18
Ash
She is captivated. The man – early twenties, slicked-back hair, earring in one lobe – plays with eyes closed, so he’s not so much performing with his guitar as executing unadulterated union with it. Teardrop shaped, Ash acknowledges, because it sounds like crying, the up and down strokes of the man’s fingernails plucking at the twelve strings to make it sing, complex passages with a percussive, distinctive feel echoing throughout the restaurant. The sound is sad, evocative of loss. Ash can imagine the music accompanying a 1970s black-and-white movie scene where the heroine first learns of the death of her lover, a man she could never have been with anyway (maybe she is already married, or he is, or her parents have forbidden it) but with whom a future is absolutely now out of the question. Oh the grief of it, to have the thing you’ve imagined for yourself crumble in an instant, however unlikely it might have been.
For the seven-minute set Ash does not move, transfixed, eyes on the young man capable of eliciting such strong, deep feelings. It makes Ash think of her own losses, and of home,back in Bristol, of her daily life there. Her house is beautiful. She’d get up at six-thirty, make her tea, light a candle, write in her manifestations journal. She’d head to a morning Pilates class at a nearby private studio, nip home, shower, be in the office with hair done and make-up immaculate by nine. A day at the computer, meetings, strategising, organising, occasionally lunch out with Willow but more often than not a salad delivered to her desk. And at six, maybe out for yet another first date, the occasional meal with the work girls or an old friend from her twenties who inevitably has to get back home early because her husband doesn’t like to do bedtime routine alone, or one of the kids is asking for her. The gulf of a different path widening between them, no matter the leaps they make to try and keep things in common. Home, then, to her beautiful house that is empty, where she watches TV alone, or reads alone, or miserably swipes on an app, alone, of course, failing to see how it could be the way to meet anybody yet struggling to understand how else to make it happen.
Ever since CJ made that comment, said maybe Ash doesn’t want kids as much as she says she does, she’s thought of little else. At first she was furious, because what the hell does CJ know? But then she spoke to Mona about it, about what it is like to be childless, and Mona made her understand that maybe, possibly, it is OK to at least explore what else is possible for her, that it wouldn’t be the end of the world for Ash if she never became a mother. Does she need to be more like CJ, and just go for it alone? Or does she need to be more like CJ in that she has to find the courage in her choices, to decide something with her whole chest, chin up, even if itflies in the face of convention? Fucking CJ, with her cargo pants low on her hips, an unusually feminine, blue broderie anglaise vest on tonight, square neck, thick straps, revealing an inch of flat stomach. CJ moves through the world with such self-assurance. What must that be like, to be certain of yourself that way, to be sure of anything? She doesn’t even wear make-up, doesn’t do anything with her hair. Ash feels like liquid compared to CJ’s solidness. CJ holds her form. Ash is malleable, takes the shape of whatever container is holding her. She needs a backbone, is what she needs. Needs to stop fuckingwaiting. Waiting to be chosen. Waiting for it all to begin. The music plays and Ash sits there thinking,all I have is now. And I am wasting it.
She feels a hand slide into hers. Looks down. A tissue has been deposited into her palm. She glances up. CJ is blurred, but smiling, concerned. Ash is crying. Shit, when did that happen? Silent fat tears run down her cheeks, like they come from a tap. She blinks, the music stops, there’s a pause and then a roaring gush of appreciative applause and Ash is blowing her nose, wiping her eyes, turning to CJ and trying to sound like she’s in on the joke, that she knows she’s ridiculous, blabbers, ‘I do actually do things other than cry, you know.’
CJ’s face is soft. ‘It got me too, actually,’ she says. ‘He was fucking brilliant. Like, one of the best I’ve ever heard.’
Ash nods, divests herself of the last of her tears and snot. ‘Jesus, I need a drink,’ she says, forcing a laugh, right as bottles of crisp white wine are deposited onto their table, appetisers slipped between them.
‘Here,’ CJ says. ‘Allow me.’
