Chris Cleave - Incendiary

I looked back in the mirror. I am Petra Sutherland I said. This season’s colours are jade and tan and burgundy. I had one of Petra’s Sunday Telegraph articles on the table in front of me. I was practicing talking posh. Talking posh is like anything else Osama you can get used to it pretty quick. The trick is to read one of Petra’s sentences aloud and then straight away say something of your own. It’s an effort but you can trick your brain into doing it. Like when me and my husband used to bump start the Astra. I picked up Petra’s article and I read aloud.

—At a basic level the democratisation of high fashion is demonstrated by the hipster boot-cut pant, which is now the most common trouser shape.

I watched my lips in the mirror.

—At a basic level the democratisation of Petra Sutherland is demonstrated by the fact that I am her.

I smiled. The more I practiced the better I got. You should try it yourself Osama. This season’s bloodbaths will be crimson and carmine and scarlet.

—I am Petra Sutherland. It is September now and the faces on the balloons of the Shield of Hope have faded. The summer sun turned them pale and now one has the impression that London is defended by ghosts.

I shook Petra’s head at myself in the mirror. She wouldn’t of said ghosts she would of said spectres. There’s a difference. I tried again.

—I am Petra Sutherland and my city is protected by spectres.

There it was. I smiled.

—I am Petra Sutherland and my city is protected by spectres and my boyfriend is on a cocaine-fuelled downward spiral but I must remain cheerful.

I tried a cheerful smile in the mirror. I almost fooled myself.

—I am Petra Sutherland. I am wearing chestnut corduroys. I am wearing a bolero jacket with frilly ruffs. I am wearing myself out through overwork. I set off for the paper at the crack of dawn and I don’t come back until late. I find I am happiest in the office up to my neck in fabric swatches and freelancers’ copy. I have started to rather dread coming home. Jasper has turned into something ghastly. He neglects himself. He has to be goaded into the bath like a sheep reluctant to be dipped. His behaviour is monstrous and unpredictable. The morning after a really big night he cowers in bed with the pillows over his head crying like a baby. When he has sufficiently recovered he will get up and mooch around the house. He will smash crockery and guzzle coffee and sometimes even make an appearance at the paper. Where he is increasingly unwelcome. His column has followed him downhill. His words are not words any more they are 800 bared teeth. His column is a snarl against anything and anyone that is not Jasper Black. It can’t be long before the paper drops him.

—I am Petra Sutherland. People at the paper have started to talk. Or more exactly they have stopped. Conversations falter when I join them. Subjects are changed. The weather has taken a turn for the worse lately hasn’t it?

My lip gloss was smudged. It was the way her mouth twisted when she talked about Jasper. I wiped off the smudge with a cotton ball and started again.

—I am Petra Sutherland and the girl hasn’t helped. I don’t know what I was thinking. I remember hoping that once he had her up close Jasper would see how dreadfully bloody ordinary she was. But she has failed to bore either one of us. Jasper paws at her bedroom door at night. She won’t let him in because she’s mooning over some policeman. And then one night I walked in on her in the bathroom. On the edge of the tub her candles were burning down to stumps and she was lying quite still in the water. When she heard the door open she just stared up at me. I should have left. I stepped inside and locked the bathroom door behind me.

I had my eyes closed. I was remembering Petra forgetting herself. I heard a noise and I opened my eyes and gasped. Jasper was standing behind me. His reflection was watching mine in Petra’s dressing table mirror. His stubble was thick and black and his eyes were very small in their puffy white rings of skin. He looked like a dying panda. He was wearing grey boxer shorts and black socks. Nothing else. He was starting to get a bit of a gut I noticed. When he spoke his voice was empty like a toy without batteries.

—Hello Petra, he said. I’d have thought you’d have been on your way to work by now.

I froze. I couldn’t think what to say so I didn’t say anything. Jasper came closer. He put his hands on my shoulders and I jumped. He smelled of nightmares and stale smoke from Camel Lights.

—Oh come on Petra, he said. Don’t I even get a hello?

I looked at him in the mirror. He looked straight back at me and his eyes were as empty as his voice. You could tell he was mainly thinking about finding the Neurofen. I took a deep breath. I made sure I got Petra’s voice just right. Cold and hurt.

—Hello Jasper. I imagined you wouldn’t be awake for hours.

—Uh, said Jasper.

He walked into the bathroom and started going through the medicine cabinet. I heard him throwing packets of stuff on the floor. I stood up from Petra’s dressing table and followed him into the bathroom.

—Oh darling I can’t bear to watch you suffer.

I found the Neurofen and passed him the shiny silver box. He closed his hand over mine and he looked at me.

—Have you done your hair or something? he said.

I shook my head no.

—You look different, he said.

—It’s your hangover. I’m just the same.

Jasper screwed up his eyes.

—Hangover, he said. That’s what I have. It feels as if the world is ending. It feels as if mice have got into my neurons and chewed off all the electrical insulation.

He rubbed his chin.

—Oh god, he said. I was a total cunt again last night wasn’t I?

—No Jasper last night you were just ordinarily awful. You’ve been high for 3 days. The night you really were a total cunt was Saturday.

—What did I do? he said.

—You wouldn’t believe me even if I showed you the bruises.

Jasper groaned and sat down on the floor.

—Jesus Petra, he said. I’m sorry. I’m completely fucked.

—We’ll talk about it when I get home from work.

—Talk about it? he said. I know what that means. You’re going to leave me aren’t you? Please don’t. If you leave me Petra I think I’ll go mad I really do.

His eyes were darting about all panicked and I wished I hadn’t pretended in the first place now. I put my real voice back on.

—It’s alright Jasper it’s only me.

Jasper looked up at me and blinked.

—Petra’s gone to New York. Remember?

He opened his eyes wide then closed them quick. I suppose the light hurt them.

—Oh, he said. You.

—Yeah. Come on. Get up.

—Jesus Christ.

He stood up and went to the sink and ran the cold tap and popped 4 Neurofens out of the pack and swallowed them. He stood there with the tap still running and looked at himself in the mirror above the basin.

—Bad Jasper, he said.

He stood there looking at himself a long time. I don’t know what he was looking for. Maybe something funny to say but he seemed so sad. I went up behind him and I turned the tap off. I put my arms around his tummy and I put the side of my face against his back. He didn’t move he just started crying. It wasn’t much. Just some tiny sobs. He wasn’t making a fuss. I stroked his tummy.

—Thanks, he said.

—You’re alright. You’ll feel better in a minute.

—There you go again, he said. Why can’t Petra be more like that?

—I reckon she’s too busy earning the money you’re putting up your nose.

—Petra doesn’t give a shit about me, he said. She doesn’t care. I wish she’d just go.

I smiled at him in the mirror.