Six foot two, dark hair that was thinning, unlike his waistline, which was expanding. That was how she remembered him. A sense of dress that followed the seasons without imagination. Today, since it was the weekend and he was home, he would be wearing blue jeans, a check shirt, a thick jersey – probably navy – and a pair of sturdy shoes. She felt the wind clawing at their farmhouse, which overlooked the small Northumbrian village of West Woodburn, not far from where they had all been raised. It was a bleak and beautiful place, sparsely populated. On the lower ground there were farms, while the higher ground was fit for nothing but grazing sheep.
‘Are you okay, Steph?’
‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘I’m well.’
‘And Jane, how’s she?’
‘She’s well, too.’
‘What about Polly and James?’
Polly was her three-year-old niece. James, her nephew, was fourteen months old. Christopher said, ‘They’re both great. Polly’s been a bit feisty over the last six months, just like Mum always said you were at that age.’
Stephanie was aware of the pounding in her heart. ‘I just wanted to hear how you were, you know?’
‘It’s been a hell of a long time …’
‘I know.’
‘We lost track of you after you left that place in Holborn. What was her name? Smith?’
‘Karen Smith.’
‘That’s it. She said you walked out one day and didn’t leave a number.’
And you didn’t make the effort to look harder. It was a vicious circle. She’d never kept in touch with them so they’d made less and less effort to keep in touch with her. How long had it been since their last acrimonious conversation? Nine months? Ten?
Christopher had been instrumental in helping Proctor to trace Stephanie. Proctor had contacted him late the previous summer and had asked for an interview which had been granted. He’d travelled north to West Woodburn in the autumn and it was during the course of his interview with Christopher that he sensed there might be a story in Stephanie. The two remaining fragments of the family had not clung together for support in the aftermath of the tragedy. Instead, one had tried to cope with it and continue with as normal a life as possible, while the other had disappeared into the ether. Christopher had an old phone number – Karen Smith’s – but had insisted that she’d be unlikely to know where Stephanie was and that even if he found her, she wouldn’t speak to him. When Proctor had asked what Stephanie did, Christopher had been evasive and then dismissive.
‘I have no idea,’ he’d replied. ‘Probably nothing. In fact, probably less than nothing.’
But Proctor was persistent, spurred on by an instinct for a story. He’d contacted Karen Smith who, as predicted, had no idea where Stephanie was. But she knew some names and pointed him in the right direction. Moving from one shady acquaintance to the next, a picture gradually emerged of a girl with a future sliding into nowhere. From promising student to chemically-infested prostitute, she was perfect. Of all those who were connected to the dead of flight NE027, Stephanie’s tragic decline was the worst. And, therefore, the best.
‘What have you been doing?’ Christopher asked her.
‘Bits and pieces. You know …’
‘Like what?’
‘Odd jobs. Anything to help pay the rent.’
‘Where are you living?’
Stephanie felt the onset of panic. The conversation was already drifting the way of so many of its predecessors. She could hear it in Christopher’s tone, which was cooling. It was always the same. Off the top of her head, she said, ‘Wandsworth.’
‘Let me take your number.’
It was slipping from her grasp. All the things she wanted to say were still unsaid and, instead, she was being sucked towards the familiar vortex.
‘Chris, there’s something I have to tell you. About the crash …’
‘Hang on, I can’t find a pen.’
‘You don’t need a pen.’
He wasn’t listening to her. He never did. ‘Okay, what is it? You might as well give me the address, too.’
‘Chris, please!’
‘What?’
Stephanie shook her head. It could not be done over the phone. The moment was gone and the dark storm clouds were gathering at the horizon. ‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Do you need money?’
For some reason, that was the question that had always hurt the most. ‘No.’
After a pause, Christopher said, in a fashion that was equally critical and concerned, ‘Steph, you’re not doing anything … stupid, are you?’
‘Not any more.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘Okay, so give me your number and address.’
Stephanie fell silent.
‘Steph?’
The power of speech had abandoned her.
‘Steph?’
I got drunk that evening. I had plenty of vodka at the Brazen Head, which is at the far end of Bell Street, and then I returned home with two bottles of bad red wine. They slipped down as quickly as they came back up, which was shortly before I passed out. As an attempt to rinse the conversation from my memory, it worked, albeit temporarily. For two days, I felt I had the flu again.
Proctor is a fitness fanatic. He eats healthily and takes exercise, running three or four times a week. He performs a variety of stretches every morning before breakfast. He says stretching is more important than running or weights or any other form of exercise. I have caught him during his routine several times and we have both been embarrassed by it. It is not that I dislike what I see, or that he dislikes being seen. What makes us awkward are the things we think but which we do not articulate. On each occasion, I have noticed what good shape he is in. He is lean. Nearly all the bodies I have seen in the last two years have been flabby.
Although I have no feelings of affection for Proctor, I have wondered what it would be like to have sex with him. I cannot remember what sex was like with real people. For me, Proctor now has a personality – not to mention a genuine name – whereas all my clients were anonymous. They lied about their identities and the sex we had was purely physical. I faked the gasps of pleasure where required. I never felt anything, apart from occasional pain. In the last month, however, as I have gradually learned more about Proctor, I have speculated on how we would be together. Would the fact that I know him affect the way the sex would feel, or have I been permanently numbed to its pleasure?
How would I react?
I know that he has been thinking about it too. I see it in the glances he steals when he thinks that I cannot see him. And perhaps it is this more than anything else that has fostered the new self-consciousness that I feel for my body. As a prostitute, I will strip for anybody if the price is right. Nudity is nothing for me, nor is the exploitation of it by a stranger, as long as I am profiting from it. But Proctor’s gaze – even when I am fully clothed – can make me uncomfortable.
Over the last fortnight, I have started to perform some stretches myself. I have been amazed at how creaky and stiff I am. In general, the last month has