Below Deck, page 13
Outside, the evening air nips at our heels. ‘Fuck me, it’s freezing!’ Cloudy exclaims.
‘Welcome to England,’ I say.
‘I was at the beach in Sydney this time last week,’ she says. ‘Forty-two degrees!’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Summer hasn’t even started and we’ve already had three days above forty. It’s mad,’ she says.
Natasha says, ‘It’s terrifying.’
I think of Maggie and Mac, boiling like fish in their apartment. I make a mental note to call them.
When we get to the bar, Natasha orders us each an espresso martini.
‘So,’ she says, taking a seat between Cloudy and me, ‘how was it seeing Hugo yesterday?’
‘I told you—I’m not talking about him with you.’
‘Who’s Hugo?’ asks Cloudy.
‘Her brother,’ I say, pointing to Natasha.
‘They’re dating,’ Natasha explains.
I roll my eyes.
‘Where’d he take you?’ Natasha says, leaning in.
‘We went on the London Eye and—’
‘Ha! Are you serious?’ Natasha asks, laughing. ‘Hugo is terrified of heights!’
‘Yeah. As I soon found out …’
She stops laughing, says quietly, ‘He must really like you.’
This bar is Natasha’s favourite. Red leather and dark wood. Dimly lit, with art adorning every wall and candles wedged in glass bottles at the centre of every table. Cloudy takes our candle and tilts it, dripping wax onto a coaster. With her fingers, she sculpts it into the shape of a hip, a smooth curve. The wax is opalescent in the flickering light.
We finish our drinks and Natasha heads for the bar, returning minutes later with three elderflower cocktails. I take out the skewered lychee, eat it whole. Juice fills my mouth in a burst.
‘So do you have any plans for after the show?’ Natasha asks Cloudy.
‘I’m going to visit an old lover in Berlin,’ the artist replies. ‘She was my first love, actually.’
‘How are you feeling about seeing her?’ I ask.
‘Nervous,’ she says, ‘but also excited.’
Natasha asks, ‘Could you rekindle the romance?’
Cloudy shakes her head. ‘We grew in different directions. But I still feel connected to her.’
I think of Maggie, how she spoke about rivers converging, people flowing together, swirling in great lakes, parting. Meeting again at the river mouth.
‘And anyway,’ says Cloudy, ‘I’m with someone else now. She’s electric.’
‘Is she an artist too?’ I ask.
Cloudy shakes her head. ‘Ella’s a poet. She says the things I can’t say with paint. And I say the things she can’t say with words.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ says Natasha.
‘It is,’ says Cloudy. ‘And the sex is out of this world. When we met, we didn’t leave my studio for a week.’
Natasha raises her eyebrows. ‘That’s impressive.’
‘I could live in sex,’ Cloudy says, laughing. Natasha joins in.
And in the sound that comes out of me, I try to imagine the walls of Cloudy’s sex, because where mine are barbed, hers must be something else.
white sand
For the opening, I wear black trousers, a black turtleneck and a white blazer I found for a pound at the Portobello Road Market. It has shoulder pads that make me look broader than I am. Stronger than I am.
Natasha has given me a cab charge, so that I don’t have to catch the tube. It feels decadent and unnecessary. It is decadent and unnecessary. But you have to look the part, she’d told me.
Though when I arrive, no one is here yet. Look the part for whom?
I step out of the taxi, unlock the gallery, turn on the lights. And a feeling of pride floods my chest. The work looks phenomenal. Cloudy’s stormy landscapes. Vivienne’s portraits of women who, until now, have largely been written out of history. Holly’s sculptures of shapely sandstone bodies, gold strung around their necks. And at the back of the gallery, Mikaela’s light installation is a kaleidoscope of colour, refracting around meshed wire. The shape of a woman stretching.
Natasha arrives wearing her usual all-black uniform. ‘Where’s catering?’ she asks.
‘They just arrived out back. I told them to start bringing everything in.’
