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Authors: Jeanette Winterson
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other rooms.
MiMi opened the door into her apartment. The only light came from the street lamps outside. She hadn’t closed the long shutters. She went over to the window, standing framed in the window in her blue dress in the yellow light, like a Matisse cut-out of herself.
Xeno came and stood behind her. He didn’t shut the front door and he had such a quiet way of moving that she seemed not to hear him. He wondered what she was thinking.
He was directly behind her now. She smelled of limes and mint. She turned. She turned right into Xeno. Up against him. He put his arms round her and she rested her head on his chest.
For a moment they stood like that, then MiMi took his hand and led him to her bed—a big
bateau lit
in the back of the apartment. She lifted her hand and stroked the nape of his neck.
On the landing outside, the electric light, footsteps up the stairs, a woman’s heavy French accent complaining about the hot weather. A man grunting in response. The couple climbed slowly on past MiMi’s apartment, carrying their groceries, not even glancing in through the open door.
And then Xeno was walking swiftly down the stairs.
—
It was the night of the concert. The Roundhouse was filling up with guests at the tables.
Leo was wearing a T-shirt that said I AM THE ONE PER CENT .
“Take it off,” said Pauline.
Leo took it off. “You want me to be at the dinner stripped to the waist?”
“Grow up.”
Leo didn’t come to dinner. He seemed to disappear. In fact he was in the gallery above the tables and the stage, watching what he had paid for. The evening was going well. The silent auction had already raised over £50,000.
“Where the hell is he?” Pauline asked Xeno.
Leo sat in the shadows, waiting for MiMi to sing. She came on stage, with the quick confidence natural to her. When the applause had died down she made a speech, one hand on her eight-month about-to-be baby, about what it felt like to know that your baby is secure. That your child will have a future. That it is safe to be a mother. Safe to be a child. To give birth without fear. And she spoke as a woman, as the mother of a little boy, as the mother of a new life inside her. The miracle of life. And didn’t every woman having a baby want that baby to smile, to grow, to know what love is?
And then she sang. Three songs. They were wild for her. The clapping didn’t stop. Some guy in the audience shouted, “Five grand gets an encore.”
“Asshole,” said Leo up in the gallery. “You think you can buy my wife for five grand? You can’t buy one of her earrings for that.”
Leo looked down. Xeno had his elbows on the table, his face resting in his hands, his eyes on MiMi. She winked at him.
Leo tipped back in his chair. Fell. There was a crash. People looked up. MiMi glanced towards the gallery. She saw Leo. He saw her face, a millisecond register of confusion, anxiety and, what…fear?
But she was singing. She was a pro. She was singing to the end, and taking her applause and smiling. She raised her hand. Touched her belly. She left the stage.
Leo went down from the gallery, backstage, to where the dressing rooms were. He ran down the corridor. “MiMi!”
She came towards him. She was angry. “What are you doing? Everybody was looking for you. Why were you up in the gallery? Where have you been?”
Leo didn’t answer. He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. She pushed him.
“Ça suffit!”
“Stop it?”
“I’m going home. Cameron’s at the stage door.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Leo, what’s wrong?”
He nearly said, You don’t love me anymore. She nearly said, There’s someone else, isn’t there?
Instead she walked past him down the corridor.
One o’clock in the morning.
The streets fuzzy with light rain. The plastic peel-off shine of the pavements. The shimmer under the sodium street lamps. Cars queuing at the red light, wipers in rhythm, drivers with the windows down against the heat. Big guy
MiMi opened the door into her apartment. The only light came from the street lamps outside. She hadn’t closed the long shutters. She went over to the window, standing framed in the window in her blue dress in the yellow light, like a Matisse cut-out of herself.
Xeno came and stood behind her. He didn’t shut the front door and he had such a quiet way of moving that she seemed not to hear him. He wondered what she was thinking.
He was directly behind her now. She smelled of limes and mint. She turned. She turned right into Xeno. Up against him. He put his arms round her and she rested her head on his chest.
For a moment they stood like that, then MiMi took his hand and led him to her bed—a big
bateau lit
in the back of the apartment. She lifted her hand and stroked the nape of his neck.
On the landing outside, the electric light, footsteps up the stairs, a woman’s heavy French accent complaining about the hot weather. A man grunting in response. The couple climbed slowly on past MiMi’s apartment, carrying their groceries, not even glancing in through the open door.
And then Xeno was walking swiftly down the stairs.
—
It was the night of the concert. The Roundhouse was filling up with guests at the tables.
Leo was wearing a T-shirt that said I AM THE ONE PER CENT .
“Take it off,” said Pauline.
Leo took it off. “You want me to be at the dinner stripped to the waist?”
“Grow up.”
Leo didn’t come to dinner. He seemed to disappear. In fact he was in the gallery above the tables and the stage, watching what he had paid for. The evening was going well. The silent auction had already raised over £50,000.
“Where the hell is he?” Pauline asked Xeno.
Leo sat in the shadows, waiting for MiMi to sing. She came on stage, with the quick confidence natural to her. When the applause had died down she made a speech, one hand on her eight-month about-to-be baby, about what it felt like to know that your baby is secure. That your child will have a future. That it is safe to be a mother. Safe to be a child. To give birth without fear. And she spoke as a woman, as the mother of a little boy, as the mother of a new life inside her. The miracle of life. And didn’t every woman having a baby want that baby to smile, to grow, to know what love is?
And then she sang. Three songs. They were wild for her. The clapping didn’t stop. Some guy in the audience shouted, “Five grand gets an encore.”
“Asshole,” said Leo up in the gallery. “You think you can buy my wife for five grand? You can’t buy one of her earrings for that.”
Leo looked down. Xeno had his elbows on the table, his face resting in his hands, his eyes on MiMi. She winked at him.
Leo tipped back in his chair. Fell. There was a crash. People looked up. MiMi glanced towards the gallery. She saw Leo. He saw her face, a millisecond register of confusion, anxiety and, what…fear?
But she was singing. She was a pro. She was singing to the end, and taking her applause and smiling. She raised her hand. Touched her belly. She left the stage.
Leo went down from the gallery, backstage, to where the dressing rooms were. He ran down the corridor. “MiMi!”
She came towards him. She was angry. “What are you doing? Everybody was looking for you. Why were you up in the gallery? Where have you been?”
Leo didn’t answer. He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. She pushed him.
“Ça suffit!”
“Stop it?”
“I’m going home. Cameron’s at the stage door.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Leo, what’s wrong?”
He nearly said, You don’t love me anymore. She nearly said, There’s someone else, isn’t there?
Instead she walked past him down the corridor.
One o’clock in the morning.
The streets fuzzy with light rain. The plastic peel-off shine of the pavements. The shimmer under the sodium street lamps. Cars queuing at the red light, wipers in rhythm, drivers with the windows down against the heat. Big guy
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