The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down Read online

  ‘I’ll come back with you on Friday and help,’ I said. ‘Two days will be fine.’

  ‘We need to start training now, like marathon runners,’ said Aidan. ‘That’s the only way we’ll be able to get round the whole show. Don’t wear high heels or we’ll never make it.’

  I laughed. Aidan gave me the look, the one that made my heart twist. I knew he wanted to grab me and kiss me but didn’t dare. I didn’t either. We spent a lot of time looking at each other in those days, as if we were both trapped behind glass. ‘I love you so much,’ he said. I said it back to him. It was what we did instead of touching. To us it seemed normal. I knew that most couples kissed or held hands before declaring love for one another, but I didn’t care. Aidan and I were all that mattered. We were perfect, just right. It was other people who were conducting their relationships the wrong way round.

  Aidan turned back to his gold-leafing. ‘Shall we stay in a hotel in London?’ he asked, his voice giving nothing away. I knew what he was asking me. I said yes.

  Every day after that, I thought about the art fair. Aidan and I talked about it endlessly. We’d looked on the website at the list of artists who were going to be exhibiting. Some Aidan had already heard of; quite a few had been his customers at one time or another. One or two still were. He wanted to show me some of the individual artists’ websites, but I didn’t want to look at them. I wanted to see everything for the first time on 13 December, the opening day. As the date approached, I started to worry about how I would feel when I didn’t have any of it to look forward to any more-Access 2 Art, our night in the hotel. I couldn’t bear to think that the two things I was awaiting so avidly would soon be in the past.

  On the Thursday morning, we got up at 4 a.m., packed our overnight things in my black hold-all, drove to Rawndesley and caught the six o’clock train to London in order to be there in good time for the fair’s opening. We ate cooked breakfasts in a bar at King’s Cross station that was full of groups of loud men gulping down pints of lager and burping. ‘I can’t believe they can do that first thing in the morning,’ I said to Aidan, which prompted him to order a bottle of champagne.

  ‘There’s drinking and then there’s drinking,’ he said. ‘This is the first time we’ve been away together-we should celebrate.’

  ‘And it’s the art fair,’ I reminded him.

  His smile vanished.

  ‘Aidan?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing,’ he repeated. It sounded more convincing the second time he said it. ‘If you want to spend two days looking at art then so do I. I hate the thought that I’m getting behind with work, that’s all.’

  ‘We’ll work late Saturday and Sunday,’ I promised. ‘We’ll catch up. There isn’t that much to do.’ I wanted to erase the troubled expression from his face. ‘You’ve got to train yourself to be your own best friend,’ I said. I’d been reading a book called Be Your Own Life Coach, and this was one of its recommendations. ‘Would you tell your best friend to spend every waking second working, or would you think he deserved to relax and treat himself occasionally?’

  This made Aidan smile. ‘I’d tell him to start reading proper books instead of the personal growth crap he seems to be addicted to,’ he teased me. ‘There’s better ways to help yourself than sitting around all day examining your own psyche, and working hard’s one of them-that’s what I’d say to him.’ I elbowed him in the ribs. I didn’t mind him teasing me. I loved the fact that we could disagree and it didn’t matter.

  We got to Alexandra Palace ten minutes before the art fair opened. We were the only people there, waiting. ‘Like fanatics,’ Aidan said. I told him I was proud to be one. We were tipsy, sleepy, heavy and full from the bacon, eggs and black pudding we’d eaten, but I knew I’d shake off my physical lethargy as soon as the doors opened-I’d be off like a racehorse.

  In the large foyer, two women sat behind a table, selling tickets and programmes. I was about to dart through the double doors into the main hall, but Aidan pulled me back. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I want to show you something.’ He bought a programme, turned to the back and spread it open so that I could see it. ‘This is the only way you can appreciate the scale of what we’re about to walk into,’ he said. On the inside of the back cover, there was a map of the fair, a double-page spread that folded out. The stalls were depicted as small white squares, with black numbers inside them. There were four hundred and sixty-eight in total, filling two large interconnecting halls. On the floor plan’s reverse side was a list of all the numbers with a name next to each one-the artist or gallery whose stall it was. ‘Aidan!’ I said, clutching his arm. ‘Jane Fielder’s here-stall 171.’ I couldn’t believe I’d missed her name when Aidan and I had looked at the list of exhibitors.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know-Something Wicked. The red thumbprints, the first painting I ever bought.’

  ‘Your favourite artist.’ He pretended to be worried. ‘There won’t be much left for sale on her stall once you’ve done your worst. I’d better hire a lorry, and get myself an early morning job cleaning offices.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be here herself?’

  ‘Sometimes they are and sometimes they aren’t. Right, where do you want to start?’

  ‘Jane Fielder,’ I said without hesitation. At first we followed the plan, but stall 171 was on the far side of the second hall, and I found it impossible to walk down the aisles without looking. I got sidetracked, then sidetracked again. Most of the stalls, if they belonged to individuals rather than galleries, were manned by the artists themselves and they all seemed eager to talk to me, happy to answer my questions about their work. By lunchtime we were still nowhere near stall 171, and I was losing track of the list I’d been keeping in my head of possibles: the pictures I thought I might be interested in buying but needed to see again. ‘I need to write down the numbers of the stalls I want to come back to,’ I told Aidan. ‘Can we find the entrance we came in at and start again, retrace our steps?’

  Aidan laughed. ‘I told you it was a maze. We can do whatever you want, but…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t we just have a wander? There’ll be plenty of time for writing lists tomorrow.’ Seeing my impatience with this attitude, he said, ‘I know you’ve seen a lot of stuff you want to look at again, and met some people you like, but I don’t think you’ve seen it yet.’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘It. The picture you’d do anything to get your hands on, the one you’d pay double the price for in order to be able to take it home.’

  We spent the rest of the day browsing, talking to artists. Or rather, I talked. Aidan hung back, listening, happy to leave me to it. Between stall-stops, he warned me against being too effusive. ‘You’re getting the artists’ hopes up,’ he said.

  ‘But I like their work,’ I told him. ‘Why shouldn’t I be enthusiastic? Surely they’re happy to be praised, even by people who don’t end up buying their pictures.’

  Aidan shook his head. ‘Praise minus sales equals lies. That’s the equation in these people’s heads. Until you put your money where your mouth is, they won’t believe you however much you say you love their stuff.’

  After lunch-a quick sandwich in the foyer café-I came to a stall that had me mesmerised. The artist was a woman called Gloria Stetbay, who looked scarily elegant. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her; she was surrounded by a tight circle of people who didn’t seem keen to make room for one more. Stetbay’s work was mostly abstract, and made me realise that many of the other abstracts I’d seen were far from being the real thing. Stetbay’s pictures looked like multi-coloured sand dunes, ruched and textured; I could have been looking at the skins of strange, glowing planets. She did things with colour and surfaces that made everything I’d seen up to that point look anaemic.

  Aidan waved a flyer in front of my face. ‘You’re in good company,’ he said. ‘She’s got work in Charles Saatchi’s private collection.’ I didn’t give
a monkey’s about Charles Saatchi. ‘Is this it?’ Aidan asked. ‘Have we found it?’

  ‘I can’t. The cheapest one’s two thousand pounds and it isn’t my favourite. I won’t tell you how much that is.’

  ‘I’ll buy you whatever you want,’ he said, surprised I didn’t know this without having to be told. ‘Which is your favourite?’

  ‘No. It’s too much.’

  ‘Nothing’s too much if it’s for you,’ he said solemnly. We were still standing inside Gloria Stetbay’s stall. Two American women next to us were talking about another art fair they’d been to that was much better attended on the first day. ‘London isn’t what it used to be,’ one said. ‘Even Frieze is starting to look like it’s trying too hard. And what is it with razor blades? Suddenly everyone’s covering their canvases with razor blades-is that supposed to be edgy?’

  ‘I didn’t know what it was like to have good feelings in me until I met you,’ Aidan said, not caring who heard. ‘I love the way you love art. I love the way you want to buy it, and keep buying it, not because of any bullshit about investment or profit or status but as a kind of good luck charm. You love it and you want it close to you, to ward off harm. It’s like magic for you, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. I’d never expressed it in that way to myself, but he was right.

  ‘That’s what you are for me,’ he said. ‘I was planning to wait until later to ask you, but I can’t. Will you marry me?’ I didn’t do what women are supposed to do, didn’t remain cool and elegant as I told him I’d think about it. I screamed and waved my arms in the air like an idiot. ‘Is that a yes?’ he asked, as if there could be any doubt. There was none-not in my mind, at any rate. Aidan looked worried, though. ‘Sure you don’t want to wait until tomorrow before saying yes?’ he asked. I knew what he meant: we’d come to London to have sex for the first time, among other things. This wasn’t the first clue I’d had that he was nervous about it.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Nothing could change my mind.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he told me, looking even more anxious.

  He bought me the Gloria Stetbay piece I loved instead of an engagement ring. We never did get to Jane Fielder’s stall; instead, we wandered happily and aimlessly, arguing about the art we saw-what had substance and what was empty. When I remember that day-which I do, often-it appears in my mind separately from what happened next, as if one world closed down at some point on Thursday 13 December, and a new one opened up, a horrible, frightening one that I wanted no part of.

  I know the exact moment it happened: ten thirty at night. Aidan and I had been out for dinner at an Indian restaurant called Zamzana. We’d taken the Gloria Stetbay with us, leaned it against the wall so that we could admire it while we ate. Afterwards we went back to our hotel, the Drummond. At reception, Aidan stood back, left it to me to hand over a credit card so that an imprint could be taken, to sign the receptionist’s form in two different places. I was acutely aware of his presence behind me, of him listening intently to every word I said, every nuance of my voice, even though all I was talking about was wake-up calls and morning newspapers: ‘No thanks. Yes please, the Independent.’ Once we had our room key, I turned away from the desk to face him. He looked serious. Prepared. ‘Shall we have a drink before going up?’ I said. ‘I’m sure the bar’s still open.’

  He shook his head, and I felt like a coward. We’d put this off for too long, that was the problem. Now too much hinged on it being a success.

  In silence, we walked to the lift, took it up four floors. Thank goodness no one was in there with us; I don’t think I could have stood that. When the doors slid open with a ping, I decided to lead the way, following the arrows on the oval-shaped brass signs. I wanted Aidan to see that I was as bold as he was. I was doing fine until I had to unlock our room with one of those stupid keycards. The tiny square light kept flashing red, and I got flustered. After my third try failed, my fingers were so slippery I couldn’t even get the card out of the slot. Aidan took over. For him, the light flashed green. We were in.

  We stood beside the double bed, looking at each other. ‘So. What now?’ I said.

  Aidan shrugged. ‘I suppose we should touch or something.’ I ought to have found it absurd-perhaps laughter would have shattered the tension-but this was the first direct reference either of us had made to the four months of agonised, yearning celibacy that we’d endured. Aidan’s words were enough to pierce the invisible barrier between us. I ran to him and threw myself, hard, at his chest. It was a few seconds-a terrifying chasm that seemed to grow wider and wider-before I felt his arms close around me and I dared to breathe again. We kissed. For more than an hour we did nothing but kiss, standing beside the double bed, with the black hold-all containing our overnight things lying by our feet.

  Eventually our lips were throbbing, raw, and we had to stop. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked Aidan.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Better. You?’

  ‘Still scared.’ Inspired by his bluntness, I thought I’d try the direct approach too. ‘I’m not sure how we get from here to… the next stage.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ he said.

