Heatstroke: an intoxicating story of obsession over one hot summer

by Hazel Barkworth

  Aaron didn’t miss a beat. ‘What’s the difference?’

  This boy, this man, this blue-eyed marauder who was more than likely fucking her daughter, more than likely feeding her poisonous hallucinogens, who would more than likely break her heart with one callous swipe, was sitting on her chair, drinking from her glasses, and lecturing her on love, lecturing her on Mark. He was filling all the space available to him and playing the role of the great romantic.

  He didn’t stop. ‘If they think they’re in love, isn’t that exactly what love is? Shouldn’t we respect that?’

  Rachel wanted to leap from her seat and grab him by the meat of the back of his neck, then thud his dense head over and over against the red-brick wall of the kitchen, letting the bird’s squawks disguise his shouts. ‘No, Aaron. People are trying to protect Lily because she might be in danger. She is a child. She doesn’t know her own mind. She’s far out of her depth and she might not be safe.’

  Mia’s hand covered her mouth. ‘What do you mean?’ Her words were muffled. ‘Could he be hurting her?’

  Rachel couldn’t hold back. ‘It’s a possibility we have to consider. She has been abducted.’

  Aaron opened his mouth, but Rachel cut him off before the words formed. ‘Legally, that’s what this is, like it or not. She’s been abducted, taken far away and we have no idea if she’s being treated well.’

  Mia’s eyes were full, ‘You don’t think he’d hurt her, you don’t think Mr Webb would do that?’

  Rachel could see the distress contorting Mia’s face, but couldn’t calm herself. ‘I very much hope not, but we can’t rule it out.’

  Then Tim was there, in their porch, less than an hour after Aaron had left. They hadn’t expected him until Friday morning. He always messaged from the airport. The aeroplane emoji, then a house with a sloped roof, a chimney, a single window, to show he was on his way home. This time it was a surprise. He filled their doorway, all six foot one of him; his forearms, his shoulders, his grin. Mia squealed and kissed her father’s whiskery cheeks, her hands around his neck, his arms tight on her waist, lifting her off the ground.

  ‘You’re here!’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’ It was his apology, for not being there before.

  Rachel hung back. She let Mia think their real greeting would be private. She wanted to hold Tim, but the weight of space between them was too great. The surprise felt like a secret he’d kept from her. She didn’t know how to hug him, didn’t know where her kisses should be aimed. She felt like a different person from when they’d last touched.

  ‘What did you get us?’

  Tim had formed a habit of picking gifts from duty free. Expensive tokens grabbed from under bright airport lights. Treats they could never have afforded without his secondment. Rachel saw the amounts taken from their joint account. It was the material bonus of their situation. He bought make-up in black plastic cases that shut with a snap. Rachel had never owned those brands before. He’d buy them both the same products in the same colours, as if their lips, their eyes, the shades of their skin were interchangeable. The gifts were barely used. They suited neither of them. The carve of the lipsticks remained pristine, the palettes almost unsmudged. But Mia would clap her hands as she opened the white cardboard bags and boxes, clutching the tissue-papered loot to her chest.

  Graham’s doorbell was resonant. It was a dong that belonged in a grand double-fronted Georgian, a noise that should be followed by a butler, a coat being taken, a drawing room, but his house was sweet rather than grand. A red-brick terrace, built for workers but now reserved for those who could take on the heft of the mortgage. A hanging basket to the right of the door was hectic with purple lobelia.

  Tim hadn’t flinched. Despite the flight, the time difference, the cruel sting of jet lag, he was eager to attend. Rachel was grateful. She’d longed for just a few hours of pleasant, adult conversation, of being a woman with her husband at her side and her life held firmly together. A few hours of a Friday night where she could forget. As they stood waiting, Tim’s hand felt too warm on the small of her back, making it already damp with sweat. Rachel wanted to wriggle away, but didn’t move.

  Rachel had imagined Graham’s house to be slick; minimal and high tech. He ran the school like a business, and she’d assumed his home life was every bit as pared-back. But when he opened the door, tea towel over his shoulder, the room behind him was cluttered. There were air kisses between them, handshakes, introductions. Graham settled Rachel and Tim on the sofa, and handed them both a glass of Moscato.

