Silhouette

Sam was in no danger of passing The Knowledge, but even he knew they had just blown straight past the label's office.

“Ma’am, I think that was it.”

“Oh sod Eamon, miserable prick. He can go himself.”

“Should I tell him?”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“But…”

She jerked the steering wheel, setting off a furious cacophony of beeps and warnings as they careened onto the motorway. “I’m reassigning you for the night,” she smirked. “Executive privilege. You don’t want to watch Geordie Scouser, and neither do I. Tossers.”

The drive was uneventful, save for Gemma repeatedly switching off the drive assist and swearing at the car under her breath. Sam stared out the window and found himself mesmerised by the scale of the city: flashing digital billboards, imposing tower blocks, football stadia, all competing for his attention as the freeway carved through West London. She seemed possessed, diving across lanes with the determination of someone in a high speed chase, and knew exactly where to go with no need for map or navigation. Past a massive shopping centre out one side, then a park covered with tents shortly after, the quality of the neighbourhood seemed to be in rapid decline the further they went. By the time they reached their destination, they were surrounded on all sides by low-slung buildings with crumbling facades.

“My office.” She’d thrown the car into park on the street across from an unassuming flat-roofed pub. A vinyl banner hung from some zip-ties: The Fox. Gemma shook her head when she saw it. “Was always going to end here, wasn’t it?”

“It’s…” Sam stared at the building, which he felt could double as the set of any number of direct-to-streaming horror films. “It’s nice.”

“What?” Gemma tutted. “No, it’s not. That’s the bloody point, isn’t it? Go on, in you get, first round’s on me.”

Sam was picking a splinter out of his finger, courtesy of the door, when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Virginia’s name flashed on the screen, along with three missed texts. Gemma glanced over at it as she waited for their pints by the bar.

“Virginia, hmm? Is she joining us?”

“Not tonight.”

“You invited her though, I’m sure.”

“Of course.”

A pint landed on the bar in front of Sam and he pulled it straight to his lips. He didn’t know why he’d just said that. Virginia wasn’t even able to join them.

“Why’d you lie?” And Gemma had his number.

“What?”

“You lied to me, just now.”

“I don’t know.” Sam could feel his hand shaking. A deep discomfort took hold.

Gemma raised a glass and Sam joined her without conscious effort. “Cheers, Sam. You don’t have to tell me the truth. But if I ask whether you’re telling the truth, always be honest. Okay?”

Sam just nodded.

By 2 a.m. they were nearly the last ones in the pub, tucked into the snug at the back. Gemma had gotten more casual, her blazer flung to one side, her blouse half-unbuttoned. A pair of graphite rings hung on a chain around her neck, and Sam spent a great deal of energy not looking at them as they dangled in a very delicate position. Their table was littered with empty pints and empty shots, their phones both off and upside down at the far edge. The bartender leaned around the corner and whistled with a nod to Gemma. She nodded back and downed the rest of her drink.

“I believe we’re being ejected soon, Sam. And just when we’re getting to know each other.”

“That’s a pity, ma’am.”

“You keep calling me ma’am.” She smirked and shook her head. “Such a polite American boy.”

“I do work for you.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “You work for Eamon.”

Sam spun his empty glass between his hands. He’d struggled all night to contribute anything of value to their conversation, instead content to watch her and listen. Her stories were fascinating and jumbled, bouncing from topic to topic, from anger to joy, from hope to despair. It was exhilarating and exhausting in equal measure. Is this just how adults interacted? Proper adults, with proper jobs, who’d led proper lives. Perhaps a twenty-two year old simply wasn’t interesting.

“I broke up with my husband outside this pub, you know.” Gemma rolled her head slowly and rubbed her shoulder under her blouse. “Christ, I’m old.”

“You were married?”

“Briefly. This place is just where I come to mourn loss, I suppose. It’s all come crashing down around me, I’m afraid.” The pint in front of her was nearly gone. She stared at it and let out a groan as she switched to rubbing the other shoulder. “God, you’ve been good enough to succumb to all this.”

“This has not been the night I was expecting, ma’am. I can definitely say that.”

She slid closer to him in the booth and turned just a bit, putting her back to him. “Would you?” A flash of her eyes, her face partly obscured, and another rush of wild feelings ran through Sam. If she asked him to kill someone, he would hope she was kidding, but he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't do it. He gingerly raised his hands and placed them on her shoulders, then gave a nervous squeeze. Gemma let out a low moan and placed her hand atop his. A snicker came from behind them, and they both caught the bartender hiding a laugh as he washed glasses. Gemma tossed Sam’s hands away as she rushed out of the booth.

