Extract from Carpe Diem

Lydia Bunt

I stood in the shadows outside Brixton House. Across the road, at the entrance to Brixton Village, Fish, Wings & Tings had its shutters open. The smell of curry goat and chickpea stew slackened into the evening. A summer shower had just ended, the breeze dying down. A few people braved the outdoor trestles, clutching rum punch. Music coasted from the courtyard booth, floating across Coldharbour Lane towards me. Soho-bound Ubers whizzed past, so the inside of the covered market appeared only in flashes: the shopfronts dressed in yellow, lime, vermillion, the passing-in and -out of people, the twinkle of strung-up lights.

Directly opposite me was a familiar red brick façade. I raised my gaze to the painted sign: Sanitary Steam Laundry. Lights glittered through the windows, plated food spinning as if of its own accord. A couple walked along the street, holding hands. One guy bent to kiss the other as he opened the restaurant door. The tinkle of glass slipped through the crack. 

With it, a memory escaped. Ah, that was it. We’d had an anniversary dinner here, years ago. White cloths, low lights, hot plates, orange wine. Brixton had felt brand new then, even the chicken boxes and the chewing gum. As we talked, our hands knitted through the wine glass stems. Ed’s hair was longer, his face boyish without the three-day stubble he always had these days. I’d usually say his eyes were grey but, that evening, they’d looked blue. He’d looked at me like he couldn’t believe his luck.

The door shut behind the couple. I blinked, turning back to Brixton House. I should go in. Why hadn’t I gone in? I’d told Ed I might be going to the exhibition tonight. Besides, I saw friends all the time. This wasn’t different. Breathing deeply, I pushed the revolving door.

The foyer was all concrete and velvet, polished floors and scattered chairs. A bar reclined along the back wall, a metal staircase twirling up to the left. The ceilings bared their beams and pipes. Even on a weeknight, it was rammed in here. It felt nice to be on the inside.

I turned to an attendant. She wore her monogrammed polo shirt with an ankle-length denim skirt, platform boots and a nose ring. Her wolf cut was dyed light pink. 

‘Hey – I’m looking for Wandering Forms? I’m a friend of Ollie’s.’

‘Yeah, of course. Studio Six.’ Smiling, she motioned up the stairs. I felt distinctly uncool. I’d used to have a nose piercing like that at uni, but I’d stopped wearing it when Ed said I looked like a prize bull. Maybe I should have kept it. I pulled out my hairband and my hair cooled my cheeks as it uncoiled. Why was I so flushed? I hadn’t even had a drink. 

Dark inside the studio. I took a wine off a floating tray. As my eyes adjusted, the first sweet-sour gulp eased my nerves. Was Ollie among the passing shadows? There were large pouffes with tangles of headphones and cushions. I discarded my glass, donned a pair of headphones – was that what everyone else was doing? – and lay on my back. The scuffle of footsteps faded. I looked up.

There! Video projections slid across the ceiling. The display had no start or end. But as the projections moved, they morphed. A railway station crowd became a flashing switchboard. A sleeping girl curled and curved and then she was a smartphone. A couple, talking with hands clasped, faded to a mess of factory tubes. From the headphones pulsed a heady symphony. Was it techno? Now trance? Now classical? The word snatches waned quickly, so I focused on the images. They kept coming. Mid-movement, a power station faded into a field of flowers. 

A touch on my shoulder. Ollie, standing up, smiling down. I slipped off a headphone. 

‘Had enough yet?’ His voice caught a little in his throat. 

‘Not at all.’ He sat next to me, not too close. Beard trimmed and sideburns freshly razed – he must have had a haircut since the party. He looked younger with shorn hair. Same gold hint in his earlobe, flashing in the dark. Oversized shirt – I squinted – yellow with blue pinstripes, spilling over navy chinos. An inch of space between our thighs. My nose wanted more of his smell: skin and sandalwood and a hint of beer. He nursed a Peroni, tossing it between his hands. He seemed less confident than the time before – sweetly so.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d make it in the end.’ 

‘I had to see this up-and-coming artist.’ I motioned upwards. ‘Do you know him?’

He laughed, flushing. ‘Yeah. Pretentious git.’

‘No, it’s fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ I meant that. I hadn’t done much work with video art but, even now I’d looked away, Ollie’s images were still there, snaking lights and impressions in the black when I blinked. ‘Where did you get the idea?’

