I rolled up my sleeves and began to lather the shaving foam over his chin, all the way up to his ears. Then I hesitated, the blade over his chin. ‘Is this the moment to tell you I’ve only ever done legs before?’
He closed his eyes, and settled back. I began to scrape gently at his skin with the blade, the silence broken only by the splash as I rinsed the razor in the basinful of water. I worked in silence, studying Will Traynor’s face as I went, the lines that ran to the corners of his mouth, lines that seemed prematurely deep for his age. I smoothed his hair from the side of his face and saw the telltale tracks of stitches, perhaps from his accident. I saw the mauve shadows that told of nights and nights of lost sleep, the furrow between his brows that spoke of silent pain. A warm sweetness rose from his skin, the scent of the shaving cream, and something that was peculiar to Will himself, discreet and expensive. His face began to emerge and I could see how easy it must have been for him to attract someone like Alicia.
I worked slowly and carefully, encouraged by the fact that he seemed briefly at peace. The thought flashed by that the only time anyone ever touched Will was for some medical or therapeutic procedure, and so I let my fingers rest lightly upon his skin, trying to make the movements as far from the dehumanized briskness that characterized Nathan’s and the doctor’s interactions with him as possible.
It was a curiously intimate thing, this shaving of Will. I realized as I continued that I had assumed his wheelchair would be a barrier; that his disability would prevent any kind of sensual aspect from creeping in. Weirdly, it wasn’t working like that. It was impossible to be this close to someone, to feel their skin tauten under your fingertips, to breathe in the air that they breathed out, to have their face only inches from yours, without feeling a little unbalanced. By the time I reached his other ear I had begun to feel awkward, as if I had overstepped an invisible mark.
Perhaps Will was able to read the subtle changes in my pressure on his skin; perhaps he was just more attuned to the moods of the people around him. But he opened his eyes, and I found them looking into mine.
There was a short pause, and then he said, straight-faced, ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve shaved off my eyebrows.’
‘Only the one,’ I said. I rinsed the blade, hoping that the colour would have drained from my cheeks by the time I turned round. ‘Right,’ I said, finally. ‘Have you had enough? Won’t Nathan be here in a bit?’
‘What about my hair?’ he said.
‘You really want me to cut it?’
‘You might as well.’
‘I thought you didn’t trust me.’
He shrugged, as far as he could. It was the smallest movement of his shoulders. ‘If it will stop you moaning at me for a couple of weeks I figure it’s a small price to pay.’
‘Oh my God, your mum is going to be so delighted,’ I said, wiping a stray dob of shaving cream.
‘Yes, well, we won’t let that put us off.’
We cut his hair in the living room. I lit the fire, we put on a film – an American thriller – and I placed a towel around his shoulders. I had warned Will that I was a bit rusty, but added that it couldn’t look worse than it did already.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said.
I set to work, letting his hair slide through my fingers, trying to remember the few basics I had learnt. Will, watching the film, seemed relaxed and almost content. Occasionally he told me something about the film – what else the lead actor had starred in, where he had first seen it – and I made a vaguely interested noise (like I do with Thomas when he presents me with his toys), even though all my attention was actually focused on not mucking up his hair. Finally, I had the worst of it off, and whipped round in front of him to see how he looked.
‘Well?’ Will paused the DVD.
I straightened up. ‘I’m not sure I like seeing this much of your face. It’s a bit unnerving.’
‘Feels cold,’ he observed, moving his head from left to right, as if testing the feel of it.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I’ll get two mirrors. Then you can see it properly. But don’t move. There’s still a bit of tidying up to be done. Possibly an ear to slice.’
I was in the bedroom, going through his drawers in search of a small mirror, when I heard the door. Two sets of brisk footsteps, Mrs Traynor’s voice, lifted, anxious.
‘Georgina, please don’t.’
The door to the living room was wrenched open. I grabbed the mirror and ran out of the room. I had no intention of being found absent again. Mrs Traynor was standing in the living-room doorway, both hands raised to her mouth, apparently witnessing some unseen confrontation.
‘You are the most selfish man I ever met!’ a young woman was shouting. ‘I can’t believe this, Will. You were selfish then and you’re worse now.’
‘Georgina.’ Mrs Traynor’s gazed flicked towards me as I approached. ‘Please, stop.’
