boots. “He’s too old and smarmy.” I made a face and changed the subject. “What about you, Jenny? Are you seeing anyone? You never tell us anything.”
Again, she gripped the strap of her kitbag. “I’m always working.”
“What about your nights off?” I had to know. Jenny was so pretty with poker-straight hair to her waist. If she weren’t so shy she’d be deadly.
“I’m usually at running club.”
“Is there no one there?”
“They’re all too old.”
“She wouldn’t tell us anyway,” Donna said.
“I reckon you’ll end up falling for another chef,” I said.
Jenny looked at me quizzically. I’d guessed right, something was going on between her and Jason. She smiled and looked away and before I could ask anything more Donna interrupted. We’d reached their bus stop and the moment passed.
I left them then to walk on alone, too impatient to wait for a bus or tram. And, as always, I worked my keys between my fingers.
It had gone midnight by the time I got back. I looked over my shoulder before I opened the door. The house was dark. There wasn’t a sound. I listened at Slug’s door – nothing. Tamzin’s was slightly ajar – again nothing. Upstairs it was obvious no one was about. Spencer had left his light on and there were pots of wet paint on the windowsill. Lazy shit – never cleans up.
Kelly’s door was shut. She would have locked it. I unlocked my own, went in and locked it from the inside. I was too buzzy to sleep. Service does that to you – all that running around after people . Sod it; make coffee.
But there was no milk. From a restaurant stuffed with fresh produce to this . Black coffee it is then . I returned to my room, relocked the door and sat on my bed. What’s on? I flicked through a chat show, two American comedies, the end of a film and the weather and went back to the film, thinking I might recognise it.
Turn off the light, look out the window – it might be more interesting.
Across the street, leaning against the wall of the Asian family’s house was Girl-with-braids dressed in a micro-skirt and leather jacket. She checked her nails and paced up and down past three or four houses.
A white car pulled up. It had lettering on the side – probably a cab.
“Go fuck yourself, arsehole!” She stepped back and away, while the car stayed put. Should I do something?
The cab pulled away and Girl-with-braids gave it the finger. Good for you, girl. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for you. Girl-with-braids walked off down the street and disappeared out of sight.
I withdrew from the window, found my sketchbook and wrote “Girl-with-braids, white car,” and the date and time. Then I looked around, straining to see. The room was dark apart from the telly’s flickering brightness. I moved towards the mirror that hung on the chimney breast, took off my T-shirt and jeans and kicked them aside. Mismatched underwear – there’s a surprise – pale pink knickers and a black bra.
I switched on my Anglepoise lamp and gathered paints, water and some heavy textured paper, and placed a drawing board on the floor. I unhooked the mirror from the wall, leant it against the unlit gas fire, and knelt in front of it.
The blank paper’s whiteness glowed, appearing vast and daunting . Can I do this? Can I make it work? I took a medium sable-hair brush and ran its soft bristles over the bare skin of my thigh and dipped it in water, and Naples yellow, more water, titanium white and a spot of carmine red.
The translucent colour punctured the paper’s whiteness as I sketched a fluid outline. I thought of the eels in the kitchen, and it was as if the delicate pools of welling, spreading watercolour were skinning me alive as the hard shell I felt forced to wear each day dissolved before me. There I am, that’s me: twitching and unsure, I thought, as I let more drops of watery colour drip and spread like the unshed tears I was constantly battling to withhold.
Eight
The woman found
Again, she gripped the strap of her kitbag. “I’m always working.”
“What about your nights off?” I had to know. Jenny was so pretty with poker-straight hair to her waist. If she weren’t so shy she’d be deadly.
“I’m usually at running club.”
“Is there no one there?”
“They’re all too old.”
“She wouldn’t tell us anyway,” Donna said.
“I reckon you’ll end up falling for another chef,” I said.
Jenny looked at me quizzically. I’d guessed right, something was going on between her and Jason. She smiled and looked away and before I could ask anything more Donna interrupted. We’d reached their bus stop and the moment passed.
I left them then to walk on alone, too impatient to wait for a bus or tram. And, as always, I worked my keys between my fingers.
It had gone midnight by the time I got back. I looked over my shoulder before I opened the door. The house was dark. There wasn’t a sound. I listened at Slug’s door – nothing. Tamzin’s was slightly ajar – again nothing. Upstairs it was obvious no one was about. Spencer had left his light on and there were pots of wet paint on the windowsill. Lazy shit – never cleans up.
Kelly’s door was shut. She would have locked it. I unlocked my own, went in and locked it from the inside. I was too buzzy to sleep. Service does that to you – all that running around after people . Sod it; make coffee.
But there was no milk. From a restaurant stuffed with fresh produce to this . Black coffee it is then . I returned to my room, relocked the door and sat on my bed. What’s on? I flicked through a chat show, two American comedies, the end of a film and the weather and went back to the film, thinking I might recognise it.
Turn off the light, look out the window – it might be more interesting.
Across the street, leaning against the wall of the Asian family’s house was Girl-with-braids dressed in a micro-skirt and leather jacket. She checked her nails and paced up and down past three or four houses.
A white car pulled up. It had lettering on the side – probably a cab.
“Go fuck yourself, arsehole!” She stepped back and away, while the car stayed put. Should I do something?
The cab pulled away and Girl-with-braids gave it the finger. Good for you, girl. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for you. Girl-with-braids walked off down the street and disappeared out of sight.
I withdrew from the window, found my sketchbook and wrote “Girl-with-braids, white car,” and the date and time. Then I looked around, straining to see. The room was dark apart from the telly’s flickering brightness. I moved towards the mirror that hung on the chimney breast, took off my T-shirt and jeans and kicked them aside. Mismatched underwear – there’s a surprise – pale pink knickers and a black bra.
I switched on my Anglepoise lamp and gathered paints, water and some heavy textured paper, and placed a drawing board on the floor. I unhooked the mirror from the wall, leant it against the unlit gas fire, and knelt in front of it.
The blank paper’s whiteness glowed, appearing vast and daunting . Can I do this? Can I make it work? I took a medium sable-hair brush and ran its soft bristles over the bare skin of my thigh and dipped it in water, and Naples yellow, more water, titanium white and a spot of carmine red.
The translucent colour punctured the paper’s whiteness as I sketched a fluid outline. I thought of the eels in the kitchen, and it was as if the delicate pools of welling, spreading watercolour were skinning me alive as the hard shell I felt forced to wear each day dissolved before me. There I am, that’s me: twitching and unsure, I thought, as I let more drops of watery colour drip and spread like the unshed tears I was constantly battling to withhold.
Eight
The woman found
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