I left the restaurant feeling a hot dart of irritation that my midday alcohol could not quite blunt. Still, I had no intention of letting Francesca spoil things. The afternoon was young; I didn’t have to be home for the best part of three hours. I decided to get a tattoo.
My logic ran thus: I’d put around £900 on my credit card today; I might as well round up so that I could draw a neat line under my spending. And since I’d indulged myself – overindulged, my sister would say – I really ought to get something for Beck. Not only would it be a nice thing to do, but it would also pre-empt, and hopefully preclude, any complaints on his part.
I already had one tattoo, a small tribal dragon curled discreetly round my right ankle. But my new tattoo would be, in some sense, even more discreet. It would be on my breast – the right-hand side of my left breast, to be precise, since that was where my heart was. Already emblazoned on my mind’s eye was the pin-sharp image of what I wanted: a butterfly, not much larger than a fifty-pence piece, its wings cherry red and half unfolded, as if it had just that moment landed, or was in the split-second process of taking flight. Delicate, feminine, romantic and sexy; replete with evocative classical symbolism. It was so perfect I wanted to cry. It would be like buying him a work of art, painted on the most intimate of canvases.
I found a nice tattooist called El on the edge of Covent Garden, showed her my dragon so she’d know I wasn’t a novice, and not long after, she was busy sketching the butterfly to my exact specifications.
Being tattooed on the breast, it transpired, was not significantly more painful than being tattooed on the ankle – and anyway, it was the good sort of pain, the one that sends a hot electric thrill pulsing through your flesh. Too soon I was being cleaned, salved and dressed, with strict instructions not to touch it for the next two hours, by which time the small amount of bleeding and swelling should have subsided.
I lay on the sun-drenched grass of Victoria Embankment Gardens for the next hour and a bit, until it was time to go home; and when I got back to my feet, I felt completely intoxicated, as light and free as a feather caught on the gentlest of updraughts.
I sensed something was off-kilter the second I stepped through the door. Beck was home. He came to meet me in the hallway as I stood confused and motionless by the coat hooks.
‘You’re back extremely early,’ I noted.
‘I took the afternoon off.’ His expression was difficult to read.
‘Who died?’
‘No one died, Abby. It’s nothing like that. Fran called me at work. She was worried about you. I’m worried about you.’
I didn’t say anything. It was like a conversation in a dream. It made no sense. ‘Listen. Why don’t you come and sit down for a second?’
‘No, I don’t think I want to sit down. I think I’m perfectly happy here, thank you.’
‘Abby, please.’
I shook my head petulantly.
‘Okay, fine,’ Beck said. ‘We’ll do this here.’
‘Do what here? I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Abby, you’re manic. It’s been building up for days, and now it’s getting out of hand. I’m sorry: I should have said something earlier – much earlier – but I was hoping it was just a phase. I thought if I gave you some time, things might settle down of their own accord. They haven’t. You need to see a doctor.’
‘God! That’s what this is about? Listen, I don’t know what Fran has been telling you, but you know what she’s like. She thinks she knows it all when really she doesn’t have the vaguest clue what’s—’
‘She told me she could barely get a word in edgeways.’
I launched a laugh but he talked right over it.
‘Where are the curtains?’
‘The curtains?’
‘The curtains – where are they?’ He gestured towards the bedroom as if presenting for the jury Exhibit A.
‘Beck, the curtains are in the wheelie bin, which is precisely where they belong. New curtains will be arriving in due course.’
‘When did we discuss getting new curtains?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! I didn’t know we had to discuss it. It’s not like it’s a fucking . . . horse!’
By now, I was having to wipe the tears from my eyes. The whole situation was hysterically funny, if viewed from the proper angle.
‘How much have you spent today?’ Beck asked.
I put my hand to my chest and took several deep breaths to steady myself. ‘Nothing. Not a penny.’
‘Abby, the dress.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you pay for it or did you steal it?’
‘Neither. It’s all on credit. I shall pay for it next month, by which time I—’
He cut me off again. ‘And where are your other clothes? The ones I assume you were wearing when you left the flat?’
‘Fine! So I binned those too. They were old and tired, and I could hardly be carrying them around with me all day. You see, I’ve been doing this experiment.’ I started to talk louder and faster to forestall his next interruption. ‘No, Beck. Be quiet for a second. I have an excellent explanation for all this, which I’m sure Francesca neglected to tell you. The dress was effectively free. You see, there’s a lot of money in fashion features right now, and you’re forgiven for not knowing that, but—’
‘Abby, stop. Please stop. Just listen to yourself. You’re going a mile a minute.’
‘I’ve costed it all out in my head, but you’re welcome to check my maths if you don’t believe me. If I can write around fifteen hundred words at, let’s say, three to four hundred pounds per five hundred words, then – fuck it! Forget the maths. I’ve got something wonderful to show you.’ I patted my breasts, wincing slightly, at which point Beck reached out and took my hands in his, so gently it was as if he thought I was made of china. I snapped my wrists back and raised my voice even higher. ‘No, stop it! This isn’t fair! You’re not listening to me!’
‘Abby, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to ring Dr Barbara. I want you to speak with her.’
‘Leave Dr Barbara out of this! She’s not going to take your side!’
My shout had the desired effect. Beck took a step back and held up his palms. ‘Okay, okay. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. But please come and sit down. I’ll get you some water and we can talk some more. Calmly.’
I could see this was going nowhere – no choice left but to humour him. I threw my handbag to the floor and sat down right where I was in the middle of the hallway. ‘Fine. Terrific. Get me a drink and I’ll sit here and think of five reasons you and Francesca don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’