The Things We Left Unsaid, page 7
Rachel saw the key and grabbed it. ‘Found it. Just tell me quickly,’ she said, moving back past Eleanor into the hallway. She didn’t want to lose momentum. If she didn’t act on this impulse it might disappear as quickly as it had arrived.
‘I … can’t.’ Eleanor faltered. ‘There isn’t a short version. It’s the thing I’ve been waiting to talk to you about. Something I should have spoken to you about years ago but … there was Charlie and …’
Rachel stopped and looked at her mother. She seemed out of sorts, not her normal cool and aloof self. Something was rattling her. ‘Can it wait till this evening?’ she said, her hand on the front door. ‘I’ve suddenly got an urge to go out. And you were rather keen for me to do that … so …’
‘Well,’ Eleanor began. She seemed a little lost, confused, deflated, as if she’d built herself up for something that was now not going to happen. ‘All right,’ she said, her voice resigned and weary. ‘Go to Oxford. We’ll do it later.’
She looked at her daughter and Rachel noticed it was not a look of irritation or disdain. It was one of profound sadness. Without another word, Eleanor turned back towards the kitchen and slipped away.
Rachel opened the door and left.
Chapter Eleven
Then
Jake was in full swing: garrulous, beaming, iridescent. He had taken Eleanor’s hand and hailed a taxi, ushered her into it and ordered the driver to take them to the Ad Lib club at 7 Leicester Place.
It felt so good to be going out, exciting to be here, with him! Eleanor could barely believe it.
‘Can you afford this?’ Eleanor asked, keeping an eye on the meter.
Jake shrugged it off. ‘Of course I can afford this.’
‘Have you sold a painting?’ She looked innocent, inquisitive.
Jake let out a roar of laughter. ‘No, I have not sold a painting. I just can. Besides, it’s vulgar to discuss income. We’re having fun, aren’t we?’
Eleanor nodded. It was impossible not to feel delicious and wicked. She stared out of the window at the boutiques, the Chelsea women in Mary Quant minis, their eyes like dark pools, their hair in dancing bobs.
‘People don’t look like this in Brill,’ she mumbled, then, turning to explain, ‘that’s the village I’m from.’
‘Don’t tell me anything about yourself,’ Jake said, holding a hand up to stop her. ‘I don’t care where you’ve come from, or who your father is, or if your mother once waved a flag at the Queen. All I want to know is everything, and I mean everything, from here forwards. Deal?’ He offered her his hand.
Eleanor stared into his dancing eyes and took his hand. Her previous life in Brill had been safe and predictable. There was something seductive about starting anew. ‘Deal.’
It was an ugly building, anonymous, the perfect fit for the pop stars, actors and fashion designers who wanted to have fun, unnoticed and unbothered, but all the same, it still came as something of a shock that a club so notorious as the Ad Lib was housed in such a forgettable shell.
‘Ignore the concrete,’ Jake said, waving over at the building as they got out of the cab. ‘Trust me, your life is about to become a little bit more fabulous. How much, cabbie?’
Eleanor stood and stared upwards. Surely this was a joke? It looked like an office building for insurers or people who sold pencils. It was impossible to comprehend that somewhere up there, on the fourth floor, the movers and shakers of the happening scene were merrily doing whatever it was they had to do.
‘Are you sure they’re going to let us in?’ Eleanor asked, as Jake appeared at her side.
‘Of course they are!’ he replied, with faux outrage. ‘We’re artists, aren’t we? EVERYBODY loves artists. We’re so de rigueur. Besides, I know the doorman. He adores me. Come on.’ His enthusiasm was outrageous.
He skipped up the short three steps to a stuccoed door and, winking at Eleanor, rapped three times. A little wooden panel behind a metal grille slid to one side.
‘Billy!’ Jake exclaimed, on seeing a pair of grey rheumy eyes peer out. ‘I’ve got a pal with me. Soon-to-be-famous artist. Do you mind?’ He flashed his charming smile.
There was a loud click and the door opened. ‘Evening, Jake,’ said the doorman, ‘here till the milk comes?’
‘Probably,’ Jake replied, scrunching his nose up. ‘This is Eleanor. She’s devoid of inhibition.’
