The Things We Left Unsaid, page 22
Charlie followed suit and they both stood side by side, silently digging in. Eleanor, her fork pronging a tomato, picked up a drumstick with her spare hand. ‘Honestly,’ she said, her mouth already full, ‘I can’t eat this quick enough.’
Charlie looked at her and put his fork down. ‘I’ve got something to give you.’ He smiled softly.
Eleanor’s eyes widened. ‘As well as the champagne?’ She swallowed. ‘Charlie! I’m not sure I deserve all this fuss.’
He wiped his mouth with his fingers. ‘Eleanor,’ he began, ‘I’ve loved the last few weeks. You’ve made me happier than I can remember.’
She stopped what she was doing and stared at him. He looked rather serious, suddenly. His hand moved to the pocket of his trousers. Her eyes followed his hand and she felt a surge of anxiety.
‘And so I got you this,’ he said, pulling out a tiny blue box. He held it out.
Eleanor’s anxiety intensified. This wasn’t what she thought it was, was it? She was still holding the half-eaten drumstick. Should she put it down? What was she going to say?
Charlie stood there, his jaw firm and resolute, and she felt a rush of adrenaline, dizziness almost, that she wasn’t sure was excitement or fear.
‘Eleanor,’ Charlie began. He went down on one knee and looked up. ‘Will you do me the honour of being …’
Eleanor felt horrified. She had no idea what she was going to say.
‘My spare key holder?’ He opened the box with a flourish and there, sitting inside it, was a brand-new Yale key.
Eleanor let out a gasp. ‘Oh! Charlie! You absolute terror!’
He burst out laughing and stood up. ‘Your face was a picture! I mean, honestly, I won’t make that bad a husband.’ He handed her the key and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘I didn’t mean …’ Eleanor began, shaking her head, ‘Sorry. I’m not terribly good at surprises.’ She gave him a playful punch and grinned up at him.
Charlie nodded down at the key in Eleanor’s hand. ‘This is, of course, a great responsibility. Think you can handle it?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ll wait till you’re out and invite all the ne’er-do-wells of Soho round …’ she said, but then her face fell enough for Charlie to notice.
‘Have you still heard nothing?’
She shook her head and put down the drumstick.
‘Go to Soho,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘Find your friends. Someone will know something.’
Eleanor rested her head on Charlie’s chest. She had put off returning to Soho, but Charlie was right. It was the only place there might be answers.
‘It’s going to snow again, tomorrow,’ said Charlie, kissing the top of her head. ‘Wrap up warm, won’t you?’
She nodded. Soho was calling. It was time to go back into the wood.
Chapter Thirty-three
‘My God,’ said Hen the next day, clutching Eleanor’s cheeks. ‘Where have you been? I wondered if you’d chased off after Jake. Gone to live in the souk like an exotic princess.’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘No chance. I wouldn’t be able to bear the heat,’ she said, unwrapping the scarf from her neck. ‘I’ve always preferred the cold.’
‘You rather than me. I am absolutely loathing this ghastly weather. Weeks, it’s gone on. I hate snow. Everyone’s supposed to be so cheerful. It’s an affront. Snow is not wonderful. It stops you going where you’re supposed to go. It looks pretty for five minutes and then it’s eternal grey slush and freezing misery and disgusting white lines on your shoes you can never get rid of. No, thank you.’ She tilted her head. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette?’
Eleanor suppressed a small smile. Of course she would never remember. ‘No, sorry. I don’t smoke.’
Hen screwed her mouth sideways, as if this was the most monstrous inconvenience. She scanned the length of the bar. They were sitting in the French, and it was rammed with the usual lunchtime ragtag of boozers, and writers on deadlines, and people trying to make a name for themselves. Eleanor looked towards the door. Hen had told her she was expecting John.
‘Muriel! Darling!’ Hen called out to a woman with an extraordinary aquiline nose who was leaning on the counter, talking to a craggy-faced man in a trench coat. ‘Would you lend me a cigarette?’
The woman raised an eyebrow and held out a cigarette packet. ‘You only lend what you want back,’ she said archly. ‘I don’t want it back. Here, take it.’
