Untouchable Things Page 4

“Fantastic,” Michael replied.

  Briony looked at her watch. “Didn’t you say your headmaster was coming? It’s quarter to already.”

  Michael shifted his feet. “I’m sure he’ll be here any moment now.”

  “It’s just – y’know, if we are planning to take this further, work together again…”

  “Of course. He’s very supportive of the whole thing, he must have just got tied up at school, you know how it is.”

  A slight frown to indicate she didn’t know how it was. “Okay, well I’ll pop back in a wee while then.” Her face perked up. “Ciao.”

  Ciao? He watched her clipping off, giving little waves left and right like Princess Anne on happy pills. The snorts behind him became peals of laughter. “Ciao, Mr Stanley.”

  Michael tried to get his smile under control before turning round. “That’s enough, Lauren. In terms of this project, Briony is a Very Important Person. We need to keep her sweet.”

  “We’ll leave that to you sir, eh? Sir? No one’s drinking that wine. Seems a shame to waste it.” Her friends giggled.

  “Nice try, you lot. The orange juice is a fine vintage. Now, can you at least pretend to look interested?”

  “But we’ve seen the exhibition at school, sir. Can’t we go and have a look round? We’ve never been anywhere like this.” Her face was smooth, all innocence. Michael tried to think.

  “Ok, you’ve got fifteen minutes to look round the foyer. Go and collect some fliers, have a look what sort of concerts are coming up. There’s a good shop too. I want you back here by seven on the dot. Remember – you are in uniform and representing St Mary’s.”

  “Yes, sir, thanks, sir.” The girls rushed off, tittering in their non-regulation shoes and hitched-up skirts. Michael felt his stomach clench. Where the hell was Trelawny? What was the point in setting up things like this if your own Head didn’t back you up?

  He caught the eye of one of the mothers and saw his own awkwardness mirrored. Standing around in the Barbican foyer, sipping wine and making arts-related small talk was probably just a regular day in the lives of most of the people here. He watched the pre-concert bustle unfolding. Well-heeled spouses greeted each other, reunited after his day at the office and her shopping spree. Friends kissed on both cheeks. No wonder classical music was a middle-class hobby.

  His mind drifts to that T.S. Eliot poem they’d done at school:

  In the room the women come and go

  Talking of Michelangelo.

  Daniel Barenboim. A new gallery opening. Where to have supper. Hairdressers. Personal trainers. Minor marital irritations. Children’s achievements… Words break like waves over his head, keeping him down, the working-class lad from West Yorkshire.

  He knows he must tread water, keep his head lifted, or he’ll be swept away on a tide of RP chit chat, clinging in vain to a stand of What’s On leaflets until he’s finally found washed up outside a kebab house still clutching Fire and Water: a musical Odyssey with Mark Elder.

  He allows himself a slight smile. On one level he does belong here, at sea level where music is pure and belongs to anyone who dives down far enough to find it. But it percolates to many other levels, slippery ledges of education and privilege and old school ties. He will never stand on those strata nor does he want to.

  Bloody London. He breathes deeply into lifeless air that smells of school coach trips. His eyes seek out the door, his nearest emergency exit, but he knows that all it opens onto is the growl of enraged rush-hour traffic. Sometimes he has a physical craving for Yorkshire air. Wind and wet hedgerows as he walks Bess along the top path. Tramping down thistles and running to keep up with her.

  Mr Stanley?

  Sorry, I got distracted.

  Automatically he smoothed the back of his hair, which always looked windblown anyway, and turned his attention back to the garish panels behind him: Responses to Beethoven’s 9th, standing out like a strumpet against their sober surroundings. Then, a familiar profile weaving his way. Catherine. At least he could rely on her support. It looked as though she was chatting to someone. He took off his glasses and gave them a quick rub. As she approached he saw that her arm was linked with that of her companion’s, a tall, dark-haired man.

  They strolled up like an item. Catherine looked different somehow. She kissed him on both cheeks, taking in the pictures.

  “This looks wonderful. I’ve brought Seth – we were going to a concert here anyway. Michael and I were at university together.”

