Cupid

The night begins in Barnes. A breeze winds its way down the high street, the sky softens down to a twilight, and Cupid stands outside the Olympic Studios cinema. The red brick building stands tall before him, the lamps on either side of the door illuminating the entryway with a gentle and inviting glow. 

     The ticket office is quiet. Its walls are plastered with images of the musicians who cut records at the former studios; Scott Walker winks at Cupid as he passes, and Mick Jagger looks out with a debauched grin. The girl at the counter winds her hair around her finger and stares at the floor. Cupid assumes she’s thinking of the kiss she shared before her work day began. Her boyfriend had taken her in his arms and kissed her fiercely on the steps to the cinema. She is still catching her breath mid-shift, and doesn’t notice as Cupid slips up the stairs to the screens. 

     Screen Two is busy on this summer Saturday night. As part of a cinematic season of 90s films, Thelma and Louise is on the big screen, the audience tittering as Geena Davis tips her underwear drawer into her suitcase. Cupid shuffles along a row of seats near the back, legs against red velvet. He sits and assesses the pair in front of him by the backs of their heads. Rosie and Jaime, both seventeen, students at Ealing Green College. They met in their screenwriting class, clashing over the Indianapolis monologue from Jaws. Their teacher paired them up, placed the printout before them and told them to discuss. Rosie thought it a work of genius, and Jaime can’t stand Spielberg. The conversation that ensued morphed from awkward half-talk to barbed jabs  to begrudging agreement and eventual laughter. And so here they are, expanding their cinematic knowledge and leaning into each other further than they’re aware.

     Cupid takes a strand of Rosie’s hair between his fingers. It’s that teenage girl straw colour that tells of a mother either too strict or just sensible enough to ban bleach and dye from her only daughter’s head. He drops it and inspects Jaime’s. Shorter, shoulder length, a rich, thick brown.

     The girls are blissfully unaware, both smiling at the back-and-forth between the women in the blue car. Cupid takes up their hair once more, weaving it together, forming one slim blonde/brunette braid. A few still moments pass until, in a movement imperceptible to all but Cupid, Jaime’s fingers edge slowly onto the girls’ shared armrest. Something in Rosie stirs and she senses something in Jaime has too. She dares not look at the girl beside her. Of their own accord, or perhaps by instinct Rosie’s fingers dance atop Jaime’s. A breakneck glance is shared, neither girl moving her face, only her eyes, Rosie’s brown and Jaime’s blue. Jaime takes Rosie’s hand in hers, and it is done. 

     Cupid need not stay longer. He rises and slips out, leaving Thelma and Louise howling with laughter as night falls. He lingers for a moment at the door. The notion is hazy but should all unfold as is due, Rosie and Jaime are set to become the writer/director duo of the future, beaming red carpet interviewees, their fingers interlaced, both recalling the love-red seats and toffee popcorn smell of the Olympic. 

     Cupid walks a short distance up the road, his hair blown back by the summer breeze. The 378 bus trundles up and stops before him. He climbs on and taps his Oyster card against the yellow disc, the driver’s eyes unmoving. He chooses a seat near the front and settles down. 

   Cupid turns his head and spies an older man several rows behind, wearing a smile. He’s on his way home to Joyce, the woman who cooked the eggs that stain his tie, and the woman who will clean it this evening, calling him a mucky boy as she chucks it in the wash. He’ll laugh and kiss her neck from behind, his face obscured by her graying bob, his arms around her waist, the sound of her laughter like wind chimes in his ear. 

 The 378 sails over Putney Bridge and deposits Cupid on the other side, its engine humming a lazy goodbye as it moves onwards and past. Cupid collects himself and whiles away twelve minutes on a stroll towards Parsons Green, winding through residential streets filled with the tired and wealthy. He comes to Dancer Road, turning onto it because the name sounds sweet. Tall white townhouses stand high either side of him, the occasional splash of blue or yellow paint cutting through the street’s sense of order and upping its market value. The front door to one of them is open, its stained glass window shining like melted sweets. Cupid shimmies inside. 

 The hallway is spotless, leading through to a glittering open plan kitchen which gives way to a huge garden, filled with all kinds of exotics and homegrown herbs. Voices spill in from outside and smoke from the barbecue drifts through the house, landing among the curtains. Cupid makes no noise as he moves first over hardwood and then tile, straightening a stool at the breakfast bar as he passes.

     The air outside is thick with steak and conversation. The barbecue is in full swing, and as far as the eye can see stand men in polo shirts holding bottles of beer, and women with tanned arms and pedicured feet peeking out of leather sandals. They are all at ease with one another. They’ve seen their children grow up in each other’s back gardens, groups within the group have gone away together on cycling and boating holidays, and every so often they get together on occasions like this, to drink and catch up. 

