How You See Me Read online

  ‘I never believed your dad when he told me. I mean about that girl. I told him you must have got yourself confused. Well, it happens, doesn’t it? And a boy like you, after what your mum did to herself. I know, I know, I’m not going over all that now. But it was bound to affect you, wasn’t it? That’s why you got confused.

  ‘But you’re grown now and back with your dad. It’s a good thing you’re doing, Danny. And there’ll be no more confusion now, will there? No more of that business.’

  I want to come home to you, Alice. I’ve had enough of this. I’ll write to Mab; I don’t care how much work she’s got on. I have a job too, after all. And I have you. I need to get out of here.

  Running towards you,

  Dxx

  24th September

  The Studio

  Dear Aubrey –

  I told you I’d be in contact when I knew more and I was going to phone this week. However, after your letter, I thought it would be better to write.

  I appreciate my absence is difficult for you and the last couple of weeks must have been trying, but the fact that I was called away was not my fault. You were generous enough to give me leave and I thought that was because you understood. My father is very ill. I’m afraid there have been a series of strokes. He can’t speak or take care of himself. So I have to take care of him. There’s no one else to do it. This is hardly a holiday.

  All of my notes and final drafts are filed in the computer in the usual way. You can access them using your password. If hard copies are missing then I can only presume they have been misfiled or mislaid. And, if that has happened, it was certainly not my oversight. The implication that I would steal from you is frankly offensive. Why would I have any use for any client’s files? I would have hoped, after the years we have spent working together, that I would have earned a certain degree of trust.

  Yours,

  Daniel Laird

  25th September

  Still here

  Dear Mab –

  I’ve been rewriting this letter for days. It’s strange having so much time to think. Too much time. I’m not neglecting Dad, but he’s still too ill to be considered company.

  The point of this letter – now I’m finally writing it – is that I need to go home. I can’t stay here any longer. Dad’s getting better every day and you may have forgotten what he thinks of me, but I don’t think he has. Not really. The doctors said the brain heals quickly. It’s strange thinking of all those neurons linking up in there. Couple more connections and he’ll remember he hates me. I’m scared every morning when I wake him that this will be the morning he finally recognises me. Then it will all happen like before.

  (Later)

  OK, I’ll be honest. I have met a girl. She’s a patient of Aubrey’s – which of course means there’s nothing wrong with her (apart from trusting Aubrey, and we’ve all been guilty of that). Her name is Alice.

  I met her first through words on a page. Alice Williams. Case Number: 3478. You know the work I do for Aubrey – I see dozens of case files and transcribe hundreds of notes – but this collection of papers was different. It was as if I could smell her perfume on the pages. It was a love letter addressed to me.

  Sure, she has her problems. She cries too easily and quakes with a general fear of life, but it’s not incapacitating. It’s nothing Aubrey couldn’t sort out with a handful of his magic white pills and a quick daddy chat. Still, he signed her up for the full twelve-week course of one-to-one therapy – something it is obvious she can ill afford. And, Mab, I found I was grateful. As soon as I read her words, I wanted to read more. There is a tenderness, a sweetness in her speech that even Aubrey’s callous shorthand cannot obscure. Alice was simply luminous on the page.

  After I saw her outside Aubrey’s office – I waited after her regular twelve o’clock appointment – I realised I’d seen her before, at the Art Gallery a few months ago. She was standing between Nude #62 and Nude #68, looking up at Hylas and the Nymphs. You remember how Dad insisted the Waterhouse remain in situ during his exhibition? I don’t even know why I was there; I usually avoid Dad’s shows. But the Laird exhibition had caused such a stir in Manchester and maybe I just wanted a wander down Memory Lane.

  It was Alice’s hair that made the impression. She’s a blonde, and if you met her you’d say she wore it short, but actually it’s this mass of tight spirals. God knows how long that hair would be if you brushed it straight. But it was that cloud of yellow I remembered. She thrusts her fingers into it as she speaks. It’s like some kind of power source: her speech speeds up after that gesture. It’s remarkable hair – electric hair. More impressive than tears or trembling. More a symbol of her true self.