‘I guess—’ He worried at his beard. ‘I’ve always been interested in how people, nature and technology fit together. And I know how cliché it sounds, but I got really into video when I was travelling around Europe.’ His voice became quicker, more earnest, and I realised I was listening, actually listening, hooked on what was coming next. His speckled eyes fastened onto mine. ‘It captures how quickly things move in life. How transient we all are. Other forms can’t do that.’ He laughed jerkily, looking down. ‘I guess it’s quite Berlin.’

‘I aspire to be more Berlin.’ I held out a pair of headphones, steadying myself against the seat. ‘Watch with me?’

He made a face, but took them. ‘As it’s you.’ That sent a curl through my stomach. He lay down close beside me, so close we were almost touching. Across the ceiling swam an orange carp. Directly above us, it became a laptop. A night time cityscape – New York, Tokyo, I didn’t know – morphed into a playground, children flying on the swings. A chain link watch dissolved in a flutter of green leaves. The headphones crackled with synth and violins.

Was that the pressure of his leg against my jeans? I felt it so lightly it was barely there. But yes, that was the push of his thigh on mine. My insides twisted with the thrill of it. I inched my hand out. In the darkness, my fingers brushed skin. His hand. Quickly, I pulled away. It could have been a mistake, right? Had he noticed? He was getting up, pulling off the headphones. 

‘So you didn’t manage to get your husband to come?’ He was looking away.

‘No.’ I fumbled to remove my own headphones. ‘No chance of that.’

‘What keeps him so busy?’ He interlaced his fingers. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘He’s a lawyer. Like, cross-border disputes or something.’

‘How did you guys meet?’ 

‘Oh, well – at university, ten years ago now.’

‘Love at first sight?’

‘More like opposites attract.’ 

‘The millennial Elizabeth and Darcy.’ He looked at me. His lips held a smile’s trace.

‘Pride and Prejudice? That’s not very Berlin of you.’ 

‘I’m more of a Northanger Abbey man. Much grittier.’

‘Practically a pavement.’

He laughed then, tossing his head back, his shyness filtering away. ‘Anyway, I can still believe in love, can’t I?’ His laughter unwound my own tongue. 

‘Any of that stuff in your life?’ I said.

‘Alas,’ he said. ‘Single at present.’ Our eyes met, then I looked down. 

‘I like the shirt,” I said. “It’s giving…I found it in my nan’s closet.’

He pushed my shoulder playfully. A soft touch, but I felt the impact after he’d removed his hand. ‘Mum’s closet, actually. I was trying something out.’

‘The two of you share clothes?’

‘Oh, no. She’s just not around anymore. I took it from her things last time I was home.’ 

‘Oh, right. I’m sorry.’ I felt my cheeks redden. I’d been too personal. After all, I barely knew him. Doubt dripped between my shoulder blades. I shouldn’t be here with a guy I’d just met, forcing him to open up to me, while Ed was stuck at the office. 

‘Well, this has been great,’ I said, reaching for my bag. ‘I might head.’ 

‘Hey, wait.’ He reached out and brushed my hand. It definitely wasn’t an accident this time. When he pulled away, the hot impression of him stayed. 

‘Brixton Village is around the corner. Have you eaten yet?’

‘No, but – don’t you need to stay? It’s your exhibition, after all.’ 

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘They don’t need me kicking around.’ He glanced around the gallery, caught the eye of a staff member and motioned to the door. Clearly he was needed here. But he was choosing to leave with me. Picking me. The guilt trickled away.

‘We could grab food. Or get another drink. Only if you want to.’

His eyes held a sparkle of suggestion. I wasn’t sure what I wanted from Ollie, what I was allowed to take. But he’d made some mark on me, like fingerprints pressed in paint.

‘Yes,’ I heard myself say. ‘I’d like that.’

