Fog Heart Read Free Page B

Her name was Becky Something-Something. She was an assistant features editor at a glossy women’s magazine. Music was part of her turf. She loved London, loved the scene, got ten invites a week and went to every one of them. Oliver smiled. He knew what it was like to be in your early twenties in London, to connect, to plug into the action. You really live and your life is electric, even if you’re only one of the minor players on the fringe – as this girl was.
    Why tell her how soon it jades and fades? Perhaps she’ll be one of the lucky few and for her it won’t. She wouldn’t believe him, anyway.
    Oliver got her a fresh drink. Becky seemed mildly impressed when she heard that he was part-owner of a record label, and she promised to see that future Redbird releases were reviewed in her magazine.
    She was even more impressed when he told her he lived in New York and did a little import-export in the rag trade. Exotic shirts and jeans were acceptable. Becky’s father, it turned out, had made a fortune on plastic macs, and they were definitely not.
    Becky didn’t like her father, it seemed, but then she said that he chipped in on her rent – otherwise she’d have to share a flat and she’d tried that and it was bloody awful. So she had her own place, and when she asked Oliver where he was staying in town he knew that he could fuck her if he wanted.
    â€˜With some friends,’ he said. ‘It’s handy, I come and go as I please. But…’ And that was enough to imply in some way that he couldn’t take her there.
    No problem. They shared a taxi back into the West End, and along the way Becky asked him if he wanted to come in for coffee or a nightcap. Well, yes, that would be nice. She wasn’t pretty in the obvious ways but there was something attractive about her. How she moved, her height, the angular gawkiness that she fought mightily to overcome – as if she still didn’t know quite what to do with her body. Oliver did.
    So he found himself in a small but tidy flat at the back end of Maida Vale, sipping plonk. One sip was enough. And they were stretched out together on a rather hard sofa, Becky with her head resting on Oliver’s chest. When he found her breasts, he stroked them lightly. ‘So, what’s the trouble with your dad?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Why do you hate him?’
    â€˜What makes you think I do?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Do you?’
    â€˜I don’t much care for him, put it that way.’
    â€˜What did he do to you?’
    â€˜What didn’t he? I mean, it wasn’t sexual, but…’
    â€˜He beat you, then.’
    â€˜Not exactly, no.’
    â€˜What else is there?’
    â€˜He – oh God, never mind. It’s embarrassing.’
    â€˜That’s all right. You can tell me.’
    â€˜I don’t want to…’
    But she did, and the drink in her helped.
    â€˜It’s not your fault, love.’
    â€˜I used to think it was.’
    â€˜Never. It’s never a child’s fault.’
    â€˜He used to give me enemas,’ she blurted out, with rather too much high drama in her voice. ‘All the time, and not just when I was little. When I got older, he still kept at it.’
    Oliver willed himself to be still, otherwise he’d erupt in laughter. Enemas! ‘You think that wasn’t sexual?’
    â€˜It was a health thing with him.’
    â€˜Sugar coating, with a little kink inside.’
    â€˜Could be. But at least he didn’t make me wear one of those bloody macs. That would’ve been flat-out perv.’
    â€˜When did it stop?’
    â€˜When I turned thirteen. I stopped it.’
    â€˜Thirteen.’
    â€˜He was serious about health, a real fanatic. And still is. Like, you should chew everything fifty times.’
    â€˜Fletcherism.’
    â€˜And posture. That was another thing. It used to drive me crazy,