Material Girl. Louise Kean

it, but eventually he was by my side again, putting another glass of red into my hand.

      ‘I can’t shrug you off tonight, can I?’

      ‘I’m Tom Harvey-Saint. And you are?’

      ‘Scarlet.’

      ‘That’s a very evocative name. Do you have a giant “A” on your chest?’

      ‘Not yet, no, but I’m working on it.’

      ‘You seem sad, Scarlet, and I’d like to help.’

      ‘I bet you would. Help me out of these wet clothes perhaps?’

      ‘Well that’s a very depressing way of looking at things. What could be so bad? Look at us, here, tonight, drunk in a glorious city full of beautiful people. What could be so wrong?’

      ‘That’s not enough for me. I need more than that. Five years ago that was enough, but not now. I need more than wine and London.’

      ‘Darling, don’t say you’re tired of London, you know what that means.’

      ‘Maybe I am, maybe I am tired of life. Of my life at least.’

      ‘Maybe you’re just drunk, darling, and feeling a little dramatic. Let’s not be pompous, it does nothing for you.’

      ‘I’m not being pompous … I just feel blue.’

      ‘But Scarlet can’t be blue! What can I do?’ He was stroking my thigh, running his fingers up and down my leg, his digits creeping towards places they shouldn’t. I wanted to shrug him off like a dirty shirt, but at the same time hug him like a five-day-old puppy.

      ‘Christ, I just want something beautiful to happen! And I want it to happen to me! Have I made that many wrong decisions? Are my expectations so disjointed from reality? Have I been that hateful that I don’t deserve to be happy?’

      ‘Fuck all that, darling, just live. Wake up. Just have fun. It’s every man for himself.’

      ‘No it’s not. It can’t be.’

      ‘Well what do you think the answer is?’

      ‘I think the answer is to find somebody who wants what you want. And who wants to be honest. And realises that’s a valuable commodity, if you find it. I need somebody to be my refuge …’

      ‘I completely agree. My name is Tom and I’ll be your air-raid shelter tonight.’

      ‘Oh you’ll agree with anything I say right now.’

      ‘Damn right. You have beautiful eyes.’

      Tom Harvey-Saint took me by the hand and led me outside Gerry’s, into an alley between a pub and a walk-in health centre.

      Tom Harvey-Saint had pecs like paving slabs. I had sex with him in that alley, by accident, in that I let him, I was drunk enough to allow lust to take over. It was violent sex, awful, savage; he thrust into me like a kitchen knife.

      I crawled home to Ben that night in a cab, but slept on the sofa, in case he could sense it somehow, smell infidelity on my skin. I wish I had told him then, or that I could tell him now. Lies are so depressing.

      

      ‘Gerry’s? Are you a barmaid?’ he asks now.

      I turn around. Tom Harvey-Saint leans in the doorway, ready for his close-up. He is as handsome as the last time I saw him. He is tall enough to dominate any room, and dark enough to catch any woman’s eye. He has wide grey eyes and a full bottom lip that looks like it’s just been bitten – it probably has been, for effect. His chest is like a barrel, and his stomach flattens under his belt like a snowboard. He is wearing a dark green short-sleeved polo shirt tucked into khakis. Both of his forearms rest on the doorframe on either side of his head. It looks like a casual pose, but I still can’t get out.

      ‘No, I’m not a barmaid. I’ve just seen you in Gerry’s.’

      ‘Good old Gerry’s. That must be it then. What are you doing here?’

      ‘Make-up. For Dolly. And you and Arabella as well apparently.’

      ‘Fantastic. I’ve never had a Make-up that looks as good as you. Mine are always married with three kids.’

      ‘So you’ve said.’ I nod my head at him, but he ignores it.

      ‘I do feel like I know you though …’ He stares at me and smiles.

      I shrug, grit my teeth and hope he’ll leave.

      ‘Maybe I’ll see you later, then, at Gerry’s?’ he asks. He can’t use my name because of course he doesn’t know it.

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘I’m Tom Harvey-Saint by the way,’ he adds, stretching out his hand to be shaken, knowing full well that I would recognise him from his appearances as Rob McKenzie on Death Watch – if I didn’t recognise him already, that is.

      ‘Scarlet.’ I rush out my answer, hoping he’ll forget it as quickly, and offer him my hand sharply. Instead of shaking it he grabs it, turns it over and kisses my palm, looking thoughtful for a second, flickers of recognition sparking behind his eyes. When I yank my hand back he seems alarmed.

      ‘Sorry, but I’ve just bleached my brushes and I don’t want you to inhale,’ I say.

      I dart past him, making sure not to catch his eye, but the hairs on my arms silently stand up and scream as they graze the hairs on his. His neurons and my neurons or his atoms or my protons or something are diametrically apposed or aligned or whatever the science is that means my body lurches towards him dangerously. There is a dark pocket of something wild that hides deep inside of me that threatens my sanity when I am near a man like Tom Harvey-Saint. I practically run back to Dolly’s room. Shutting the door behind me I catch my breath. I hold my hands out in front of me and see what I already know, that they are shaking. I feel like he preyed on me, and yet I was compliant at the time. I think he realised that night that I was past the point of right and wrong or conscious decision-making, and that it was apparent that I didn’t know what I was doing, or who with. I just try not to think about it. The only person I have told is Helen. She called him all sorts of names, but I wondered, even then, if I was just making excuses for myself, for my actions. I did it. That’s that.