  She didn’t quite meet his eyes. Seth leaned in to shake hands, as at ease with his surroundings as Michael was not. “Congratulations. The Barbican foyer certainly needs brightening up. Dreadful building, but what can you do?”

  Michael stiffened, hearing condescension and public school vowels. “Have a drink, both of you.” He picked up a couple of glasses.

  “Sir?” It was the aptly named Robert Bedlam, looking shifty as ever, flanked by a couple of henchmen.

  “Yes, Bedlam?” He could feel Catherine’s friend’s smile even though he didn’t make eye contact as he passed the drinks over.

  “Can we go off too, like the girls?”

  It was like being observed in a lesson when things are starting to slip out of control. Michael swallowed. “You’ve got ten minutes. Back here by seven. Now move it.”

  “Rather you than me,” murmured the man, Seth, taking a sip of his wine. The boys scarpered, elbowing each other, already removing their school blazers.

  “They’re not bad kids.”

  “No?” Seth raised a lazy eyebrow as he watched them go.

  Michael realised his grip had clenched around the wine glass it held with a tell-tale tremble. “Excuse me, I have things to do.” He stepped back, batting away a brief urge to kick over the drinks stand and tell them all to go fuck themselves.

  “Michael?” A touch on his hand and Catherine’s fluttering, concerned voice. He located a smile before turning to look at her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He walked to the end of the stand under the pretext of straightening a panel. She followed him, pointed at a huge collage of tinfoil and crisp packets. “This one’s interesting.”

  “Yes.”

  Her fingers played on the stem of her glass. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing Seth.” She lowered her voice. “He’s the one – you know – from the piano shop.”

  Christ. Him. The nutter. That would explain a lot. Michael frowned. “Catherine…”

  “Michael!”

  Tinkling soprano tones called out from a few feet away. Catherine’s eyebrows arched. Michael swivelled and saw Briony approaching, accompanied by a suited man in his fifties.

  “Michael, meet David Baines, the Chief Executive. David, this is Michael Stanley, the music teacher who put the exhibition together.” Michael fumbled to put his wine glass down, finding the edge of the table, and reached to shake hands.

  “Marvellous, just the kind of thing we like to do. A creative bunch of pupils, eh?” He looked round. “None of them here?”

  “They’re, um, looking round, getting a sense of what goes on here.”

  “Ah, marvellous, marvellous. Catch ’em young, I always say. Well, well, look who it is.” Catherine’s friend was walking over with a broad smile. Michael watched the two men shake hands and pat each other on the back.

  “David.” Seth inclined his head. “And Briony, looking as lovely as ever.”

  Briony smiled coyly and inclined her head in turn. “Your tickets are at the front desk, Mr Gardner. There’s a drinks reception in the interval.”

  “Perfect.” He looked around. “I’m just admiring this unusual exhibition.” He pointed at the picture behind Michael’s head. “I’m delighted to see a connection between the Choral Symphony and Walker’s Cheese and Onion. Everyone’s favourite symphony and everyone’s favourite crisp – well, until Kettle Chips came along.”

  Polite chuckles and a hoot from Briony. Michael smiled through his teeth. “We wanted the chil
dren to express how they felt about the music using everyday objects.” Even to him it sounded sanctimonious, defensive.

  David Baines nodded. “Absolutely. Out of the mouths of babes and all that.”

  Seth grimaced. “A rather unsavoury image given that we’re talking about crisps…”

  “Rather savoury, I should say!” Both men boomed with laughter. Michael watched the puns pinging back and forth with no idea of how to get into the conversation. This was his moment to sound out some of his ideas for future collaborations, but Seth stood as a wall between them.

  “Going back to that picture, Michael.” Seth pointed and Michael swivelled. He felt the back of his jacket swish against something on the edge of the table, knew exactly what was going to happen a split second before the tinkle and crash of the glass hitting the floor. A reflex action to bend down, sending more glasses toppling behind him, dropping to the floor one after another like a fugue. A cold, wet seeping down the back of his trousers. Catherine was at his side, kneeling and fussing, and animated voices closed in over his head. In a flurry of words and hands he looked up to see a brown tweed jacket approaching. Of course. The Head arriving to complete his humiliation. He straightened up, shaking slightly.