Eleanor felt a small surge of anxiety. It was hardly the case that she lacked inhibitions. If anything, she felt smothered with them. She looked at the doorman and managed a weak smile. He was wearing a navy suit, white shirt and blue tie. His hair was slicked back. He looked like a gangster. He didn’t respond. Instead he sat back on a tall wooden stool and pointed off towards the lift a few feet up the corridor.
‘Can’t believe there isn’t a queue,’ said Jake. ‘It’s like Moses and the Red Sea. All for you, Eleanor.’ He took both her hands and spun her round as he dragged her towards the lift. ‘Isn’t she beautiful, Billy?’ he called out as he pressed the button inset into the wall.
‘Very pretty,’ said Billy, tapping a cigarette out from a packet on a shelf next to him.
‘You’re like Peter Pan,’ she said, as the lift doors opened and she walked inside. ‘I feel like we’re off to a dodgy never-never land.’
‘We shall have to keep our eye out for pirates and crocodiles,’ he said, pressing the button for the fourth floor. ‘I’ve always fancied myself as a Lost Boy.’
There was a ping and the lift came to a stop. Jake shot her a mischievous look. ‘Ready for your grand entrance?’
Eleanor felt a knot tie itself in her stomach. She wasn’t sure she was.
They walked out into a short, wood-panelled corridor at the end of which was a silver door. It was startling, the stuff of fairytales, thought Eleanor. She could feel her heart beating a little faster but it wasn’t excitement, it was nerves. She wasn’t at all sure that she was remotely interesting. She wasn’t at all sure she fitted in, and she didn’t want to be found out.
‘“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree,”’ said Jake, his hand on the door. ‘Shall we?’
Eleanor nodded and Jake pushed open the door to reveal a dark, pulsing mass beyond. The heat of bodies rushed over her in a wave, the slightly sour smell of excess, and as she walked into the thick beat of an R&B band playing on a raised platform at the back, her eyes darted greedily from left to right. The walls were a gaudy swirl of colours, peppered with glass mosaics. The room had a sensuous gloom, the little light there was dancing off the squares of glass on the walls so that the people huddled in corners appeared dappled like flowers on a forest floor. Everywhere she looked she caught glimpses of people she recognised, the bright young things of the London scene, all capering towards their own skyline. Fame, Eleanor thought, was as fleeting as the light bouncing off the walls. She was captivated.
‘Do you know these people?’ She tried not to sound overwhelmed.
‘Of course,’ said Jake. ‘Think of it as a rather small garden pond. If you’re all frogs with only a few places to go, you’re going to keep bumping into each other. And besides, artists are like rock stars at the moment. It’s so easy. You have no idea.’
A girl with shoulder-length hair sashayed past her, high cheekbones, a lime-green minidress with a bold white stripe across its hem. She was wearing matching white-and-green winkle-picker slingbacks. Eleanor was wearing her cut-off cotton trousers with a loose blue blouse tucked into the waistband. There was paint on one sleeve. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite dressed the part,’ she shouted across the din to Jake, who was pushing his way forward.
‘Don’t worry,’ he shouted back. ‘You look incredibly authentic. You’re an artist, remember? You’re going to make quite the first impression. John!’ He waved over to someone sitting in a far corner. A young man, cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, looked up and raised a pointing finger. It was the only invitation Jake needed.
Grabbing Eleanor’s hand, he pulled her to him and shouted into her ear, ‘John Farson. Photographer. Knows everybody. He’s the second-worst person I know. Let’s go.’
As they approached, Eleanor could see John Farson wasn’t quite the young ingénue he had seemed from a distance. He was sitting in a red velvet booth, leaning back, his eyes lazy and louche. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a shirt, open to the top of his chest. His arms were spread out on the back of the banquette, his legs splayed wide. He was confident, sexy, and had the aura of a large carnivorous animal casually waiting for his next prey. Beside him was a woman, a tarnished beauty, who was laying into him with a ferocity Eleanor wasn’t used to.
‘You’re a bastard!’ she yelled.
‘I know,’ he replied, as if accepting the inevitability of the assertion.
‘Your soul is like a burned-out grate.’