“Right. Shots then karaoke, yeah?”

Two shots had become four, and their musical odyssey drove every remaining patron out into the street. But Gemma would not be deterred: chaining ballads into metal, emo into country, and finally getting stuck in a morass of 2000s one-hit-wonders. Only pulling the plug on the karaoke machine had been successful in the bartender’s war against their custom. But pull it he had, and the ensuing fracas led to a full pint getting spilled directly onto Sam. And that, Sam noted only to himself, had not led to any apologies, but instead to a round of laughter.

At the threshold of the door Gemma put her arms on Sam’s shoulders and leaned against him, which brought him face to face with her necklace. He stared at the rings and thought he could feel her lips graze his ears, though couldn’t be sure. “Sam…” Her voice was a low whisper. “Can you walk me home?”

“Where do you live?”

“Across the street. Come on then, night cap.”

Sam chuckled. “But, how am I getting home?”

“I don’t know, Sam! You’re a bloody adult man, do what adult men do in these situations and have your bloody girlfriend come pick you up.” She shoved him physically to accentuate her point. Verbal bullying was never enough for this woman, he thought.

He stared at her for far too long, then gave a slight nod. “Sure, okay.”

“Is it okay?” Her finger thudded against his chest a couple times. “Are you lying to me?”

“Yes.”

She squinted at him for a moment, then nodded. “Right, let’s go.”

Gemma’s flat was stunning in the truest sense of the word: he was stunned this woman lived here. His amazement started when they walked out of The Fox and across Uxbridge Road, toward an apartment building that looked to be falling down in its spare time. “It’s got an old world charm,” she’d said with a wink.

Stacks of CDs lined the walls in her claustrophobic den. A tired old sofa had its back to the bay window. She had no curtains, her third-floor window high enough to look down at the street lights, but low enough to catch the glare and flood the room with a sickly hue. She disappeared into the kitchen as Sam closed the door behind him. It popped back open.

“You’ve got to fucking slam it!” came the shout from the kitchen. Sam obliged, throwing his body against the back of it until he finally heard the click. Several magazines fell down from a nearby stack, and he nearly tripped on a wine bottle as he leapt forward to pick them up.

“Your apartment isn’t what I expected, Miss Thomson.”

She emerged from the kitchen with two bottles of Modelo. “It’s a flat, love. Apartments have amenities. Like heating, or windows that open.” She stuffed a beer in his hand. “And it’s Miss.”

“I said Miss.”

“Christ, I mean, it’s not Miss. Call me Gemma. We’re adults, I’m not your bloody professor.” She flew around the flat like a whirlwind, futzing and fiddling, the way one does in their own space. Tweak this, tidy that, healthy swigs of her beer in between. “Make yourself comfortable, darling. Between your American need to wear shoes indoors and the half keg of beer soaked into your trousers, you could use a sprucing up.”

Gemma emerged a little while later in a black velour track jacket and loose sweatpants, thick-rimmed glasses on her face, her hair up in a clip. Beer in one hand, doughnut in the other, palpably ready for leisure. Sam stood near her couch rather awkwardly, having done next to nothing, as he knew that under his drenched skinny jeans and black denim jacket were only an obnoxious t-shirt and picnic table boxers.

Still, though. Seeing her come down the hallway in her leisurewear, he could only smile. “Is this Gemma in her natural state? At long last?”

“Bollocks.” Gemma let out a clipped cackle. “I’m clothed, so it’s still less relaxed than I’d prefer to be in my own home.” She looked him up and down. “You’re…”

“I removed the shoes.”

“Sam.” Her voice was stern, but pleading. “I can’t look at you in your fucking beer-soaked music fan costume all night.”

He sighed. “Have anything I could change into?”

She hadn’t, of course, had anything he could change into. Sam instead found himself in his ridiculous t-shirt, boxers, and nylon socks, with a fuzzy blanket across his lap in an attempt to both warm up and salvage a bit of dignity. Gemma sat in the tatty chair opposite him, stroked her chin and leaned back. He was under observation. He shifted his weight awkwardly while she diagnosed him. “So.”

“I know.”

“Oh?”

“The shirt was a gift.”

