Appearances Greeting a Point of View Read online

  Appearances Greeting

  a Point of View

  by JJ Marsh

  Copyright © 2013 by JJ Marsh

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design: JD Smith

  Published by Prewett Publishing.

  All enquiries to [email protected]

  First printing, 2013

  Smashwords Edition

  Contents

  Blind Spot

  Labour of Love

  Head

  The Reservation

  Appearances Greeting a Point of View

  My Name is Iris

  An Interview with Elsbeth (non-fiction)

  Luck Be A Lady

  The English Garden

  Number 22

  Pitcher of a Lady

  Je t’ai eu

  Also by JJ Marsh

  Blind Spot

  “Think of it as a challenge, Carolyn.”

  “Easy for you to say. I have no idea where to start. What am I supposed to use for material?”

  “Use your voice. He’s advanced, intelligent and very keen. Appeal to his ears.”

  “I don’t know, Leo.”

  “I do. You’re perfect for him.”

  Her paranoia status switched to amber.

  “Why am I perfect for him?”

  “Because, Carolyn, you’re the only teacher who’ll work Friday night.”

  On entering the room, she expected a problem. She hadn’t expected Beauty. Dark eyelashes, soft hair, a macchiato mouth, and supple skin stretched over fine bones. Perfect and natural, an apple for teacher. A Cox’s Orange Pippin; russet, gold, freckled, tawny and fresh as first bite.

  “Hello Ricardo, my name is Carolyn.”

  He extended a tanned hand. She grasped it and noticed the heat.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he smiled.

  “Ricardo, I should tell you that I’ve never done this before.”

  His gaze was to her right. “Never done what before? Teaching?”

  “No, no. I’ve been teaching for years. But this is the first time I’ve had a student ...”

  “... called Ricardo?” He tilted his head, eyebrows raised, expectant.

  She wasn’t good at being teased. Understandably. But this was her patch, and she was in charge.

  “It’s the first time I’ve taught someone who can’t see. So I hope you’ll be patient with me. There’s a lot I need to learn.”

  His chin lifted. “So we could say it’s the blind leading the blind?”

  His beautiful mouth spread into a generous smile, smoothing his forehead and creasing his eyes. She stared, drinking him in, mute. Standing in front of a man who could not see her, Carolyn had never felt so exposed.

  After your shower, apply Corrective Cream to the area. Use a firm cosmetic sponge, and the product straight from the pot. Don’t forget to blend the edges. Allow it to set while you dry your hair.

  Students’ books, photocopies, dictionaries and board markers; the baggage of her day. For Ricardo, Carolyn carried nothing but an idea. He spoke; she asked questions, encouraged opinions and took notes. Ten minutes before the end of the lesson, she would say, “Feedback time.”

  “And now to Purgatory,” he always replied.

  Each week, he eradicated more errors, and she absorbed more attitudes. Discussions often revolved around Berlusconi, like a cloud of dung flies. Ricardo asked if she had seen Il Corpo delle Donne, a documentary about women in the Italian media. She hadn’t. He told her to do so before the next lesson. Student instructs teacher.

  By the next time they met, Carolyn had done her homework. He threaded his fingers and turned out his thumbs. “So?”

  “I found it fascinating that the idea of beauty is so all-pervasive, at every level of society. That intelligence in women is worthless unless accompanied by physical loveliness.”

  His forehead creased in annoyance. “Didn’t you find some of those images shocking?”

  “Well, yes, but ...” moisture rose on her upper lip.

  “But you avoid the subject because I’m blind?”

  “From a grammatical perspective, that should be ‘you’re avoiding the subject’. Present continuous, because it’s happening now. It’s not a habit, something I do regularly.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Ricardo, I was trying to be sensitive. If I spout on about those plastic surgery horrors, or the dignity of Anna Magnani, I’m not being fair. You haven’t seen that.”

