by Naomi Joy
‘Is there somewhere we can sit?’ I venture.
She looks nervous, reluctant to make this into a coffee morning, but picking up on the tone of my voice, directs me through to the lounge. The room is very formal: two enormous Chesterfield sofas luxuriate at one end, sitting regally atop a beautiful Persian rug, a winter spiced candle burning over the fireplace.
We sit down, side by side. This is something else you don’t anticipate when you’re diagnosed with something awful: You have to tell people because it’s so major but, you really don’t want to have to go through it as well as everything else. This is, what, my second time of going through the motions and I already feel almost detached from the story, like an actress reading lines, a robot carrying out the same automated task.
‘The scans came back. It’s not great news, I’m afraid.’
Her eyes glaze as the horror of my diagnosis hits and she stretches her arms out towards me, pulling me tight, holding me close. We sit on her beautiful sofa, cuddling like sisters, and this simple act of forgiveness, of our friendship finding itself again slots into place. I squeeze her tight, not wanting to let go.
Blog Entry
23rd December, 12.35 p.m.
‘Let’s do something fun,’ he’d said an hour ago. ‘Take our minds off everything. We could put up some more decorations? The attempt I made in the hallway was, admittedly, somewhat pitiful… but in my defence it’s no fun decorating alone.’
Now we stand, Anthony chuckling, his arm tight to my waist, marvelling at the job we’ve done in transforming the lounge to a winter wonderland. The room, once refined, is an explosion of cheap, glittery accessories in red, green and gold. Fairy lights sweep the cornicing, a wreath peppered with pine cones and orange peel balances across the fireplace. A giant fir tree fills the space with the unmistakeable smell of Christmas and light-up reindeer and Father Christmas sculptures sit in front of the fire, presiding over it all. The flames glow in the corner, a couple of stockings embellished with our initials hanging from the mantel.
‘It’s perfect!’ Anthony proclaims by my side. ‘Santa’s Grotto eat your heart out.’
I look up at him quizzically. He’s always hated Christmas decorations so I’m glad that I’ve forced him to do this for me, making him trust me, earning my way back into his life, giving him what he wants.
He meets my stare, pointedly waiting for me to agree with him, so I do, then feel his arm respond as it loops tighter round my waist. Happy families.
‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you with a little eggnog, can I?’ he asks, breaking apart from me at last, and my heart flutters.
Revenge is a dish best served warm.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
I circle round the room once he’s left – the decorations, the Christmas smells, the pine needles, the presents under the tree, the two lonely stockings hanging over the fireplace. I imagine the scene in a few years’ time if I don’t succeed. My stocking won’t hang here any more, replaced with another set of initials, and slowly, year-on-year, more will follow. Mine replaced with the name of Anthony’s new wife, then mini replicas to follow for their babies, then toys for toddlers, infants, teenagers, adults, grandkids.
I shake out a small, angry cry. All I seem to do is cry nowadays; I’m so tired of it. I try to hold myself together, refusing to let yet another perfectly acceptable day be lost to my situation. I need to focus, I’ve wasted so much time being unhappy, accepting my predicament rather than taking control.
There are a lot of things I could do to Anthony to make him pay for what he has done to me: I could release his real name on this blog, the day-by-day account of what happened between us made public. But would it be enough? It’s not exactly an eye for an eye, is it?
Before I can muse for too long, Anthony and his festive jumper bound back into the room. He’s holding a plate of mince pies and a mug of eggnog.
‘None for me,’ I repeat as he holds the plate out, forcing a grin.
He retracts it, then looks up, spotting my bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks. It’s always so obvious when I’ve been crying.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘I thought you might find Christmas difficult this year. I’m sorry, darling.’
He droops an arm round my shoulder, squeezes it, then goes to retrieve a mince pie, his lips wrapping round the pastry.
Revenge, revenge, revenge.
Then, on the mantelpiece, his phone sounds a series of electric arpeggios. I notice it’s a custom ringtone. Usually his phone jigs around on vibrate when someone is calling or texting but it never sings. Our eyes meet as the melody dies and we have a silent conversation in the milliseconds that follow:
Me: Who’s that?