Ash watches her sinewy, muscled arm reach for a bottle and has another flashback to the dirty talk about CJ with Luis. Ash swallows, lets CJ fuss over her, feels her throat tighten for some reason, breathing get shallow. CJ is talking and Ash is smiling, but she’s not hearing what she’s saying. Ash is too panicked, too worried that her new-found respect for CJ, Ash’s relief at seeing a kinder side to her, her interest in how she got to be exactly who she is, is coming off too strong, like she fancies her or something. She takes her glass, gulps down several sips of the ice-cold liquid, and looks around the room. Luis is looking at her. Ash holds his eye. She hasn’t spoken to him since the other night – in fact, this is the first time she’s seen him. Would she have ignored him, if he’d been downstairs in CoLab as she’d passed through on her way out? Hmmm. That’s not really her style. Although tonight, she has to admit, she did busy herself chatting with other CoLab guests as they met up outside the building, ostensibly waiting for Luis to approach her first. Then she got saved by CJ, and she was thankful. Willow finds it hilarious, that her Lisbon enemy has now become her new Lisbon friend.
‘You’re too nice,’ Willow said, on a FaceTime. ‘I’d quite get off on having an enemy. But I respect that about you. We’re too old to hold a grudge, I suppose.’
Luis gives Ash a half-smile, a far cry from the over-confident smirks he usually gives.
‘He’s waiting for his moment to apologise, I think,’ CJ says, leaning in to Ash.
Luis must sense CJ is talking about him, because hequickly looks away, laughs too loudly and a second too long at somebody else’s joke. His gaze flickers their way as he does it, checking in.
Ash returns the uncertain sort-of-smile and says to CJ, ‘He said that, did he?’
‘He didn’t have to,’ CJ replies. ‘I know him. Even though he can be an idiot, he can’t stand to think he’s upset anybody.’
‘It’s not him I’m mad at,’ Ash says, cutting into a crispy rice ball with her knife, and using her fingers to pop half of it into her mouth. It is insane. Flavourful and just salty enough. ‘Oh god,’ she says, interrupting herself. ‘Have you tried these yet?’ She covers her mouth with her hand to finish chewing as CJ says she hasn’t.
‘Here,’ Ash insists, spearing the other half on her plate and holding out her fork to CJ. ‘Jesus, I could start a whole new life here just for these.’ CJ looks unsure as Ash moves the fork towards her, and Ash only realises once she’s fed CJ that it is horribly over-familiar. She thinks of the night she arrived, when she met CJ at reception and fleetingly thought,oh! A friend!CJ’s iciness had unnerved her so much because she’d got that wrong, but now they are starting to get to know one another Ash is probably playing it remarkably uncool.Memo to self, she reflects:don’t feed people. It’s just weird.
Relieved CJ doesn’t call her out on the thoughtless (but well-intentioned, let the record show) act of over-familiarity, she helps herself to another rice ball so she has an excuse to take a moment and recalibrate.
‘Sorry,’ CJ says. ‘You said it’s not Luis you’re mad at. Does that mean you’re mad at me, or …?’
Ash swallows theatrically. ‘I could never in a million years outright ask somebody if they’re mad at me. I’m impressed.’
CJ baulks. ‘If you don’t ask, how do you know?’
‘That’s the whole point,’ Ash says. ‘You don’t. The game is to cower in fear that everyone is secretly mad at you for things you have never even considered.’
‘Noooo,’ says CJ, seeming genuinely amazed. ‘You’re shitting me, aren’t you?’
Ash shakes her head. ‘Nope. Imagining folks are mad at me since 1987. You don’t have to pity me. I’m remarkably good at it. The best. The champion of thinking I’ve pissed people off. You can’t pity a champion.’
‘Ash, babe,’ CJ says. ‘Drink more. Exhale. Let it go.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard it can be that easy to undo thirty-eight years of social conditioning.’
‘I’m pretty sure it can be.’
‘Right.’
CJ sets down her glass. ‘Here,’ she says, holding out her hands. ‘Give me all your fucks.’