  “I have seen it. With my eyes, no, but I have a very clear picture of Magnani’s expression. Not only from memory. My friend describes the scenes and a good description can provide an accurate image. So I can discuss pictures, perspectives, views. I want to know if you see what I see.”

  Carolyn told him her thoughts, omitting the burning question. This friend with the descriptive skills – who was she?

  Put some Corrective Cream in your palm, adding your favourite moisturiser to dilute, and blend. Using a sponge, cover your entire face and neck with a thin film of makeup. Use upward strokes to fill your pores. Allow to set while you manicure.

  “Now, we take a taxi to Accademia, and begin. Give me your arm. It is a good time, the tourists eat. Like many great galleries, you always see something new. Come.”

  Reluctant, Carolyn allowed him to lead her into the street. This was a bad idea. Their relationship, so clearly defined beneath the whiteboard, was ambiguous in the streets of Florence. In the tourist-thronged galleries, how far should she offer to help him? Should she pay admission? And worst, this warm spring weather could cause her to sweat.

  It was easy; so easy she forgot. He took charge, talking constantly, directing, guiding and demanding. Before the cast of Giambologna’s Rape of the Sabines, he didn’t simply require description, but feelings, honesty, presence. The afternoon slipped into evening, as comfortable as his arm against hers. When he decided it was time for a drink, she accepted without thinking.

  In Piazza San Lorenzo, sitting with backs to the wall, they absorbed the atmosphere in silence. Warm lights, red tablecloths, couples and families strolling over the cobbles, the decorative cover disguising the scaffolding across the square. Pigeons cooed goodnight.

  “Tell me. Tell me what you see.”

  With a flush, Carolyn realised they weren’t enjoying the same scene. She took a sip of Montepulciano and began. He closed his eyes, his head resting against the flaking wall.

  “... and here comes a little dog, dragging a woman who’s wearing a tiny amount of red satin. Oh dear, the satin would fit the dog better.”

  He laughed. “Carolyn, your voice. Your words, your ideas ... I have an image of the woman.”

  “Poor you – it’s not pretty. She must be freezing.”

  “Not the Lady in Red. You.”

  Carolyn froze.

  He angled his head to her. “One day, someone must describe you. Someone else; your own version would not be fair.”

  “But I’d be generous.”

  His lips twitched upwards. “I doubt it. You are British. A self-compliment is impossible.”

  Combine your usual foundation with corrective cream and mix. Working from forehead down, cover your who
le face and neck, using downward strokes so as not to block pores. Put on jewellery and dress bottom half.

  The next Friday, they visited the Uffizi, saw Venus and ate cozze. And afterwards, with no discussion, they made love in his apartment. Ricardo took charge. Again. He stripped off his clothes and applied his febrile fingers to where she was most vulnerable. His thumbs smoothed her eyebrows as his fingers traced her ears. His palms pressed her cheekbones and followed her jawline. With his fingertips, he moulded her nose and slid down to her neck. Disappointment rose in her, she ached for his sensitive, sensual fingers on her lips. Her eyes closed as he ran warm palms across her collarbone to her shoulders. Her mouth parted, a craven heat cracking her open. His lips touched hers; the unexpectedness and tenderness coming as a shock.

  Like a virgin. Carolyn abandoned herself to his touch, hiding nothing, not even her clichéd imagination. After all, she had spent all afternoon gazing at representations of the Madonna.

  “Thank God it’s Saturday. You realise it’s half past nine?”

  “And? What do you miss?”

  “What are you missing? Present continuous. Happening now.”

  “No, I was correct. What do you miss?”

  He was right. In her make-up pouch, there was only enough for a touch-up. She could do basic repairs, although it would be far from perfect, before hurrying home to do the job properly. She looked down at his body, gilt in sunlight, urgent in intimacy and let go.

  If dissatisfied, apply another layer of foundation-cream combo. Once set, fluff on setting powder with brush. Apply eyebrow pencil and eyeliner, crème blush on cheek apples. Blend.