The covered market was breathing. Lit by the Chinese lanterns and naked bulbs strung between passages, its blue metal rafters shifted like the ribcage of some prehistoric creature. The roof’s glass panes were smudged with dirt, keeping your gaze inside. As we walked in, once familiar smells jammed my nostrils: deep-fried salt cod, smoky jerk, sweet-spicy jollof, burnt-sugar plantain. The concrete walkways were thick with people browsing books and printed fabrics or perched on wobbly stools outside the restaurants. Threads of music spooled from each eatery. Inside, the owners dolloped dishes from troughs: steaming piles of lamb and greens served with a fluff of pounded yam, or crisped barbecue wings with rice and a slash of pineapple salsa. Ed’s choice and mine. We’d used to come down here on Friday nights when we first moved to Brixton, get sloppy and soppy on cheap tap beer and sweet rum punch. We’d stopped going to these casual places I loved when Ed started earning more. Then, as his evenings got busier and busier, we’d stopped going anywhere at all. I put that out of mind.

Signs swung from the sides of shops and restaurants: Jalisco, Eat of Eden, Two Twins Tacos. The ice trays outside Ilias Fish Shop were stacked with silver-pink slivers. Ed always used to hold his nose when we walked past. There was the ambiguous Bibs Konsult Catering Equipment General Store, where I’d once been cajoled into buying a 200-pack of masonry screws I absolutely didn’t need, though tonight it was doing a healthy trade in plastic washing baskets. And there was Patsy’s Enterprise, jewel-hued detergent bottles ramming the shelves. 

‘Yum,’ I said as Ollie peered through the glass. ‘I love Fairy Liquid. So much subtler than a negroni.’ I thought by talking I could dull the steady pounding in my chest. 

He laughed. ‘I won’t take your word for that.’ He stopped outside a black-fronted restaurant. It was dark inside but I could make out clusters of low-waisted jeans with blonde highlights clutching bao buns. Ollie pointed, raising his eyebrows. ‘The herd has arrived.’ 

I laughed, my chest releasing, though I felt he wouldn’t look too out of place in the herd himself, and thought I maybe even liked that about him. 

‘Come on,’ I said. Almost without thinking, I grabbed his hand and pulled him around the corner. His fingers tightened in mine. I wove us through the mess of people, past a restaurant hung with flags, past a couple sipping cloudy pints. This was the place! There were crates for tables – I chose one in the passage. The wooden chairs were painted yellow and blue. The woman cooking in the storefront saw us come and raised a hand in greeting. Ollie sat, pushing curtains of hair out of his eyes. Two unlooped shirt buttons showed chest curls. I swallowed. 

He let me order and, when the food arrived, I thought I might have got too much. Tiny fried fish that went in one crisp bite. Crab fritters seasoned with cayenne pepper. Seafood curry in a copper sauce. Rice and peas that were actually beans. Ackee and saltfish. 

‘I thought we could share everything,’ I said.

‘Sounds great,’ he said. ‘I love fish.’ 

A group my age walked past, and my skin prickled. Who else might I bump into in Brixton Village? Would my friends be kicking about tonight? I poured and sipped the wine, washing down the sudden panic. Ollie, oblivious, dug his fork into the creamy yellow fruit and flaky fish. Watching him, head dipped to his plate, my worry faded. Only a residue remained.

‘Ackee’s a funny thing,’ I said. ‘It’s poisonous when unripe.’ He stopped chewing, mouth full, eyebrows raised, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes that softened me immediately. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘They know how to cook it here. Try the curry too.’ 

‘Trying to put me off?’ He laughed and rolled up his shirtsleeves. As he flexed his fork, I caught a glimpse of the tattoo between forefinger and thumb. Cross outside the lines. He demolished a prawn, looked up again and grinned, and ever so slightly my edges dissolved. 

Two-thirds of the bottle was gone and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a date. 

‘So tell me,’ Ollie said. ‘What are you into? Outside of work, I mean.’

‘Oh.’ This was always a hard one. ‘I have a cat? And I tried Pilates once, but my hip flexors had other ideas.’ I paused. ‘Does drinking with my friends count?’ 

He laughed, and I relaxed, though I hadn’t realised I’d tensed at the question. 

‘Good enough for me,’ he said. 

‘Apart from that—’. I hesitated and he cocked his head, blond streaks catching the light. ‘I’m kind of going through something right now.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ He reached across, maybe tipsy now, and grazed my forearm. He was looking at me over his half-finished plate. It was a look that made me want to tell. 

‘Do you ever want to just sack it all off?’ I said. ‘Do something crazy?’

