Алия Уайтли: The Loosening Skin

He browses, actually browses, a circular rail of men’s shirts. ‘Something like that.’

‘Sussex and Lincolnshire must have got closer together since the last time I checked. You are still in Sussex?’

He hesitates, then nods. He picks a tartan shirt from the rail, with frayed cuffs and collar, and fingers the sleeve.

‘That crazy house,’ I muse.

‘I timed this for lunch,’ he says. ‘Let me take you to lunch.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you loved me once.’

That was the last thing I expected him to say. I’m aware of Terence’s attention, ears pricking up, in the back room. I get this vision of him leaning forward over a bin bag of clothes, straining to catch every word. He’s so young, only one skin out of school.

‘Terence,’ I call. ‘Can you watch the shop for an hour?’

No reply.

I pull open the curtain and find him just as I imagined, except the bin bag contains romance novels, the covers dogeared and shiny.

‘Terence.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Hold the fort.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking behind me, at Max Black, and his sparkling eyes are saying – it was true. It was all true.

‘He’s in love with you,’ says Max.

‘Who?’

‘The kid. In the thrift store. Terence.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

Max shrugs. He’s comfortable here, sure of his own thoughts in the back of his bulletproof Range Rover. There was no point in attempting a cafe, a restaurant, anything normal. His bodyguard would have to clear the place first and the staff wouldn’t leave him alone. Thus speaks the voice of experience. But here, parked up near the bus station, we can talk and his bodyguard – a good-looking woman, of course – can wait outside in the car park for however long it takes. She won’t like it, but she’ll do it.

‘I thought you were a private investigator or something,’ he says. ‘Last time we spoke you were working in London. Instead you do a disappearing act and I have to hire someone to track you down. What happened?’

‘I shed.’

‘You’re so weird,’ he says, in an angry rush, as if the words had to escape out of him, ‘You are so fucking weird, Rosie. You could have just called me if you needed money. We were – we were so happy. If you were in trouble, you could have called.’

‘If I ever am in trouble, I’ll bear that in mind.’ I open a cubbyhole in the central console and find a half-bottle of champagne, unopened, and a glass. Underneath that there’s a packet of mints.

‘You may find this ironic,’ he says, ‘but it turns out I’m the one in trouble.’

I can’t even begin to get my head around that one. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘I got robbed.’

‘Get real.’ He’s never alone, he’s never vulnerable. He hires people to make sure of it.

‘The Sussex house got turned over. A professional job.’

‘What did they take?’ I know the answer before he says it.

‘The skins.’

‘They got into the safe room?’

I saw that room being built. I liaised about the safety features. It was Fort Knox in the South Downs. It was unbreakable.

It was asking for trouble. I find I’m not surprised. But the skins – that’s a different matter. The skins are a big deal. The thought of someone else having them makes my insides hurt. I’m suddenly grateful this isn’t my problem; Max burned my old skin. I watched him light the bonfire. The only skins in that room were his own.

If he was a normal person he would have burned his own, long ago, or sold them for a few pounds. But the rich and famous, they don’t do normal things. They keep every single shedded skin, and it’s the fashion to have special temperature-controlled rooms for them. There are so many people out there who want a tiny piece of a celebrity to call their own.

‘Check the top-end businesses,’ I say. ‘They’ll try to shift them on the quiet.’

Max shakes his head. ‘We checked. They’re not moving through the usual channels. Whoever took them is keeping them, for now.’ He wets his lips, then says, ‘Find them for me.’

‘I don’t do that any more. That wasn’t what I did, anyway, exactly. I wouldn’t be any good at this.’

‘You knew people, right? Someone in the trade took my skins. I don’t want anybody else to have them. I know you understand this.’

It’s difficult to think clearly about skins from the past. I don’t want to be near those old loves, to touch them, or feel them. But, like Max, I don’t want anyone else to, either. Particularly the skin in which Max once loved me.

‘I don’t understand you,’ he says. He takes a card from the pocket of his shirt and holds it out. ‘My private number, if you change your mind. I can pay well. But then, it’s not about the money, is it? Or the love. If you work out what the hell it is about, let me know.’ He signals and the bodyguard opens the door, so I climb out and stand in the car park, watching him drive away until I can’t see the car any more.

I can’t quite believe he left me here. It’s a fair walk back to the shop.

I look at the card.

it says, and then a number. He doesn’t even need a surname any more.

A bus will take me back in the right direction.

While I ride, I take out my phone and browse online. I start off with looking for stories about him. Is he in a relationship? Well, I’d never find the truth by searching through the gossip sites. But the pictures show him with people, of course. All kinds of people.

The skyscraper ads are all about love.

It makes our world go round; the merry spin of who is in love, out of love. A story catches my eye about the Stucks. Six of them, in love with each other at the same time, once upon a time, but now the magic is over and their story is about to be turned into a thing of cinematic beauty, courtesy of Max Black. The photo of them at the top of the article shows them in the midst of that miracle of timing, all holding hands and smiling with rare radiance.

If only other emotions were lost in the moult. Fear, pain, guilt, sadness: why must these remain? Some people say it’s because those emotions are true, lasting, while love could never survive for longer. But I think love is the strongest feeling of all, and that’s why it has to die, and be sloughed away. Otherwise it could kill us. I remember how I would have taken a bullet for Max, or murdered someone who threatened him. Surely I’m better off without those feelings.

I’m better off being the kind of person who won’t even make a few enquiries for him.

Fear, pain, guilt. Sadness.

When I reach the Skin Centre I stand outside the doors and call the number on the card. To his credit, he answers the phone himself and has the decency to sound surprised.

‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll poke around. But that’s all. I have a life here.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I saw it.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means thank you. I know how hard this must be for you. I didn’t realise—’

I cut him off, and go back to work.

Petra’s office, once Rose finally located it, turned out to be in one of those back alleys that had been squeezed into the shadows of other buildings. A supermarket depot jostled up behind it, the two separated only by a high wall upon which had been arranged a regiment of broken bottles. Hammersmith Road was in front, the cars bunching up and loosening in a continuous concertina.

It was locked up tight. She pressed the doorbell, and an outline appeared through a small central panel of leaded glass.

‘It’s Rose,’ she said.