I plonk myself down on the steps outside the gallery and scramble in my bag for my water bottle. I sip at it and then lose some minutes. Find some stillness. I am wearing dark blue trousers, so my shins quickly became hot. I take off my jacket and the skin of my arms soon tingles as the sun scorches. Sweat pools on my back. The shock of the news of my father’s death is spreading through me, paralyzing me. If it was raining, I would have probably still been rooted to the steps, drenched, so the sun is a gift.
There are a large number of people sitting in the forecourt and I am glad of it. I want humanity buzzing about me. Vibrant, alive. Blocking out what I obviously need to think about, process. Everyone is notably more buoyant than usual because of the unseasonably brilliant weather. I try to decide how much I want to commit to being involved. Striking up a conversation with a stranger would at least pass the time.
Waste time.
The thought makes me more nauseated. I don’t want to think about how much time I have already wasted. Time I’ll never get back. You only get one life. My father’s is over. His death has left us both exposed.
The Royal Academy attracts an eclectic bunch. Mostly earnest gray-haired types. There are worse things to be. Some people are cheats, or liars. Some people dodge their responsibilities. Some people are stuck in the past and waste the now. There are women wearing brightly colored skirts and scarves, gossiping with their friends about their grandchildren and daughters-in-law. I spot an elderly gent with a yellow tie and hat from a different era, a girl with a leopard-print skirt, a young man with a purple Mohican. Every detail of this kaleidoscope of humanity becomes tattooed on my brain.
There are schoolgirls picnicking on the steps too, chatty, giggling, breathless. My eyes graze, my ears cherry-pick their conversations about sandwich fillings, boys and homework. They are given a two-minute warning that they need to leave. Their noise level rises as they begin to stand up, look for bins to deposit their waste. They need to find the loos, visit the gift shop, take one last look at… As they file past me—untidy gaggles, some still chewing, hungrily, others patting their flat bellies and yet worrying that they’d eaten too much—I am struck by the length of their legs and the smell of them. They look like teens but smell like children: sweat, crayons, paper, chocolate, excitement, a bundle of all that. Something in my heart swells, pinches, then relaxes. Groups of children always leave me with that sense of treasure found and lost. Their skirts are wound up at the waistband, apparently that doesn’t get old.
The schoolgirls vanish under the cool arches, leaving the sanctuary of the gallery and spilling back onto the London streets; the packed tube, the chaotic queues, London proper.
I close my eyes and lean back against the low wall near the steps. I think I must drift off to sleep. My body and mind closing down, shutting out. I’ve always been good at that. Switching off is a survival technique. I don’t know if it’s moments, minutes, hours later when I wake up, disconcerted. I can smell marijuana. The earthy, herby, somewhat sweet scent always slightly embarrasses me as I’ve never tried any drugs in my entire life. I know, extraordinary—and so smelling hash is basically a signal that someone infinitely more daring than I am is in the vicinity. Yet, I am also aware that hash is considered the gateway drug, soft—teens sometimes don’t class it as a drug at all—so I also judge marijuana smokers as faintly loser-ish. I open my eyes, expecting to see an unkempt, beanie-wearing bloated guy with a chubby roach indiscreetly hanging out his mouth. Instead I am met with the embodiment of sophistication, beauty, confidence.
Love’s first imprint is precise. This is the when. This is the where. I will never understand the why.
He is wearing a crisp white shirt, and a dark blue tailored suit. He is lean, tanned. His blond hair is just long enough to suggest rogue, rebel, but not too long so as to alienate his wealthy clients or powerful peers. I think this man most likely does have both wealthy clients and powerful peers, my guess is lawyer or merchant banker. I wonder what he was doing so far from the city at—I check my watch—at 4:15 p.m. The lateness surprised me. I should be back at the office. How have I let time slip away from me? But I don’t rise to go. Something about the sunshine, the sweet scent, the sexy smile stops me.
He does have a sexy smile. He is a coiled man, ready to spring.
He holds the roach out toward me, as though we are old friends. He raises his eyebrows, questioning, daring. I shrug, all insouciance, and take it from him, draw on it. First time ever. The smoke hits the back of my throat, leaving me feeling excited and scared. And I know, just know that this is our pattern carved out right in this moment. Everything that happens from now on will be a repeat of this simple action. This is who I am when I am with him. This is who he makes me be. Who he allows me to be. A woman who tries things, who takes up dares. A woman who smokes a joint, who takes pills, who talks to strangers, who drops to her knees to deliver a blow job in a public loo.
I don’t know how I know that the rules have all been thrown out of the window, but they have.
The smoke passes down my throat, wraps itself around my lungs. It is as though I am taking my first breath ever. As I breathe out, I feel the tension pour from me. I look to the ground, expecting a steaming pile of fear or regret. I am surprised to see nothing other than a paving stone, a small insect scurrying, popping up from one crack hiding down in another. I take another drag. The air is warm. A huge cocoon. After an afternoon in the sun the skin on my face is tight, slightly seared.
“Do you want to go for a drink?” he asks. I nod. “I’m Daan,” he says.
“You have an accent,” I comment clumsily. It could have been worse. I could have blurted that I like accents.
“I’m Dutch.” He nods at the roach, as though his nationality explains everything. He doesn’t really believe he is breaking the rules by smoking this in public, although of course he is because the law is different in the UK. His shrug suggests the rules are beneath him, provincial.
“I’m Kai.”
“Cool name.”
He stands up and I note his powerful build—he is way above average height. Six feet four, maybe five. He stretches his hand down to me and pulls me to my feet. He doesn’t let go of my hand but threads his fingers through mine and I let him. It should be odd, but it isn’t—it’s the most natural thing in the world. He leads the way. Mentally I accept that is pattern two set in stone. He leads, I will follow.
He knows a place. I like that. It’s refreshing to meet a man who has ideas about what we should do and where we should go. I find myself on a rooftop bar; the view offers flashes of buildings in the throes of regeneration and gentrification. I feel dizzy thinking about how exciting it is to be up above. Looking down. Money allows that, I suppose. By 5:30 p.m. we have already drunk a couple of gin and tonics each. The music thumps around me. I feel it in my head, chest, knees and between my legs. Or is that him I feel inside me? Not literally, of course. Not yet. But I think that is where this is going. Where we are going. There is an immediate and intense sexual attraction, the sort that is rare and coveted. It feels as though he has climbed inside me. That I’ve accepted him.
Everyone is younger than I am on this rooftop, in their twenties and early thirties. Daan tells me that he is thirty-five. I throw caution to the wind and tell him my age; he seems delighted. “Ah, an older woman.” He smiles wolfishly and buys me another drink. We move on to tequila shots. We lick salt off one another’s hands. Who am I? I don’t know. Not myself. No one.