street, which is empty, then sets off, running, towards the bed. Halfway across the room, she leaves the ground in a balletic leap. Innes is saying, ‘Christ, woman,’ the striped shirt is flying out behind her, like wings, the cigarette is trailing white ash, and all she knows is that she is about to make love for the second time that day. She has no idea that she will die young, that she does not have as much time as she thinks. For now she has just discovered the love of her life, and death couldn’t be further from her mind.
She lands on the bed with a crash. Pillows and counterpane are tipped off, Innes seizes her by the wrist, the arm, the waist. ‘We won’t be needing this,’ he says, as he pulls off the shirt, as he flings it to the floor, as he manoeuvres her back on to the bed, as he shoulders his way between the V of her legs. He pauses for a moment to pluck the cigarette from her fingers, takes a drag, then stubs it out in an ashtray on the bedside table.
‘Right,’ he says, as he turns to her again.
But this is anticipating. The film needs to be rewound a little. Watch. Innes sucks in a nimbus of smoke, lifts a cigarette stub from the ashtray, appears to envelop Lexie in a shirt and push her across the room, the pillows jump on to the bed, Lexie zooms backwards towards the window. Then they are back on the bed and they are both naked and, goodness, doesn’t sex look oddly the same in reverse, except now they are lovingly putting on each other’s clothes, one by one, then whisking out of the door, running down the stairs, and Innes is pulling his key out of his door. The film speeds up. There are Innes and Lexie in his car, scooting backwards along a road, Lexie with a scarf over her head. There they are forking food out of their mouths in a restaurant and putting it down on the plates; here they are in bed again and then their clothes fly towards them. Here is a woman in a red pillbox hat walking in reverse away from Lexie. Here is Lexie again, looking up at a building in Soho, then she is walking away from it with a jerky, reversed gait. Lexie is walking backwards up a long, dim staircase. The film is getting faster and faster. A train pulls out of a big, smoke-filled station, rattles backwards through countryside. At a small station, Lexie is seen to get out and put down her suitcase. And the film ends. We are back, neatly, to where we left off.
Lexie’s mother gave her two pieces of advice when she left for London: 1. Get a secretarial job in a big, successful firm because that will ‘put you in the path of the right sort of man’. 2. Never be in the same room as a man and a bed.
Her father said: don’t waste your time with any more studying because it always makes women disagreeable.
Her younger siblings said: remember to visit the Queen.
Her aunt, who had spent some time in London in the 1920s, told her never to use the Underground (it was dirty and full of unsavoury types), never to go into coffee bars (they were full of germs), always to wear a girdle and carry an umbrella, and never to go to Soho.
Needless to say, she disregarded them all.
Lexie stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand. The bedsit was high among the eaves of a tall, thin terraced house; the ceiling, she saw, sloped towards itself at five different angles. The door, its frame, the skirting-boards, the boarded-up fireplace, the cupboard under the window were all painted yellow. Not a vibrant yellow – daffodil yellow, if you like – but a sickly, pale, dirty one. The yellow of old teeth, of pub ceilings. It was chipped off in places, revealing a gloomy brown underneath. This cheered Lexie in an odd way, the thought that someone had had to live there surrounded by an even worse colour.
She stepped further into the room and set down her case. The bed was narrow and sagging, the headboard listing to one side. It was covered with an eiderdown of fading purple
She lands on the bed with a crash. Pillows and counterpane are tipped off, Innes seizes her by the wrist, the arm, the waist. ‘We won’t be needing this,’ he says, as he pulls off the shirt, as he flings it to the floor, as he manoeuvres her back on to the bed, as he shoulders his way between the V of her legs. He pauses for a moment to pluck the cigarette from her fingers, takes a drag, then stubs it out in an ashtray on the bedside table.
‘Right,’ he says, as he turns to her again.
But this is anticipating. The film needs to be rewound a little. Watch. Innes sucks in a nimbus of smoke, lifts a cigarette stub from the ashtray, appears to envelop Lexie in a shirt and push her across the room, the pillows jump on to the bed, Lexie zooms backwards towards the window. Then they are back on the bed and they are both naked and, goodness, doesn’t sex look oddly the same in reverse, except now they are lovingly putting on each other’s clothes, one by one, then whisking out of the door, running down the stairs, and Innes is pulling his key out of his door. The film speeds up. There are Innes and Lexie in his car, scooting backwards along a road, Lexie with a scarf over her head. There they are forking food out of their mouths in a restaurant and putting it down on the plates; here they are in bed again and then their clothes fly towards them. Here is a woman in a red pillbox hat walking in reverse away from Lexie. Here is Lexie again, looking up at a building in Soho, then she is walking away from it with a jerky, reversed gait. Lexie is walking backwards up a long, dim staircase. The film is getting faster and faster. A train pulls out of a big, smoke-filled station, rattles backwards through countryside. At a small station, Lexie is seen to get out and put down her suitcase. And the film ends. We are back, neatly, to where we left off.
Lexie’s mother gave her two pieces of advice when she left for London: 1. Get a secretarial job in a big, successful firm because that will ‘put you in the path of the right sort of man’. 2. Never be in the same room as a man and a bed.
Her father said: don’t waste your time with any more studying because it always makes women disagreeable.
Her younger siblings said: remember to visit the Queen.
Her aunt, who had spent some time in London in the 1920s, told her never to use the Underground (it was dirty and full of unsavoury types), never to go into coffee bars (they were full of germs), always to wear a girdle and carry an umbrella, and never to go to Soho.
Needless to say, she disregarded them all.
Lexie stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand. The bedsit was high among the eaves of a tall, thin terraced house; the ceiling, she saw, sloped towards itself at five different angles. The door, its frame, the skirting-boards, the boarded-up fireplace, the cupboard under the window were all painted yellow. Not a vibrant yellow – daffodil yellow, if you like – but a sickly, pale, dirty one. The yellow of old teeth, of pub ceilings. It was chipped off in places, revealing a gloomy brown underneath. This cheered Lexie in an odd way, the thought that someone had had to live there surrounded by an even worse colour.
She stepped further into the room and set down her case. The bed was narrow and sagging, the headboard listing to one side. It was covered with an eiderdown of fading purple
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