Hen widened her eyes into a picture of obsequious gratitude. ‘Thank you, darling. Thank you.’
She reached into her handbag for a box of matches. ‘Of course I have news,’ she said, striking a match and holding it to the end of her cigarette. She took a drag and shook the match out, a thin swirl of phosphorus drifting through the air. ‘I’m seeing a poet. In the carnal sense. It’s awful.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Not because I’m not fearfully mad on him. I am. But he keeps insisting on writing poems about my breasts.’
Eleanor laughed.
‘I’m flattered, of course,’ Hen took another drag, ‘but I find myself hoping he never becomes famous. Imagine having a poem about your breasts being dissected in some stuffy classroom two hundred years from now? Poets don’t know what they’re doing. They’re damning you for all eternity as a slut.’ She paused. ‘I mean, I am a slut. But that’s neither here nor there.’
Eleanor laughed again. She had missed this, the energy of misfits.
‘I’ve got a job too.’ Hen gave a scowl. ‘Can you imagine? A job! I’m working in a bookshop on Old Compton Street. It’s owned by the loveliest old man. Only problem is, he never wants to sell any of his books. It’s ridiculous. Customers come in asking for the latest this or the latest that and he pretends we haven’t got it. Packs them off to Foyles. He’s quite mad.’
‘I think I understand that,’ said Eleanor, tilting her head. ‘I can’t give books away. I’ve never understood people who can hand books on. You spend so much time with one. They’re like friends.’
‘Oh, I can think of plenty of friends I’d happily hand on. John!’ She glanced over Eleanor’s shoulder and waved. ‘Look who’s turned up like a bad penny!’
Eleanor turned towards the door and saw him. He was still wearing that battered leather jacket, zipped up this time, a heavy college scarf and a pair of rather tight trousers that seemed to be far too short in the leg. She could see his socks. They were red.
Hen frowned. ‘What in the name of hell are those trousers, John? You look most peculiar.’
John came between them, and Eleanor felt his hand settle in the centre of her back. He ignored Hen and leaned down to kiss Eleanor on the cheek. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked, looking at her, his dark eyes staring into her. She hadn’t seen him since that night at his studio over a month ago.
‘Here and there,’ said Eleanor, mustering a smile. She looked away from him. She felt unnerved by him. This was no surprise.
John turned back to Hen. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘God, I thought you’d never ask,’ she replied, quickly downing the three-quarters-full glass of white wine in front of her. ‘Same again, please.’
‘You?’ He turned back to Eleanor.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said, pointing to her own unfinished glass.
He nodded and waved towards the barman.
‘Seriously, John,’ said Hen, peering down at the red socks. ‘What has happened here? Are you on a dare? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more like an accountant from Penge.’
‘I jumped over a brick wall and split my trousers,’ he replied, waving again to get the attention of the barman. ‘And I’ve lost my house key. So I borrowed these from Michael.’ He pulled at the trousers.
‘Michael Babbington?’ Hen pulled a face of incredulity. ‘John, he’s smaller than I am. No wonder you look like you’re in shorts.’ She let out a hoot of laughter. ‘Oh, that’s too precious. Really.’ She took another drag of her cigarette. ‘What were you doing that you had to jump over a wall?’
John raised an eyebrow and gave a knowing smirk. ‘Nothing terribly serious.’
Hen grabbed Eleanor’s forearm. ‘Of course he’s being entirely disingenuous. We can imagine what you were up to quite easily, can’t we, Eleanor?’
Eleanor said nothing.
‘A Dirty Dog and a glass of white wine,’ said John, as the barman approached. ‘Actually, make that two glasses of wine.’
‘No, I …’ Eleanor began to protest.
John pressed his fingers into the small of her back. ‘I insist. We haven’t seen you in ages. It calls for a celebration, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Hen, grinning. ‘Like Persephone back from the Underworld, our muse has returned.’
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ John asked Hen.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
She had forgotten how jolly they all were, the lively conversation, the intense interest in everything and everyone. It was refreshing to be back in the thick if it, the wild, heady swirl of Soho society. You could never be bored. You could be despondent, you could be jealous, you could feel wretched, ecstatic, inflamed, but bored? Never.
