If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  Fond.

  Still I smiled as you pressed my head to rest against your shoulder, stroked my hair.

  ‘But it shouldn’t have happened.’

  I closed my eyes, nestled deeper. ‘We’ll tidy it up. No one will ever know, and we’ll never do it again.’

  You kissed the top of my head. ‘You’re so adorable. I meant us . . . It should never have happened. You deserve better than me, than this.’

  I didn’t move.

  Didn’t punch away your hand, which continued to caress my hair. Didn’t speak. Breathe. Scream.

  ‘Constance? Say something.’

  I slid from you. Stood. ‘But I . . . I’m happy with it like this. I didn’t mean . . . Please, I’m sorry. I know I talk about going out and things, but I don’t mind not doing . . . honestly, I don’t.’ I watched your head tilt back, your eyes covered with your palms. Uncertain what was happening beneath them. ‘And I know I say I’d like to stay over, but I wouldn’t . . . I mean, it’s not important. We don’t have to be like other couples, do we? However things need to be, I’m fine with it, Samuel. I . . . I don’t mind.’

  You dropped your hands and sat forward. ‘Other couples? Constance, come on . . . We were just having fun.’

  It’s embarrassing to think what I did next: collecting up wayward biros that littered the desk and returning them neatly to the pen holder. Desperate to make everything as it was before.

  ‘I mean . . . I’m not capable of more. Even if I wanted to be.’

  ‘You said it was a rare and wonderful thing . . . our connection.’

  ‘Connection? Did I? I don’t think I . . . There’s one fallen under the desk . . . There, by the wire . . . No. To your left . . . left . . . That’s it. Look, you’re a really great girl, but I think it’s done now. I mean, it had to end sometime, didn’t it? Everything comes to an end sometime. And that was definitely a memorable ending, don’t you think? We should just go back to how it was. We can still have our banter and things . . . be friends.’

  Tell me, Doctor, when you were training, did you ever remove the heart of a donated body? Place it on the slab next to them? Dissect it? Rip it apart?

  I stood still, mute, as the room spun around me. Until I heard myself say, in an unrecognizably weak voice, ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Oh, come on now . . . Don’t be one of those, Constance. You’re so much better than that.’

  I didn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry. I held the tears until they almost choked me.

  ‘Look, I’m going to be late and need to finish up. Why don’t you go and shut down reception? Then we can get out of here.’

  So I did. Somehow. I finished inputting Mr Hammond’s notes. Turned off the computer. Washed up the mugs.

  Soon you appeared in reception, bag in hand. ‘Ready?’

  I nodded. Put on my coat. Collected my bag.

  You didn’t notice my inability to speak. That no blood circulated my face. That I couldn’t look at you.

  We stood a foot from each other. You dropped your bag and followed with your head. Then pulled me towards you, hugged me. I breathed in hard. To take a part of you away with me.

  ‘You’re so great, Constance. Most girls get all . . . you know . . . crazy when you end things, but I knew you’d be cool.’ You released me.

  I smiled, turned towards the door.

  ‘Hey, we should get a sandwich at lunch tomorrow,’ you said. ‘Jesus, I’m gagging for that pint . . . What you up to this evening?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m not sure.’ I barely heard myself, so I doubt you did.

  Outside, at the bottom of the steps, we said goodbye and parted ways. I walked away, my head held high, not out of pride but in order to keep me upright. I’d not got very far when I felt you next to me. I stopped. Tried not to crumble with hope.

  ‘Constance . . . look, I know I don’t have to say this, but still, obviously, no one can . . . you know . . . find out about anything happening between us, right? It would be bad. For both of us, I mean.’

  It didn’t matter that I hadn’t responded. ‘You’re the best, Constance. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ You walked away, then turned back to shout, ‘Let’s definitely get that sandwich.’

  I walked, eyes glazed. Smoked. As each cigarette ended, I began another. I was a robot. And you’d pressed a button that released immeasurable pain. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t cry. Faster and faster and faster I strode the streets. When I reached the Tube, to my surprise, I passed it by. Carried on. To fuck knows where. Just walked, walked, walked until I eventually hit a filthy dead end. Facing a high brick wall with the word ‘tosser’ sprayed in red. A rat scurried from a nearby bin and disappeared beneath an abandoned sofa supporting a bowing mattress.

  Instead of turning back round, I lit my last fag, threw the empty packet onto the sofa. Heaved. There were too many to cope with. Feelings. All with nowhere to go. I approached the wall. Placed the fag in my mouth, left it there. And then I prayed to God for release as my fist hit the bricks.

  I still have the scar. I’m looking at it as I write. So small compared to the ones that cannot be seen.

  I was still drunk as I rode the bus to work. Broken, numb. The vodka’s odorous molecules bounced back into my face when I breathed against the window.

  I’d woken early, the sky barely lit, to the smell of TCP and the sound of snoring.

