by Sarah Dunant
No, this was what she had written and this was what he was going to read. Anyway, what point was there in offering him another rape? He could get that any night of the year. What he wanted was the stuff he couldn’t have. The cocktail of fear and complicity. You’d better be sure, she thought. You’d better be sure. On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me . . . five gold rings, two turtledoves, and a garbage bag full of discarded lovemaking. This present wouldn’t even need a label.
She pushed the print button and watched while the screen notched up the page numbers. Seven, eight, nine . . . Could sex really take that long? Her eyes picked up the odd sentence.
“—this time they both felt her arch her buttocks off his legs toward his hand. He laughed as he caressed her ass. ‘Me or this?’ And the next slap was loud enough to make her groan. . . .”
Was this really what she had intended? Or had this been the booze talking? If she put the scene to one side now and took a nap, she would have sobered up and changed her mind when she woke up.
The last page hummed its way smoothly out of the printer, the pages still warm from birth. At least the invitation was clear:
“Outside, the clock chimed one. The beginning of a new day. Christmas. As good a time for a new start as any other. . . . The locks were off now, on the doors of her heart as well as her body. . . .”
No, after a nap it would feel like the composition of a madwoman, demented courage and no brains. All the more reason for doing it now.
Across the back gardens his window was dark. Sleeping like a baby, no doubt, secure in the knowledge of the pain he had caused. She picked up the papers and stuffed them into a used brown envelope. Then on the front she wrote in big scrawled letters: “Jake and Mirka. Last scene, first draft.” Just another method of filing text. When you got to the final revisions you threw the first drafts away. How were you to know what kind of perverts go through your rubbish bins?
She did it immediately, afraid that her courage would desert her if she hesitated. Outside, daylight and a hundred dirty footmarks had taken the shine off the snow. A middle-aged woman was casting salt like biblical seed along the sidewalks while the road had become a sled run for half a dozen children old enough to be let out without fear of abduction. She opened a black bag that was already full and laid the envelope along with some loose pages of script casually on the top.
She kept up a surveillance point from the front window. An hour or so went by. She was beginning to feel the need for sleep. A couple walked by with a baby in a stroller followed by a man in a raincoat and a gaggle of teenagers. Nobody stopped, nobody looked at the garbage. Why should they? If he walked by now, would it be the first thing he saw? Or would it, perhaps, look too contrived? She imagined him standing by the gate, eyes darting into the bins, spotting it there so tidy and inviting. Would he read it on the street, or wait till he got home? Would he know it was for him?
Of course he would. Phone messages, visits, pet mutilation. They were having a relationship, why pretend otherwise? In which case, why bother with the garbage? If she wanted him to read a letter, she should deliver it to his front door. How else could she be sure he’d get it in time?
She threw on a jacket and walked quickly out, head down into her collar, lest anyone should later be able to recognize her. She needn’t have bothered. She passed few enough people on the street, and those she did were more interested in staying on their feet than checking out the traffic around them.
The steps up to his house showed the faint imprint of his boots, overlaid with a fresh covering of early morning snow. He hadn’t gone out since his return. She placed her own feet in the existing prints, sliding her soles about to blur the patterns. Amazing what you think of when you have the time. Is this what policemen do—find themselves playing the game even when there’s no game to play? She held the envelope up and was just about to push it in when she realized that it didn’t have his name on it. Of course he would know it was for him, but what would happen if someone else got there first? She hesitated. Was this caution or cowardice? If you want this guy to visit you, you have to invite him in. Only make it too obvious and he might not come. The letter stuck to her fingers, refusing to make its way through the box. She turned on her heel, her shoes making careless new marks on the snow, and headed for home.
Her heart was still thumping when she turned the corner into her street and saw the figure outside her front door.
She was standing with her finger on the bell and she looked great. The coat was obviously this season’s: thick, black wool with a generous swirl of cloth and a black-and-white-striped scarf that on anyone else would have betrayed football leanings, but on Sally just made you think of fashion pages. Clothes. One of her great talents.
If only she had had Sally’s dress sense, what limits would there have been to her achievements? Patrick excepted, of course. Had they really been best friends? It seemed so long ago.
She slipped the envelope casually onto the top of the open rubbish bag as she came in the gate. “Hello, Sally.”
She watched her jump at the sound of the voice. It seemed everyone was nervy these days. Had she read about the local rapist, too? “God, Eliza, you gave me the fright of my life. I expected you to be inside.”
“I’ve been for a walk.”
“Yes,” she said, betraying only mild disbelief at her inadequate clothing. “Well, the lady in person, eh? I’ve won my bet.”
“With whom?”
“Patrick. He said you wouldn’t open the door.”
“I haven’t.”
She grinned. “Ah, yes, but he doesn’t know that.” She grinned again and held out her arms.
She wanted to come closer, to walk into the hug and feel someone’s arms around her, but she found she couldn’t do it. “What are you doing here anyway?” she said in what she thought might be a light tone. “I thought Christmas was your busiest time of the year.”
“Absolutely. We’re up to our ears in parties. But I learned my lesson from last year. I do the menus, the extra staff do the rest. So?” She took a nervous breath, so unlike Sally that it was clear the small talk hadn’t fooled her at all. “So. How are you, darling?”
