The Cheek Perforation Dance. Sean Thomas

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      Pushkin, golly; Nick Hornby, hmmm; Turgenev, wow; Akhmatova, even better.

       Hmm.

      — God I love rocket

      He is calling from the kitchen again. Rebecca laughs something in agreement and completes her research. It doesn’t take long. Apart from the literature and fiction titles she’s seen, the rest of the shelves are stuffed with boy books: psychology, sociobiology, politics, rugby; books on fascism, cricket, anti-Semitism, sex, ant society, human evolution and Southampton FC. For the life of her Rebecca doesn’t know what she thinks about the maleness of these bookshelves. Here is the intellectual equivalent of a fridge with just two beer cans in it. Is that good or bad?

      As she tries to assess her own reaction Rebecca notices that Patrick has returned with a bowl of salad, two plates, and some cutlery lodged like a tango dancer’s rose in his mouth; getting to her feet, slightly embarrassed to have been caught checking his shelves, Rebecca takes the forks out of Patrick’s mouth, as he turns and produces from behind him two wineglasses full of cold white Riesling. Rebecca notes that Patrick is looking down her cleavage again as he stops to place her wineglass on the windowshelf.

      They sit side by side on the sofa; eat the salad. The salad is nice, the wine nicer. Rebecca decides to ask:

      — The books – She says, with half a mouthful of rocket – They all yours?

      — Yeah – He answers, similarly mouth full – Mostly. The fiction tends to be Joe’s, all the poetry and Russian crap

      — Right

      — And all the science stuff is basically mine

      — Uh … – Rebecca says – Huh

      They both go quiet as they eat. At one point they both laugh nervously at the same time; then they both laugh genuinely because they have both laughed nervously at the same time. Then Patrick:

      — And the music’s totally mine

      He is gesturing behind her. Turning on the sofa Rebecca takes in, for the first time, the entire opposite wall. The entire opposite wall is comprised of floor-to-ceiling shelves holding CDs, singles, tapes, DATs, minidisks, LPs, DVDs, God knows. Thousands of titles, literally thousands. Even from this distance, with her dim knowledge of music, Rebecca can see there is a notable mixture: jazz, blues, acid house, Celtic folk, Yorkshire brass band, Karlheinz Stockhausen (Karlhwho Stockwhat?), Wagner, bluegrass, flamenco. Pulled especially from the rack is a row of CDs, standing together by the player.

      Setting her finished plate of salad on the floor Rebecca skips over to the row of CDs; kneeling, and wine-sipping, and gazing, she checks out the titles of these chosen CDs. What he is listening to now. Minnie Ripperton, Maria Callas, Joy Division, Nick Drake (?), the Carpenters, Elvis, Blind Melon (??), Jacqueline du Pré.

      Again, despite her misty grasp on things musical, and the fact that she is now really quite drunk, quite pleasantly, happily drunk, Rebecca realises there is something odd, something almost too eclectic about this selection. With her wineglass in hand, feeling pleasantly sluttish, Rebecca is about to swivel and ask him about the music, when she feels his lips on her neck. His arms are around her waist from behind, making her feel slim. His voice is close, boozy, warm:

      — Dead cred

      — Mmnn?

      Her voice is slurred. His voice is closer, hotter:

      — You see I’ve had an idea we should release a CD

      — Nn

      — Made up entirely of music by glamorously dead people, like all those

      — Realll

      — Yess – He is kissing her earlobe – Cause I think there’s something about music by dead people, interestingly dead people – Another kiss – Something that’s incredibly powerful – Another kiss – And better and poignant and the copyright might be a nightmare but we could call it Dead Singers’ Songs – Two kisses, four – And I think it would it would it might oh God Rebecca your breasts they are SO

      — Here – She says, laughing – Here, you unbuckle it here

5

      — So when did you first meet Mister Skivington?

      In the witness box, Rebecca coughs. Then she looks flatly across the various heads that comprise the courtroom and she says:

      — two years ago

      The prosecutor nods and smiles, but his smile is uncertain. The judge intervenes:

      — I’m sorry Miss Jessel but you’ll have to speak up

      — sorry

      In the dock Patrick exhales. He wants to curse, loudly. So where did she get this voice? His articulate, educated, cultured, self-confident, sexually experienced, words-like-Weltanschauung-knowing twenty-four-year-old ex-girlfriend: where did she suddenly acquire this meek, quiet, bashful, timid, inarticulate, hushed, I-am-oh-so-innocent teenagerish voice? Cursing quietly Patrick rests his forehead on two thumbs pointing up from interlocked hands; then he looks up to hear the judge say to Rebecca:

      — The jury must be able to hear every word, you see

      Rebecca nods:

      — Yes, I’m … very sorry

      The judge smiles reassuringly at Rebecca, and then turns back to the prosecutor’s grey wig:

      — Do you want to repeat the question, counsel?

      The wig nods. Laying down a pen on a desk, wrapping a hand around a black gown, gazing once more at his principal witness in her gingham-checked dress and her lambswool cardigan, the suntanned prosecutor opens his mouth and says:

      — So you met the defendant about two years and two months ago?

      — Yes. In a bookshop

      — And you began … dating, soon after that?

      — Yes

      Dating? Patrick twitches, feels the horrible triteness of the word. He and Rebecca never dated …

      — And how long after that did your relationship begin?

      — A couple of … weeks. Maybe three …

      — You were at college at the time?

      — Yes. King’s College. London University. I still am

      — What are you are studying?

      — History. The Crusades

      — And you are doing – The prosecutor looks at his file for a fact already, quite obviously, in his head – A PhD, yes?

      — A doctorate, yes

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