  “I’m…”

  “So sorry, everyone. Are you okay, Michael? Let the bar staff do that.” Seth was batting his jacket and shaking his head with a rueful smile. “My apologies, David. You’d think I’d be used to negotiating your trays of glasses by now.”

  The two men laughed. Martin Trelawny hovered in front of them, awkward and bemused. Michael cleared his throat. “Mr Baines, could I introduce our Head Teacher, Martin Trelawny?”

  Introductions were completed as Briony appeared with two women bearing mops. Seth’s eyes twinkled. “This might be a good moment to take my leave and get cleaned up. David – always a pleasure. Bill me for the damages. Michael – sorry for causing chaos on your big night.” They shook hands and Michael wondered if he saw the dart of wink. “Catherine, shall we?”

  They moved away and Michael took a deep breath, keeping the back of his trousers against the table. “Mr Baines, I wondered if I might throw a couple of ideas your way?”

  So, Mr Gardner saved your bacon, so to speak, that night?

  That’s one way of putting it.

  Is there another way of putting it, Mr Stanley?

  Well, it could be seen as a display of power. To make me indebted to him. Or…

  Or?

  Nothing. It was just about manipulation. It always was.

  Scene 7

  Seth was standing with his back to her when Rebecca came into the foyer, idling through some flyers and holding a dark Fedora hat. Ignoring the theatrical pointing from Greg and Simon who were lounging against the front desk, she approached him with a hesitant hello. He turned and gave her a huge smile, which she found herself returning.

  “Ophelia!” They did the London double kiss.

  “Actually, I prefer Rebecca.”

  “Well, Rebecca, shall we go?”

  “Go?”

  “I assumed we were going somewhere. Or we could just stay here under the formidable gaze of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

  She looked at Greg and Simon who grinned and waved. This was absurd.

  “No, let’s go. I’m following you.”

  “A brave woman.”

  They stepped into light drizzle and sweating streets. Seth offered his arm as he put on his hat and steered her down the high street. Cars hummed noisily in the spray and black umbrellas sprang up to poke them in the face. It was almost impossible to talk. Rebecca pictured her hair growing frizzier by the second. Seth took her arm and pulled her under a red-and-white-striped canopy. “Do you fancy some lunch?”

  He led her into a cosy Italian restaurant with bread baskets on checked paper table cloths.

  “Table for two, please.” Rebecca inhaled Seth’s proximity as he took her coat. She was only wearing jeans and a shirt but she suddenly felt sexy. Or maybe that was just him. They sat across from each other and the leftover rain on their hair and faces shimmered intimacy.

  “I love your hat.”

  He bowed slightly as he removed it. “Rather practical for days like today.” He smiled. “Rain suits you, you know.”

  She fingered her hair and smiled back. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Trust me.”

  She looked down to break some bread.

  “So, Rebecca. What have you been doing since last night?”

  “Oh, you know, this and that. Receiving explicit postcards at work.” She had to know. He laughed. “Yes, that’s partly why I’m here. I realise I owe you an explanation.”

  “You certainly do.”

  “I only realised later how it must have looked. But I assure you there’s an innocent explanation. Do you remember I mentioned that creative arts group?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Well, I added you to the mailing list and asked Anna to drop your card as she was going that way this morning. She grabbed all the cards and I forgot I needed to put a covering note in with yours.”

  She struggled to make sense of it. “So – that was an invitation to this group?”

  “Yes.” He took out the silver box that she’d seen last night and removed a cigarette. “Can you make it?”

  She laughed, bewildered. “Exactly what sort of group are we talking about here?”

  He smiled and took a long first drag of the cigarette. As he exhaled from the corner of his mouth she looked at the cigarette box, tarnished and slightly dented. Probably an antique. He slipped it back into his pocket and smiled. “Ah – the drawing? Don’t take any notice of that – I just use whatever stimulus is in my mind at the time to theme the invitations. On Monday I was thinking about Hamlet, and you, and thought I’d do something a little provocative.”

