‘And
Lynette rose a little, as if poised for a balletic spring. ‘Bendicks Bittermints,’ she offered.
Julianne uncoiled her legs. ‘I admire,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, but you must do
Julianne stood up. Pointed to me. ‘May the prole come too? Only half a mint for her, mind!’
Lynette said to me, ‘How very short your hair is! But it shows off your beautiful eyes.’
I could see that Julianne had also fallen in love. I think women carry this faculty into later life: the faculty for love, I mean. Men will never understand it till they stop confusing love with sex, which will be never. Even today, there are ten or twenty women I love: for a turn of phrase or wrist, for a bruised-looking ankle where the veins have blossomed out, for a squeeze of the hand or for a voice on the end of the phone. I would no more go to bed with any of them than I would drown myself; and drowning is my most feared form of death. Perhaps I love too easily; I can say Lynette has left a mark on my heart.
So: Julianne reached up and took the skull from the shelf. ‘We call her Mrs Webster,’ she said to Lynette. ‘Carmel, she will have her little joke.’ We skipped and slid along the corridor to C21, passing Mrs Webster between us as if she were a rugby ball.
This is how I came to enter a room that now no longer exists, except in my memory: bursting through the door with a skull poised between my hands. The air of C21 was fragrant with spilt talc and splashed cologne. An electric kettle was steaming into the air. The wardrobe doors stood open and I saw Julianne’s eyes pass over crushed silk and cashmere, squeezed over in one half of the wardrobe to leave room for Karina’s clothes. On the floor by one of the desks stood three pairs of beautiful boots, like sentinels whose upper part has been assumed to heaven: slim straight-sided high-heeled boots, their aroma of leather and polish blossoming into the room. One pair burgundy: one pair a deep burnished chestnut: one pair black and fluid as melting tar.
And on one of the beds, there basked a fur, a longhaired fox fur, its colours banded and streaked, strawberry blonde with platinum tips. My eyes were drawn ineluctably towards it, as fingers are drawn to marble or velvet. I stared at it; as I did so, one of its arms slid towards me, as if in languid salute. I watched. The arm flopped itself over and lolled on to the floor. I took a step towards it, genuflected, and lifted it reverently. I tucked it on to the bed, into the body of the coat, feeling as I did so not just the whisper of the fur against my hand but the sleekness of the silk that lined it. ‘I would kill for this coat,’ I said simply.
‘Oh, heavens!’ its mistress said. ‘Don’t murder me. Just borrow it. Any time.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Go on, try it.’ Lynette skipped across the room. The fox fur seemed to leap into her arms and nestle there. Julianne leant against the wall, amused. Lynette whisked my arms into the sleeves. Her supple hands – blue veins and ivory – swept the collar up to my throat. ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ she said. ‘It suits you. Oh, Karina, don’t you think? Doesn’t it suit her? You’re taller, you see, you can carry it off. My father bought it for me, and I do like it, but I wonder if it makes me look like Baby Bear.’
Karina stood by the window. Though it was dark outside the curtains were not yet drawn; we filled the central pane with our shadow selves, like actors on a lit stage, like lively ghosts tossing their arms and twirling in the void. I glanced into the window and saw Karina’s broad back, her neck bent like the neck of a toiling ox. Then I looked back into the room and saw her face, its flesh self, not the shadow, and I saw – it is easy to persuade myself now, after the event – I saw her patient hatred take root.
Lynette pounced on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘Black,’ said Karina. ‘Please.’
‘Who got here first?’ Jule asked.
‘Oh, I did,’ Lynette said absently, stooping into the steam.
‘She left you the best bed, Karina,’ I said. ‘The best desk.’
‘Mm,’ Lynette said. She hummed to herself, spooning out instant coffee. The obvious bit of T. S. Eliot sprang to my mind. ‘Not much to do, is it, leave someone a bed? Are you going to have your coffee in your coat, Carmel dear?’
I was staring at myself in the mirror. The fur felt alive around me; there was a faint, disturbing vibration beneath my skin, as if I had acquired another pulse.
‘A proper mannequin,’ Karina said. ‘Isn’t she?’
‘Yes, well, she has the figure for it,’ said Lynette. Her tone, very gently, rebuked Karina’s. She caught the coat as it slipped from my shoulders. ‘Modom must remember it’s here when she wants it,’ she said. She curtsied deeply, and cast a glance – abashed – at the wardrobe.
‘I told you,’ Karina said. ‘There’s no need to squash your stuff up like that. I’ve hardly got anything.’
Karina’s suitcase was still fastened, standing against the wall by her bed. It was the kind of suitcase people from Curzon Street used to take to Blackpool, once a year during the fifties, with a whole family’s clothes inside. It had a check design, like a man’s loud suit, though the pattern was faded to fawn, as if summer by summer the rain had washed the colour out; its sharp metal corners were rusty.
‘You’re entitled to your space,’ Lynette insisted. She eased off the lid of the Bittermints. The happy aroma of good chocolate joined the other perfumes in the air.
When autumn came to Curzon Street, the dead leaves blew uphill from the trees in the park, and my father coming home at half-past six brought in on his overcoat the smell of smoke and cold. Our last walk on the hills had been in September. My mother had strode ahead, her coat flapping, leaving my father to make some sort of conversation with me. I knew, though no one mentioned it, that we would not go walking next summer. Their quarrels had changed, and become quieter, more vicious. And I could not keep talking, talking and talking, poulticing the vast bleeding silence. Not without practice; not without a good deal of it.
Karina and I came uphill from school, turned at the pub on the corner; it was half-past four and the street lamps were burning, half-aglow in a wet dusk. ‘Let’s talk like grown-ups,’ I said. ‘I’ll be Lady Smith.’ There was no picture of her on the sign but I thought I knew what she looked like. She would have a tailored costume, like our landlady’s. ‘You can be my husband,’ I told Karina. ‘You can be . . .’ I searched my inner catalogue of painted heads, ‘. . . you can be the Prince of Connaught.’