‘Oh God,’ said Hen, with a dark scowl. ‘It’s bloody snowing again. When is it ever going to end? It’s too much. It’s the end of days, it really is. What next? Penguins in Piccadilly Circus?’
‘I’m rather fond of snow,’ said John. ‘We should make the most of it. Make a snowman in Soho Square. Challenge anyone drinking in the Coach to a snowball fight.’
‘Where would the fun be in that?’ said Hen, her eyes wide. ‘Everyone in the Coach is close to death.’ She leaned forward and put her hand on Eleanor’s arm. ‘Coach and Horses, darling. Always rammed with actors who haven’t worked in years. The moaning is incessant. You can practically taste the bitterness. I’ve always thought acting was the most pointless profession for a grown-up. Unless you’re very beautiful and very stupid, in which case it’s your only hope.’
‘Didn’t you want to be an actress?’ John took a drag on a cigarette he’d managed to bum from a waif-like artist in the corner of the bar.
Hen let out a short, sharp scream. ‘Take that back! That’s a monstrous libel! No, I certainly did not want to be an actress.’
‘Hen,’ said John, laughing, ‘you’re in that film with John Mills. You had lines.’
‘That doesn’t count. The director cornered me in the Gargoyle and he’d bought me a bottle of champagne. Don’t mistake manners for ambition.’
John rolled his eyes.
‘Eleanor, you’re as quiet as a mouse!’ said Hen, as the drinks arrived. ‘You’re as enigmatic as ever. You’ve been sitting here for an hour and you’ve managed to tell me nothing. I need to know everything, in gory detail, immediately.’
‘I’m not sure there’s much to tell …’ Eleanor shifted on her feet. She was yet to bring up the matter of Jake. Hen’s conversation was always like a wild horse chasing skittishly across a field. It was hard to keep up and she hadn’t yet had an opportunity to pick the right moment.
‘There’s always plenty to tell,’ insisted Hen, leaning in. ‘Who are you sleeping with? You must be sleeping with someone.’
‘I’ve got a boyfriend …’ Eleanor stared down at the counter. She didn’t want to catch John’s eye.
Hen let out a louder scream. ‘Since when? Who is it? I demand to know!’
‘He’s called Charlie. We’ve been going out for a couple of weeks now. He’s writing a book.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Hen, sitting back on her stool and sucking on her cigarette. ‘Aren’t they all?’
‘No, he really is. He works for The Times too. He’s rather … respectable.’
‘Oh God,’ said Hen. ‘I’m so sorry.’
John stared down at her and Eleanor looked away. She was immediately aware of that old, visceral sexuality that so unnerved her. It was something she didn’t have with Charlie. That relationship was different. It was based on trust and respect and laughter. Sex hadn’t come into it yet. Eleanor wasn’t sure she even minded, but here, with John standing next to her, she was reminded of what she was capable of.
‘How’s the sex?’ Hen asked, taking a sip from her wine.
Eleanor felt a little hot. It was as if Hen had read her mind.
Hen leaned forward. ‘Wait. You are having sex, aren’t you?’ She looked incredulous.
‘No, not yet.’
‘What a waste,’ said John, his eyes boring into her.
‘I hope this isn’t a repeat of Jake,’ said Hen, raising an eyebrow.
‘No …’ Eleanor shook her head.
‘Then what’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing.’ Eleanor stood firm. ‘We’re just … waiting.’
‘What on earth for? If you want to buy a car, bloody drive it.’ Hen gave a small guffaw. ‘My poet and I are forever at it. In fact I think I’ve broken his gearbox.’
She shot John a wink then turned to the barman, who was within shouting distance. ‘Another round, please! We’re dying of thirst!’
‘Have you heard from Jake?’ John said, staring down at her. He had a way of unnerving her, of making her aware of herself.
Eleanor shook her head. ‘No. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you, Hen,’ she added, looking towards her. ‘I’ve heard nothing. Have you?’