  So became Carolyn’s weekends. Friday night; art, food, and greedy, gluttonous sex. Saturday and Sunday; more of the same. Much more.

  “Tomorrow, Gianni comes. I want you to meet him.”

  “Who’s Gianni?”

  “Gianni is my vision. My describer of galleries, theatres and women. And Venezia. I never saw Venice before I lost my sight. Gianni showed me her beauty.”

  “Sounds like a special person.”

  “He is. Tomorrow, he visits his mother. We will lunch together.”

  “Fine. I’d like to meet him. But I have to go home, get some decent clothes.”

  “You have no clothes here?”

  “Why would I? I spend every weekend almost naked.”

  “Almost naked? What are you wearing?”

  His hands patted up her sides, mock frisking her. He slowed to cup her breast, before reaching her silver chain.

  “Ah! Now we discover your necklace, very fine, and made of ...” he sniffed her neck, “gold, a beautiful compliment to your pale English complexion.”

  Carolyn kissed his forehead. “Right again, you silver-tongued devil.”

  Heat eyelash curlers with hairdryer. Curl lashes. Apply two layers of mascara. Open side mirrors. Check face, neck and hair. Put powder, concealer and foundation in handbag. Brush teeth.

  Showered, dressed, and made-up; Carolyn let herself in, smiling at the sound of male laughter. It died as she opened the door.

  “Ciao, bella. This is Gianni, my oldest friend. Gianni, this is Carolyn, my beautiful étrangère.”

  Taller and heavier than Ricardo, his sharp eyes made an unsmiling assessment. He bumped his unshaven cheeks against hers in a careless approximation of a kiss.

  “Ciao Gianni, pleased to meet you. How’s your mother?”

  He shrugged. “I am tired of this story. Let’s lunch now. We go to Quattro, the best pizzeria in Firenze.”

  Carolyn pulled her wrap closer. Ricardo’s smile lit the room.

  Check in mirror once before leaving house. Walk into the room as if by accident. Catch sight of reflection. Adjust as necessary.

  Nervous, she drank too much. The pizza was superb, but a twenty-minute wait wore her down under Gianni’s stare. All she could hear was his ‘description’ to Ricardo. “Pale, heavily made-up, nervous, insecure, possibly an alcoholic?”

  Ricardo took her hand as they drank espressi. Caffeine and affection charged her with confidence, and she took no offence at Gianni’s cursory farewell. Trial over, they returned to bed. Ricardo seemed untroubled, laughing and storytelling all the way home. Yet their love-making held some new sense of complicity, a bond sealed, their present perfect.

  Carolyn woke, thirsty, at five o’clock. Crusty skin, itchy eyes and dry mouth. Ricardo slept, one arm flung above his head, his lips parted. Stumbling to the bathroom, she took a long, cool shower. All those images; pizza, make-up, Gianni’s critical glare, red wine lips, traces of sex. All washed away. She pulled back the curtain to reach for a towel and jumped as she saw Gianni, leaning against the door jamb. His eyes moved over her body, in no hurry. Up her thighs, lingering over her crotch, the curve of her waist, across her breasts and stopping at her birthmark, the port wine stain which covered her right cheek, chin and neck. He nodded.

  “I knew there was something.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, wrapping herself in the towel.

  He shrugged. “I have a key. I said I knew there was something.”

  “I heard you. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you sure? Does he know?”

  “He knows me. It’s not only sex. He loves me, as I am.”

  His glance swept her body. “I always tell Ricardo everything I see. You can go first. But I am back next weekend, and I will tell him. Beauty and truth. This is everything to Ricardo.”

  As he closed the door, she began. Apply Corrective Cream to the area ....

  “I have to leave.” Carolyn kissed him, dragging on his lower lip.

  “Stay. Go to work in the morning from here.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  She told him.

  She let go.

  “This is nothing to me. I love you. Your mark is unimportant.” He ran his hands through her hair.

  “Really? Seriously?”