     A jug of ‘punch’ sits atop a tasteful side table made for the outdoors. It has diluted since the evening began and taken on a watery brownish colour; it was not as much of a hit as the hostess had hoped. Swiping a stray glass from the same table, Cupid pours a good amount of punch and finishes it with an eco-friendly straw, as advertised by the panda on its box. 

     Toward the end of the garden, sitting a sensible distance apart on a white iron bench, are Tony and Meera. Tony’s polo shirt is blue and he’s sporting his suede Gazelles, fresh from the box for this evening. Meera complimented him on them as he walked in, and he on her flowery red dress. They had kissed each other on the cheek and promised to come back to chat as they were led away by their respective life partners, Tony’s Jayne and Meera’s Jas. They all know the hostess and her husband via a vague jumble of work dos, children’s birthdays and boozy New Year’s Eve parties spanning a decade and a half or so. 

     The air is cool and goosebumps rise on Meera’s bare shoulders, the slight frizz in her hair illuminated by the garden lamps. Her makeup has creased under the eyes and her lipstick has been left behind on two or three different glasses, but she is beautiful. Tony is handsome enough, his confidence knocked by the bald spot blossoming from the top of his head that his wife pretends not to notice. They are talking about this and that when Cupid, abhorring a vacuum, sits between them. At this they fall silent, neither of them sure why, and Meera gives a slight smile and looks down. Tony lets out a half laugh and slides his hand down his knee.

     Cupid lifts the glass of punch to Tony’s mouth first, who takes a sip through the straw without question and purses his lips afterward, wincing at the alcohol content. He then offers it to Meera. She takes the glass and gulps directly from it, half the liquid disappearing down her throat. She doesn’t wince but shivers, prompting Tony to reach behind Cupid to place a hand on her shoulder to ask if she is cold. Taking this as his cue, Cupid stands and crosses the garden to observe them; just for a minute. 

     Meera pops the glass on the ground and looks Tony in the eye with a renewed honesty. She closes the space between them, and they sit hip to hip, both keeping an eye out for onlookers and the nosy. They needn’t- their corner of the garden is deserted, the throng of guests crowded around the barbecue, hands darting forward to grab burger sauce and prawn skewers. Meera’s hand brushes Tony’s shoulder and he moves his hand from his own knee to hers. Cupid bites his lip. 

     Inaudible whispers flit between the pair, talk of years and regret and nights and middle age. Meera’s eyes shine with the brown gloss of lust and alcohol, and any thought of Jayne has gone from Tony’s mind. Cupid knows he should be going and turns to leave, but rocks back and forth on his heels until Tony goes for it and kisses Meera, his hand on her jaw, a gasp escaping her open mouth. 

     Cupid walks back past the party, sneaking one look back. The night will continue, for Tony and Meera at least, in a string of hushed whispers, muffled groans and the indiscernible shake of a garden shed, its owner blithely unaware of the two guests that sweat among his garden tools. They will emerge, red faced and five minutes apart, leave with their partners, and forget to say goodbye. As Cupid leaves through the still-open door, the future clouds over, but he senses initial calm followed by a catastrophic blow-up, rage in living rooms, mascara tears and gritted teeth of teenage children, but ultimate peace, the sempiternal circle of love and adultery sustained. (expand?)

     It’s a short walk to Parsons Green station, further into town. Night has fallen properly, the sky dark, the temperature cool. He hurries down the stairs of the Underground station, tapping his Oyster once more. He spends only seconds on the open air platform before a train comes in, the yellow lights and handles of the District Line welcoming him aboard. It’s a short journey- two stops in three minutes, and his carriage is deserted. He grips the centre pole, preferring to stand, and walks around it in circles. A calm woman’s voice announces East Putney station and Cupid jumps off, avoiding collision with a suited man. 

     Onto the bus again, the 337 this time, a lengthier journey of twenty minutes and as many stops to Richmond Bus Station. Cupid ventures upstairs, and touches the cheek of a woman who has fallen asleep in her seat. She snuffles, wakes, and remembers the next stop is hers. When she gets up, he sits down in her place, glad of the warmth. He looks at his watch, and then to the window. Finding the night sky changed, colder and darker, the clouds eerie, he looks down at his feet. He sighs, and shuts his eyes. 

     The bus bell dings to announce his stop and he slinks down the stairs.. He can see Viva from his stop, and soothed by the artificial pink light spilling from its doors, he heads over. One more. He joins the short queue of people that sway outside the nightclub; girls in heels clutching their provisional licences, boys with their hands in their pockets, clutching vapes. Bass thumps from the dance floor and the shrieks inside promise a good time. It’s Saturday night after all. 

     A dance remix of Grace Jones’ Pull Up To The Bumper blasts from the speakers, yanking people from their booth seats to abandon their drinks and dive onto the dance floor. Cupid spies the remains of a pornstar martini, half a passion fruit swimming in orange dregs. He picks up the fruit, scoops out the flesh with his teeth and surveys the room. 