  (Later)

  It’s impossible to write any of this without hearing your reply. Your voice interrupts every sentence. There is no need to remind me of my own mistakes. They are mine after all; I’m hardly likely to forget them. Alice is not a mistake. This doesn’t mean you needn’t reply – just try to make it unpredictable: tell me I can go home.

  D.

  28th September

  A sweet dream

  Dear Alice –

  I am between your legs, my elbow pressed against the floor of your thigh. Parting the silk of your hair to find the beauty of your cunt. Your body rolls away from me like a landscape. I drink in the scent of you. Your smell is my discovery. It blossoms alongside the perfume of the hyacinths on your bedroom sill. I know when you planted those bulbs: you explained the dirt on your fingers when you came to your session. And now I find them breaking the soil, blooms drawn out by the heat. Between your legs and in your room, discovering you inch by inch.

  Your smell is freshly turned earth, a freshly cut vein. I paint it on my fingertips. I want to daub it on my pulses, the way expensive women wear expensive perfume. The taste of you is the change of texture under my tongue, the secret warmth and flavour that makes you moan and twist. I know everything about you and still there is more to explore.

  Crawling up your body, over your mounds and through your dells, letting my tongue run behind my gaze. Already nostalgic for where I have travelled, yet eager for what’s to come. There are so few adventures in my life. Your face is turned aside, and I’m in your hair. I tease free a strand and lay it in my palm, watching it curl and move. It reminds me of those cellophane fortune fish you get in Christmas crackers, coiling and recoiling in the heat from my hand. You remind me of the first woman I ever loved. A girl with masking tape in her hair and charcoal dust blackening the soles of her feet. But her story is not ours. We will have a happy ending.

  You are the diary of my desires and you are too far away. But I am with you, Alice, even if they will not let me leave here.

  Yours, always yours,

  Daniel xx

  1st October

  The Studio

  Dear Mab –

  The tiniest incidents make a day.

  This morning Dad sat obediently in the bath and waited for me to wash him. I was surprised. I had to help him in, of course, and help him undress the best I could. He insisted on folding each piece of clothing and laying it carefully across the toilet seat. Socks balled into each shoe, as if he were going swimming.

  I lathered a sponge with soap and eased it over his shoulders. He did nothing to help or hinder me, just accepted it. I wasn’t too sure what to do about the bandages on his left leg, so I propped his ankle on a shampoo bottle and worked around them, just dampening the edges of the dressing. There are marks of old breaks in his skin: the bloom of bruises where needles have pressed into him, where they have been taped into place. His body is a chart of scars I can’t wash away.

  I rinsed him off, dipping and squeezing the sponge. I should get a shower head to fix on the taps. Then he stood up suddenly, without assistance, and I grasped his outstretched arms. There was this little old man in a bathtub, his white hair sleek and steaming, a tube linking his prick to the bag of urine resting on the neatly folded clothes. I held his hands and wat
ched the bathwater drip down into the dressing on his leg. The adhesive gave out, and sodden gauze slid into the soapy water.

  I bandaged him back up and got him settled in his chair in front of the TV with a cup of tea and a plate of toast. He insists on having the bloody thing at full volume whatever the programme or time of the day. I can’t even say he watches it particularly, but he seems content with his eyes on the screen, and it allows me to leave off the mindless chatter I keep up until it’s turned on. I think I’m trying to convince him – or should I say remind – that I am an actual person and not some automaton that appears in the morning and disappears at night.

  I made myself busy in the kitchen. You would never believe how domestic I’ve become: I examine every plate and knife and rinse carefully before it leaves the sink; I relish scrubbing the tannin from teaspoons; I polish glasses and hold them to the light. I’m like some underworked barman in the movies. What can I get you, sir? Scotch straight up and an ear for your troubles?

  I whistle in an attempt to drown out the noise from the TV and follow a routine: fold clean laundry from Maggie; sort rubbish; look over Dad’s medication; write tiny shopping lists. It’s mindless work, but I like it. Thoughtless hours can fill up a day. There’s a peace in it.