  After sliding my arm around your waist, I’d opened my blurry eyes and watched your hair flutter as you exhaled. But it wasn’t you. It was Dale. And I had no idea why.

  Crispy velour itched my neck as I shifted down the bus seat to snag some physical comfort, instantly ruined by a school lad bouncing into the space next to me, knocking my bandaged hand.

  Feeling queasy, I closed my eyes and attempted to block out both the annoying rustling of the boy’s anorak and the loud banter with his mate behind. Their voices triggered fragments of the night before. The Castle. Drinkers. Raucous, laughing. Amy Winehouse, ‘Back to Black’. Searching for you. The barman’s startled eyes when he clocked me. Scanning myself in the lager pump’s reflection. Black mascara-stained sockets. Blood from my hand now smeared across my cheeks from wiping away tears. Your absence. I’ll wait a bit longer. Getting drunk. Not drunk, smashed. The desperate middle-aged perv in an Eighties leather jacket. ‘Why don’t I take you home?’

  ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’

  You never showed. And considerably less intoxicated, remembering, I was nothing but thankful that you hadn’t.

  But the point is, you lied, Samuel. You lied.

  Aside from Harris, the light shining beneath his door, I was the first to arrive.

  I headed straight to the toilet, splashed my face and used loo roll to remove the smeared remnants of funeral make-up from under my eyes. Combing my hair with my fingers, I vowed that from then on, I’d always carry a brush like a proper person.

  I hung on to the sink through a moment of swimming nausea. This induced another memory fragment. Throwing up. On Dale. His horrified expression as the acidic potion splashed his jeans and new Converse. Being ordered to sit on the bed like a naughty girl. Hot black coffee. Him removing my shoes.

  ‘Now get undressed.’

  His presence as I did. Tucking me in. Bathing my hand with TCP. It stung. He bandaged it. Slowly, carefully. Crying.

  ‘What’s wrong, Constance?’

  My lies.

  ‘It was the funeral. It brought it all back.’

  ‘You’ve got me . . . You’ll always have me.’

  Linda, disgruntled I’d beaten her into work, waxed lyrical about the ‘lovely send-off’. How the hotel was ‘grand without being ostentatious’. I nodded. Made the correct noises. But the whole time I was focusing over her shoulder, waiting for you.

  ‘It was only for us close friends and family anyway, really . . . so probably best you didn’t come . . . What’s wrong with your hand?’

  I was about to invent a story when the door opened. I recognized the tip of your shoe and
pivoted, knocking the stapler on the floor. When bending to pick it up, I stayed there longer than required, eyes glued to my knee.

  ‘Morning, Dr Stevens. I was just telling Constance about how lovely the wake was.’

  ‘Oh, I’m pleased to hear that, Linda. Though I can’t deny I avoid funerals whenever possible.’

  Did you say that for my benefit? To remind me of our core bond.

  I felt you leaning over reception. ‘You couldn’t bring me in a coffee, could you, Constance?’

  In the kitchen, I was back to day one. Nervous, unable to get the colour right, accidentally double-sugaring and having to make it again from scratch. Once satisfied, I poured some out into the sink to prevent my jitters from causing it to swill over the edge.

  As I walked to your room, another memory was triggered from the previous night. Dale’s dank fingers stroking my face. Pretending to be asleep. His shadow over me. His breath. Garlic. Beef Monster Munch. His lips touching mine. Me turning over. Fake sleeping groans. Praying. Waiting for the shadow to leave. Relief as it lifts and turns.

  You were writing in your notebook when I entered. No acknowledgement. I quietly walked over and placed the mug in front of you.

  ‘Thanks, Constance.’ You caught sight of the bandage and put down your pen. Bothered to look at me. ‘Oh no, what have you done now?’

  ‘I fell over.’

  ‘Again? You’re very clumsy, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve put TCP on it.’

  ‘I want to see. Sit down.’

  I did as I was told. You wheeled over to me, took my wrist in your warm hands – Warm hands, cold heart – and unravelled the dressing.

  ‘So how did you fall this time?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ You smiled at me, expecting more of an explanation. ‘I think I tripped on my laces and knocked my hand against a wall.’

  ‘That could only happen to you, Constance.’ You removed the last bit of bandage. ‘It looks like you’ve given someone a left hook.’

  I looked down at my exposed hand. Blue-black knuckles crisscrossed with red. ‘I didn’t, though.’

  ‘I was joking . . . I mean, if you were going to punch anyone, it’d be me, right?’ You stood and crossed the room to gather antiseptic and such into a dish.

  Once again I watched you. That unruly section of your hair. Your shoulder blades slicing beneath your shirt. We’d come full circle.

  I’d planned to keep quiet, but with your back to me, I developed bravery.

  ‘So how was the Castle? Did you have a nice time?’

  You paused. Then moved again as if you’d been affected by a PlayStation glitch. ