bitter, it was sweet.
Guess which bottle that came from?
When she guessed correctly she was rewarded with a swig – Campari. It looked as though it should have tasted of raspberries but instead it tasted like medicine. Genie passed the bottle back to Eloise, who glugged from it and passed it back to her.
Don’t worry, shrugged Eloise as Genie realised with a rush of panic that the bottle was now empty, I’ll just tell my mum that she drank it all. She always believes me.
Then she said, Let’s ring Paul.
He had been planning to meet up with his friend Sol that night, he told Genie. But he cancelled his plans when he heard the slurring in her voice.
What kind of mess has Schiele Girl got you into? he said, when he arrived an hour later. He told Genie he would tell her off the next morning, when she was hungover, so it would hurt more; she wouldn’t remember anything he said to her in this state anyway. Then he helped her to the bathroom and held back her hair while she was sick. The vomit was cherry-coloured . When Genie asked, in between retches, where Eloise was, Paul looked annoyed. Your friend , he said, hasleft me to clean up her mess while she dances about in the living room. The Stone Roses, though, he said more gently, so we’ll let her off. He stroked Genie’s hair and wiped her face with a damp flannel that smelt of lemons.
Then he carried her up to bed.
She could tell by the light when she woke that it was early in the afternoon. She was alone in Eloise’s room. Out in the hallway, she saw a bloody lump on the thick pale carpet. It looked like a half-chewed jelly baby. She picked it up and held it to the light. It was a tiny foetus which lay curled like a blue prawn in its sac. It was Bel Gazou’s. A miscarried kitten. Genie followed the thick strings of blood which trailed to the master bedroom. She pushed open the door and that was when she saw them: Eloise, with her hair spread over the pillow, her old lady’s lacy bra unclasped, her small breasts and large, rosy nipples exposed, and Paul, lying over her, nothing on but the chain around his neck, the medal now hovering in Eloise’s face, as though he was trying to hypnotise her.
(ix) The Meeting
Genie opened her eyes, stunned, as the sun kicked sand in them. She felt as she had done ten days ago on regaining consciousness: that same not knowing for a few seconds where she was, or who she was; and if she felt anything at all it was a sense of being scattered, of waking up after an explosion, bits of her blown up all over the place with her limbs all tangled up – tangled up in someone else’s limbs, whoever he was, this boy in the bed beside her. His bed. His flat. Where was she? He was still asleep, his face mashed into the pillow as though he’d fallen from a great height, his arm fixed across her like a crook-lock.
Gradually, she remembered. These last few nights she had spent trawling Paul’s old haunts, looking for him, all the while knowing somehow that her search was futile. Hadn’t Eloise given him money? Would Paul really stay in London? Their London? Genie knew that her search for Paul was not so much born of a belief that she might find him as it was a substitute for that belief.
Her days were spent hungover, going back to the places she’d been the previous night, just in case. All day yesterday she had felt odd, as though she were seeing the world through a yellow filter, and when, in the evening, she had gone to a bar that had once been a local of Paul’s (each successive night saw her go further back into Paul’s past, it seemed), Genie had fallen in with a crowd who vaguely knew him. They looked too cool and at ease with the world to be friends of his. Customers, she guessed. They’d not seenhim for a while, they said, but one of them bought Genie a drink and she ended up staying, feeling grimly committed to the evening, becoming increasingly insular with each drink until finally she fell totally silent, feeling
Guess which bottle that came from?
When she guessed correctly she was rewarded with a swig – Campari. It looked as though it should have tasted of raspberries but instead it tasted like medicine. Genie passed the bottle back to Eloise, who glugged from it and passed it back to her.
Don’t worry, shrugged Eloise as Genie realised with a rush of panic that the bottle was now empty, I’ll just tell my mum that she drank it all. She always believes me.
Then she said, Let’s ring Paul.
He had been planning to meet up with his friend Sol that night, he told Genie. But he cancelled his plans when he heard the slurring in her voice.
What kind of mess has Schiele Girl got you into? he said, when he arrived an hour later. He told Genie he would tell her off the next morning, when she was hungover, so it would hurt more; she wouldn’t remember anything he said to her in this state anyway. Then he helped her to the bathroom and held back her hair while she was sick. The vomit was cherry-coloured . When Genie asked, in between retches, where Eloise was, Paul looked annoyed. Your friend , he said, hasleft me to clean up her mess while she dances about in the living room. The Stone Roses, though, he said more gently, so we’ll let her off. He stroked Genie’s hair and wiped her face with a damp flannel that smelt of lemons.
Then he carried her up to bed.
She could tell by the light when she woke that it was early in the afternoon. She was alone in Eloise’s room. Out in the hallway, she saw a bloody lump on the thick pale carpet. It looked like a half-chewed jelly baby. She picked it up and held it to the light. It was a tiny foetus which lay curled like a blue prawn in its sac. It was Bel Gazou’s. A miscarried kitten. Genie followed the thick strings of blood which trailed to the master bedroom. She pushed open the door and that was when she saw them: Eloise, with her hair spread over the pillow, her old lady’s lacy bra unclasped, her small breasts and large, rosy nipples exposed, and Paul, lying over her, nothing on but the chain around his neck, the medal now hovering in Eloise’s face, as though he was trying to hypnotise her.
(ix) The Meeting
Genie opened her eyes, stunned, as the sun kicked sand in them. She felt as she had done ten days ago on regaining consciousness: that same not knowing for a few seconds where she was, or who she was; and if she felt anything at all it was a sense of being scattered, of waking up after an explosion, bits of her blown up all over the place with her limbs all tangled up – tangled up in someone else’s limbs, whoever he was, this boy in the bed beside her. His bed. His flat. Where was she? He was still asleep, his face mashed into the pillow as though he’d fallen from a great height, his arm fixed across her like a crook-lock.
Gradually, she remembered. These last few nights she had spent trawling Paul’s old haunts, looking for him, all the while knowing somehow that her search was futile. Hadn’t Eloise given him money? Would Paul really stay in London? Their London? Genie knew that her search for Paul was not so much born of a belief that she might find him as it was a substitute for that belief.
Her days were spent hungover, going back to the places she’d been the previous night, just in case. All day yesterday she had felt odd, as though she were seeing the world through a yellow filter, and when, in the evening, she had gone to a bar that had once been a local of Paul’s (each successive night saw her go further back into Paul’s past, it seemed), Genie had fallen in with a crowd who vaguely knew him. They looked too cool and at ease with the world to be friends of his. Customers, she guessed. They’d not seenhim for a while, they said, but one of them bought Genie a drink and she ended up staying, feeling grimly committed to the evening, becoming increasingly insular with each drink until finally she fell totally silent, feeling
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