  By eleven am, I’m on my knees with a plastic bucket getting on with the business of taps and tubes on Dad’s ankle. This job goes best if I just get on with it; Dad’s usually pretty absorbed in the TV and, if I can empty the catheter bag without disturbing or upsetting him, then I count it a success. Then I can tip the lot down the toilet, wash my hands and go out for a smoke. My reward.

  This morning, the bag was emptying, and I was already congratulating myself, when Dad reached out and took hold of my head. It shocked me a bit, but I turned my face up to him and smiled. Think I even said a few words, you know: ‘Morning, Dad. Not hurting you, am I?’ Something like that. He just sat there and stared at me, right at me. He hasn’t done that for days, maybe not since we got back here. And, before I could get started with the usual platitudes, he grinned. A proper loving happy smile, holding my head between his hands and looking into my face.

  I just knelt there and stared back at him. Eventually some noise or light-flash from the TV caught his attention, his eyes flicked back up to the screen and the smile dimmed, but he kept hold of my head. When my legs started to ache, I twisted round so I was sitting at his feet. He stroked my hair. My head was his pet. I didn’t want to leave. We might have sat there like that for an hour or more.

  When his hands finally slipped away, I felt cold. I checked the catheter, gathered everything up and got rather awkwardly to my feet. Halfway up, he made a grab for me again, this time squashing my face between his palms. He frowned at me, tilting his head, that way he does at a cigarette that has gone out on him. Then he shoved me over towards the arm rest. The bucket of piss nearly fell out of my hands. I laughed. My head was a cabbage. And it was blocking the TV.

  Rewarded myself with two smokes and a bacon sandwich.

  Everyone’s servant,

  Daniel

  10th October

  The Studio

  Dear Mab –

  Did you know there was a dog?

  Maggie turned up with it yesterday and left without it. She seemed shocked that I didn’t remember.

  ‘It’s Tatiana, Danny. Princess fucking Tatiana – how could you forget a name like that?’

  ‘We never had a dog,’ I replied, folding the animal’s ears between my fingers. She seemed friendly enough, but that didn’t mean I wanted her in the house.

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ Maggie sighed. ‘It was that girl’s dog, remember? She brought it back with her, anyways. Third-hand by that time, though, I shouldn’t wonder. Your dad’s had her since.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘We call her Tatty,’ she finished, proudly, ignoring my question and pointing at the dog.

  Cue long calculations of Tatty’s age in both human and dog years. This whole conversation was conducted, of course, in the middle of the street. Finally it came to an end when the dog took up barking and we realised Dad was trying to make it down the steps in his long johns.

  So now we have a dog (I can’t quite bring myself to call her a bitch) and no one seems able to agree on breed. She really does look like a bundle of tatty rags: white, copper and black. I’m sure Freya would love her. She is nice enough and worships Dad. When I got them both inside they settled down to sleep, Tatty like a rug at Dad’s feet in front of the wood burner. That at least explains the fleas. I’ll have to sort out some powder and some special food. Dog or human years, I suspect I’ve acquired another ancient.

  We’re quite the little family, I can’t help thinking, sitting here writing to you and watching them sleep. I’ve even stopped whining for home, I hope you’ve noticed. Alice is on my mind, but I won’t bother you with any more details because, if your last letter was anything to go by, you will never understand. I’ll just send you these dull updates of our dull days and you’ll keep sending your cheques and your postcards and we’ll all get along just fine. Won’t we, Mab?

  Daniel

  21st October

  The Studio

  Dear Alice –

  My sister is inexplicable. She just refuses to let me leave. I’m so sorry, my darling. She’s busy, of course, with her masks and her daughter. And Corsica is far enough away for her to ignore my pleas to be back with you. Mab has never understood love; it’s not in her character. Queen Mab. No love in her name, either.