He smiled, shrugged. ‘I’m an artist. I’m an expert in sacking it off.’ His hand slid from my forearm towards my fingers, almost touching them.

We looked at each other a few seconds longer. I turned away and the moment snapped. 

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s finish this and pay up. I know where we can go next.’ I insisted we go Dutch and then this time he was the one pulling me through the maze, the shop fronts dissolving into a kaleidoscope as the wine loosened the knots in my brain. 

We settled on stools at the craft beer place we’d passed before. We weren’t on the walkway now, but in the bar itself. It was dark, all exposed brick walls and clustered tealights. I slipped off my jacket, baring my shoulders. Ollie was looking. A server set pints before us.

‘What are you into then?’ I raised my voice over the noise, gulping my beer. 

‘Hmm,’ said Ollie, a glint in his eye. ‘Bouldering. Bean-to-cup. Warehouse raves.’ 

I snorted into my pint. ‘Safe.’

‘Sometimes I throw pots too,’ he said, eyes sparkling now. ‘To wind down.’

I pushed him playfully, as he had me at the gallery before. His bicep’s hardness gave me a little rush, like I was a teenager again. 

‘I’ll throw a pot at you if you’re not careful,’ I said.

‘As long as it’s not while I’m scaling the boulder.’

‘What’s wrong with regular rock climbing?’

‘There just aren’t any big rocks in London.’ 

‘It’s the city’s main shortfall,’ I agreed. Laughter fell out of us. Our heads tilted towards each other. His hand skimmed my elbow. The touch sent pinpricks up my arm. 

‘Seriously, though,’ he said. ‘I love going to art galleries. Mostly contemporary ones.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I said. ‘I knew I had a hobby buried away somewhere.’

He smiled. ‘Have you seen the Tate’s got this twenty-fifth birthday thing coming up?’

‘Funnily enough, I’m working on it.’

His eyes widened in that earnest way. ‘That’s so great.’ I wanted to thumb the foam sliver on his upper lip. ‘Must be cool to work for such a big gallery. Is it an editing project?’ 

‘I’m actually doing a bit of performance art. Marina Abramović-style. I’ll be naked. People can draw on me with Sharpies.’ Ollie spluttered. ‘Kidding. Yeah, I’m on the wall texts.’

‘Is – blank – into modern art too?’ He was still smiling, but now he looked down.

‘Ed doesn’t believe in interests.’ An image of him at his computer muscled into my head. The curry and fritters and wine worked through me. Don’t think about him.

‘Not the arty type, then?’ Ollie looked up again and the impression of Ed dissolved in the warmth of his eyes, that knowing glance. My hand reached out and touched his earring, just skimming the skin of his earlobe. My brain was a few seconds behind, playing catch-up.

‘He certainly wouldn’t wear this.’ 

Ollie laughed, cheeks pink. ‘Probably for the best. My ex said I looked like a pirate.’ 

‘Maybe a little bit.’ The blush trickled from his cheeks to mine. ‘When did that end?’

‘Oh, ages ago. I haven’t had anything serious for a while. Not since Mum died, funnily enough.’ He coughed and ran a hand through his hair. I didn’t press him, remembering my earlier slip-up with the shirt, not wanting to spoil our halfway intimacy. ‘Anyway,’ he said, his mouth twisting, ‘I’m not sure we’re supposed to be with just one person, are you?’ 

‘You’re asking the wrong girl,’ I said. ‘I’ve been married for three years.’

‘Quite a while.’

‘I know. Married sounds so old-fashioned, doesn’t it? Like Mrs Bennet’s set me up.’ 

‘A single man in possession of a good fortune,’ he said quietly. 

‘I thought you were too cool for that one!’

He shrugged with a grin. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘It felt like the right thing at the time.’ My mind was bleary with the beer and the wine. I examined the engagement ring on my finger. Ed and I had chosen it together on the Tiffany website. The oval-shaped diamond caught the dim light. It looked like touching it would cut. 

Ollie drank off the rest of his pint, knocking the glass down.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘Do you need to head off?’

‘Do you need to?’

‘No such thing as a school night for me.’

‘Then no.’ The music came back into focus, pressing my eardrums. 

‘Great,’ he said, smiling, and another limit dropped away. ‘Next, upstairs.’

As we walked, a group of twenty-somethings in strapless tops passed between us and I slipped my phone out of my pocket. With a jolt, I saw a message from Ed, half an hour old. 

