The Heart Goes Last

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XI | RUBY SLIPPERS Flirt

Charmaine and Ed are having dinner at Together, which is the very same restaurant where Charmaine had dinner with Stan that first night they were at Consilience, before they’d actually signed in. It had been so magical then. The white tablecloths, the candles, the flowers. Like a dream. And now here she is again, and she must try not to remember that first time, back when everything was still simple with Stan, back when she herself was still simple. When she’d been able to say what she really felt.

But now nothing is simple. Now she’s a widow. Now she’s a spy.

She’s finding this date with Ed a little difficult. More than a little: she doesn’t know how to play this, because it’s unclear what he wants, or not what: when. Why can’t he just blurt it out?

“Are you feeling all right?” Ed says with concern, and she says, “I’ll be fine, it’s just …” Then she excuses herself and goes to the ladies’ room. Grief must be expected to overcome her from time to time, which it does, truly, only just not right now. But the ladies’ is a reliable place, a place a girl can retreat to at moments like this. The dinner hasn’t even started, and already she needs a time-out.

It’s soothing in here; luxurious, like a spa. The countertops are marble, the sinks are long and made of stainless steel, with a line of tiny faucets endlessly shooting thin streams of silvery water. The towels aren’t paper, they’re soft white cotton pile, and happily there’s no air dryer that blows your skin into flesh ripples up as far as your wrists; she hates those, they make you realize that your skin could be peeled off like an orange rind. When there are no towels, she’d rather take her chance with the microbes and wipe her hands on her skirt.

There’s lotion that claims to be made from real almonds: Charmaine rubs it on her inner arms, breathes it in. If only she could just stay in here, for ever and ever. A woman place. Sort of like a nunnery. No, a girl place, pristine, like the white cotton nighties she had at Grandma Win’s, when she could be clean, and not hurt and afraid. A place where she feels safe.

The toilets play a tune when you wave your hand in front of the toilet paper dispenser. The tune is the theme song of Together; it’s from some old song about not having a barrel of money and wearing white-trash clothes, and having to travel along, side by side all of which was more or less the way it had been when she and Stan were living in their car; but in the song, none of that matters because the two of them are together, singing a song. A song about being together, for the restaurant called Together.

It’s lying, that song. Not having any money does matter, and having to wear those worn-out clothes. It’s because all those things matter that they signed into the Project.

She checks herself in the mirror, refreshes her lips. Why is it she’s finding Ed so hard to be with? It’s because he’s like that weirdo psycho nerd who admired her so much in high school, what was his name …

Get real, Charmaine, her reflection says to her. He didn’t just admire you. He had a nauseating sexual crush on you, he used to slip anonymous notes into your locker, to which he seemed to have the combination even though you changed the lock twice. Those notes – typed, but not emailed, not texted, he was smarter than that – those notes listed your body parts and which ones he most wanted to slide his hands over or into. Then came the day of the damp tissue left inside her jacket pocket, reeking of jerkoff; that was truly icky. Why had he thought she’d find it in any way attractive?

Though perhaps the goal was not to attract her. Perhaps the goal was to repel her, then overwhelm her despite her aversion. The wet dream of a boy who hoped he was a lion king but who was really just a slimy loser.

She returns to the dining room. Ed stands up, holds her chair for her. The avocado with shrimp appetizer is in place, and a bottle of white wine in a silver bucket. He raises his glass of white wine and says, “To a brighter future,” which really means “To us,” and what can she do but raise her glass in return? She does it modestly, though. Tremulously. Then she sighs. She doesn’t have to fake the sighing. Sigh is what she feels.

She blots the corner of her eye, folding the trace of black mascara up in the serviette. Men don’t like to think about makeup, they like to think everything about you is genuine. Unless of course they want to think you’re a slut and everything about you is fake.

“I know you must find it hard to believe in a brighter future, so soon after … ,” he says.

