Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

I met Mark in Annabel’s, a private club in Mayfair. Let’s be clear: Annabel’s is not the sort of place either of us frequents. It was the first and last time I’ve ever been there. Not for any terrible reason; I’d had fun there—God, I met the love of my life there—but it was just pure chance that either of us was there in the first place. If you’ve never heard of Annabel’s before, it’s a strange one. Nestled under a nondescript staircase in Berkeley Square and open for the past five decades, it has seen everyone from Nixon to Lady Gaga tip-tap down its staircase. Opened by Mark Birley at the suggestion of his close friend Lord Aspinall in the 1960s as a casino, more along the lines of a Connery Bond location and less of a one-armed-bandit arrangement. Birley was tied up with royalty, politics, and crime, so, as you can imagine, he pulled in a pretty sexy crowd. He created a quiet little supper club/pickup spot, run by the establishment for the establishment. That night, I wasn’t a member, but I was with one.

I met Caro on my first job out of the National Film and Television School. It was a TV documentary on the White Cube galleries. I’d been so excited to get it. My professor had put in a word with the producer and passed along my first short, which she’d loved. I was camera assistant to Fred Davey, one of my absolute heroes. The man who would eventually help me get my first feature documentary into production. Thankfully, we got on well—I tend to be quite good with tricky people. I’d turn up early and set up—bring coffee and smile. Trying to be invisible yet indispensable, walking that tricky line between flirty and reliable.

Caro had done some talking-heads stuff on the documentary. She was the smartest person I’d ever met, or at least the most thoroughly educated person I’d ever met. She’d been the most recent recipient of a starred first in History from Cambridge, following in the footsteps of Simon Schama and Alain de Botton. Not short on job offers after graduation, she’d unexpectedly taken a job running a new gallery bankrolled by her best friend from prep school. Five years later that gallery had reputedly discovered the next generation of great British artists. She’d invited me out for drinks after we’d wrapped on the first day of filming, and we’d been fast friends ever since.

Caro was fun. She had a habit of elliptically referring to her heritage; I’d catch glimpses of blue-stockinged, cigarette-rolling badasses through the folds of her allusions. She was exciting and glamorous, and a couple of weeks after we met she took me to Annabel’s.

—

The first time I saw Mark I was on my way back from the toilets. I’d been hiding there trying to dodge a hedge-fund bore who’d gotten it into his head that my sporadic nodding coupled with determined crowd-searching somehow indicated interest. I’d had it on good information from a Spanish girl that Hedge Fund was still hanging around outside the ladies’ room entrance with a fresh drink, waiting for my return. So I took the opportunity to brush up on current affairs via my phone. I gave it ten minutes, then made a break for it. Hedge Fund was gone. Gone a-wooing some other lucky lady, no doubt. I made a beeline back to the bar, spotting the back of Caro’s dull golden dress through the crowd. She was speaking animatedly to someone. Then, as she twisted to the right, she revealed her talking partner.

I literally broke step. My body deciding, before my brain, that my presence would not be needed in their interaction. Caro was gorgeous, a tall confident amazon of a woman. The lines of her gold lamé dress skimming every curve of her body. She was clearly not wearing underwear. She looked like a glossy magazine perfume ad and this man was her magazine equal. He was perfect. Tall, substantial, he looked muscular without giving the impression that he worked out. Maybe he was a rower, or it could be tennis. Maybe he chopped trees down. Yes, he’d be very good at chopping trees down. I remember feeling an unnaturally strong desire to watch him do that. Short brown tousled hair. Slept in, but still just about business-appropriate. He smiled broadly at something I couldn’t quite hear, and Caro burst into laughter. I don’t know why but for some reason I sped up. I like to think my body took over, a cellular need. Anyway, I pulled myself to my full height without a clue what I would say when I got there and entirely not in control of my actions. His eyes caught mine at least ten steps away and took me in, his gaze doing a dance over me that I would come to recognize and yearn for the rest of my life. His gaze searching my face, tripping and darting from my eyes to my mouth, looking for me .

I’d had time to change before we left the shoot and had opted for a vintage jumpsuit in dusty pink and rose-gold cage shoes. It was my Faye Dunaway Network outfit, for emergency evening situations only. I looked good in it. I know this because men like Hedge Fund don’t go for personality.

Caro turns her head toward me, following the brown-haired man’s look. “Hey, honey! Where the hell have you been?” She beams at me, obviously happy with the effect we are both having. I feel a blush begin at my neck but I shut it down.

“Mark, this gorgeous creature is my friend Erin. She’s an artist. She makes documentaries. She’s a genius,” she coos, slipping her arm through mine in a surprisingly territorial way. It’s nice to be wanted.

“Erin, this is Mark. He works in the City, he enjoys collecting modern art. Although we’ve ascertained he’s not a fan of anything featuring Kalashnikovs or human fingernails. But aside from that, he has an open mind. Right?”

He smiles and extends a hand. “Lovely to meet you, Erin.”

Those eyes holding me, taking me in. I take his hand in mine, making sure to match his grip. I feel the whole of his warm hand wrapped around my fingers, which are still cool from the washroom.

I let him have a smile, let it spread across the corners of my lips and up to my eyes. I gave him some of myself.

“And you,” I reply.

I needed to know who he belonged to, if I could have him. Could I have him?

“Can I get anyone a drink?” I offer.

“Actually, hon, I’m just going to nip to the loos. Toilet relay. Back in a min,” Caro trills, and exits, leaving only a waft of rich perfume behind. She’s left him here for me. But then, I guess hot guys are ten a penny to the Caros of this world.

Mark loosens his tie slightly with his forefinger and thumb. Dark navy suit. Fuck.

“Drink, Mark?” I offer.

“Oh, God, no, sorry, let me.” Champagne is ordered with a nod and a wave. He gestures over to a nook and we sit down together at a low table. It turns out that he’s only just met Caro and he’s here alone. Well, he came with a friend named Richard.

“Who is talking to that lovely lady over there.” Mark points to a woman who is very clearly an escort. Latex knee-length boots and bored wandering eyes. Richard doesn’t seem to be too bothered by the lack of conversational input and appears to have the talking covered for both of them.

“Wow, okay. Interesting.” I was not expecting that. Wow.

Mark grins and nods and I completely fail to intercept my full-on snort of laughter. He laughs too.

“We’re very close, Richard and I,” he intones with mock solemnity. “He’s over for the day from a Swiss bank. I’m basically his minder. Or carer? Who knows. I just have to take him where he wants to go. Which is apparently…there. What sort of documentaries do you make?”

“At the moment, not many. But I’ve only just started, really. I’ve done a short on Norwegian fishermen. Like a kind of homage to Melville, it’s sort of Local Hero meets The Old Man and the Sea, you know?” I check to see if I’m boring him. He smiles and nods me on.