They became aware that the room had filled up with the voices and banter of mainly young office types. Two actually came over and sat down opposite them. Pete picked up his glasses, looked at Lucy and mouthed “let’s go”. She nodded and stood up, straightening her jeans and shaking her head – her way to comb her hair, Pete thought as he felt the urge to kiss her again.

They held hands as they went downstairs. Half way down they squeezed together to make room for a couple of guys climbing up. Pete turned and kissed her, pressing her against the wall. And cautiously, in case someone else appeared, he brushed his hand against her breast.

-          Hey hey Pete - she gasped, pushing him away slightly.

-          Don’t you…?

-          … Dunno…

Lucy turned away and climbed down the stairs fast. Pete followed. He felt terrible. She teased me, he thought, and now she’s dumping me and next thing she’s going to laugh at me. His hands tightened into fists. It was exactly what happened with Carly a few months before. She was on his Art History course. He really liked her – her face reminded him of the dead Ophelia in the Millais painting. He told her so during a school visit to William Morris’s Red House in Bexley. She was flattered and let him kiss her behind an apple tree in the orchard. She continued to let him kiss her in exciting, stolen moments like that but it never went any further. It wasn’t long before she claimed that she needed to concentrate on her studies, her parents were expecting great results, and so on…. In brief, she dumped him. He noticed some excess giggling among her friends after that and was deeply hurt. The same had happened with Rana the year before. That time the excuse had been ‘my parents would kill me if they found out…’. But the result was identical. And now Lucy.

They walked down some narrow Soho streets in silence, a couple of feet apart, neither of them saying or doing anything to put an end to the awkwardness of being together yet not together at all. After what seemed an interminable time, they emerged in Trafalgar Square and bright evening light. Still in silence, Lucy sat down on a sunny stone bench, took off her t-shirt and scrunched it on her lap. Pete looked at her, at her arms emerging from a purple sleeveless top, at her face in profile, and before he could think, he found himself telling her about his visits to the National Gallery, about his favourite paintings, about his dad’s scorn for all that stuff. Lucy sat still, looking straight ahead, squinting at the slanted light, making no comments. Then Pete heard himself recount the Oscar episode, and when he looked at Lucy he noticed she was biting her lower lip, and when he looked again, he saw that her shoulders were shaking. Eventually, she couldn’t hold it any longer and broke into a peal of loud, uncontrollable laughter.

 

Pete felt exposed and stupid – he’d opened up to her as though the rejection back in the pub hadn’t been enough. He got up, fists in his pockets, turned his back to her and wondered whether to walk away.

-  Show me that picture - he heard Lucy say after a minute. - Mary Magdalene, wasn’t it?

She stood up, took Pete’s left hand out of his pocket and held it, unknotting his fist finger by finger.

- You’re funny! - she said. - Nice funny I mean. I can see that scene with Oscar so clearly! You should be a scriptwriter…

Pete sensed his tension melt away but didn’t know what to say.

They started to walk.

- The Gallery’s closed now - was all that came out of his mouth.

- Tomorrow then? - Lucy asked. The next day was Saturday and Instant Treats didn’t operate at weekends.

- Sure. I’m free. You? - Pete said. He couldn’t understand why he was feeling low – or maybe he was just tired out by all the emotion.

- Me too…

- Lucy…

- Yes?

- Two things. One, I want to know more about you. And two, I’m hungry.

- Hey, I’m starving too. I’ll tell you over pizza. If you don’t mind me talking with my mouth full.

- Try it now… - Pete pulled Lucy to him and kissed her wet and deep. He noticed that she didn’t close her eyes while kissing and made a mental note to keep his open too. A kind of tender face-off. As they let go of each other a couple of young foreign visitors applauded.

- Do you think they took a picture of us kissing? - Lucy asked, noticing they were holding cameras.

- Hey, we’ll become famous like the Paris couple in the Doisneau photo….

- The what?

- I can’t pronounce it, sorry. An awesome black and white picture of a couple kissing in the street in Paris…. You must have seen it…

- Well, you’ll have to show me that one too, then …

They walked on in silence. Pete’s mood was still subdued, and it puzzled him. He felt he’d regained some control over things and that Lucy really liked him. So what was it about? Then he remembered he was left with about fifteen quid in his pocket, which wouldn’t allow him any largesse. He couldn’t treat Lucy to a night out, let alone a night in – where the hell could they go for some privacy? 

This is fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental and is evidence of excellent imaginative writing. © Irena Hill, 2011

Irena is a participant of the Creative Writing Workshop program led by author Rosemary Furber. The next term starts on Jan 15, 2012. For more information, visit this link.