Him: No one.
Me: If it’s no one then why won’t you say? Why do they have a special ‘sound’?
Him: Because it’s no one, it’s not a big deal. And it’s not a special sound, it’s regular, it’s what I have for everyone.
Me: Not for me.
‘Ah! Apparently, I have been mis-sold insurance!’ he proclaims, clutching his phone in his hand, his eyes sliding to the middle distance behind me, refusing to meet mine, his teeth chewing deep on the mincemeat, his tongue staining brown.
I stare at him.
He’s lying to me.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, putting on a mask.
Something’s changed.
‘You never mentioned what you were doing whilst I was in hospital, Anthony, I’ve been dying to know.’
His eyes shoot sideways. ‘Oh,’ he begins, fiddling with a cable to fill the room with garish Christmas music. ‘The site’s been busy; that was a good distraction.’
Lies, lies, lies.
I notice his eggnog, untouched, a film forming at the surface, sallow and pasty in colour.
He sighs, deep, and raises his hand to his brow, looking again at his phone. He feigns exasperation, tiredness, exhaustion.
‘Listen, Emelia. That was the office…’ he says, holding his phone in his hand. My eyes flick to it.
I cut him off, razor-sharp. ‘I thought it was insurance.’
‘Right,’ he says, backtracking. ‘But the office texted just now.’
Where was their ringtone, Anthony? I thought you had the same for everyone?
‘I need to go in.’ He pauses, looking at me, his face coated with a sorrow he doesn’t feel. ‘Why don’t you stay with your parents tonight?’
‘Why?’ I reply, gathering a strength I thought I’d lost.
‘It might be better for us both. I don’t want you to be alone and if I’m back late, you know, darling, I’ll spend the whole time worrying. Why don’t you just give them a call?’
I stand on the spot, waiting for the new situation I’m in to make sense.
He doesn’t want me here any more.
Is it because I’m already dying, because it’s too late for me now? Because he’s already won the game I didn’t realise we were playing until it was too late?
I watch him gather his things, then I fly into the kitchen, retrieving a smoothie I made earlier. ‘Avocado, kale and honey, your favourite,’ I say, delivering it with a reluctant kiss.
‘Thanks,’ he says, accepting it. ‘Take care of yourself and say hi to your parents for me.’
He knows I can’t ‘take care’; he knows I can’t escape what he has done to me.
‘Sure,’ I say. A plan percolating. ‘I’ll head to my parents’ this afternoon.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow – Christmas Eve?’ he asks, then kisses me, wet, on the cheek. He moves to leave, the door closing behind him.
His phone pings again on his way out – flirty, floaty, feminine, and so the realisation hits.
He’s cheating on me.
Now that I have cancer and am destined to die he is losing interest, willing to stick around for the demise but already planning who to target next. I am no longer a challenge, no longer enough to meet his macabre fascinations.
When he’s
gone, I perform a series of actions. I grab my coat, my wallet, and a pair of dark sunglasses then on second thoughts, remove them, considering they’ll actually draw more attention to me than less – and head out to the shop on the corner. Once there, lost in the smell of sawdust, I flit past industrial strength pesticide, planks of wood and nail guns, then, finding what I need, I pick up two cameras designed for home security. They’re small, white, discreet, and I can sync them up to my laptop. I read the back: In-built Motion Detector, Anti-Theft, Voice-to-Intruder Deterrent, Easy-activate. I pay for my things with cash, then head home.
In the bedroom, I look round, assessing my options. The ceiling is too obvious, as is the top of the door, headboard, mirror, wardrobe or fire. I opt for the bookshelf. I hollow out a journal I’ve never written in and cut a circle in the spine. I wriggle the camera in place and make sure the power supply is concealed behind the rest of the books. The next I secrete in the hallway, obscured by hats and scarves on the coat stand, positioned near the back, amongst the unused garments we don’t wear any more but can’t justify throwing away.