  We were born into our names, you know. They were already waiting for us. No anxious ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ for our parents. My Dad just asked, ‘Is it Mabel or Daniel?’ and then, ‘Is it Agatha or Daniel?’ The change in mothers didn’t affect that particular question.

  We have different mothers, you see. Dad dropped the moneyed and impeccable Eleanor as soon as he glimpsed my pale, frail mother. He left his first wife with his name – Ms Laird, she is to this day – and his daughter, whom she immediately packed off to boarding school for part of the year and back to him for the summer.

  Agatha never appeared – the very possibility of her disappeared off the edge of that bridge with my mother when I was four years old – but Mabel and I took our places and our allocated titles.

  Mabel Anne Laird. What did they expect when they put that together? Someone steady and reliable, even a little dowdy? Certainly not the raw, screaming, red-fisted infant who fought her way out of the womb to gnaw on her mother’s nipples with her sharp pink gums. Vampire baby – suckling blood. Her mother loves to expand on that particular story. Mabel bit her name in two as soon as she could say it. Keeping the first syllable, the one that filled up your mouth, re-shaping it into a grab, a stab. She spat away the softening -el.

  Mab with a trick up every sleeve; Mab with an answer for everything; Mab, my sister, who saw and heard all there was to see and hear and only spoke the truth when she wasn’t lying.

  Mab was named for a friend of my father’s, a friend I never met but whose Christmas cards would sometimes hang up among the others, strung from beams in the studio. They were unimaginative cards that Mabel sent, obviously selected from a variety pack: plump robins and snowy scenes printed on cheap, flimsy paper. Always the same message: Hope you’re all keeping well! Much love, Mabel xx. Mab would study these cards intently; I caught her fishing them down from their rope to look again at the message, hunting for clues to the shape our father had wanted her to take.

  Mab was her own creation.

  As I say, she came to us for the school holidays every year. Strange, that. I remember her as always there, as if life started and ended when Mab came to stay, but actually our close contact spanned a bare handful of summers. After it became clear that I would grow to bear no resemblance to my mother, my dad rather lost interest in me. The models brought me up, but it was nice to have real family to hand.

  When she was fifteen, frankly too old to be hanging around with us, M
ab turned up sporting the lipstick, the rolled-up skirt and the chewing-gum-smacking insolence that had signified her move into secondary school. My friends and I were playing on Marchmount Street, between the studio and the church. The tarmac on the road had melted and coated the soles of our sandals so we could pick up gravel from the raised footpath. Hobnail boots. Mab was with us, but apart, picking at her cuticles and leaning up against the church wall. She may even have been sent out to keep an eye on me.

  Sebastian Collie walked his bike down the pavement on the other side of the street. Coloured beads ticked along the spokes as the wheels turned. The problem with the Collies was that they’d moved up to the village later than the rest of us. They were the first of the commuters to come, taking advantage of the easy access to the dual carriageway and the otherwise ‘idyllic rural surroundings’. They’d settled in one of the new builds that had appeared at the end of our street. Maggie had told us Mrs Collie asked for lime in her gin and tonic when they’d visited the Bull and she wore make-up all day, even first thing in the morning.

  Back there on the street, it was Rachel Spencer from my class who was the first to speak to him.

  ‘You’re Sebastian from London.’

  ‘Nice hair,’ shouted Martin Phillips.

  This was true: Sebastian did have nice hair. Not hair like any of ours, but long tresses of blond curls that reached past his shoulders. Hair a bit like yours, my darling, though not as fiery. It’s a shame he’s a boy, I remember Maggie saying to us, with hair like that.

  We’d seen Sebastian before, in the shop by the bridge. He was standing in the doorway hand in hand with his little sister whose name I never knew. Both were dressed in neatly ironed London clothes. They were staring at Jack’s tractor which was parked out front. I had wanted to grab those beautiful locks and stuff a handful into my pocket. I imagined it would feel like the spun sugar Maggie had boiled up for us in the studio kitchen. Long strands of gold: brittle, slippery and sticky, all at the same time. I could break off a piece and pop it in my mouth, feel it dissolve.