  ‘It’s our favourite. I hope you like it. It’s a bit sweet for some people.’

  Tim widened his eyes at Rachel after one sip. Rachel grimaced back, grateful for the moment of camaraderie.

  Their living room was more like a study, with paper piled in stacks on every surface, Guardians from weeks ago, folded the wrong way, with articles circled, or stuck with Post-it Notes. Rachel tensed. Mark’s face would be tucked in there, staring out into nothing. Books lined every wall, shelves bulging with novels, historical tomes, works that explored the art of pedagogy. Tim pulled out a hardback and flicked through it. Rachel leaned back on the sofa, as if she was relaxing. One wall was papered with a William Morris print: swirling leaves and flower fronds, speckled with tiny birds. Four or five unhung paintings were resting against the wall.

  The room couldn’t have been further from the sleekness she’d expected. Graham had launched his career at KPMG – and had flown high, according to staffroom gossip – but he’d left. He’d left that world and that salary to work in a school. He’d been fast-tracked from the history classroom to senior management, and had brought the spreadsheets, implementation systems and efficiency with him, but he was still a man who had left the cold commerce of the city to work with teenagers. On the back of the sofa was a delicately woven antimacassar. Rachel hadn’t seen one since she used to visit her grandparents’ house. She sipped the cold, fruity wine and took in the smell of the books. She could breathe there.

  Graham came back in, after a few minutes, holding his own glass. ‘Sorry about that. Risotto’s nearly done. Should be ready soon. Mandy’s on her way down.’ He opened a cabinet and pulled out a CD. He still used hard copies. Tim had linked all their speakers to Spotify. As he placed it in the player, Graham held it like it was fragile. Piano music Rachel didn’t recognise tinkled out.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m Amanda, lovely to meet you both. Rachel, isn’t it? And . . . ?’

  ‘Tim.’ They shook hands. Amanda’s trousers and short-sleeved shirt made Rachel’s dress feel frivolous. She smoothed it down as they spoke. Amanda introduced herself by describing her job. Finance director for a children’s charity. Tim responded by outlining his current project.

  ‘It’s the creative side of IT, you know, where it gets strategic.’

  ‘And you’re in Ohio?’

  Tim nodded, ‘Cincinnati.’ Rachel rested a hand on his arm, supportive.

  ‘How are you finding it?’

  Tim ran his fingers through his hair in mock-exasperation, then exhaled. ‘Do you know, it’s shameful, but I’ve not really seen the place. There’s an Arby’s I’m pretty well acquainted with, but that’s about the best I can offer. It’s an amazing city, though, so they tell me. It’s the hometown of Steven Spielberg, as Cincinnatians brag at every opportunity. They’re very proud of that. It is, of course, also the hometown of Charles Manson, but that gets mentioned a great deal less often.’

  Amanda laughed in one single shout.

  ‘Speaking of work, did you always want to be a teacher?’ Graham’s voice was soft. He leaned forward towards Rachel from his side of the sofa, his glass resting on his knee. He seemed genuinely curious.

  ‘Gosh. No. No, not really. I’ve always loved books, loved literature, but I thought I’d be something quite different, I think. Didn’t we all?’

  ‘Not me.
I always wanted to do this. I got fairly substantially side-tracked, but a big part of me always knew. What did you imagine instead?’

  Rachel paused.

  ‘Don’t play it down, Rach.’ Tim reached over to take her hand in his. ‘Rachel was going to be a rock star, she was in a pretty successful band.’

  Amanda raised her eyebrows. ‘Wow.’

  It felt like betrayal. There was a time Tim would have known what not to say. There was a time he would have been on her side. All Rachel could think to do was nod.

  They took their places at the wooden table by the kitchen window. Graham spooned great heaps of risotto onto earthenware plates. None of them had mentioned the situation at school. The topic was carefully avoided in the spirit of sophistication, of tact. Every time someone spoke, Rachel wondered if they would break the embargo.

  Graham addressed Rachel again. ‘Okay, if you had to pick one, which book would be your favourite?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘You’ve got to.’ He smiled at her. ‘And just one.’

  It had been so long since someone had asked her that question, Rachel had no ready-formed answer. Jane Eyre nearly tripped off her tongue for the sake of ease, but she stopped herself.