     Two groups catch his eye, separated by sex, equal in their good looks. The cluster of girls are all dressed up, their day jobs forgotten. The boys are the same, uniformly clad in trendy shirts and variations on a black trouser. Cupid looks carefully at each member, drawing strings between them. One of the men stands out to him. Femi: tall, gorgeous, exceptional taste in leather bracelets and an occasional day trader. He’s quiet within his group, the lights flashing red and blue over his unmoving features, sipping slowly on his  tequila soda. His friends are louder, brasher than he is, openly eyeing the girls across the room while discussing the future of Formula One. Femi sees the races at his friends’ houses now and again, but harbours a secret love of cricket none of them understand. 

     Saffron’s father plays cricket, once professionally, now for fun with a team of other grey haired men whose knees ache. She loves her father more than anyone in the world, and turns away from her friends, still smiling, to send him a goodnight text. She rejoins them with a swish of her black hair and her lipgloss catches the light. 

     Having made up his mind, Cupid wastes no time. Discarding his passion fruit husk, he moves over to the group of men that gather around the dance floor. He weaves through the group and takes Femi by the wrist. Femi feels nothing but the instinctual urge to move to the dance floor, and passes his friends without a word. They stare, and his friend Jack points, cheering. Cupid leaves Femi to fend for himself on the floor, which he handles with shy smoothness, a subtle circling of the hips and a small shuffle of the feet certifying him ready for action. 

     Cupid crosses the floor to Saffron, midway through zipping her bag shut. She’s a sweet girl, twenty three, an aspiring sports therapist, with the longest natural eyelashes Cupid has ever seen. Taking her hand, he pulls on the hair tie that encircles her wrist and transfers it to his own. She too, led by what feels like fate, leaves her friends behind with a wave and steps onto the floor. As gentle as can be, Cupid walks her in Femi’s direction, giving the pair a little space before he drops Saffron’s hand. From Cupid’s wrist to Femi’s is placed Saffron’s hair tie, not without difficulty, as Femi’s dancing has extended to include a series of delicate arm movements. To the friends and strangers around him it looks like tequila tinged confidence, but it makes it intensely difficult to bestow the hair tie, and Cupid begins to sweat. A lull in the beat and finally it’s on. 

     The effect is instant. Like birds engaged in a ritual, Femi and Saffron take each other in, her eyes moving up to note his height, his down to the movement of her pink satin dress.

 I Wanna Dance With Somebody kicks in over the speaker and Saffron’s friends scream. She looks back at them with hot cheeks and Femi’s breath catches at the sight of her shining drop earrings. Overcome, he puts a hand to her waist and she steps forward so that their bodies touch. The temperature in the room rises, the lights flash and the couple move back and forth, enraptured. 

     Cupid sits at the bar. He watches the couple explore each other, testing out different moves, rhythms and hand placements. They have not yet spoken a word to each other, but from now on no day will pass where they don’t. In a minute or so they will share their first kiss, and within the hour their friends will feel abandoned and book taxis without them. They will take up a booth near the back, mouths inches from the others’ ear, sacred conversations that each of them will try their hardest to remember in the coming years. When closing time comes they will stumble over Richmond Bridge, Femi’s jacket slung over Saffron’s shoulders. She will teeter in her heels and he’ll pick her up like his bride, and she will throw her head back and laugh as the sun prepares to rise. 

     The one responsible for all this sneaks out of Viva, his head low. Richmond is eerie in the dark. Uneven cobblestones reflect streetlamp light and old buildings stare down with prejudice. He walks as if to cross the bridge and instead descends the stairs, taking him past shut up boathouses and bike shops. He comes to the riverside path. The day, once warm, has become bitterly cold and the excitement of the evening has drained away, leaving Cupid hollow. He kicks pebbles aside and drags his feet along the path, a strange, heavy feeling settling in his chest. 

     He casts his mind back across the evening, the smiles, the touches, a kiss. Every day is the same, a carousel of couples look into each other’s eyes, either for the first time or the hundredth, and they feel it. The warmth, the spark, whatever they call it. They feel it deeply and believe that it was their doing. Countless eyes have wandered past Cupid as if he wasn’t there. Last night was the same- not a soul in New Cross, Brockley or Ladywell felt his touch. 

     He stops at a jetty that slopes down into the river. The tide is high, the water lapping at the wood’s edge, imparting damp green moss with each swell. The moon wanes. Cupid stretches out his hand and gives it a good look. The ageless skin is translucent in the moonlight. He looks back over his shoulder, half wishing to see somebody there. But the waiter has long since brought the chairs inside at the Slug and Lettuce, and one by one the lights in the White Cross are shutting off. The only living thing in sight are the ducks that coo and flap, settling down in their riverside nooks. 

     Cupid looks up at the moon and walks straight down, the lonely harbinger of love disappearing into the cold embrace of the Thames.