Elise thought about love that night, with Connie’s book splayed open on her chest, the spine cracked slightly under the library plastic. Love. How might it feel? Elise believed that for her whole life she had been tiptoeing round the edge of a volcanic crater whose depths she could not quantify, but which was full of something powerful, something she had never been shown before. Down in that darkness were many happy souls but many dead bodies.
*
For their dinner – their first date, really – they had gone to a restaurant on Dean Street in Soho, called Mariposa. Connie had chosen; dark booths, brass lamps and banquettes of worn red velvet whose shade you sensed but could not truly see. Elise descended the staircase into a space that spanned before her underground: busy, smoky, humming. Women with heavy eyeliner, wearing velvet dresses with warrior shoulders, rubbing against tired City boys and men whose long hair flowed from fashionable hats. Denim, leather, nicotine, money – Elise could taste them on her tongue like elementals.
Connie was already there, and had ordered a bottle of wine. She stood out of the shadows to greet her guest, and Elise was surprised to see how much of an effort she’d made. She looked sensational: plain black cocktail dress, gold chain, her red hair tousled to cavalier perfection. Elise felt a surge of envy: she would like to be thirty-six, and own a house, have published books like Wax Heart, to know about these places in Soho where people like this ate.
‘Hello,’ Connie said.
‘Hello,’ said Elise. She looked down at her clothes: black jeans, white T-shirt. ‘If I’d known, I’d have dressed better.’
‘You look wonderful.’ Connie put out her hand and touched Elise’s shoulder. They smiled at each other.
‘I’ve come straight from the cafe,’ said Elise, sliding into the booth.
‘Seedling.’
‘Yeah,’ said Elise, enchanted that Connie had remembered.
Without asking if she wanted any, Connie poured Elise a glass of wine. ‘And when you’re at the theatre, do you get to see the shows?’
‘Every time.’
‘Do you ever get bored?’
‘All the time.’
Connie laughed as a waiter appeared, a young man with a slender waist and eyes loaded with kohl. Elise tried not to stare at him. Connie opted for pot-au-feu with a side of greens. Elise quickly scanned the menu and chose the steak. ‘Cheers,’ Connie said, lifting her glass. ‘So here’s to waitressing, ushering and life-modelling.’ She took a deep mouthful of the wine. ‘Are there other things you’re keen to try?’
‘Other things?’
‘Jobs? Countries?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Elise.
‘What do your parents think?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Elise, and she stared at Connie as if daring her to ask more. Connie did not. ‘I have ideas for plays,’ Elise went on.
‘Plays?’
‘Yes. I’d like to write a play.’
‘Then you should.’
Elise didn’t know if it was strictly true that she wanted to write a play, but she thought it sounded impressive. It was true that she would sit in the darkness of the National’s three theatres, her eyes heavenwards as the backdrops descended or revolved, turning blank spaces into Victorian drawing rooms, Greek tragedies transposed to post-apocalyptic worlds, rural English idylls, Japan, Manhattan, India. Sometimes she tried to write a scene, but meaning eluded her, in the end the task was too great and she was content with unwritten plans. She could not commit the world to paper. The swirl within herself, its movement, its abstract nature, made perfect sense. She thought that one day it would make its way out of her. But, she thought, not yet. ‘I love being an artists’ model,’ she said.
‘Why?’ said Connie.
When Elise removed her clothes and walked out in front of those students, her body was called upon, willing and adaptable; her lips, her hands, her breasts, her throat, the insides of her legs. She sat still for hours, listening to the light scratch of pencils on thick paper, and walked through the chambers of her mind. Elise was so good at being still that the art college asked her back, again and again. And sometimes, when the students had left for the day, she would wait in the loo and creep back inside the workshop, circling the easels where the day’s work had been left. She was on the hunt for herself, although she was the one who had provided the map. She would wander the paper forest of her own limbs, waiting for the moment of finding the person who had truly captured her. No one had yet succeeded; the treasure remained buried.
She didn’t say any of this to Connie. ‘Because it’s peaceful.’
‘But you stay in one position?’
‘Yes.’
‘For hours?’ Elise shrugged and Connie grinned. ‘You like to be looked at,’ Connie said.
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No. Though it’s quite unusual to admit it.’ Connie smiled. ‘Will you come here?’ she said.
Elise was momentarily confused. ‘Where?’
‘Here,’ said Connie, patting the seat next to her. Elise obeyed, feeling Connie’s cool fingers upon either side of her face, as if she was trying to press Elise into a new shape. ‘I could frame that face,’ Connie said.
The wine made Elise feel as if she was losing control. ‘It’ll cost you,’ she said. She closed her eyes and wondered if the other woman would understand that was a joke.
Connie cupped Elise’s face more gently. She leaned in. Her breath was sweet and hot. Elise could see the bow of her slight mouth, her eyes attentive in the candlelight. ‘How much will it cost?’ Connie said.
‘Fifty pounds a kiss.’
Connie laughed. ‘I said frame, not kiss.’
Connie’s palms fell away and Elise felt caught out. She picked up Connie’s hands from where they sat in her lap, and placed them once again upon her face. ‘I read your book,’ she said. ‘I read Wax Heart.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’re very good,’ she said, holding Connie’s hands tight, and Connie laughed.
*
Elise woke up to discover she was in an unfamiliar bed. She lifted the duvet: she was still wearing her knickers and T-shirt, but her trousers were gone. When had she taken them off? There they were on the floor, like the cut-out of a murder victim. Her boots were at a crooked angle, soles facing each other, kicked off at some point that she could not recall. Where was she? The room was dim, but she could make out walls of green-striped wallpaper, a small wardrobe, a wastepaper basket, everything neat. A large, fluffy tortoiseshell with a big white bib and white paws sat in the middle of the room, surveying her.
‘I hope Ripley isn’t bothering you,’ said a voice at the door.
Elise turned. ‘Ripley?’
‘The cat. Shh, don’t try and sit up.’ Connie came over with a tumbler of water and two aspirin and laid them on the bedside table by Elise’s head.
‘Thanks,’ Elise mumbled.
Connie pulled open the bedroom curtains, and the weak November light made Elise groan. ‘Sorry,’ said Connie, but she did not close the curtains.
‘What happened?’ Elise said, her voice a croak. Connie did not immediately reply. She was looking out at the garden. ‘Connie?’