“Oh yes,” she says. “It is hard. It’s so hard. I miss Stan so much!” Which is true, but at the same time she’s pondering the word slut. Just one letter over from slit. It was Max who’d pointed that out, pinning her to the floor, Say it, say it … She presses her legs together. What if she could still … ? But no, Jocelyn stands between them, with her sarcastic look and those blackmailing video. She’ll never let Charmaine be together with Max, ever again.

That’s over, Charmaine, she tells herself. That’s gone.

“He died a hero,” Ed says piously. “As we all know.”

Charmaine looks down at her half-eaten avocado. “Yes,” she says. “It’s such a comfort.”

“Though in fairness,” he says, “I have to tell you that there are some doubts.”

“Oh,” she says. “Really? What kind of doubts?” A wave of cold sweeps up from her stomach. She flutters her eyelashes. Is she blushing?

“Nothing you need to be troubled with right now,” he says. “An irresponsible rumour. That Stan didn’t die in that fire but in a different way. People will make up some very malicious things! Anyway, accidents do happen and data gets mixed up. But I can take care of that rumour for you. Nip it in the bud.”

You jerk, she thinks. You’re bribing me! You know I killed Stan, you know I have to pretend he died saving chickens, and now you’re twisting my arm. But guess what, I know something you don’t know. Stan isn’t dead, and pretty soon I’ll be together with him again.

Unless Jocelyn is lying.

“You still working on that?” says the server, a brownish young man in a white dinner jacket. At Together they want everything to look like a movie, an old movie. But no one in an old movie would ever have said, You still working on that? as if eating is some kind of a job. He forgot to say ma’am.

“No thank you,” she says with a quavery little smile. Too sad, too refined, too battered by fate, to do anything so hearty, so greedy, so gross, as chewing: that’s her story. She can pig out when she gets back home. There’s a packet of potato chips in the cupboard, unless Jocelyn and Aurora have helped themselves the way they’ve helped themselves to everything else in her life.

The server whisks the plate away. Ed leans forward. Charmaine leans back but not too far back. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn the black V-neck. It wouldn’t have been her choice, but Jocelyn had selected it for her. That, and the push-up bra underneath. “You have to suggest that he might be able to look all the way down,” she’d said. “But don’t let him actually do it. Remember, you’re in mourning. Vulnerable, but inaccessible. That’s your game.”

Working in secret with Jocelyn like this – it was like being on TV. She’d made her face up carefully, with a little extra powder for the pallour.

“I respect your sentiments,” says Ed. “But you’re young, you have a whole life ahead of you. You should live it to the fullest.” Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It’s descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn’t have left so carelessly lying around on the table.

“It doesn’t feel like I could do that,” says Charmaine. “As if I could live it to the fullest. It feels like my life is over.” It would be shockingly rude to remove her hand. It would be like a slap. His hand covers hers: it’s damp. Pat, pat, pat, squeeze. Then, thankfully, withdrawal.

“We’ve got to get the roses back in your cheeks,” says Ed. Now he’s being fatherly. “That’s why I ordered steak. Bump up your iron.”

And here’s the steak in front of her, seared and brown, branded with a crisscross of black, running with hot blood. On the side, three mini-broccolis and two new potatoes. It smells delicious. She’s ravenous, but it would be folly to show it. Tiny, ladylike bites, if any. Maybe she should let him cut it up for her. “Oh, it’s so much,” she breathes. “I couldn’t possibly …”

“You need to make an effort,” says Ed. Will he go so far as to pop a morsel into her mouth? Will he say, “Open up?” To head him off, Charmaine nibbles a sprig of broccoli.

“You’ve been so kind,” she says. “So supportive.” Ed smiles, his lips now glossy with fat.

“I’d like to help you,” he says. “You shouldn’t go back to your old work in the hospital, it would be too much of a strain. Too many memories. I believe I have a job you might like. Nothing too demanding. You can ease yourself into it.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. She must not sound eager. “What sort of job?”

“Working with me,” says Ed. “As my personal assistant. That way, I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not overstrained.”

You don’t fool me, thinks Charmaine. “Oh, well, I’m not sure … That sounds …” she says as if wavering.