‘Good,’ she says. Looking around the gallery, she rests her hand on my shoulder. ‘I can’t wait for everyone to see this.’
I think of Maggie, of the nights when no one came. How brave she’d been. How daring. And I feel myself swelling. Thinking that, even if no one comes, I made this. I saw this.
When Hugo arrives, the gallery is packed. He weaves his way through the crowd, finds my hand. Kisses me on the cheek.
‘This is incredible,’ he says. ‘Congratulations.’
He’s wearing my dangly earring.
Natasha finds me at the bar chatting to a client. She waits for us to finish speaking, then says, ‘Oli, this is Alison Waite. She’s the CEO of Southern Star Expeditions.’
‘Hi,’ I say, offering her my hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Have you heard of us?’ she asks.
‘I haven’t,’ I admit, before someone bumps into me, almost spilling my drink.
‘Nice save,’ she says, then points to the far side of the gallery, where the crowd isn’t so dense. ‘How about we talk over there?’
We walk over and find a quiet corner in which to stand.
‘I haven’t heard of Southern Star,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘Not a problem,’ she says, smiling. ‘We organise expeditions to Antarctica. At the moment I’m working on putting together a group of women artists, musicians and writers to go down there and make work about the changing landscape.’
I think of the Southern Ocean. Vast and undulating.
‘Oh … amazing,’ I mutter, though it’s barely audible.
‘What was that?’ she asks. ‘It’s hard to hear in here.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I said, that sounds amazing.’
‘I’ve been following the women in this show. I’m very impressed.’
The Southern Ocean. Unforgiving.
I finish my wine in one gulp.
At the other end of the gallery, Natasha taps her glass with a cheese knife to silence the crowd.
‘Let’s talk again later,’ Alison suggests.
‘Sure,’ I say, and make my way through the crowd to join Natasha and our artists.
Natasha thanks everyone for coming, then turns to me. ‘And now Oli, who has curated this magnificent show, will say a few words.’
‘To reiterate what Natasha said, I’d like to thank you all so much for being here tonight,’ I say, my voice quivering with nerves.
Natasha puts her hand on my back and I feel her energy flowing through me. Down into me. I take a deep breath.
‘This exhibition was inspired by a woman whom many of you know, either personally or by reputation. I’m speaking, of course, about Maggie Walker. She held one of London’s first-ever all-woman shows more than fifty years ago … and no one came. But what was important, she told me, was that she saw those women. And those women saw each other. Because even as women, we don’t always see each other. This exhibition is about spotlight. It’s about shining light on work that is diverse and deserving of space. And I’m so thankful to you all for seeing this work, and for investing in these women. Because they’re not women artists.’ I raise my glass. ‘They are artists. Asserting themselves. Unapologetically.’
I look across at Cloudy, Vivienne, Holly and Mikaela. Standing hand in hand, as the crowd raises their glasses. Seeing them. In all their glory.
When the formalities are over, Hugo finds me. He tells me my speech was great, that I’m great. He tells me I inspire him.
I want to believe it.
The night is bitterly cold. The kind of cold that burns where your skin is exposed. I breathe into my hands, rubbing them together.
Hugo is standing a few metres away with his arm outstretched, trying to hail a cab.
After three cabs drive by without stopping, I spot one coming and step out onto the road, holding my hand up, forcing it to stop.
Hugo grabs my arms and pulls me back onto the footpath as the cab pulls up to the kerb.
‘What the hell was that?’ he says. ‘You could’ve been run over.’
I ignore him and get into the cab. He follows me in.
‘Oli?’
‘I knew it was going to stop.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ he says, reaching for my hand, holding it tight. ‘Didn’t that scare you?’
I shrug. ‘Not really.’
‘It scared me,’ he says.
I look away from him, out the window. And perhaps it’s the drink in my belly, or maybe it’s the way he’s holding my hand—something that makes me blurt out, without thinking, ‘I have a feeling I’ll die in my twenties.’
‘What?’ he says.
‘I just have a feeling I’ll die in my twenties.’