“Is that a bald eagle wearing an American flag, firing two machine guns?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s riding a shark.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, shit.” Gemma tilted her head and continued staring, her glasses giving her the air of a demented psychologist. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“About myself? What do you want to know?” He clutched at the blanket and tried to warm his hands. He thought he saw his breath.

She tucked a bit of stray hair behind her ear, and Sam mindlessly did likewise with his own. “What do you enjoy?”

“I like music,” he said.

She tittered. “Not news, babe. We met at a gig. You’re interning at my label.” She traced her lips with her finger. “It’s a good question. What music do you really like? You’re not allowed to say any bands we’ve signed. Actually, sod that. What do you play?”

“I have a guitar. I don’t really play. I’m garbage.” Sam pored over all the times he’d seen his friend Sebastian at parties, effortlessly chatting with whomever he’d decided to flirt with that night. “You play me something, though?” He gestured behind her.

Gemma snorted and tossed her head. On the wall hung an acoustic guitar, sat amongst a thousand Polaroid pictures wallpapering one whole side of the room. “Bit presumptuous of you.”

“Is it?”

“I’m not your little performer, Sam.” She leaned forward and flicked him on the forehead. “Don’t tell me to play for you.”

By 5 a.m. they’d lost all semblance of decorum. Gemma sprawled over her couch, limbs askew, partly covered by a pile of blankets. Sam rested his back against the sofa, sat on the hardwood. He’d chosen to ignore the pain radiating up his tailbone. The room was rich with the first hints of the morning sun, and it was only then his body made clear it knew just how long they’d been awake.

“I’m bloody terrified, Sam.” Her whispers spread through him, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Terrified of what?”

“Terrified of Magenta, of what’s happening with this project. I just feel so fucking old.”

“You’re not old.”

“I’ve spent my whole life devoted to music, whatever that fucking means. Musicians and music. But now it’s, what? Is it going away? And I’m asking myself, did I help to do that? Like some bloody Oppenheimer but the stakes are non-existent.” She chuckled as best she could. Her throat was sandpaper. “I am become death, destroyer of songs.”

“It’s not you, Gemma. I don’t know why you’d blame yourself. It’s Magenta’s stupid fucking algorithms.”

“They couldn’t do it without us. We’re helping them destroy us. And for what?”

“It won’t matter. People have been making music for millennia. They’re not going to stop now.”

“Is that even true, Sam? Or does it just sound true?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

“It sounds true,” they both whispered in unison. Gemma let out another raspy titter.

“Pouring emotion out of you and into the world through an instrument. Playing until there’s blood on the strings. Drumming so hard you think the sticks will splinter in your hands. Screaming so loud you might tear your throat. Nothing can replace that.” Sam was certain he had lifted this verbatim from his friend Sebastian. But he’d also found it to be moving at the time, and he’d committed it to memory.

He felt Gemma’s fingers slide into his hair. Her fingernails dragged lightly across his scalp, and it sent unbelievable tingles in waves all over him. It was an unexpected intimacy, the kind found in the liminal space between waking and sleep. The window on this moment would shut soon, leaving them in the realm of the living—people heading to work, joggers out for their morning run, milk being delivered. But for now, with the loosest grip on consciousness, they could fly together across this surreal plane.

“Why did you never find a new band?” Sam dropped back down to a whisper, and thoughts left his mind without any real scrutiny. “After your husband passed away. Why not put that pain into music?”

“That part of me sort of died with him, I think. Or really, it went with him in a carton on the 228 to Maida Hill.” She let out a tiny sigh. “We just wanted to play a few notes in the symphony of human history. That’s what we’d say.” She chuckled. “Pish, innit.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Right, enough about me. Why weren’t you ever in a band?”

Sam sighed in turn, his eyes still closed. Her fingers on his scalp, and her rasping voice right in his ear, every part of her seemed to caress him. “Well… I didn’t care.”

“What?”

“I never cared about music,” he said into the dark. “I’m sort of a fraud. I get all my musical taste from my college buddy. I just thought he was so cool. Everybody did. I sorta mirrored him. His taste, his style, the way he talked. All of it.”

“Huh.”

“I mean, now I like it. I always kinda liked it. But now I’m into the more esoteric side of it, knowing who’s in bands, sub-genres, all that. I faked it until I made it. But then I majored in music business like him.”

“Wow,” Gemma chuckled. “That’s kind of cute, I guess. Did you pick the same major to stay close to him?”