Still at office. Will leave in an hour X.

I breathed out. Relief with an aftertaste of guilt – that I hadn’t told him what I was up to that evening, that I’d chosen to stay and not to leave. Ed always put full stops at the end of his text messages. I’d tried to tell him it came off as aggressive, but he wouldn’t listen, or didn’t seem to care. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and caught up with Ollie. I felt light.

‘Where are we going?’

He tapped his finger with his nose. ‘You’ll see.’ As we headed to the back of the market, another group pushed past and he shielded me from the onslaught. Unnecessary, but I didn’t object. The people passed, their chatter fading, but still his arm lingered on my shoulder. 

We were climbing a set of metal steps that I’d never noticed before. The noise of the market fell away. At the top, a security guard stood before a curtain. Behind, a different sound: brasher, urgent. Following Ollie’s lead, I flashed my ID. I was sure it was just their policy, but it felt good, doing that – like I could be eighteen again. The guard nodded and stepped aside. 

Past the curtain was a jungle. Psychedelic flowers scaled the walls, dripped from overhead beams and curled around table legs. The paint was pitch, the lighting low. The place was full of baggy T-shirts, low-slung cargos, flat pierced stomachs. Cocktails and colourful cans in hands, speakers booming bass, crunch of skins underfoot. On the way to the bar, I touched a green frond. Plastic. Ollie grabbed a string of plumeria and held it to his nose.

‘Mmm.’ He sighed with pleasure until I laughed. ‘I know it’s a bit naff up here, but wait until you see the view.’ He handed me a drink – when had he bought that? – and I sipped. Bitter orange, swelling fizz. The bubbles sparkled up my nose and flooded to my head. 

As I followed Ollie under an exposed brick arch, a passing train shuddered the floor. I hadn’t realised we were under the railway track. The windows on the other side were open, the night breeze lilting in. Quieter here. Lights even lower. I leaned against the sill and faced the sky, letting the air cool my racing brain. Ollie settled next to me, the sleeves of our jackets touching. That wasn’t helping with the whole cooling my racing brain thing. Adrenaline was running laps of me. A heady, orange-flavoured, undulating high. 

Brixton Road, long and dark, stretched up to Kennington. Yellow spots and yellow squares. Bike lights of workers heading home, bars and restaurants still open. And, in the distance, there was the City again. A City inside a city, like Russian dolls. As if one weren’t enough. And there was the stepped roof of Ed’s building, just behind the Shard. Almost the tallest of them all, the furthest from the ground. He’d still be up there now. Was one of those little lights his? Wherever you turned, the skyscraper followed you like the Mona Lisa’s eyes. 

‘Alright view, isn’t it?’ Ollie said. He turned to me, then started. Instead of the awe he was expecting, he must have caught the fear, the urgency – the longing – in my eyes. 

‘Are you okay?’ I didn’t reply. He leaned in, placing his hand over mine on the sill. His hair was touching my cheek. Then he caught my lips with his. 

We were kissing. He tasted of beer and bitter orange mixed with cigarettes – had I seen him smoke one? – and his beard was rough on my cheek. Faster now. Lips hot-pressed against each other. His tongue skirted my teeth and I opened my mouth to let it in. A feeling, hot and electric, in my belly – a drawstring pulling on my chest. His lips soft and wanting me. Thoughts of wrongness raced through my head. But there was a rightness, too, to the merging of our mouths. His fingers pressed the back of my neck, playing with my hair. There was need in it.  

Then flashing lights from the road below pricked the corners of my eyes. The howl of police sirens diced up the bar chatter. It was enough of a distraction to pull us apart. 

I looked down, pushing my hair behind my ears. The lace on his shoe was coming undone. My cheeks were pinkishly hot. I could still feel the print of him upon my lips. I felt alive – and suddenly a little sick, too. Must be the orange fizz coming back up. Or the guilt. 

‘Well, that didn’t feel serious,’ I said, nudging his loose lace with my trainer tip.

‘No, not serious at all.’ He ignored the lace, found my eyes again and half-smiled. My stomach scrunched anew. The feeling of him wanting me was moreish, like a pill you weren’t supposed to take. Perhaps I shouldn’t swallow it. But I didn’t want to turn it down.