‘Not a peep. Not a telegram. Not a letter. Not a phone call. I actually feel quite abandoned. I like to think he’s on a grand adventure in some dusty mountain, panama hat, white linen trousers, finding treasure and sources of rivers and tombs and things. God, John, I don’t know if I can look at you in those ridiculous trousers for a second longer. Eleanor, you’re a better person than I am. I’m begging you. Take him up to Regent Street and help him find some trousers.’
The streets were unusually empty. There were very few cars, even fewer buses, and the only people braving the weather seemed to be heading back to their offices after a lunchtime in the pub: heads down, collars up, hands in pockets, backs bent into the wind. The snow was coming down in thick flakes, the ones you can catch in your hand and marvel at. As John and Eleanor walked together down Shaftesbury Avenue it was hard not to feel romantic. Eleanor didn’t want to feel romantic – but then, she noted with some alarm, romantic was not what she was feeling at all. She was feeling something very different. She was feeling dangerous.
She had no emotional attachment to John, not like with Charlie. Yet here she was, overwhelmed with the inevitable. John was the temptation she was unable to resist, the quick and easy gratification for a need that burned within her. She knew full well where this was all heading and it was hard not to feel a little thrill.
‘I should leave you to it,’ she said, coming to a stop in front of Eros. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to be lumbered with me while you shop.’ She stood and tried to focus her thoughts on Charlie. She needed to come to her senses. She should try to be a better person for him.
John stared up at the black statue in front of them. It was covered in a thick layer of snow but was still identifiable. ‘Everyone makes the mistake of thinking Eros was the God of Love.’ He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘But he wasn’t. There were lots of gods, all different kinds of love. Anteros – he was mutual love. Pothos, longing. Himeros, desire. Aphrodite, sexual love and beauty. But Eros was all about passion. Blind passion.’ He looked at her. ‘I don’t want you to leave. I want to be lumbered with you for the rest of the day.’
Eleanor could feel her heartbeat quickening.
‘Shall we sack off the trousers?’ he asked. ‘Bit cold, isn’t it?’
‘I’d rather be in the warm, yes.’ She sounded nervous. She couldn’t help it.
‘Do you want to come to my flat?’ His fingers brushed some snow away from her fringe.
‘You haven’t got your key.’ She tried to collect herself, to resist.
‘I can climb up the drainpipe.’ He stood looking at her. She watched his eyes move slowly over her face. She looked at his lips. ‘I think we’ll be a lot warmer there.’
She knew what he meant. She knew what he wanted. She wanted it too.
‘Shall we?’ He moved his body towards hers and slipped his hand under her jacket and into the small of her back. His thumb pressed against her skin. She wanted him to kiss her.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Thirty-four
Eleanor lay on her side and stared at the soft, white layer of snow piling up on the window ledge outside. She’d never seen snow like it, not in central London. It must be, what? Eight, ten inches?
Behind her, John was getting dressed. This had felt rather wonderful earlier. Now all Eleanor could feel was … what, exactly? She wasn’t sure yet if it was regret. Would she be happy if Charlie knew? Absolutely not. Was this a terrible betrayal? Of course it was, but this was 1964, she tried to reason. Free love was all the rage. This was the life that Jake had showed her in Soho. But she didn’t belong here really. She was a migratory bird, flying in when the wind turned cold. Soon, she would have to return home.
She turned on to her back and watched him. ‘Do you think we’ll do this again?’
He glanced over at her. ‘I don’t know. Would you like to?’
‘I probably shouldn’t.’
He started to do up the buttons of his shirt. ‘I like having sex with you,’ he said.
‘How many other women do you sleep with?’
He paused and looked down at his buttons. Fastening the last, he lifted his head, his arms falling to his side. ‘Enough.’
Eleanor blinked. ‘Do you ever wish you had one person? Someone special?’
He thought about that. ‘No.’
He moved towards a chair with a jumper draped over its back. Taking hold of the sleeve, he flipped it towards himself and pulled it on.
‘Does that upset you,’ he asked, turning down the neck of the jumper so the tops of his shirt poked through.
‘Not at all. I imagine if I thought I was your girlfriend it would be terrible.’