_
George’s complexion looked patchy, his cheekbones unnaturally pink and the rest of his face pasty grey. He was wired up the way she’d pictured him when she heard the news. She noticed that his hair had receded more than she remembered and looked like the soft grey-white tufts under the wings of small birds. She felt a pang of nostalgia for ancient gestures – running her fingers through his thick hair, touching his lips which were now concealed by the oxygen mask, reaching under the sheet for the soft skin in warm, quiet places, until the quietness was overcome by desire and urgency. And now this. And before this, the emptiness of other, newer, gestures: a rare peck on the cheek, the conversations at cross purposes, the lack of eye contact, the silence that was prelude to more silence.

 

She hadn’t seen George looking so helpless, ever. In sleep he was restless and noisy, otherwise he was always in control. What a high price to pay, she thought, staring at the bleeping machines above his bed. When she looked at him again, she saw a stranger she pitied and did not love. None the less, she rested her hand gently on his naked shoulder. Everybody deserves compassion, she thought. This could be a truce, or the end. A very small voice inside her whispered ‘perhaps even a beginning’.

 

-          Mrs Stone, I’m doctor Carlsson. I’m sorry about your husband. We’re doing

all we can and he seems to be responding well. We’ll know more in the next 24 hours.

-          Is he going to die? - Anna asked, making sure that her voice betrayed no trace

of anything other than concern.

Doctor Carlsson looked at Anna, then looked away. Anna wanted to ask again but knew she didn’t want to hear the answer. She held her breath and closed her eyes. When she was little, she believed that by doing that a bubble would grow around her and keep her safe.

-          Mrs Stone…. - the doctor said gently after a few moments.

Anna made herself open her eyes and look at the doctor’s pale, Scandinavian features.

-          As I said, we shan’t know more until tomorrow or even the day after, but I

must be honest with you, there is a possibility that he will survive but remain in a coma of some kind. Please don’t worry about it now. You need to rest and look after yourself. It won’t be easy, whatever the outcome. Go home and sleep, Mrs Stone, and I’ll see you tomorrow, you can visit any time.

 

Anna looked at her hand still resting on George’s shoulder and, as the doctor’s words sank in, she jerked it away as though his skin had become toxic. She looked around for a washbasin and scrubbed her hands fiercely and then, as sobs rose from the pit of her stomach, she scrubbed her face too. Each time she dried it, the sobs started up again. In the end she pressed a few paper towels hard over her eyes and cheeks until the emotions ebbed away and her breathing returned to normal. And when she opened her eyes she saw that someone, like the tooth fairy of her childhood, had quietly stolen in and left a cup of tea and a biscuit there on the side for her. 

This is fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental and is evidence of excellent imaginative writing. © Irena Hill, 2011

Irena is a participant of the Creative Writing Workshop program led by author Rosemary Furber. The next term starts on Jan 15, 2012. For more information, visit this link.

_ 
Was it the fourth or fifth time he’d seen the woman sitting on the bench? Roger Lambert, a thirty-nine-year-old systems analyst, wasn’t sure. He pawed at the knot in his tie, which in the 9am heat already felt like a balled fist against his throat. He stared down the steps outside Tower Hill Tube station.

Every morning, the same scene. The woman, perhaps in her late-thirties, always sat with an expensive-looking handbag propped against her left thigh. The bag, like her clothes, was black and the lining, like her lips, was scarlet. He knew this because she’d reach inside for a cigarette and a bullet-shaped silver lighter.

Roger decided she was the most glamorous person he’d ever seen. He was mesmerised by the smoke billowing around her body. In the haze, the people outside the station seemed to disappear as though they were part of an elaborate film set. He felt he was spying on a fading but still-beautiful actress, enjoying a break between takes on a deserted soundstage.

He longed for a cigarette, a sudden and strong pang that snapped him out of his reverie. He had given up a year ago, largely at his wife’s request. Yet he missed the ritual of smoking – peeling off the cellophane, nosing that sweet tang of dried tobacco, sliding out a white stick, slipping it between expectant lips…

His mind wandered to the nicotine patches he kept in his desk, and thoughts of work finally led him to his office off St Katharine Docks.

 

*

 

Roger stuck a brown square on his arm while his PC booted up. He felt guilty – not because he couldn’t stop thinking about his starlet on the bench, but because his wife didn’t know he was on two packets of patches a week. Giving up smoking was a big deal, and the fact he was still putting nicotine into his body 12 months on felt like a betrayal.

But then the emails and phonecalls and coffee runs began. There were systems to be analysed, and Roger was highly regarded by his peers for the depth and breadth of his analysis.

Imperceptibly, however, his own system was crashing. One morning, he was late for work because he’d been obsessing about the polished curves of her lighter. He’d never been late for work in his life.

