Алия Уайтли: The Loosening Skin

I stop touching it. I look up at Max, naked Max, the film star; so many people would pay for this view. I wish he was wearing some clothes. I wish we both were.

‘We should get dressed,’ I say, and that is enough to give it all away.

‘Oh shit, Rosie,’ he says. He crouches down beside me and strokes my face while I wonder how long I have to let him.

Rose, alone, ran after the bobbing ponytail and implacable back of the instructor in the distance. Her breathing wouldn’t fall naturally with the timing of her feet and the pain built quickly in her lungs and calves. Perhaps it was the uneven ground that made it so much harder than it should have been. Squashing the reedy grass underfoot, tramping down nettles, she kept going, wishing she’d worn long jogging trousers rather than shorts.

When the instructor – Petra – came to a sudden halt, Rose’s pride stopped her from dropping to the ground. She bent over, put her hands on her knees. Her legs were freely decorated with white welts and fine red scratches. She sucked in air, over and over. The day was cold but she didn’t feel it, only the awareness of it, the wind careering around her, unable to touch the warmth inside.

‘I thought you said you kept yourself pretty fit?’ said the instructor, through measured breaths.

Rose straightened up. ‘It’s the ground.’ Back in the direction they had come, the disused airbase was no longer visible.

‘City running.’

‘It’ll get better.’

Petra slid a hand along the dark length of her ponytail, pulling the weight of it over one shoulder. ‘You don’t need to do that. Make excuses. I’m not your boss.’

‘Okay,’ said Rose.

‘This isn’t my job, I mean. I just help Phin out sometimes, and he helps me out. In return.’

‘How?’

‘What?’

‘How does he help you out?’

Petra shook her head. The ponytail bounced. She looked like the perfect image of a personal trainer: so upright, so together. ‘You’re ex-RAF, right? Then a bouncer.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And now about to become a bodyguard.’ She opened and closed her fingers in bursts. ‘To Max Black, no less. It’s a good gig.’

‘Right.’ Rose looked along the line of the hedgerow, into the indiscernible distance. It wasn’t a city. That was all it needed to be, right now.

‘I hope you like bodyguarding. I did.’

‘You guarded Mr Black?’

‘No. Some other rich good-looking dream. Then I woke up.’

A closer look at Petra’s face showed a hint of age, but she was by no means an old woman. Still, she wore that soft expression when talking of the past.

‘You miss it,’ Rose said.

‘We all move on.’

That, at least, was certain. We all move on. Whether we want to or not.

‘Let’s get back for lunch,’ said Petra, and was gone, running at a steady, speedy pace. Rose squared her shoulders, sucked in a breath, and set off after her.

Later, at Petra’s house, Rose took a hot shower and the sensation was of her lassitude being washed from her, puddling around her feet and circling the plughole. She was fully awake for what felt like the first time since leaving the RAF. If she ran again now, she would do better.

The steam rushed and tumbled from the window as soon as she released the catch, and the cold poured in to take its place. She looked out over the airbase: the empty hangars and the silent stretch of the runway, the encroaching weeds spotting it all with green. So still, and so different from what she was used to. To be without people was good, though. To be separate, and to have space.

Apart from Petra, who was waiting downstairs in the kitchen with a chicken salad sandwich, the bread cheap and white, the tomatoes overripe and tasty.

‘How long were you a bodyguard?’ Rose asked, in between bites.

‘Four years. Then I went into business on my own.’

‘Doing what?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ She had changed into a fresh tracksuit, black and businesslike. ‘Being a bodyguard opens doors to all sorts of worlds. That’s the main thing. You meet people. Just don’t fall for any bullshit.’

‘Phineas said the clients were all in the entertainment business.’

‘That’s what I mean. It’s all glamour and promises. And you’re never on the inside. Nobody is, really.’

They ate standing up, with plates on the work surface next to the sink. Petra switched on the kettle, and the soft, building noise filled the room.

‘It’s so quiet here,’ Rose said.

‘It’s my hideaway. The MOD sold these houses off for next to nothing when they closed down the base. Old military quarters. Plus nobody’s watching the place any more so it’s a perfect location for training. It’s not guarded; I cut a hole in the fence and I come and go as I want. Weapon practice. That stuff. Miles of unused ground. Of course, you’ll know most of it already. That’s why you only get the week-long refresher.’

Rose finished the sandwich. She could have eaten another but didn’t know if she should ask. To what extent was this, the whole thing, a test?

‘If you could tell me one thing that I should know, what would it be?’

Petra chewed her mouthful, taking her time, and swallowed. ‘At some point, it will end. Tea?’

‘Yes please. Everything does, though.’

‘Not like this does. Leaving you sorry you ever got close to it. Almost believing the lie that life is so much better for some lucky, beautiful, chosen people. And then you end up somewhere else, and it all seems like it never happened. So remember who you are, down inside. The thing that is most you.’

‘Right,’ said Rose.

‘You know what I mean?’

‘Yep.’

‘No you don’t,’ Petra said, as she took down two mismatched mugs from a cupboard.

‘No,’ Rose agreed. ‘I don’t.’

There are sad cases and happy ever after stories everywhere, and sometimes there are both rolled up in the same skin.

I told Terence, once, about the Grecian vase, the neon fish tank and the awards ceremonies. That life reflected in his eyes, a sparkling dream, and he said, ‘You had it all, then, Rose.’ Then the glitter faded. The smell of secondhand clothes kicked into his nostrils once more, and his mind couldn’t put the two together. I saw it so clearly, the moment when he decided I was pulling his leg.

‘Good one,’ he said. ‘Good one.’ He went back to sorting out the contents of the bin bags.

The Skin Disease Centre makes a good amount in charitable donations from this little shop. It’s set up in the far corner of the reception area, behind the rows of plastic chairs, and we squeeze as much as we can on to the racks and shelves: clothes, books, trinkets and teacups. The back room is piled even higher with items waiting to be given the chance to sell; my hand gets tired with pricing it all with the ancient sticker gun. Ten pence for this coaster, a pound for that cardigan.

But hey, it’s just a tired hand attached to a tired body. It’s not fatal. When you fall a long way for a long time and a cushion provides a soft landing, you don’t complain that it smells bad and has had six previous owners. That last job should have been the end of me, but here I am.

That’s why it’s not right that he should come walking in, eight years after I shed him, looking like he’s too good for the place. Which he is.

‘Max Black,’ I say. ‘Superstar.’

‘Still just Max to you.’ He smiles.

‘Not to the rest of the world.’ He walks on water, and everything turns to liquid around him for his ease. It ripples to his touch. So many words, so much adoration, for the actor turned director. I read on a gossip website that he was making a film about the Stuck Six. ‘Were you just passing?’