Why bother? “I don’t know. How do I look?”
The hesitation was its own answer. “When did you last check a mirror?”
She sighed. “It’s been a hard day’s night, Sally. I’m tired, that’s all.”
There was an awkward pause. A slab of soggy snow slid from an upper windowsill and hit the ground in front of them. Sally brushed a lump of it off her coat. “Listen, I know this is some ghastly book you’re translating, but unless you want more bodies on your hands you’d better invite me in. We’re both going to die of cold out here.”
She sighed. “Sally, I don’t—”
“I’m not leaving without talking to you, Eliza,” she cut in firmly. “So why don’t you just get your key out.”
It reminded her so much of the old Sally, the slender blonde who had knocked on her door that second week of the term and asked if she wanted to share a joint. They had gotten so stoned they hadn’t made it to bed, just crashed out in her room, then reeled out next morning to a nine o’clock lecture where Sally had promptly fallen asleep. As their friendship progressed over the years, they smoked less and drank more but some things remained constant. Sally refusing to take no for an answer was one of them. Elizabeth had liked it once, had taken it as a sign of affection. Now she was not so sure.
She took her into the living room rather than the kitchen. That way she wouldn’t see the sheet across the window or the computer with its final pages of triumphant fucking. As it was, Sally’s visual inventory was immediate. “I don’t remember Tom taking the chaise longue. It wasn’t his, was it?” Sally’s father had been an estate agent. Her brother was already a partner in his accounting firm. Some things were in the DNA.
She shrugged. “Disputed custody.”
“You mean his taste, your money. We
ll, at least what you buy from now on remains your own. Why don’t you move that wicker lounge from the spare room in here? It would go perfectly.”
“Do you want tea or coffee?”
“Oh . . . whichever you’re making.” And she made a move to follow her.
“No, no. You stay here. I’ll bring it to you. Maybe you could give me some other ideas on the decor.”
In the kitchen she flicked back the sheet. No movement. Maybe she should have put her finger on his doorbell; why should he get more sleep than her? The sooner he woke up, the quicker he might get the message. Get up, you lucky boy. In a street next to you the garbage bags are overflowing. Adrenaline flushed through her like a hot wave. To steady herself she made an effort with the tea tray: sugar bowl, milk, even a plate of biscuits. She didn’t want Sally thinking her more crazy than she was.
In the living room Sally had moved from furniture to music, her eyes going around and around as she tried to read the label still turning on the player. “My God, darling, you have been going back in time. I didn’t even know you had this. You used to despise punk. ‘Rough sound and fake fury’—wasn’t that your line? You’re not going retro, are you? You know Patrick’s got Malcolm McLaren’s brother or someone as one of his clients. You should hear the stories. Oh, biscuits, eh? Don’t tell me you’ve started eating again?”
It had always been one of the more comforting things about Sally, the way she didn’t really need anyone else in a conversation. Like listening to water flow. She poured her out a black tea and put a couple of pieces of shortbread on her plate. Why do I feel so aggressive toward you? she thought. Has there always been this potential for dislike between us, or has one of us changed? If she looked under the bed now would she find the remains of a skin sloughed off: the outer coating of the old Elizabeth, so needy, so desperate for a friend that she didn’t mind who it was? Of course snakes shed their skin because they’re growing bigger. But was this about growth or a fuckup?
“So,” said Sally, watching her carefully from her place on the sofa, “do I ask or do you tell?”
She took a breath. “Sally, I’m not at my best this morning. To be honest I’m a little drunk.”
“Well, at least you’ve noticed. I was beginning to think you’d mistaken brandy for milk over your muesli. When did you start?”
“Oh, about two weeks after Tom left.” She saw the flash of concern and smiled. “It’s all right, it’s a joke. I’m not quite a morning alkie yet. This one’s leftover from last night. I haven’t been to bed.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve been hearing about your nocturnal habits.”
She frowned. “Tell me, Sally, exactly how well do you know Malcolm?”
“Malcolm who?” She grinned. “Sorry. I’m not making this any easier, am I?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll make you a deal. No more smart talk from me, no more evasion from you. Agreed?”
She gave a little shrug. To be fair, Sally didn’t need to have persevered, either now or then. She had been good to her when no one else gave a damn. That had to count for something. “Agreed.”
“So, tell me how you really are.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t look fine. You look bloody awful. If Tom has got—”
“Tom has got nothing to do with it. He’s completely irrele-vant. I hardly ever think about him. This is all me. I’ve just got myself into something. . . . It’s to do with work, and I can’t seem to get out of it. It’s a weird book, this . . . I mean, that’s why I haven’t been in touch. It’s sort of taken me over. All I do is write, sleep, and write more.”
“How come? I mean, I thought you had until the spring to finish it. Isn’t that what Charles said?”
“He changed his mind. They’ve rushed the release date of the film. They need the text sooner.”
“So tell him to get another translator. Jesus, Eliza—”
“I can’t. And anyway, I don’t want to. I know this may sound crazy, but I’m quite enjoying it.”