‘Ah,’ he said, glancing up at Jake and leaning forward to shake his hand. ‘The cavalry has arrived. Jake, do you know Hen?’ He gestured towards the woman at his side.
‘Everyone knows Hen,’ said Jake, with a glorious smile.
She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. ‘Do you know what he’s done?’ she asked, casting an accusatory look in John’s direction. ‘He took pictures of me, naked. Research, he said, for God knows what. I don’t give it another thought. And then I come in to be met with loud cheers from that table over there.’ She pointed to a rowdy group of young men who didn’t quite look local.
‘Sailors,’ explained John, draining his glass.
Eleanor turned and looked at them. They were young, giddy, entirely drunk.
‘And the reason they were cheering was because John has sold them prints of my nudes for ten shillings a pop. It’s an absolute disgrace.’
‘It is,’ nodded John. ‘I should have given them to them for nothing.’
Jake gave a loud guffaw and Eleanor, too shocked to say anything, stood staring awkwardly.
‘God, John,’ said Hen, reaching into her handbag for a compact and her lipstick. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t choked on your own venom.’ She reapplied her lipstick. ‘Is someone going to buy me a drink, or what?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Jake with a sly smile. ‘It would appear we are entangled in trivial matters. You sit there, Eleanor. I’ll get the drinks. Buck up, you two. It’s our duty to impress our new friend. This is Eleanor,’ he announced to the table. ‘She’s only just met me and yet she’s here. I think you’ll agree, that’s excessively brave.’
Eleanor sat and stared into the eyes that were now boring into her. She felt the way she had on that first day at college when Jake had stood peering at her. It made her feel uncomfortable.
‘Do you smoke?’ asked John, offering her his packet.
‘No, thank you,’ said Eleanor, shaking her head.
‘Is that paint on your sleeve?’ asked Hen, folding away her compact.
‘Yes. I’m at Chelsea. I’ve arrived straight from college. I didn’t expect to come here. It was rather spur of the moment.’
‘Mmm,’ mumbled Hen, putting her lipstick away. ‘Get used to that.’
‘Is it true? What Jake said?’ asked John, studying her closely. ‘That you’re brave?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Eleanor, not wanting to betray herself. ‘I don’t know if I feel brave.’
‘I rather like brave people,’ said John, taking the last drag of his cigarette, ‘mostly because I’m a terrible coward.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Hen, ‘you are.’
‘Hen has slept with pretty much everyone in this room,’ said John, with casual indifference.
‘I haven’t slept with you,’ replied Hen, with cool disdain, ‘I’ve got some taste.’
John leaned forward and mock-whispered to Eleanor, ‘Pay no attention to Hen. She doesn’t care about the pictures really. She likes sailors. Don’t you, Hen?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Tell her why.’
‘Because they always have to leave in the morning.’ Hen, who, up till that moment, had been frowning, burst into a loud laugh. John laughed along with her.
Eleanor was puzzled. Moments ago they’d been at each other’s throats.
‘Where’s that beautiful boy with the drinks?’ Hen asked, trying to drain dregs that no longer existed from her glass. ‘Are you two lovers?’
‘No,’ protested Eleanor, slightly shocked. ‘We’ve only just met.’
‘Probably for the best,’ said Hen, with a thin smile.
‘Oysters!’ yelled Jake, appearing back at the table. ‘I have ordered champagne and oysters!’ He threw himself on to the banquette next to John and grinned at Eleanor. He was in his element, a bird of paradise, back in the canopy to which he belonged. He was followed by two waiters: one with an ice bucket and a champagne bottle, the other holding a large oval silver platter on his shoulder.
Hen clapped her hands in delight. ‘Oh goody,’ she squealed. ‘Aphrodisiacs. Precisely what’s required.’
‘I always forget you’ve got money,’ said John, tapping out another cigarette. ‘The joys of an enormous trust fund.’
‘Oh, this isn’t for you,’ said Jake, with a twinkle. ‘But you’re very welcome to watch us enjoy it.’ He shot a wink at Eleanor, who felt her cheeks redden at the gesture. She was starting to understand the dynamic. Everyone was ghastly to each other, as if they didn’t care, when in fact it was very clear they all cared enormously.
