Below Deck, page 15
Hugo pours the wine as a waiter hands us menus, and I ask Will and Ramos about their art. Ramos explains how his photographic practice has changed since graduating, now that he no longer has access to a darkroom and his negatives are developed by someone else.
‘It’s created a distance, I think, in my work … I have less control.’
‘Still,’ says Will, ‘your work is unbelievable.’ He turns to me. ‘Here, look at this,’ he says, pulling out his phone. The lock screen is a photo of two naked bodies, contorted. So abstract you can’t tell where the limbs extend from. There are no beginnings. And no ends.
‘Wow,’ I whisper.
Natasha lowers her menu. ‘Show me,’ she says. And Ramos’s muscles clench, his body stiffening. Natasha ponders the work a moment in silence. I guess from Ramos’s face that this silence is painful and intimidating, but I know it’s a good sign. If Natasha wasn’t interested, she’d have already looked away.
At last, she says, ‘Yes …’ and Ramos’s face lights up. ‘Very impressive.’ Then she looks at Will. ‘And what about your work?’ ‘I’m a performance artist,’ he says. ‘Mostly I combine body paint and movement. I love the idea that my canvas is breathing.’ ‘It’s really something,’ says Ramos. ‘We’d been at art school together for a year, but hadn’t met. We were studying in different departments—’
Will interrupts him. ‘But then Ramos saw me perform,’ he says theatrically, flicking his fringe away from his face, ‘and the rest is history.’
Ramos laughs. Shrugs. ‘It’s true.’
I smile. ‘Have you ever collaborated on a show?’
‘That’s the dream, isn’t it?’
Will nods. ‘We’ve always wanted to, but straight out of art school, we’ve found it hard to get a space.’
‘Perhaps I’ll have to get you back over here soon,’ I say. ‘I’d like to see the interplay of the still body in the photos and the live body in performance.’
Both of them are beaming and without words.
Finally, Will says, ‘We read about your first all-woman show.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ I say. ‘I was really happy with it. Their work looked phenomenal.’
‘We’ve been following Vivienne’s work for a few years now.’
‘She’s brilliant, isn’t she?’
‘And so open about her transition,’ says Will. ‘We know a lot of young people who really look up to her.’
‘It was actually her first time exhibiting since her affirmation surgery,’ I say. ‘I felt honoured to show her.’
‘Amazing,’ says Ramos.
‘Did your parents go to the opening?’ Will asks me.
I shake my head. ‘I invited them.’
‘Fuck,’ says Will.
‘My dad hardly spoke to me for years after I ditched that internship.’
‘But you’re doing so well now …’
‘He’s never taken art seriously.’
Hugo holds my hand under the table, gently squeezing it.
‘I found out later that he was actually in London the week of the show.’
‘Brutal,’ says Will.
‘Oh well. Mum is coming to visit me in February. That will be interesting.’
Will laughs. ‘Parents …’
‘We thought mine were cool with us,’ says Ramos, ‘but just before we left we heard them tell my family back in the Philippines that I’m going on a holiday with my best friend.’
Will puts his arm around Ramos’s shoulder and says, ‘I am your best friend.’
Ramos smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. Blue at the edges.
‘I love you,’ says Will, and kisses him on the cheek.
‘How was Annie?’ I ask. ‘When you told her, I mean.’
‘Not great, to be honest.’
‘Really?’ I say, shocked. ‘She’s always struck me as very progressive.’
‘She is,’ he says. ‘And she has so many gay friends.’
‘What was the problem then?’
‘She said that she was worried people would discriminate against me if I chose to live this life.’ He’s looking at the table now, playing with his napkin. ‘What she didn’t realise was that she was the only one giving me grief about it.’
‘And she thinks it’s a choice,’ I say.
‘Exactly. That probably hurt the most.’
A waiter approaches the table. ‘Are you ready to order?’
‘Get whatever you want,’ I say to Will and Ramos. ‘This one’s on me.’