I walked into the room behind her. Will, the towel around his shoulders, hair in soft brown fronds at the wheels of his chair, was facing a young woman. She had long dark hair, pinned into a messy knot at the back of her head. Her skin was tanned, and she was wearing expensively distressed jeans and suede boots. Like Alicia, her features were beautiful and regular, her teeth the astonishing white of a toothpaste commercial. I knew they were because, her face puce with anger, she was still hissing at him. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you would even think of it. What do you –’
He closed his eyes, and settled back. I began to scrape gently at his skin with the blade, the silence broken only by the splash as I rinsed the razor in the basinful of water. I worked in silence, studying Will Traynor’s face as I went, the lines that ran to the corners of his mouth, lines that seemed prematurely deep for his age. I smoothed his hair from the side of his face and saw the telltale tracks of stitches, perhaps from his accident. I saw the mauve shadows that told of nights and nights of lost sleep, the furrow between his brows that spoke of silent pain. A warm sweetness rose from his skin, the scent of the shaving cream, and something that was peculiar to Will himself, discreet and expensive. His face began to emerge and I could see how easy it must have been for him to attract someone like Alicia.
I worked slowly and carefully, encouraged by the fact that he seemed briefly at peace. The thought flashed by that the only time anyone ever touched Will was for some medical or therapeutic procedure, and so I let my fingers rest lightly upon his skin, trying to make the movements as far from the dehumanized briskness that characterized Nathan’s and the doctor’s interactions with him as possible.
It was a curiously intimate thing, this shaving of Will. I realized as I continued that I had assumed his wheelchair would be a barrier; that his disability would prevent any kind of sensual aspect from creeping in. Weirdly, it wasn’t working like that. It was impossible to be this close to someone, to feel their skin tauten under your fingertips, to breathe in the air that they breathed out, to have their face only inches from yours, without feeling a little unbalanced. By the time I reached his other ear I had begun to feel awkward, as if I had overstepped an invisible mark.
Perhaps Will was able to read the subtle changes in my pressure on his skin; perhaps he was just more attuned to the moods of the people around him. But he opened his eyes, and I found them looking into mine.
There was a short pause, and then he said, straight-faced, ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve shaved off my eyebrows.’
‘Only the one,’ I said. I rinsed the blade, hoping that the colour would have drained from my cheeks by the time I turned round. ‘Right,’ I said, finally. ‘Have you had enough? Won’t Nathan be here in a bit?’
‘What about my hair?’ he said.
‘You really want me to cut it?’
‘You might as well.’
‘I thought you didn’t trust me.’
He shrugged, as far as he could. It was the smallest movement of his shoulders. ‘If it will stop you moaning at me for a couple of weeks I figure it’s a small price to pay.’
‘Oh my God, your mum is going to be so delighted,’ I said, wiping a stray dob of shaving cream.
‘Yes, well, we won’t let that put us off.’
We cut his hair in the living room. I lit the fire, we put on a film – an American thriller – and I placed a towel around his shoulders. I had warned Will that I was a bit rusty, but added that it couldn’t look worse than it did already.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said.
I set to work, letting his hair slide through my fingers, trying to remember the few basics I had learnt. Will, watching the film, seemed relaxed and almost content. Occasionally he told me something about the film – what else the lead actor had starred in, where he had first seen it – and I made a vaguely interested noise (like I do with Thomas when he presents me with his toys), even though all my attention was actually focused on not mucking up his hair. Finally, I had the worst of it off, and whipped round in front of him to see how he looked.
‘Well?’ Will paused the DVD.
I straightened up. ‘I’m not sure I like seeing this much of your face. It’s a bit unnerving.’
‘Feels cold,’ he observed, moving his head from left to right, as if testing the feel of it.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I’ll get two mirrors. Then you can see it properly. But don’t move. There’s still a bit of tidying up to be done. Possibly an ear to slice.’
I was in the bedroom, going through his drawers in search of a small mirror, when I heard the door. Two sets of brisk footsteps, Mrs Traynor’s voice, lifted, anxious.
‘Georgina, please don’t.’
The door to the living room was wrenched open. I grabbed the mirror and ran out of the room. I had no intention of being found absent again. Mrs Traynor was standing in the living-room doorway, both hands raised to her mouth, apparently witnessing some unseen confrontation.
‘You are the most selfish man I ever met!’ a young woman was shouting. ‘I can’t believe this, Will. You were selfish then and you’re worse now.’
‘Georgina.’ Mrs Traynor’s gazed flicked towards me as I approached. ‘Please, stop.’
I walked into the room behind her. Will, the towel around his shoulders, hair in soft brown fronds at the wheels of his chair, was facing a young woman. She had long dark hair, pinned into a messy knot at the back of her head. Her skin was tanned, and she was wearing expensively distressed jeans and suede boots. Like Alicia, her features were beautiful and regular, her teeth the astonishing white of a toothpaste commercial. I knew they were because, her face puce with anger, she was still hissing at him. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you would even think of it. What do you –’