‘You can only be awful to people you like,’ said Hen, noticing Eleanor’s expression. ‘Remember that.’
The waiter lowered the vast and opulent platter smothered with opened shells, lemon wedges and a little hill of crushed ice. Eleanor had never seen the like. She’d once had a glass of brown shrimp at a cousin’s wedding, but oysters!
‘Tuck in, tuck in!’ said Jake, waving his hand generously.
Hen didn’t need asking twice. She picked up a shell and took a small silver fork from a tiny pot at the platter’s centre. Eleanor watched as she slid the fork under the oyster and squeezed lemon on to the bulbous surface.
‘I love to see them wince,’ Hen said, her eyes narrowing in wicked delight. Lifting the shell to her lips, she threw the oyster into her mouth and tossed her head back. ‘Scrummy,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘Shall I pour the champagne?’
‘Ignore her,’ said Jake. ‘Squeeze of lemon, Tabasco if you like a little heat, don’t chew, down in one.’ He threw back his own, shook his head and let out a delighted gasp of intense satisfaction.
‘I’m not sure I want one.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be brave?’ asked Hen, with a pout.
‘Perhaps you think we’re trying to corrupt you?’ said John, staring at her.
‘You can’t corrupt the incorruptible,’ replied Eleanor, picking up her champagne. ‘I knew someone once, a friend of my mother’s. She ordered two hundred and ten oysters for her daughter’s twenty-first birthday but she didn’t realise you had to keep them completely cold and alive until the moment you ate them.’
‘Oh no,’ said Hen, her face lighting up at the thought of a terrible failure, ‘I can see where this is going.’
‘I think she poisoned every person there.’
John leaned in, his eyes wide and eager. ‘Did anyone die?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘Ah,’ said John, leaning back again. ‘A story without the proper punchline.’ He lit a match and held it to his cigarette.
‘You’re so morbid, John,’ said Jake. ‘What shall we drink to? Eleanor? Our new muse?’
He was a flatterer, unapologetic, romantic, treacherous. He was a cliff edge about to crumble. She could see all this and yet she was unable to do anything but career towards him like a burning rock hurtling towards the earth. She had never been to a place like this, never been around people like them, never felt more alive than she did now. And it was all because of him.
Hen stood up and raised her glass. ‘To our new muse!’ she cried, lifting her glass into the air.
Jake stood too and hoisted his glass aloft. ‘I love meeting someone new, don’t you?’ he said, smiling at John. ‘It’s so … intoxicating.’
John said nothing, picked a strand of tobacco from the end of his tongue and tipped his glass towards Eleanor. ‘Welcome to the madness,’ he said, and downed his drink in one.
Chapter Twelve
Now
Rachel was sitting at a table next to a window in the Queen’s Lane Coffee House, a book of Japanese myths open in front of her. She had always loved fairytales. There was something refreshing about the clean lines between right and wrong, the lack of ambiguity. You knew where you were.
She stirred her cappuccino and licked the spoon until all the chocolate had gone. Outside, tourists were wandering about, heads turned towards distant spires, staring down at maps, taking group selfies with phones at the end of sticks. What a funny breed we are, thought Rachel: trying to create memories, to cement them, to hold on to fleeting moments for ever. She wondered who she was in her own story. Was she the heroine? The baddy? Was she to blame for what had happened with Claude? Who was Eleanor?
‘Wicked Witch,’ Rachel mumbled, her chin resting on her upturned palm.
What did Eleanor want to talk to her about? Rachel wondered. Now she was out of the house her mind felt clearer than it had in weeks. Her mother had seemed out of sorts, quite unlike herself. Perhaps it was about Charlie’s will? Maybe Eleanor was thinking of selling Brill? Rachel had always thought the only way Eleanor would leave that house was in a wooden box. All the same, it was meant for a large family … and maybe … Rachel felt some annoyance then. If Eleanor was moving, Rachel would have to move too. Where would she go? To Siena, to stay with Johnny? Her nose scrunched up at the thought of weeks on end with Francesca. She’d be even worse now she was pregnant.
‘Are you finished?’
Rachel looked up. ‘Sorry?’ she said. Standing above her was the young waitress, well presented, fresh-faced.
‘With the plate? Are you finished?’