  “Oh, I see.” She had no idea what to say.

  “Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Such a great line – classic bawdy Shakespeare. I think it could spark some great things.” He was grinning at her mischievously. “Seriously. It’s a cool group of people, you’ll love them. And, more to the point, they will love you.”

  A petite, dark-haired waitress comes over to take their drinks order. Seth scans the menu. “White okay?”

  She opens her mouth to say no she shouldn’t, but words of assent spill out instead. Go on. Just a drop.

  “I was thinking it might be a rather nice come-down after Hamlet. You’ll have just finished, won’t you?”

  She is flattered that he knows her schedule, has even arranged this group around her. “That’s true.”

  “But?”

  “It all sounds a bit – strange.”

  “Is that such a bad thing? Don’t you ever want to try something different?” His eyes challenge hers, tug her into their strange green. She opens her mouth to answer, realises the trap and breaks into a smile.

  “Great, that’s settled then. As a first-timer you can just sit and observe.” He holds her gaze. “What is it?”

  She takes a risk. “Your eyes. I’ve never seen a colour like them. What would you call them – sage?”

  “Whatever you would like to call them.” They stare at each other.

  He taps his cigarette and to her relief looks away. “When I was in India I found people with the same colour eyes. Dark skin, much darker than mine, but with these eyes.” He laughs. “My parents always denied the existence of any exotic genes in our family. So that leaves the possibility that I’m a gypsy, a changeling. A Heathcliff.”

  She laughs too. “Heathcliff in an Armani blazer. I can’t see it.”

  “Jean Paul Gaultier, for the record. What you forget, my dear Ophelia, sorry, Rebecca, is that Heathcliff reinvented himself as the archetypal English gentleman. Externally, that is. Except for when he was hanging puppies.”

  “I see. So underneath this suave exterior lurks…”

  “A wolf.” He grabs her hand and makes her jump. “Come on, let’s or
der. Or I might indeed turn into a wolf and swallow you whole.”

  Long lunch, was it?

  You could say. Three courses and two bottles of wine. And I was working the next day.

  Can you remember what you talked about?

  Oh – food, music, theatre, poetry. That sort of stuff. Mornington Crescent, how I don’t listen to enough Radio 4. And… other recreational activities.

  “So how do you spend your weekends now? Getting high or getting laid?”

  “Neither?” Another small betrayal of Jason. “Sorry – I didn’t mean that. Jason lives in Milton Keynes at the moment so we sort of shuttle back and forth on the train. In a way it should be ideal – someone in your life without being suffocated – but the pressure to have a perfect weekend can make everything fuck up.” Is that what she thought? It wasn’t a conversation she’d had with anyone before.

  “Tell me to butt out, but it sounds like you’re suffocating anyway. Do you love him?”

  She sighed. “I… don’t know. He’s a lovely guy, takes care of me. But…”

  “You want more.”

  Her averted eyes blinked agreement. “Maybe. Sometimes I think there must be more, sometimes I think I’ve watched too many soppy films.” She looked up. “What about you?”

  He took a slow drag on his cigarette “Oh, I know there’s more. For people like us, people who know how to feel, people who wring every last drop from life instead of running away from it.” He chuckled. “I’ll be breaking into To His Coy Mistress in a second.”

  She laughed, wanting to show she got the reference. He watched her. “Recite it to me.”

  “God, I can’t, I’ve forgotten half of it.”

  “I’ll prompt you.”

  Greedy, glittering eyes pinned hers in the fading afternoon light and her outer vision darkened, as though she was going blind. She breathed, trying to focus.

  “Had we but world enough, and time

  This coyness, lady, were no crime.”

  He held her eyes, mouthing words when she faltered, as she took the part of the poet attempting to seduce his muse.

  “But at my back I always hear

  Time’s winged chariot hurrying near…”

  She knew it from here, the shift of gears so that hedonism became something profound, triumphal, death-defying.