“I suppose so.” He could feel the answer to this question propelling both of them back into the real world. “It was the three of us.”

“The three of you?”

“Me, Seb, and Virginia.”

“Right.”

He leaned his head back toward her, to barely catch a glimpse of her face, sideways behind him against the pillow. The dawn interplayed with the street lamps on Gemma’s face, and he could see just how rough and dry the skin was on her lips. To his relief, she continued to run her fingers through his hair. That was the dotted line they’d decided on tonight, and in Sam’s mind, he believed this was their unspoken bond. They’d draw these lines in real time and stay just on one side of them. It didn’t need to be communicated. They both just knew.

“I thought I’d see her tonight, Sam. Your girlfriend, that is. She joined you in London for the summer and you’ve left her home with her knitting.”

“She went back last week.”

“Oh?”

“She has an internship. At Magenta.”

Gemma snorted. “You’re joking. You must be.”

“I wish I was.” Sam let out a grim chuckle. It was all he could do. Virginia was a grown woman, and her career was her choice. She’d made that clear when he delivered his meek protest. He wanted so badly to confide that conversation in this person on the sofa behind him. This person who understood why he was upset without needing to be told, who was soothing him in the dark before the dawn.

“Are you coping with that? I’d be bloody furious.”

He shook his head.

“Oh, love. I’m sorry.” Her fingers left his hair and he closed his eyes. The stubble on his face was as rough as the skin on her palm, but there was still solace in her caress. Her breath on his neck sent a fresh wave of chills down his chest and arms. His head turned, though he wasn’t sure if she had guided him or if he’d done it himself. His chest pressed against the front of the sofa, her face an inch from his. She was nestled deep into the pillow, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. The awkwardness of the angle confounded him as he tried to find her with his free hand. So many folds and layers of blanket lie between his fingers and her skin. Instead he stroked her cheek with his fingertips. Her eyes widened at his touch, and they dove into each other’s stares. The world blotted out, her form a silhouette against it all, everything else just a blur to ignore. A rush of blood went every which way as she took his face into her hand. He tilted his head back, closing the final inch between them.

“Sam,” she whispered. Her chapped lips brushed against his. “You need to go.”

“It’s so late.” He pressed his forehead against hers. The idea was nonsensical. There was nowhere else. Her fingers dug into his neck, and it was as if she’d flipped a switch hidden within. He folded his legs under him and tried to get better purchase on the floor, leaving him kneeling in front of her. The blankets were still formidable, but he made a second attempt to get through. His fingers found the edge of her hip, and he gave a light squeeze through her pyjama bottoms.

“If you don’t bloody go,” she replied, “I’ll go.” With a wriggle from her he felt the pyjamas slide out of place, and his hand now laid under the blanket against the soft skin of her side. He spread open his fingers and squeezed, in part to see how far over the line they’d now agree to go. She was so warm, and this part of her surprisingly delicate, in stark contrast to her roughness elsewhere. He tried to attune to her, to seek the slightest more permission, to go the slightest bit further. Their lips were at an impasse, held apart by unseen forces. But for now, until they could confront that, she had begun gyrating her hips in time with his touch.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“Course it’s not,” she answered immediately. “You’re my intern and your hand’s on my arse.”

“I’m Eamon’s intern.”

“Christ.” She rolled over suddenly and laid flat on her back. With their gaze broken, a bit of the spell had worn off. But something still roiled inside Sam. The blanket had slipped part way onto the floor, and Gemma had made no move to claw it back. She stared at him, her expression vacant and distant, one hand tucked behind her head and the other touched to her lips. If he were to look over his shoulder he might barely see the line they weren’t meant to cross, still there in the middle distance.

“I should leave, shouldn’t I?” Sam picked up the blanket and draped it back over her as he got to his feet.

“Course you should.” Her tone academic, able to express what she knew must happen, with no will to ensure that it did.

“Are you sure…”

She groaned. He’d someday think back to this moment, and see it for what it was: she carried the burden of being the adult, while this child before her bathed in the luxury of freedom to make bad decisions. Now she had to step in and temper them before anyone got hurt. “Go back to your bloody accommodation,” she scolded. “Spend a bit more time with it before you head back to your girlfriend in another bloody country.”

Sam had started to gather his clothes and shoes. “I’m almost positive that it's over.”

“Course it is, Sam.” Gemma rolled her head to one side and stared out the window, squinting at the sunlight. “Course it is.”