I sync up the devices to my laptop then, satisfied with their positioning, pack a bag and head over to my studio.
The air outside cracks the skin on my lips, crusting with blood as I gnaw at them on the short walk to my new flat and, though I’m walking no more than a few hundred feet, the houses on my end of the street are worth fifty times less than those on the side I used to live. From princess to pauper in less than a year.
I groan when I get back to my dusty abode, knock the rickety radiator spool onto full and slump down on my air bed realising, when my bones hit the ground, that it’s completely deflated since I was last here. I unearth the pump that arrived with it and pour the rest of my energy, powered by my plan, into resurrecting it. When it’s done, the heating cranking up, I put a pot of baked beans to warm on the hob, then prop my pillow against the green painted wall, cover my legs with the duvet and open my laptop.
My view into Anthony’s world comes alive thanks to the cameras I’ve installed. The camera in the bedroom has stayed in place, but my window to Anthony’s hallway has dipped a little and now captures a pointless high-angle view of the top of the wall and the ceiling.
I curse. It’s far too late to go back.
*
I am stirred in the dead of the night by the ping of my phone, a blue light illuminating the darkness. Motion Detected by Camera 1.
I race to open my laptop and peer into the flat I used to live in via the camera I’ve left there.
The front door closes behind him. He’s home late – two a.m. late – and I turn the volume up to full on my computer. My first thought is to wonder if he’s being robbed, but those fears are quickly allayed when I hear Anthony’s voice, then hers, tinny through the ether.
‘Not tonight. I can’t tonight. I have to get back.’
I rip the covers from my body, stunned. I was right. My eyes spin like saucers, my blood rushes with betrayal.
I bring the laptop close to my face, its artificial light creeping into the fine lines round my eyes, my lips, my forehead. I hear hushed whispers and try to turn the volume up, a repeated thud protesting with every hit, telling me I’ve already reached the computer’s maximum.
‘Hello?’ Anthony calls from the doorway, and they both snigger. He’s checking I’m not there, that I fulfilled his request to go to my parents.
He chuckles when I don’t reply, thinking I’ve obeyed him. Even though he cannot hear me, I can see.
A spy in my own home.
Then, he fires the lights on in the hall and I press my hand to my heart, steady my breath, blink my eyes closed, slow, then open, ready to see who she is.
But the camera in the hall, as suspected, isn’t great. It picks up the top of her head but I can’t see her face properly, just the corners of her features and the roots of her hair, reflecting the light from the overhead spots.
They’re speaking, though, and I listen in, filling in the gaps the camera can’t hear.
‘I can’t do this any more. Emelia is back from hospital; she doesn’t deserve this.’ It’s his voice, agitated.
Then hers, disappearing, snaking away from the receiver. ‘What? Why? Let’s at least talk about this. Sit down.’
I want to be able to recognise her voice, to be able to place it immediately, but it’s too quiet and the inflections on her words are lost through the wires and the air between us. She comes back into range, following him through to the lounge, her volume rising then dying, crackling down the line, still indeterminable. I berate myself for only buying two cameras.
‘I’m worried about you, baby. Emelia’s got this hold over you. It’s scary. Why don’t you stand up to her? You’ve done so much, too much, and she’s so ungrateful.’
I sit glued to the screen, watching them, this woman in my house. I can hear Anthony’s footsteps as they crash into the kitchen, finding alcohol. Moments later, the top of his head bobs through the hallway and turns into the lounge. Faintly, I hear them kissing. I hear him moan. Then her.
‘Yes,’ she tells him.
I have a flurry of sudden realisations – that this isn’t the first time he’s done this, that this woman is his new victim and that I, Emelia, have succeeded in making Anthony Lyon fall out of love with me.
Is this what winning feels like?
The old me would be proud; the new me is anything but.
I should have seen him coming, I should have realised his perversion would only ever end in my death.
Now there is only revenge, justice, his life for mine.