“The book or the pressure?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Both, maybe. It’s . . . it’s a license for behaving badly, I suppose. I don’t have to see anyone, or be nice to anyone, pretend anything anymore. I can be as antisocial as I like.”
There was a pause. Sally stared at her, as if trying to assess the damage. “Sounds like some Doris Lessing kind of madness to me. So how crazy are you? Are you having visions?” And she meant it seriously.
If only . . . she thought. She smiled. “No. No visions. I’ve got it all strictly under control.”
“I rather doubt that.” Sally shook her head. “It’s strange, you know. For all my apparent bad behavior you were always the seriously wacky one. I’m sure that’s why we became friends in the first place. I might do stuff you didn’t think you ought, but you could dream things I wouldn’t even dare.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to be in this particular fantasy,” she muttered.
“I thought you said you were enjoying it.”
She shrugged. “It comes and it goes.”
“Well, you just be careful you don’t go with it.” She stopped. “How was it with Malcolm, by the way? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I thought you already knew.”
“Darling, I’m not that much of a snoop. All I know is that according to him you’re weird and he likes it. But, then, he’s a romantic, our Malcolm. Patrick says he’ll never make it in business. Too interested in the idea of falling to want to climb.” She sighed. “You know, I don’t think you have any idea how much you’ve been scaring people these past few months. I’ve been thinking that maybe you were losing it.”
Losing it. Was that what was happening here? From across the room she saw Sally, as if at the wrong end of a telescope, too tiny to be taken seriously. Careful where you step, she thought. You could crush her underfoot. She watched her grow until she was the right size again. Say something. She’s waiting. “Sorry, Sally. I didn’t mean to freak you out. Don’t worry. I’m going to be okay.”
She looked at her. “But you won’t tell me any more than that?”
She tried to imagine unfolding it in front of her like some gothic folktale: poltergeists, priests, intruders, rape, revenge. Doing what other people wouldn’t even dare to dream. Is that how she’d got here? By not noticing every time she crossed the point of no return? “Sally, I can’t. Maybe later.”
“Okay.” She put down her teacup. “So, do I gather from this that you’re not coming to us tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, Christmas, remember? You know, babies without fucking, birth without pain. That one. I did ask, you know. Left four, maybe five messages on the machine.”
“Sorry, Sal.” She wondered, should she lie? Tell her some story about being already committed, going to the country to spend it with friends of her mother? Jake and Mirka. Foreign couple, but lovely. Lively. Always up for a good time. “Sorry.”
“Not even for a drink tonight?”
She shook her head.
She paused. “Patrick was thinking of inviting Tom.”
“Well, now he can.”
“Yes. Should I give him any message?”
“Tell him I’m pleased he’s got a lover. It’s all right, you don’t have to look surprised. I heard her in the background when I called a couple of weeks ago. Is she nice?”
Sally paused. “She’s all right.”
“What does she do?”
“Er . . . she’s a postgraduate student, I think.”
Of course. Why travel when you can harvest them in your back garden? So, Sally and Patrick had been seeing them. Would they become his friends after all? It happened. Couples split, couples re-form, not so much about loyalty as about convenience and shared lifestyles. Anyway, Sally had always had the hots for Tom, in the friendliest possible way. So had a number of women. He was that kind of man, inviting from the sidelines. A shabby thought struck her.
“How lo
ng has it been going on between them, Sally?”
She gave a shrug. For all her apparent flamboyance Sally had never been good at lying.
“I see. That long.”
“Listen, Eliza—”
“It’s all right. You don’t have to feel disloyal. It’s over. I’ve let him go. Chaise longue and all. Anyway, I can’t really blame him. I was pretty horrible to live with those last few months. Give him my regards when you see him. And wish him bon voyage.”
“And what should I tell him if he asks about you?”
“Tell him I’m in great shape.”
Sally looked at her for a moment, then shook her head. “No. If it’s all right with you I’ll tell him the truth. Which is that I have no idea how you are, but you’re certainly different. And maybe that’s as—” She picked up her bag. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here—” She dug something out. “Your Christmas present.” She made a face. “I knew somehow you wouldn’t be coming to us.”
It was long and thin and soft, tastefully wrapped in bronze paper with a bright yellow label. Sally didn’t need to read women’s magazines. She did it all naturally. “It has magic properties. All you have to do is wear it with the right person.” She got up and pulled on her coat. The material swooped around her, luxurious in its intense blackness.
This time when Sally put out her arms she came into them. They stood for a moment, hugging each other.
“Thank you, Sal,” she said as she broke free. “I’ll call you.”
“You better. Or you’ll find yourself opening the door to a couple of policemen.”
Little do you know, she thought. Little do you know.
She didn’t notice it until she had closed the door. Yet it must have been there when she and Sally came in or whoever it was would have rung. Or would they? It was a square white envelope with her name on it. Handwritten. When she picked it up she saw that her hand was shaking. She checked the writing: small, but fluid, a fountain pen, not a ballpoint. She ripped it open as she went out to the garbage to check. Is that how he would write? So tidy, so sane? What could he possibly want to say in reply? No, it couldn’t be a reply. Her envelope was still there.