Stars
‘I’m not saying I didn’t feel anything,’ I say. Lace shakes her head at me. Her eyes are pink, raw and wet. She gets up as fresh tears come out of her eyes, and she storms out of the box. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.
‘I don’t understand how you’re not crying?’ Lace says. We’re back in the car, and she has finally started talking to me again. ‘You do realise they’re both dead, right? They were in love, and now they’re dead.’
I shrug. ‘It’s not real, though.’
‘The love is real. That passion between Tosca and Cavaradossi is real. That’s why these stories are timeless – because people can relate to them. If it was me and . . .’ She stops and looks out the window.
‘You . . . and Frankie?’
‘If it was you and Josh . . .’ she says, ignoring the Frankie comment. ‘If Josh was shot in the head by a firing squad . . .’
‘I would be devastated,’ I say. ‘But that’s not going to happen. Josh and I are teachers living in Southwest London who enjoy pub quizzes and Netflix. Yes, passion exists, but not as it does on stage or in film. That’s why I can never get into the arts. It’s too dramatic. Life isn’t an opera.’
Lace unclips her seat belt and slides close to me.
‘Amy, passion is real. Even that kind of passion you see in the opera. You just haven’t .
. .’ She doesn’t want to finish the sentence, and I don’t want her to either.
She leans so close to me that I feel the air grow static around us.
I see the smudges around her eyes where her tears have made her mascara run.
She takes my hand again, and then her head falls on my shoulder.
‘Lace, the dress, the car, the opera . . . the lessons on passion. Why are you doing all of this?’ I ask.
‘Pretty Woman is my favourite film. I wanted to live it.’
‘I did wonder.’
‘No, Julia.’ She yawns. ‘Frankie gave me tickets, and I wanted to take you because you need to get out of the box you have made for yourself.’
‘What box?’ I ask. Lace doesn’t reply. ‘What box?’ I ask again. I think she’s asleep or pretending to be.
I look at the city as it passes the window. Tower Bridge is all lit up and The Shard is white and poking the sky. Josh loves crossing the bridges at night and seeing the city glow. I don’t get it myself – it’s just concrete blocks which are blocking the stars.
Once we get to Stockwell, I direct the driver to my door. Lace half wakes up as I detangle myself from her and say goodnight. She then settles back into her sleep again.
All the lights are off at home, so I quietly go to the bedroom.
I find Josh in bed with his mouth open a smidge, making a whistle noise every time he exhales.
He’s not holding Skogsfr?ken tonight. He’s on his back with his arms spread, taking full advantage of the space.
I watch him. The top of his bare sculpted chest is coming out of the duvet, and I can just about see it rise and fall in the dark.
The details of his face are lost, meaning it could be any strange man lying in my bed right now – an unknown stranger who could do anything to me.
Why wouldn’t someone want to have sex with me right now?
I’m a 29-year-old woman in a sensual red dress, no man would turn me down.
A tingle goes down my body. I stretch my arms behind, tug down the zip of my dress and let the red material fall onto the floor.
I walk slowly to my side of the bed, carefully get in and mirror Josh’s position by lying on my back.
I close my eyes, put my fingers between my legs and imagine Josh is a faceless man who will throw me down on the bed and kiss my neck, my nipples, my belly until I feel his breath between my thighs, and . . .
‘Amy . . .?’ Josh suddenly croaks.
I yank my hand away, my heart thumping.
‘Josh?’ Has he been awake this whole time? ‘Did you win the quiz?’ I squeak.
‘No. We needed you,’ he says in a haze.
‘Who won?’ I ask.
His breathing fades back into a whistling snore.
I get my breath back. How did it get this pathetic?
Me, secretly masturbating next to Josh? Nina told me that the Ancient Greeks used to leave sex toys for their wives when they went to war to stop their wives from getting hysterical without sperm.
I remember laughing at the time, but now I think I may have gone mad in my sperm-less state.
I take my phone from the bedside table. I would usually listen to the Science Vs podcast when I can’t sleep, but a song from Tosca won’t stop playing in my head.
It’s the one that Cavaradossi sings while he’s waiting to be executed, believing he will never see the love of his life again.
It’s sung in Italian, but I read the subtitles above the stage.
The first line he sung about how the stars were shining, and the earth was smelling.
I find the song and turn it up. From nowhere, a tear.