Well, I’m a woman of means now, aren’t I? There’s the money that came to me when they died, mountains of it, how they would jump up and down gibbering like, well, Rumpelstiltskin if they realised how ignorant they’d been in isolating themselves, isolating me, and not making a proper will. And now there’s the house.
Instead of scrambling down the path I lean over the gate and take a few shots of the Jurassic stone arch, the amputated limb separated from the cliffs by the relentless sea. It stands huge, craggy and alone, perfectly shaped, but it will always be a doorway to nowhere. I’ve taken endless pictures of the same scene from different angles, including from right underneath it when the tide is out, but it’s going to be part of a new project I’m assembling. To symbolise my escape. Doors and windows both locked and unlocked. Open, or jammed shut.
Then I march on. If I have the energy this will take me to the other end of the village, and round to the pub, and the estate agent. Then back to the station and home. Yes, home. To London. To Gustav, if he’ll still have me.
A shortcut will also take me through the field where Jake’s caravan is. I can see it now, parked up in a slightly different place, away from the cliffs and sensibly in the shelter of a hedge.
I could avoid it and retrace my steps but that means going back past the house. I start walking, towards the caravan. No harm in saying hi, is there, if he sees me?
The caravan is even more rusty than I remember, but there are new curtains at the windows. Sprigged, small pink flowers. Girlie. Christ, already he’s come over all domesticated. I get closer, and take a picture of the door. It’s a door into what is really a glorified tin can, but it’s a door nevertheless and once that door represented safety and warmth and fun. For a while.
I can hear music playing inside, and raise my hand to knock, but then a sound stops me. A girl’s voice, a laugh, followed by a squeal. Hands slapping on the big window at the front of the caravan. Of course. What was I thinking? I’m not the only one who’s changed. Jake has company.
I walk round to the window and peer through the curtains. And I see them on the pull-down bed, on the old faded duvet. They must have been in a rush to get down to it, because that’s how Jake always is. His jeans and boxers are halfway down, just enough to free his buttocks before thrusting hard into the girl whose legs, also half clothed, are wrapped around his hips. Chipped stiletto shoes dangle off her feet which are neatly crossed, bouncing up each time he thrusts into her.
I remember the feel of that bottom. Smooth, hairless, the muscles bunching inside like fists. It always felt like an onslaught or a fight. A challenge, to see how hard and how fast he could do it once he’d learned how, sometimes waiting for me to come, more often shouting out as he came first, his hands roving briefly over me, down my sides, over my bottom, prising me open, no finesse but who cared about that? Always I was on my back just like this girl is.
She’s kicking those stilettos off now, bringing her legs down, unhooking her knees and ankles, wriggling like a little fish from under him, and I wish I could tear myself away but I can’t move now. She must be a gymnast or an acrobat because she spins in the air like a cat and although she’s tiny she’s strong enough to push Jake down onto his back. He lifts his hands, waggles them in playful surrender. He hated that with me. He hated me being on top when I tried it. He didn’t like me looking like a cowgirl as he put it, but this one, she’s pushing him down easily, poking one red talon into his chest as if she’s just pressing the button on a jukebox.
I step back so they don’t see me, but not before I’ve managed to take some shots of the shoes dangling lifelessly from her bare feet, her long red fingernails digging into his flesh. Her one red talon overpowering him. I’m a peeping Thomasina.
I can’t help it. I know these shots will amuse me later, when I can get my camera out on the train. I sidle back to the window, and then I realise why he’s letting her sit on top. Because her tits are tiny. They curve up in the air like dough rising in a cake tin, like those childish breasts of those Parisian prostitutes in Gustav’s gallery, each topped with a raspberry.
She leans back so they jiggle pertly in the air. Jake’s hands rest loosely on her hips, and she does all the work, head thrown back, yes, definitely a dancer or something nimble like that, eyes closed, red painted lips hanging open like a porn star.
I move away, leave them to it. He’s over me, as I’m so over him. He deserves to have fun. I leave him with his new girlfriend riding him like a cowgirl in the rainy afternoon and walk on across the muddy field into town.
Now everything’s wrapped up. I’m a wealthy young woman. After the final meeting I shake hands with the estate agent and head towards the station.
‘Well, if it isn’t Annie Leibovitz herself, gracing us with her presence.’
Jake emerges from the newspaper office just as I’m passing. He’s dressed for an assignment. The same leather jacket, packed satchel bag slung round him, notepad and recorder in his hand. No wonder they were in such a hurry to get on with it, earlier on in the caravan.
‘Hi to you too, Jake. Why do you say that?’
I press up against the window of the estate agent to get away from him.
He waves the local newspaper at me. ‘You’re the flavour of the month. Didn’t you know?’
There’s a short piece in the review section raving about the exhibition and a photograph of me at the private view, standing next to the Venetian picture, my head leaning back against the wall, my eyes shining flirtatiously at the camera even though I have no memory of the picture being taken.
‘You’re all over the press. A packed party for your debut exhibition at the Levi Gallery, I gather. What or who did you have to do to get that gig?’
I shake my head. Whatever I say will come out wrong. Especially the truth.
‘Look, I’d be happy for you too, if you got a break in journalism, Jake. Why can’t you just be happy for me? And why is it of such interest to everyone down here, anyway?’
He shakes open the paper and shows me the series of photographs which are part of the exhibition. ‘Because we’re in it! Or at least the cliffs and the beach and the village are. So it’s our story, too.’
‘And I’ve put you on the map.’ I turn and carry on walking towards the station.
‘Five minutes, Serena. For old times’ sake. Surely you’re not too high and mighty to give me five minutes?’ He holds out his recorder like a microphone. ‘How about an interview? Now that you’re a sleb? Local girl makes good. For me, Rena? For the village. Get a few more grockles to spend some money down here, at least.’
‘I don’t owe this place anything.’
‘Swallow your bitterness and think of the commercial gain. You could sell these prints as tasteful postcards. It would be good for everyone. Come on. In here. Over your favourite chocolate icing cream bun.’
He holds open the door of the cafe. The smell of the coffee and the icing sugar is too much to resist. I shrug and push into the cafe in front of him, and we play at being interviewer and interviewee.
‘Are you going to say anything about us in the piece? Any personal titbits?’ I ask him, when we’ve exhausted a very short list of questions and answers. ‘I mean, everyone knows that we were, you know, an item, but my love life is of no interest to anyone nationally.’
Jake