They glance at each other, unsure. ‘Really?’ Will asks.
‘Of course,’ I say.
We each order our dishes. The waiter leaves, Natasha tops up our glasses, and then Hugo says, ‘Mothers …’ and Natasha very nearly spits out her wine. ‘What?’ says Natasha.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t generalise …’
‘No,’ she snaps. ‘You shouldn’t.’
‘Fine,’ Hugo says, and I don’t know if he’s just trying to contribute to a conversation that he feels outside of, but when he adds, ‘Our mother certainly said some crazy things,’ my body recoils. Like a tiny creature into its shell. And I feel myself. Behind a wooden door. In the dark. Wet. Rocking back and forth. Noise filtering through. She’s fucking crazy.
‘You think our mum is crazy?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You implied it.’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘Am I?’
Ramos and Will have put their glasses down. Will looks at me, his mouth ajar. He’s waiting for me to say something. But I can’t. I can’t say anything at all.
‘I feel like you’re attacking me,’ says Hugo.
‘Attacking you?’ Natasha says, her words razor-sharp. ‘You just said something problematic.’
I swallow and feel it, my saliva thick in my throat.
‘I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.’
‘Hmm,’ says Natasha, ‘maybe because you’ve just suggested that the woman who raised you, single-handedly, occasionally got a little “crazy”.’
Hugo shrugs. ‘Now you’re acting crazy.’
Natasha flinches. ‘Yeah? Am I? Or am I just pissed off that that’s the bullshit kind of thing our dad used to say to undermine her for years before he fucked off.’
‘And,’ I say quietly, noise filtering through, ‘women have been locked up for being crazy.’
‘Exactly! Thank you, Oli.’ Natasha flicks her hair back off her face. ‘Do you get that, Hugo?’
He mumbles something, barely audible.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘It’s a loaded word, okay?’
‘I guess. I’ve never thought about it like that before.’
Will musters a smile and says kindly, ‘We’re all on our own journey.’
‘Will’s right,’ Natasha concedes. She rubs Hugo’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay—we’re all learning.’
I take a deep breath, turn to Will and, as if the last few minutes haven’t happened, ask, ‘Does she get it now? Your mum, I mean.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘it took a while. But once I realised it was coming from a place of love, we became closer than ever. Like, she really understands now that this is just who I am—and she adores Ramos.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, as our food is set down in front of us.
As we eat Natasha asks Will and Ramos where they’re headed next and they discuss their travel plans. Hugo’s leg brushes mine under the table.
I edge away, and he says nothing. He just sits in silence, hunched over his meal, until we’ve finished lunch and are out on the street saying goodbye to Will and Ramos. Quietly, he wishes them safe travels, kisses Natasha on the cheek, and then turns to me. I sidestep him and start walking.
‘Oli,’ he says. ‘Oli, wait up.’
I power ahead to the station.
Hugo catches me at the top of the stairs. ‘Oli.’ He grabs my hand. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I said something stupid. I didn’t know what it meant. Not really. But now I do.’ He gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I’m learning. I really am.’
I look up.
His eyes are searching for me. Deep brown with green frills. And as his gaze settles on mine, it’s painful. Because he sees me. He really sees me. In sharp focus. And I’m terrified. Thinking, What does he see? What can he know?
By the time we get back to my apartment, my fingers are numb. Hugo tells me that my lips are purple and says he’ll run me a bath. I make myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, wrapping my hands around the mug to warm them. Slowly, sensation is restored in tingles shaped like tiny stars.
Hugo returns from the bathroom and says, ‘It’s ready.’
I follow him into a room of quiet shadows. Candlelight dances across the tiles. I breathe in. Sandalwood is orange on my tongue. There are dried rose petals on the water, uncurling as they soak through. Pink blooming into blood red. I begin undressing. Hugo, leaning against the doorframe, watches in silence as I peel away each layer.
I slide my underwear down and step out of it. He turns away.
‘Aren’t you getting in?’ I ask.