  ‘Okay. Okay. Gun to my head, I’d have to say Rebecca.’ As soon as she said it, she remembered it was Mark’s mother’s name.

  ‘Ah! Fantastic. I haven’t read that in years. I must do. And what a film! I always think of Olivier looming over Olivia de Havilland, no Joan Fontaine. Joan Fontaine. Wonderful stuff. Excellent choice. Anyone else?’

  Amanda sighed. ‘Graham, you know there’s no point in asking me.’ She placed her cutlery down. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but it’s just who I am.’ She looked at Tim. ‘I just can’t get along with fiction. I try, I really do, but it doesn’t work for me. I read something like, I don’t know, “Kevin walked up the stairs”, and I just want to shout, “No he didn’t!” There are no stairs. There is no Kevin.’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘It’s all a ruse.’ Her small body took up so much room.

  Tim shook his head. ‘To be honest, I’ve read almost nothing since my teenage Terry Pratchett phase.’

  Amanda laughed. ‘Who has time, you know, when you’ve been at work all day?’

  Graham put his hand on her arm and rubbed slightly. ‘I think you just have to make time.’

  Rachel felt her mouth form a grin. It was an act that both men required of her. The room demanded it. She wondered what Mark’s eyes would see if he looked at her now, if he’d recognise her. If that’s why he was so far away.

  ‘And what about you?’ Rachel turned to Graham. ‘You have to pick too. That’s only fair.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Graham latticed his fingers and stretched his arms in thought. The action caught the top of Rachel’s glass and sent pools of the perfumed wine fizzing over the table, spilling into the food, the wood. Rachel leapt up to stop it from dripping onto her, but wasn’t fast enough. The wine poured onto the skirt of her dress, turning it from green to black, from silk to Lycra, making it cling to her thighs. Graham grabbed a stack of paper napkins to stem its course, then they all tried to dab the table dry, loading the napkins into a sodden heap.

  ‘Oh, God. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Your dress! Will it be okay? I can be so clumsy.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ Rachel held the material away from her skin.

  Amanda stared at her, eyes moving up and down the dress. ‘It’s hot tonight, it’ll dry. You’ll live.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  There was something sweet about Graham’s panic. He seemed to be in constant battle with himself. It appeared to take enormous endeavour to conceal his natural ungainliness. His taste could be erudite, his words could be elegant, but he was ultimately betrayed by that lumbering body.

  He carved out glops of homemade tiramisu, and Rachel was thankful for the hit of sugar. She filled herself with sticky mouthfuls, around that wooden table with her husband and her boss. The Moscato didn’t seem to do what alcohol is supposed to. It barely made a dent. Rachel could feel her energy flagging, and accepted the offer of coffee. She knew from school there was no chance it would be from a jar. Graham went to the freezer and pulled out a folded foil bag, then scooped three servings of it into a gleaming cafetière, using a knife to even out each measure. There were flickers of precision, but in his crowded home, surrounded by the things he loved, there was also something gentler. He plunged the cafetière with such care, inching it down, never shocking the coffee. Rachel felt the caffeine begin to revive her.

  Mark would sometimes come back with more than food. He’d have bought her a new nightgown, white cotton like a French girl would wear. Her pink Primark pyjamas just wouldn’t fit the scene. Rachel knew that room. The bed was made up with white sheets, blankets and no duvet, there were wooden shutters at the window. The furniture was ramshackle: café chairs with frayed lattice work, a table with well-worn wood. It was basic, almost scruffy, but Lily would feel like she was on a film set. She’d let the nightie ride up her thighs as she sprawled across the sheets with her dark-dyed hair. Her skin would be featureless from sleep, her hair tangled from the pillow. She’d bite down on her lower lip. He’d look at her with his eyes slightly watery, like it upset him.

  When she’d strip to her underwear and lie on the gritty slats of their tiny balcony to catch the sun, he’d become tense at first, edgy at the clatter of the white-painted wood. Other windows could see into their room. It was too dangerous. But he wouldn’t wrench her back into the shadows, he’d watch in wonder. She’d turn over every half hour, wanting her skin to flush evenly, suddenly aware of her new power, learning how to wield it. She’d let him, eventually, join her out there, kissing the parts of her the sun didn’t touch. He’d emit something guttural, half desire, half self-censure at the corniness of it all. He’d be infuriated with his inability to resist.