Then one day, she gazed back at him from her bench through a fog of smoke. Her face wasn’t saying get lost. Caught somewhere between fear and desire, Roger walked down the steps and sat beside her.

“Lexi. Lexi Stryke,” she said.

“Sorry? Lucky Strike?”

“Lexi Stryke. With a ‘y’. In Stryke.” She paused. “And Lexi with an ‘i’.”

“Oh. I’m Roger Lambert. Spelled exactly as you’d imagine.”

Lexi laughed and inadvertently waved her cigarette under his nose. It was good; he savoured each rococo curl of smoke. She must have sensed something pass between them because, still smiling, she offered him one.

He politely declined.

 

*

 

This continued for a week. Then, the inevitable: Lexi suggested going for a drink, and Roger was surprised how easy it was to say yes. He was glad it was summer. Outside in the warm air, he could watch her light up, inhale, exhale. During the next fortnight, as they explored London’s beer gardens and roof terraces, he embraced life as a passive smoker.

At the end of their fifth date, they kissed – properly – for the first time and agreed to meet the following night. Roger could still taste her when he got home and she must have left a trace, for his wife jokingly asked if he’d been smoking. He gripped the unopened packet of twenty hidden in his pocket and told her not to be silly.

That night his heart thudded and his jaw clenched in anticipation of seeing Lexi. He couldn’t deny he longed to see and explore her body, but stronger still was his craving to share a cigarette with her.

He knew he was in the grip of addiction, yet couldn’t say exactly what he was addicted to.

 

*

 

Lexi took him to a small, faintly musty flat near the river. Light from bankside bars pooled in ominous slicks on the water. Roger had no idea where he was, but then they were inside, laughing and fumbling with drinks and each other. With a flourish he produced the packet from his pocket.

“What are those? Sorry, I only smoke American cigarettes.”

“Fine,” said Roger, mildly hurt. He sparked up.

“You’re a bad influence, Lexi. You should come with a health warning. I’m back to my bad old ways.”

“Whichever way you turn, fate sticks a foot out to trip you.”

“Pardon?” As Roger tried to work out what she meant, he wondered if fate was simply a system that could be analysed like any other.

“Sure you want this, Roger? I mean, I’ve never asked if you’re married or anything…”

“Yes.”

“You’re married?”

“No, I mean yes, you’ve never asked if I’m married or anything. More whisky?”

She went to the bathroom while he made drinks. Posters for old movies adorned the walls – Detour, Touch Of Evil, Kiss Me Deadly. He wasn’t familiar with them but the titles, shimmering in and out of focus through the smog, spoke to him. Deadly. Touch. Evil. Kiss. He felt he could rearrange the words to create infinite hidden narratives. And Detour: that’s what his life had taken.

Lexi returned and downed her drink. A car’s headlights, refracted through the half-drawn blinds, created strange patterns on the walls. The already-garish images on the posters seemed edgier, more dangerous.  

“I read some Chandler once,” said Roger. “Made me feel like a criminal.”

“Do tell,” murmured Lexi, snaking an arm around him.

“Oh, dirty. Dirty and paranoid.”

“And guilty?” asked Lexi. She pulled him to the bedroom.

Roger couldn’t answer that. An image of his wife flickered briefly in his mind, but she belonged to a different world. Lexi pushed him onto the bed and when he reopened his eyes, her face loomed over his.

He unwrapped her as though he were opening a packet of cigarettes. Ever-shifting plumes of blue-grey smoke folded in on each other, like ghost limbs entwining. He could detect her perfume and his sweat in the pungent air. As they writhed, the stagnant fog eddied, clinging to the sheets and draping their slick bodies. Lexi reached out and knocked over a glass ashtray, and the clatter spurred Roger towards orgasm.

But already he was thinking about the post-coital cigarette.

 

*

 

He awoke with difficulty. His head throbbed and his tongue bristled in his parched mouth. Lexi was gone. He knew he would never see her again. She’d left her lighter on his pillow; underneath this was a small handwritten card. Her scrawl was childlike, not joined up.

The card read: “He was born when she kissed him. He died when she left him. He lived a few weeks while she loved him.”

Roger didn’t understand, but he knew he was in a lonely place. She’d used a cigarette to burn a hole through the card; the lipstick-stained butt looked obscene against the white sheet. He had to get out – but first, a smoke.

As he raised the lighter he saw himself, distorted and absurd, reflected in its chrome surface. He didn’t recognise the face staring back at him.

This is fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental and is evidence of excellent imaginative writing. © Graham Taylor, 2011

Graham is a participant of the Creative Writing Workshop program led by author Rosemary Furber. The next term starts on Jan 15, 2012. For more information, visit this link.