‘Well, you might, if you keep doing things like that.’
And I want to ask him, Why don’t I care, Hugo? Why aren’t I scared? But nothing comes out.
There are movies that show you how it happens. The hand-holding in the cab. The giggling walking up the path. The stumbling up the stairs. The way he’ll kiss your neck at the front door when you’re trying to find your keys. The way your clothes will slide off. How effortless it all is. How effortless it’s all meant to be.
But there’s nothing to tell you how to move your body in the in-between. When you open the front door and wish you’d put the washing away. Because the in-between is the gaps that the films don’t show. Where the clothes don’t come off effortlessly. When trousers get caught around ankles and the turtleneck almost rips out your earrings. Where you have to actually get into those positions. Climbing onto the bed. Sucking in your tummy. Bending your leg in a way you’re not sure it actually bends. Knocking heads.
Because it’s in those gaps on the cutting-room floor that people fumble and are awkward and smell and say things they don’t mean. In the heat of the moment. Things like, I might be falling in love with you.
‘Me too,’ I say. And I want to mean it.
Because now he’s climbing off me. Wrapping his body around mine like a silk cocoon. I do. I want to mean it. But as our breathing slows, and the sweat on our bodies begins to cool, there’s a distant ache in my side.
I shiver.
‘You cold?’ he asks, pulling the blanket over us, hugging my body closer.
I shake my head. Because I’m not cold. I’m not anything.
I close my eyes. Squeeze them shut. Feeling his fingers trailing across my back like I am white sand, and he is carving out space for rivers.
I wake when dawn whitens the sky. Hugo is sleeping with his mouth open. Morning breath is hot on my neck. I peel his arm off me, and get out of bed. He’s dead asleep. I stand over him, gazing at his body. The curve of his back. A shoulderblade jutting out. His long legs. The tiny patch of hair at the base of his spine. His hand resting between folds of cotton. His bony fingers.
I feel my hands trembling.
He looks huge in my bed. And all I want to do is lie back down. But I want to lie down without him there.
I poke him, whispering, ‘Hugo … Hugo.’
He wakes in a sudden gasp of air.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I want to go running.’
He looks at me sleepily. And I think maybe he wants to say, ‘I didn’t know you ran.’ Or, ‘Can’t I stay here until you get back?’ But to my relief, he doesn’t say any of those things. He just says, ‘Okay. Yeah. That’s fine,’ and smiles. ‘Maybe I’ll get in to work early for once.’
I pick up his clothes from the floor and pass them to him. He gets dressed and I think maybe I should put running gear on, but I don’t have any, so I just wrap a towel around myself.
We walk together into my living room. And as I’m about to open the front door for him, he says, ‘You know, I was thinking about what you said last night …’
‘What did I say last night?’ Though I’m sure I already know what he’s referring to.
‘About how you think you’ll die in your twenties.’
I wrap my arms around myself.
‘You dying in your twenties is not romantic,’ he says. His eyes are dense black, half in shadow. He shakes his head. ‘It would be a waste.’
He crosses the living room, holds my waist with both hands, and kisses my forehead. His lips pressed to my brow, for a long time. I close my eyes. Holding my breath. We choose to breathe, don’t we?
Hugo leaves, I close the door, walk into my room and strip the bed. Then I go into the bathroom and get into the shower and throw up.
I scrub my body until it’s red and raw, staying in the shower until the water turns cold. The word waste swirling on the tiles like an oil slick.
Hugo arrives at the gallery after lunch with a bouquet of flowers. White lilies. Ghosts among the foliage. Like half-opened eyes.
‘Here,’ he says, handing me the flowers. ‘These are for you.’
I take the bouquet. ‘They’re beautiful.’
He smiles. ‘How was your run?’
‘My what?’
‘Your run this morning?’