‘Stop,’ she says, her voice slithering through the hallway, picked up by my hidden camera and I imagine, on the other side of my laptop screen and into the lounge beyond, that he’s looking at her, confused. His arms wrapped round her hourglass figure, his hands running the lengths of her perfumed hair.
He replies, ‘Stop? What do you mean “stop”? We’ve hardly even started.’
If I’m lucky he’ll bring her through to the bedroom and I’ll have a front row seat to what happens next. Tucked into the spine of an old diary, I’ll watch Anthony poison his new girl, listen to them have sex, fall asleep – him conscious, her comatose, then watch them wake up in the morning intertwined, my mechanical eye just visible if only they looked a little more closely.
I’ll watch her wake, a little groggy – too much to drink, she’ll reason – then slip into the white Oxford Anthony was wearing last night, perky nipples poking through, meandering through to the kitchen to make coffee.
She’ll cup it in both hands, Anthony joining her, and they’ll sit at the kitchen island, admiring the antique dining table Anthony and I chose together at a flea market when we were happy. She’ll sip it, then say, I love your place, not knowing how much of me still lives there, too.
I hear shuffling and giggling as he bundles her out of the front door and I sigh, irritated that I didn’t get a better glimpse of our late night visitor. I slide back into the confines of my air bed but leave my laptop on, the electric-blue light of the screen playing me an image a short while later of Anthony doing the same. He picks up the covers of the bed we used to share and tucks himself in. He flicks through his phone for a few minutes, then gives in to the darkness, his phone resting on his chest, and falls asleep. I watch him through the camera writhing through the night, in pain, throwing up brown chunks into the bedsheets, and consider that he, the great Anthony Lyon, has had a little too much to drink too. How prophetic.
Eventually, show over, I fall asleep too. I dream about his lips slithering with vomit and, though we’re apart, I’ve never felt more connected.
Blog Entry
24th December, 7.35 a.m.
I am not sure why I have come back here, to his flat. Some sick perversion, a need for self-destruction, for justice, for a confrontation… Honestly, I don’t know. I will end it tonight, once and for all, and then I will never come back here.
Anthony�
��s at work. I slipped in just after he left and am lying in his bed now, the smell of him stuck to the sheets: rum, cigars, women’s perfume. Perhaps it’s no surprise then that this bed feels unfamiliar. Different. Dirty. I suppose it’s because I know another woman has been lying in it.
The affair I didn’t see coming.
I think about the nights she will have spent here while I’d been in hospital, the sweat that will have run off her skin into these very covers; my adulterous husband and his unsuspecting lover screaming in equal ecstasy. I hear their noises now, building in guttural crescendos, her back arched, fingernails ripping through our cotton bedsheet as she holds on, fistfuls of her soft hair in his hands, her lips between his teeth. Passion.
All for her and none for me.
My eyes adjust to the brightening light as the morning draws in. Our slippers sit side by side next to the door, putting on an admirable display of unity. His are dark grey and sculpted; mine are giant, white and fluffy. Opposites that once attracted. A pair of his jeans hang eerily neatly from a hanger on the back of the door.
Maybe she put them there, like that.
I write this entry, the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard the only sound in the flat, and consider my situation. I close my eyes and cast my mind back as I consider their love story, letting my imagination run wild as I sink into the thought of Anthony falling in love with someone else.
She is obscured by the front door as Anthony holds it ajar, her glittery fingernails the only part of her visible as she wraps them round the frame to let herself in. The yellow glow of the hall light outlines her silhouette as she moves to close it behind her, a little ripple of wind sneaking in at the last moment and whipping against his cheeks. She’s wearing a barely-there silky wrap dress, her hair freshly tonged into precise curls, her lips a small distance apart. She slinks towards him, her fingers tracing patterns down her thighs.
‘What do you think of my new dress?’ she asks, then presses herself against him, her warm chest on his. This isn’t what he likes, so he holds her, pushes her backwards, against the wall, holds her fragile neck in his hand. She thinks it’s a joke. She plays along, covered in vanilla perfume and not a lot else.