across Waterloo Bridge and looked west. The sky was flushing pink behind the Houses of Parliament, long shards of thin clouds blazing in the dying sun, but her favourite view was the other way, towards St Paul’s. There was something timeless about it, something that tethered her to the seams of the city. She was starting to feel as if she belonged.
She crossed the Strand and walked up past the Lyceum. The pavements outside the theatre were crowded with men in hats and coats waiting for a glimpse of Miss World contestants who were due to arrive. Their faces were blank and expectant and there was something about them that reminded Eleanor of her first days in the city: all wide-eyed and astonished. A large black saloon car pulled up and a flurry of shouts and cheers went up. Eleanor could just see the head of a woman but she was quickly enveloped by photographers and gawping men.
Eleanor walked on past the Royal Opera House, and turned left when she reached the junction with Endell Street. She walked past market traders, Covent Garden street entertainers on their way to work and theatre-goers standing wondering whether they had time to eat. She passed through Cambridge Circus, stopped to watch a busker, guitar in hands, drum strapped on his back and a harmonica on a frame around his neck. He was playing the latest Bob Dylan. He was good. She threw him a few pennies and crossed Shaftesbury Avenue to head into Soho. She liked that she knew where she was going. She felt as if she had a purpose.
He’d be in the French, a regular drinking spot on Dean Street. Recently, Jake had rather tired of the younger, faster crowd. Eleanor had put it down to the end of term and his incessant need for new faces. Instead, he was gravitating towards a more hardened set of artists, poets, authors and journalists, some of whom were wildly successful, others doomed to creative failure. It was a social scene where anything was endured except boredom.
Eleanor didn’t care much for this new pack of acquaintances. She preferred it when it was just the two of them, together against the world. She was greedy. She wanted Jake all to herself. To her, this new set felt like a group of people terrified of not being relevant, but it was more than that: they seemed desperate not to feel lonely. They were trying too hard: too much booze, too many arguments, too much drama, but Jake was addicted to it. He loved the carelessness and the mischief. Perhaps he always had, she wondered. She cast her mind back to that first encounter: the black eye, the drunkenness, the reckless attitude to norms. It was the dangerousness of him she’d first been drawn to. Now, it was starting to feel like a sadness.
She pushed open the door of the French, the air thick with smoke and chatter, and immediately saw Hen sitting on a high stool by the bar, who, catching her eye, raised a hand. The pub was starting to fill with the usual mix of disparate people: a prop handler with a nose like a swollen strawberry, a faded beauty trying to cash a cheque with the barman, a stage doorman sneaking in for a swift pint before curtain up.
‘What are you drinking?’ asked Hen, reaching into her bag.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ said Eleanor, scanning the room. ‘I’m looking for Jake.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ said Hen, putting her handbag back up on the bar. ‘He owes me five pounds.’ She flicked her hair back and took a sip of the drink in front of her. ‘Top tip if you’re ever feeling queasy,’ she explained, tipping the glass in Eleanor’s direction. ‘Port and lemon. Always seems to help. That or eating grated apple. But it must be grated. And it must turn completely brown before you eat it. Doesn’t affect the flavour, but it works a treat on a poorly tum.’
‘Are you ill?’ Eleanor was still looking through the squash of people.
‘No more than usual,’ said Hen, sounding despondent. ‘Anyway. No apple and no grater. So this will have to do. Bottoms up.’
‘Here,’ said Eleanor, handing her the sunglasses in her pocket. ‘You should have these back.’
Hen eyed them with some enthusiasm. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she said, putting them on. ‘Don’t suppose you have a cigarette, do you?’
Eleanor shook her head. Hen always forgot she didn’t smoke. She put one hand on the brass rail that ran around the edge of the bar, feeling anxious. ‘I need to speak to Jake,’ she replied. Her hand was trembling.
‘Are you all right?’ Hen tilted her head.
Eleanor pulled her hand away and clenched it. ‘Yes. Bit tired, that’s all. I’ve been looking after my little sister all day. Feet are killing me.’
Hen took another sip from her port and lemon. It was hard to read her, with the sunglasses on. ‘Have you tried phoning him? Jake, I mean? At home?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘If I was looking for someone,’ she said, with a pout, ‘I imagine that’s where I’d start.’ She pointed at the public telephone in the corner of the room. ‘Darling,’ she said, reaching across Eleanor to a man who had come in behind her. ‘Can I have a cigarette?’
Eleanor turned and squeezed through the tangle of people between her and the telephone, snatches of conversation coming and going as she did so.
There was a stool by the telephone, and she sat and picked up the receiver. The room was noisy, and as she put the money into the slot, she faced the wall and covered her spare ear with her hand. ‘Jake?’
‘Where are you? You sound like you’re at the bottom of the ocean.’
‘I’m in the French,’ Eleanor shouted to be heard over the din. ‘I thought you’d be here.’
‘Come here. We can go out later. I’ve got something I want to show you.’
‘What?’
‘Not telling. I’ll show you when you get here. Hurry up.’
He hung up and Eleanor sat still for a moment, wondering how it was that she always found herself doing everything he asked. If he was addicted to gratification and indulgence, she was addicted to him.
She took the bus to Hampstead, listening to the quiet, idle chatter of two women who had spent the afternoon watching the latest Hitchcock. ‘I hate birds as it is,’ one was complaining. ‘I’ll have nightmares for months. I don’t know why you suggested it. Why did you suggest it?’
Eleanor tuned out and stared from the window as the bus began the slow crawl up Haverstock Hill. As they passed her building, her mind wandered to Charlie and whether he’d managed to pull off his best-man duties. He seemed very, what was it exactly, capable, reliable? Her mind flitted back, as it always did these days, to Jake. Could she call him reliable? Not in the least.
It was dark by the time she arrived at Jake’s house and, before knocking, she stood for a moment and tried to gather herself. She had to be clear about what she wanted. She wanted more than friendship, more than the light frivolities of their companionship. She wanted to feel the way she had that night in the kitchen, but this time with Jake’s mouth on her neck. She wanted to feel his hands on her body, to be desired, but it went beyond that. She had found someone to whom she was devoted. He understood her. He gave her a sense of purpose. He inspired her. In him, she had found herself and now she wanted to make their connection complete. There was no turning back. She felt sick, excited, woozy. She had to tell him. She had to know.