Feeling my cheeks redden, I say, ‘Oh right … yeah. It was good. Though I didn’t run very far.’ Speaking quietly so that Natasha won’t hear me lying to her brother.
violet sand
Hugo and I arrive back at the gallery after a long lunch in Covent Garden. I’m worried Natasha will care how long we’ve been gone, but when I walk through the door, she’s standing by my desk, waving me over.
‘Oli,’ she says, ‘sit down. Sit down.’
‘What?’ I say. Sit down? I feel panic wash over me. Has something happened to Mac? To Maggie?
‘I have huge news!’ she says.
‘Good news?’ Hugo asks.
‘Yes,’ Natasha snaps.
I take a seat at my desk. ‘Okay. Fire away.’
‘Do you remember Alison Waite?’
‘Who?’
‘She was at the opening. I introduced the two of you.’
‘You introduced me to a lot of people.’
‘She’s the CEO of Southern Star Expeditions.’
I feel my body stiffen. ‘The Antarctica lady?’
‘Yes, that one.’
‘What does she want?’
‘Well,’ says Natasha, ‘do you remember she told you about an expedition she was organising for women artists, writers, musicians … ?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘She wants you to curate the show when they all get back from Antarctica.’
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘Yeah! And that’s not even the best part!’
I laugh. ‘What is then?’
‘She wants you to go with them on the expedition.’
‘What?’
‘She wants you to go to Antarctica!’
‘How?’
‘On a boat! From South America!’ she exclaims.
Hugo interjects, ‘No way! How cool is that?’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Tell her no.’
‘What?’ says Natasha, dumbfounded.
I look down at the polished concrete and imagine it turning to water. I imagine the gallery flooding. Water stretching until it’s here. There. Everywhere. All around, for miles and miles.
I feel the earth rocking. It’s all back and forth. Back and forth.
‘Sorry. But my answer is no,’ I say, and excuse myself for the bathroom.
Later, as I’m stepping out of the shower, my phone starts to ring. I rush to answer it, seeing that the number is Australian, but my fingers are wet, and the touch screen won’t read wet hands. The phone rings out. I dry my hands and return the call.
Maggie picks up on the second ring. ‘Hello, my love,’ she says. Her voice is croaky, though I feel a smile widening on hearing it. My entire being seems to fill out.
‘Hey, Maggie.’
‘How was your show?’ she asks.
‘Good. Really good,’ I say, beaming. ‘I have the exhibition brochure to post to you.’
‘Yes! Please do!’
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ she says, ‘I’m calling for a more important reason.’
‘Oh yeah—like what?’ I ask.
Maggie starts coughing. The deep kind of cough that makes you wince with sympathy. I hear Mac talking in the background. Something about water, and calling back later. ‘No, no,’ I hear her say between coughs. Her voice elsewhere in the room. ‘I’m fine.’
I wait until she returns to the phone.
‘Natasha tells me you’ve been offered a gig in Antarctica.’
I feel the air rush out of me. ‘Well. Potentially.’
‘You know,’ she croaks, ‘I have this idea, that all the souls in the world return to the Antarctic … It’s the oldest river mouth … I like to think that Robynne is there … That she went home.’
I say nothing.
‘Oh, Oli,’ she says at last, ‘you have to go!’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Maggie … I just can’t.’
gold sand
For a while, time passes effortlessly.
Just like that. The sky widens. The days become longer. And I don’t mind. Because this love grows around me like green after fire, so that my body is no longer exposed. With Hugo, the openness of light is bearable. Magnolias bloom. Petals pepper the ground. Soft under feet, as we walk barefoot through Regent’s Park.
At sunset, we lie together beneath a cherry blossom, a canopy of pink.
‘It’s almost blue time,’ whispers Hugo.
I roll onto my side, facing him now. His breath light on my cheek.
‘Blue time?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘It’s when the sun sets and everything takes on a blue tinge …’ Hugo touches my lips, my jaw. He brushes my hair back off my face, cradling my head in the palm of his hand. I close my eyes as he draws me closer. And then he’s kissing me. Gently. As the sun dips beneath the trees, and we sink into blue.
