Tangerine

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered, though her voice was largely lost in the din of the noise.

John turned to look at me then, his eyes moving up and down, taking in my appearance. A blouse and trousers once again, my unfashionable long, dark hair pulled back into an equally unfashionable plait. I could read the disappointment on his face. “What on earth should I do with her?” he asked, his gaze locked onto my own.

A million responses flitted through my mind, the very first among them: let her go. I didn’t say it, though I could feel the words forming on my lips. Instead I turned, breaking his gaze, and reached for my drink, anxious to feel the warming calm of the gin.

There was silence for a moment, and then John said, looking at me, “Say, isn’t your little holiday about over by now?” He leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice cubes in his drink. “Surely it’s nearly time to return to the real world.” He laughed, though I could see the glint in his eye.

He meant it as a slight. I could feel it in his words, his resentment for my relationship with Alice, boiling over the dips and curves of every syllable. I saw her too—the slight flinch, the quick intake of breath. She had heard it as well, had felt it—after all, that was the point. For his words to insult—to cut, to tear, to wound. I would never really fit in, never really be one of them, that was what he was trying to say. Those girls from good families, those effortless girls. The ones who woke up with long, blond shiny hair, pale, nondescript features, an aquiline nose that spoke of wealth and good breeding. Girls who did not have to work for their supper, who only had to look first to Daddy and then to their husband. I was different, marked out. My engagement with work an enduring testament to the differences that separated and, ultimately, divided us. My friendship with Alice was something that John could not understand, but more than that, it was something he did not like. I could see that now clearly. I had tainted her, altered her—or his perception of her, at any rate. Our friendship was a detriment to her character, something that he wished to expunge.

I had not bothered him at first—the strange woman who had turned up at his doorway, independent, alone. Those meant two different things, I knew. One could be alone but entirely dependent, like Alice. She was alone at Bennington, she was alone here. She had always been dependent on someone—her aunt, John, even Tom for a brief period of time. I was another species altogether, one that had not roamed the same circles as John McAllister. He had been intrigued at first, delighted even, by the woman sitting on his couch, drinking gin. Now he was angry, unamused by my continued presence, and perhaps most important, he was threatened.

I smiled, my lips stretching tight against my teeth. For a moment I thought that I tasted blood. “Actually,” I said, feeling the full effects of the night, my mind loosening, my words slipping easily from my tongue, “I’ve no real world to return to, as it happens. I’ve resigned from my position at the publishing company.” I noticed how Alice frowned at this piece of information. I hadn’t meant to tell her, not until we had left Tangier, but perhaps it was best that such a secret came out beforehand. Yes, I felt like I could see this admission working to my advantage. After all, there was no longer anything tying me to the States, to New York. Together, we would be able to go anywhere.

John nodded, sipped his drink. “So, what, you were hoping to find work here, in Tangier?” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke, as if the notion were ridiculous, as if he had never heard of such an outlandish idea. “I don’t think you’ll find many publishing companies. Besides, won’t your family miss you? So far from home?”

I felt Alice stir. “Lucy hasn’t any family, John. I’ve told you that,” she said, a distinct edge evident in her voice.

He nodded. “Sure, I remember now, only”—he stopped, turning to me—“only that’s not entirely true, is it?” He gave a quick laugh. “You see, I did a little digging. I know, I know,” he said, looking at Alice, who had started to protest, “I shouldn’t have, an abuse of power and all that. But I like to know who’s living under my roof.”

I was still, waiting, wondering what it was that he had managed to unearth, what skeletons he would drag out of the closet and into the light. He paused—waiting, as well—his grin, his laugh, dragged out for full effect, as to emphasize his greatness, his perceived triumph over the woman who had threatened to best him.

And Alice.

Alice was watching me, I could feel it, feel her gaze, burning—hot and accusatory.

She was the one to speak first, her voice small, trembling. “What did you find?”

“Oh, nothing too interesting, in the end. A struggling, lower-class family. A tiny flat above a garage. An absent mother and father. Nothing too unexpected. I suppose that’s the better turn of phrase.”

“But—” Alice began.

“Do you know, it’s strange, I sometimes think,” John said, interrupting her.

“What is?” I asked.

“This whole situation. You, here in Tangier. How you showed up, uninvited.” His words were coming faster, spit starting to gather in the corners of his lips. The sight made my stomach turn, and I looked away in disgust.

“Alice wanted me here,” I said, my voice steely, loath to answer his accusations but anxious to defend myself nonetheless.

“No.”

I turned. It was Alice who had spoken. She hadn’t shouted, not exactly, but the word was loud and drawn out. It seemed to echo in the space around us, despite the presence of numerous bodies. It was as if we were, the two of us alone, as we had once been, rendering John’s presence uncanny.

“No,” she said again, quieter this time, as if she could not quite believe in the word itself or what it stood for. “No, I didn’t. Lucy. I never invited you.” She held my gaze. “I never wanted you here,” she whispered, the last word all but lost in the noise around us, so that I was not entirely certain it had actually been spoken.

Alice stood, sending our table off balance, so that the drinks we had ordered swayed precariously, threatening to spill. I watched, my eyes riveted to the swaying glasses. In truth, I could not bring myself to look up at her, to see what was written there after what she had said. When I finally did, it was only to see the back of her, disappearing through the front door of the bar. I snuck a quick glance at John, surprised to find that instead of the smirk I had expected to see, he only sat, his face long and drawn. I wondered whether it was confusion or something else reflected there. He did not make any movement to chase after his wife but instead pulled out his kif pipe. I waited for the space of a moment—counting under my breath, one, two, three—and then I stood and followed Alice out the door.

THE STREETS WERE CROWDED. Hundreds of locals were singing, waving banners in the air. But this wasn’t a protest, that much was apparent. People danced and laughed, clapping one another on the back, as if in congratulations. I could feel it, the pulse of the city, pumping through them, through me. For one wild moment I wanted to crouch down onto the ground, to lay my hands on the road and to feel the murmur, the beat of it, against my skin. It was as if the city knew—things were happening, finally, after all this waiting. I could feel it, tingling in my hands. Watching as the people moved around me—locals, expats, tourists, travelers. I wanted nothing more than to follow, to be swept up in it, to move and continue moving and never stop.

But then I remembered Alice.

A sharp distinctive wail cut through the night—the noise, I knew, that the women in Tangier made in celebration. Ululation, I had learned, my mouth delighting in the dips and curves of it. In front of me, I saw Alice, a few paces ahead, her arms wrapped around her waist, just like the night before. And yet the temperatures had not yet abated. The heat, despite the sun’s absence, still lingered in the air around us. I could feel the sweat pooling at the base of my throat, in the small of my back.

“What is that?” Alice asked, lips trembling as I approached.

“It’s nothing,” I said, though I was uncertain whether she could hear me over the noise, whether she would be able to hear me regardless, the look on her face unreachable.

I looked around for John, unsure whether he had followed me out of the bar. The voices were beginning to grow louder, and there was chanting now, though I could not make out the words. Fewer foreigners dotted the streets.

The wail started up again, and I saw Alice shudder. “It’s horrible,” she cried. “Why won’t they stop?”

“It’s just to do with the celebration, Alice,” I told her.