He looks up, half smiling. ‘I didn’t know if you wanted me to …’
‘Please,’ I say, and he steps onto the tiles, raising his arms. I take his jumper from his hips and pull it up to his neck. ‘You’re too tall!’ I say, laughing now. ‘You do it!’
He smiles sheepishly and pulls it over his head. Then he wriggles out of his jeans and takes off his socks so that we’re both here, in half-shadows. Breathing softly. He steps closer, so that our naked torsos are pressing together, holds my face gently between his palms and whispers, ‘I love you so much.’
Like a mountain river rushing white over granite, those words smooth the hard edges. Slowly, over time and with enough repetition, they’ll wear me away to nothing.
Hugo gets into the bath. I climb in and sit between his legs, my spine against his torso. He wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. I begin to thaw. Warmth returning to my bones.
‘You okay?’ he whispers in my ear.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘You’re breathing funny.’
‘Am I?’ I say, feigning surprise. ‘I guess it’s just hot in here.’
Hugo releases his hold on me. I feel the wetness where his skin had touched mine cooling instantly. I shiver. ‘No,’ I mumble. ‘Hold me.’
He does, but it’s not enough.
‘Tighter,’ I say.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
I nod. Saying nothing. Because I’m looking at the rose petals, delicate on the surface, but my mind is already beneath. Below the waterline. In the dark wet. Thinking about my skin. And his skin. And how, right now, it’s flaking off. A constellation of dirt and dead flesh. These bits of skin, scattered like fish scales in a pool of blood.
‘Tighter,’ I whisper.
grey sand
We drive to Brighton in a car Hugo has rented for the weekend. Why he chose the beach in January, I don’t know, but as we leave the city, and the spaces between buildings grow into fields, I’m just thankful to be driving with him into openness.
Hugo holds my hand, even though the car is a manual. He has to let go each time he changes gears before returning, always, to my lap, where he curls his hand around mine.
We stop at a petrol station to fill up with fuel and stock up on road trip food. Back on the highway, I feed him chocolates, and laugh at the childlike way he gobbles them up from my hand.
We drive in silence. And it’s not awkward. I’m not searching for words. Because for now, this is perfect.
Hugo booked the apartment we’ve rented for the weekend, so I’m surprised to discover it’s on the beachfront, with huge glass windows facing the sea.
‘Wow!’ Hugo exclaims, putting the keys down on the table. ‘What a view!’
‘Yeah,’ I say, dropping my bags at my feet. Averting my gaze from the water. ‘Should we go down to the promenade? Maybe pick up some food to make dinner with?’
‘Sure,’ he says, unzipping his bag, ‘but first, I have something for you.’
‘What is it?’
He pulls a wrapped gift from his bag. Brown paper with a thin blue ribbon.
‘I thought we agreed no presents!’
‘You said no presents,’ he says with a smile, offering me the gift.
‘But I haven’t got you anything.’
‘Meh, my birthday was last month,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively.
‘I’m not thirty yet,’ I say, reluctantly taking the present, untying the ribbon and peeling off the wrapping paper to reveal a book. Collected Poems by Marianne Moore.
‘Have you read her before?’ he asks.
I shake my head, feeling myself well up.
‘Are you okay?’ he says.
I nod. ‘More than okay.’
He puts his arms around me and the book. I feel its spine digging into my torso. Only the slight pain of it feels distant, as if in another time.
‘I’m happier than I remember being,’ he says. His words are skin and bone.
And I am air.
We walk along the promenade, all the way to the pier. Bulbs spelling brighton pier lit up gold against a brooding sky. Hugo is holding my hand. He steers me towards the pier. Waves are lapping at its posts. Beyond, swells are rolling like bodies turning over beneath a blanket. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘There’re rides down here.’
We begin to walk from solid concrete onto the pier. Slats of wood. Through the gaps, I see the ocean. Washing back and forth. Sways of white foam. My breath quickens. I taste the salt. Feel it in me. Until suddenly, I can’t breathe. My muscles clench like ice snapped frozen. I pull back on Hugo’s hand.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ I mumble.