  ‘How do other couples do it?’ I was thinking: how did I used to do it, with other people? Seventeen others, before Aidan. At one time it had seemed easy. The first time Aidan took me out for dinner, we’d talked about our previous relationships. He told me there had been nothing serious for him, only ‘a lot of futile one-night stands-non-starters, each and every one’.

  ‘There are no other couples like us,’ he said now. ‘We’ve both known what we’ve got in common from day one, haven’t we? I saw it in your eyes, when I found you on my doorstep last summer. You saw it in my eyes too.’

  I nodded mutely. His new-found frankness was making me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘We’ve both been to Hell and managed to claw our way out. I’ve spent most of my life wanting nothing but to bury what I’ve been through-you seemed to need to do the same.’

  ‘Aidan, I can’t…’

  ‘We haven’t asked questions. We haven’t pushed it. I reckon we’ve respected each other’s privacy a bit too much.’

  His words turned me back into a coward and I didn’t care. ‘Don’t ask me,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘It’s not going to work,’ he said. I heard despair in his voice, as if something had torn inside him. It frightened me. ‘We can’t make it work, not like this, not if we’re both determined to hide everything that matters.’

  ‘We love each other.’ My voice shook. ‘That’s what matters most, and we haven’t hidden that.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I know you’re scared. I’m not exactly feeling calm about it myself, but I think we need to tell each other.’ Aidan cleared his throat. ‘I’m willing if you are.’

  It’ll be easy from now on. That’s what he said, once I’d agreed. Once I’d said I was willing. If he meant the sex, he was right. It felt natural from the start, has ever since: passionate, intense, binding. It has become our refuge, the safe, dark place we escape to when the glaring brightness of everything that’s wrong between us shines in our eyes until we feel we’re going blind. Ironic that the one thing we lacked has become the only thing that sustains us.

  In that hotel room, Aidan told me he’d killed someone years ago, a woman. As soon as he said her name, Mary Trelease, I felt a coldness clutch at my heart, a sense of something being off balance, in the wrong compartment.

  Straight away, I knew I’d heard the name before, though I was certain Aidan couldn’t have mentioned it to me until now. There was no way he’d have casually dropped the name of a woman he’d killed into one of our previous conversations. Could I be imagining it? I wondered. Briefly, I considered telepathy as a possibility. If Aidan had killed a woman called Mary Trelease, as he claimed, her name would be imprinted on his consciousness for ever; could it have passed from his mind into mine, without being spoken aloud? I dismissed the idea within seconds. Was Mary Trelease famous? W
as that why I’d heard her name before? Not knowing was the worst thing, the inexplicability of it. I couldn’t know the name, and yet I did. I sat motionless on the bed, bathed in dread. I wanted to ask Aidan who Mary Trelease was, but we’d agreed not to ask questions, and all the ones that occurred to me sounded frivolous and flippant when I rehearsed them silently.

  Aidan was in a terrible state after he told me. I couldn’t look at him, but I could hear him. It sounded as if he was disintegrating, and all I could do was sit there with my hands clenched in my lap, staring at the floor. Aidan and extreme violence, life-threatening violence, did not go together. No, I thought. No. I pictured Him and Her, allowed myself to think of their names for the first time in years, and something flared in my mind as it never had before, making them real; it was as if I was in the hotel room with them instead of Aidan. The three seemed to merge, so that I couldn’t distinguish between them, and for a fleeting moment I hated them all equally.

  Aidan kept saying my name-‘Ruth? Ruth? Say something! Tell me you love me, Ruth, please!’-but I couldn’t answer. He reached out to touch me and I flicked his hand away. I sat like a prim statue on the edge of the bed, doing and saying nothing, though I wanted to scream and hit him and call him a murderer. Eventually he stopped trying to get a response from me, and deafening silence engulfed us. I’d rejected him when he most needed love from me, and we both knew it.

  That’s my biggest regret. Whatever Aidan has done or not done, I hate to think of how badly I let him down that night.

  But of course, he hasn’t done anything. I’m not the only one convinced of this; the police agree with me.