White Bodies(7)

At one point he makes a special effort with me, saying, “Try this one, Callie; doesn’t it have intriguing overtones, salty and sour at the same time?” and he pops a crumb of goat cheese into my obliging mouth. Tilda now has her arm hanging prettily through his, and she’s looking at me, waiting for a reaction. “It’s bitter,” I say, “not like cheddar.” Then we move on to a stall selling freshly pressed apple juice where a bald guy is pouring juice into miniature paper cups.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says to Tilda, “give this a try.” And then the inevitable, “I know you, don’t I?”

Everywhere she goes, Tilda is recognized as the actress from Rebecca. Even when she’s wearing big sunglasses. She tastes the drink but doesn’t say anything, and, as she returns the paper cup, Felix ushers her away. The bald guy leans towards me and says, “What’s he? Her minder?”

We take a cab to Curzon Street, and Tilda and Felix go to the kitchen space to make a lunch out of their purchases at the market, while I sit on the sofa and flip the pages of the Vogue magazine on the coffee table, sniffing the free perfume and rubbing it on my wrists and neck. I look up and notice that Felix is gazing at Tilda lovingly as she sets things out on plates; he’s watching her when she goes to the bedroom. When she comes out again he says, “Shirt looks good.” She’s put on a floppy salmon-colored blouse, bordering on see-through, and I’m sure that it’s been bought by him, as a present. Even to my untrained eye, it looks expensive.

“Nice,” I add.

She sashays across the room likes she’s Cara Delevingne on the runway, saying, “Givenchy!”

“If you say so.”

I watch her put her arms around Felix and give him a thank-you kiss, delicately, before she stands next to him, so close that their arms are touching, while they attend to the food.

I gaze at Vogue but don’t read. Instead I listen to their conversation, which is mainly Tilda asking Felix questions—“What about Julio?” “How far did you run this morning?” “Do you like my nails?” “Do you like these shoes?” His opinion of mundane things is evidently a powerful bonding force between them, and the atmosphere in the kitchen is intimate and exclusive. Then, out of the blue, Felix says, “Oh fuck it. I didn’t buy sparkling water. . . .”

His aggressive tone and furious face seem to turn the entire room from warm to cold with the sort of shock you get when a shower turns suddenly freezing. And they are totally out of proportion with the problem. I say, “I’m fine with tap water,” and Tilda says, “Me too.” But he’s already halfway to the door, which he slams behind him, and we hear another “Fuck!” before he descends the stairs.

“What was that about?” I’m up off the sofa, joining her in the kitchen area, where she’s leaning back against the fridge, like his words have forced her there.

“God knows . . . Felix feels strongly about fizzy water I guess.” I can tell Tilda’s trying not to cry, which also seems an overreaction.

“Come on, tell me. It’s not about the water, is it?”

She’s shaking her head and tugging at her sleeves, pulling them down over her wrists.

“I know you want me to love him,” I say, touching her fleetingly on her arm, watching her flinch. “And I do. I think he’s wonderful . . . but that was weird. I mean, it was only water, but he was so angry, out of nowhere.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure at work, and it makes him like that sometimes. He snaps.”

“It was creepy, though.”

Tilda shakes her head, indicating that I shouldn’t criticize, and she says in a small voice, “Wait and see, he’ll be fine when he gets back.”

Acting instinctively, I lean over and pull her silk Givenchy sleeve right up to her elbow, exposing white skin splattered with yellow and blue bruises, little smudged inkblots.

I grab her arm to inspect it more closely.

“Stop that!” she says. “For fuck’s sake!”

“Tilda! What’s going on? Please tell me.”

She pushes me away, hard, making me crash into the kitchen counter. Pulling her sleeve back down, she runs into the bedroom, then the en suite bathroom, slamming the door, turning the lock.

I’m amazed by what’s just happened. What made me do that? How had I sensed that she had damaged arms? It seems inexplicable. There had been no bruises on her that day on the Thames. Then her body had been milky white, no blemishes other than the mole on her left shoulder.

I sit on her bed, staring at the shut bathroom door, working out what to say next—we’re close, but I’m hopeless at communicating with her, forever driving her away with my crassness, my blunt way of talking. Gently, I call out: “Are you all right in there?” But she doesn’t answer. So I lie down, burying my face in her pillow, breathing in her smell, and waiting. Occasional sounds emerge: splashing water, pacing about, and after a while she calls out, “It’s nothing, Callie, I’m fine.” And she comes out of the bathroom, looking refreshed and happy, but slightly insane, her eyes still rimmed in pink. I’m about to ask her, again, to confide in me, but I don’t get the chance because at that moment there’s a sound in the other room. It’s Felix returning. (He has his own key!) We both leave the bedroom and find that he’s transformed—he’s grinning, has a big bottle of fizzy water in his hand, and he thumps it down on the kitchen counter together with a set of car keys attached to a disc that reads PORSCHE. Tilda reacts like an excited idiot, jumping on the spot, flipping her hair about, a quick look to see that I’m paying attention. “You didn’t!”