  He’d come back with a red dress. It would be a size too small, and she’d be mortified by her own flesh, but he’d paint lipstick onto her mouth, right from the bullet, turning her face this way and that, smudging the red with his thumb. He’d play songs from the radio in the kitchen, and they’d drink whisky and dance on the balcony, where anyone could see them. The risk would become all thrill. He’d be in full view, kissing his teenage baby in the heat of the sun, the whip of the wind, above every downtrodden concern, miles high, elevated from everyday bleakness. That room would be no domestic sanctuary. They were no longer in suburbia. They were in the heart of a busy tourist city, dancing in the sky as everyone scurried beneath them. Her lips, her eyelashes, the hemline of her dress. He couldn’t do it without her. Without her he’d be a sad single man, drinking alone in a town he didn’t know. With her, he was all protagonist.

  She’d be miming his steps as they danced to his songs. It wouldn’t be the sort of dancing she’d done with her friends; the red dress was too tight for the writhing they favoured. She’d wonder what they’d make of this dance. With no phone, there’d be no way to gauge their jealousy, their condemnation. There’d be no way for them to snipe their throwaway criticism. Fail. Awkward. This would be hers and hers alone. It was something they would never understand.

  Washing her hands, Rachel examined her face in Graham and Amanda’s mirrored bathroom cabinet, her cheeks pink from the heat or the wine, or the brandy they’d moved onto after pudding. She opened the cabinet. It was full – boxes, blister packs, jars – abundantly full. A single bottle of aftershave sat at the front, an old-fashioned bottle with a round glass stopper and a grey ribbon at its neck. Rachel opened it and touched it to her wrist. It smelled like leather, trees, spices. It smelled like a grown-up man. The sort of man who desired a woman. The sort of man who sat with his arm draped around his wife’s shoulders. A man who indulged his benign desires: bagels thick with cream cheese, steaks that oozed to the cut, goblets brim-full with Barolo. Rachel pre
ssed the stopper to her neck, letting a little of the liquid drop into the dip at the bottom of her throat.

  She’d been away for nearly too long to be polite. She needed to get back. Back to those pleasant adults with their light conversation. Rachel opened the door and hurried down the stairs too quickly. She could hear Tim’s laugh echo from the living room. As she turned the corner, Graham was on his way from the kitchen, and they bumped into each other. Rachel reached out to stop herself from stumbling. Her hands against his chest, his arms instinctively catching her. They were suddenly so close they could breathe each other in. He’d be able to smell his own scent on her skin. They smiled at the mishap. His chest was solid, and Rachel felt grateful for the substance. It seemed, for a second, to anchor her to the world.

  Tim smelled unfamiliar. Back in their bed, she inhaled the sharp scent of stranger. The shower gel from that Midwest business hotel lingered on his skin, holding some mix of citrus and sandalwood her nose didn’t know. She could remember when they’d sprayed from the same opaque glass bottle, when their pulse points had matched.

  Rachel felt her chin tilt, as if trying to seduce this man. His eyes were easier to catch in person. She leaned in and kissed the mouth that looked so much like Mia’s. She did it for Mia. For her marriage. This man was her husband, the flesh of her flesh. It was an act of devotion. She traced his face with her fingers. The crags were all new. She only knew the soft-skinned man who made her laugh. She closed her eyes to conjure him, but all she could summon was Mark. Tim’s body was nothing like Mark’s. He had none of Mark’s slinky angularity. Mark’s stomach muscles had been tight, he’d borne scooped hollows at his collar. He was the kind of lean that took effort; that flaunted the discomfort he’d withstood.

  Rachel wasn’t supposed to think of him. It was meant to be no more than a fun distraction, a boost that made it easier to meet her own eyes in the mirror. It was wild, fleeting, reckless. It was a teenage dream. It wasn’t her, but the adolescent in her. But he was still there. The ghost of him flickering in the edges of the room, luminous even in the dark; the smell of him, the warmth of him hovering above her. He infected everything. Her blood might never be clean of him. It took seven years, they said, for a body’s cells to regenerate entirely, but he would surely cling longer.