  One arm around her waist, he pulled her to him. “Of course, Carolyn. What did you think?”

  “I thought you might feel differently. Gianni said beauty was everything to you.”

  “Gianni doesn’t know.”

  “He does. He saw me this morning, after my shower. He said I should tell you. Or he would tell you himself.”

  Ricardo stilled. He cleared his throat.

  “Nothing changes, my love. You are always my beautiful lady.”

  Carolyn would never forget that cold kiss, that inarguable lie, that seismic shift. She picked up her bag and left. As she walked away from Ricardo’s building, she realised her make-up was still in his bathroom.

  Signora Grazia di Roma likes the Lady. For a foreigner, her Italian is perfect, despite the tones of the north. Unusually for punters at the Colosseo metro station, she always stops, chats about last night’s television, and buys a cornet of hot roasted chestnuts. So beautiful. Such dignity. Other people would let a mark like that hold them back. Not the Lady.

  Labour of Love

  The plaster cost two hundred – only the best for her. She took me eighteen months to finish. The mannequin mould was the easy part, set in three weeks. But attaching the hair, finding the clothes, sewing them on, painting her face, nails, mouth – it takes time if you want it right. If you want it real.

  And all I had to work from were pictures in the paper.

  Tonight, under the lights, my beautiful girl sat upright, waiting for me. A perfect likeness, frozen in time. Kneeling, I put the ring on her lifeless finger and cried.

  Head

  Blackheath station.

  Thunder.

  The 11.57 to Dartford rumbles out, and I need a slash. Can’t be arsed to walk back over to the bogs, so sidle up the end of the platform, out of CCTV reach. Pull the old lad out and ... relief, release. I’m swaying. The last pint was an error as yet unregretted. But tomorrow is another day. This fog is well helpful. Means I can also light a fag.

  Someone singing? Some Smirnoff slap
pers doing that Double Trouble one hit wonder. Considering they must be off their faces, the harmonies aren’t bad. Tucking myself back in, I decide to stay in the shadows till I finish smoking.

  Yes, I should have gone home hours ago, but a triumph like today’s deserves a few tributes to Lady Stella Artois. To the victor, the spoils. Banksy couldn’t quite disguise that green tinge, but played it like a sportsman. Where is that stupid git, anyway? The cash point is only down the Vale. If he’s not back by the time the Forest Hill train comes, tough shit. Got to look after Numero Uno. Especially now. Still, shouldn’t let it go to my head.

  Check the electronic board. Can’t see in this mist. And my focus is blurred, as if I’m looking through the bottom of a pint glass. I wander back to the light. Train’s delayed, twelve minutes. Hell fire. Those lairy mares have disappeared, thank Christ. I need to sit down, my legs are about to give way. Waiting room is empty. And dark.

  I shove the door open and decide to set my alarm for ten minutes’ time; I daren’t fall asleep. The phone’s pale blue glow uplights three faces.

  “Shit!”

  Scrabbling on the stinking floor for my state-of-the-art communication technology, I keep my eyes on these weird bints. They’re up to something. No wonder I didn’t see them, backs turned, all wearing black. The uniform of the flaky; fringed skirts, spiked hair and pasty skin.

  I take control. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “If we towd ya, we’d hafta kiw ya.”

  Estuary English, a master class. So Essex does Goth as well as Chav?

  I stress my Received Pronunciation. Set an example. “Look here, girls, I’m not messing about. What’s going on?”

  The least grim steps forward. If you squint, as I seem to be doing, she’s got a touch of Bonham-Carter. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating Pringles.

  “We’re telling fowtunes. We’w do ya, if ya like.”

  I laugh, loud and confident. “Thanks ladies, but I hear enough bullshit on an average day without horoscopes.” My shadow looms across two of the three. They quail at my forthright, no-nonsense tone and hold hands.

  All three shiver and sway, in some sub-Beyoncé routine. I’m not impressed and wonder if the kebab shop will be open when I get back.