‘Do you feel sick?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m just cold,’ I lie. ‘Can we go home?’
‘Of course,’ he says, and we begin walking back into the main part of town. On the way we pass two fishermen. One is reeling in. A fish hooked on a line. Dragged through the water, yanked up onto grey sand.
On the way home, we find a grocery store, buy some vegetables, tofu and green curry paste and take it all home with us.
In the kitchen, I chop carrots and broccoli. Hugo is wearing a beanie with a pompom, loose pants, a woollen jumper and my dangly earring. He’s cutting up the tofu and courgettes, sneaking across to my bench from time to time to steal pieces of carrot. I pinch his ear playfully. ‘There’ll be none left for the curry.’
He laughs and steals another piece, putting it in his mouth before I can snatch it back.
We eat dinner on the couch. The night outside is so thick the sea disappears into blackness. I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Should we watch a movie?’ Hugo suggests.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Your choice.’
Hugo puts on a cheesy rom-com and I fall asleep before anything really happens.
I wake up to his lips on my cheek. ‘Come on,’ he whispers, scooping me up. ‘Time for bed.’
I wake to a mackerel sky, tiny white clouds spread out like fish scales. The sea is wide and washed grey. I roll away from it and see Hugo has put my present on my bedside table. I pick up the book and open to a random page. ‘A Grave.’
A shiver ripples across my skin, raising it like waves rising out of the deep. I read aloud. But with each new sentence, I feel the words thickening. Becoming more solid. They wedge in my throat like blocks of ice.
I put the book down, feel the weight of it pressing on my belly.
Hugo rolls over, kisses my cheek.
I smile and kiss him on the lips. He lifts his hands from under the covers, holds my face. Kissing. Softly at first. Then deeper. Kissing my neck. My breasts. My stomach. He holds my hips. Gently rolling me over. So now I’m facing the windows. Facing the sea. Feeling him feel his way inside me. Softly at first. Then deeper.
And it feels good. It does. Until it doesn’t. Because I’m looking at the sea, a well-excavated grave. And imagining all the creatures that have died in it. The seabed an underwater cemetery where flesh stretches and breaks apart. Becomes silt and sand. Grey sand. Made of fish eyes and pieces of skin and bones and scales.
And suddenly, I’m falling water. Under water. Below the surface. Below deck. Stretching for someone. Ripping apart. I feel AJ’s hand on my thigh. I freeze. All my muscles, clenching around bone. So hard and so tight, I think my bones might break. Turn into silt and sand. Grey sand. A sky made of fish scales.
Fish guts. Raining down from the heavens. A body. Remembering. Why didn’t you just scream?
The body always remembers.
‘Oli?
I look over my shoulder. I’m shaking, hyperventilating. I see Hugo. His face washed white.
‘Oli? What’s wrong?’ He’s panicked. ‘I’m sorry!’ he says. ‘Whatever I did, I’m sorry.’
He pulls out of me. But I still feel him. Inside. In there. I hold onto my belly. Roll into a ball. Rocking back and forth. It’s all back and forth.
Hugo wraps his body around mine. ‘I’m sorry, Oli,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’
He holds me until I’m still. Until I can breathe. Until I say, ‘I can’t be with you.’
And then he lets go.
blue sand
Hugo fades from my life like a scar. Pink turning into white. So that even as the days turn into weeks, I still see him on my skin every time I undress.
At the gallery, Natasha has stopped asking what happened. No more whys. It’s a relief, because I don’t have any answers.
Today, she’s already in when I arrive. ‘Have you checked your emails?’ she asks.
I put her coffee down on her desk. ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Why?’
‘Remember Alison Waite, the one who’s planning the Antarctica trip?’
I cast my mind back a year. Mutter, ‘Yeah—why?’
‘Well, the expedition is next month, and the curator who took it on when you turned it down has had to pull out. Health reasons or something.’
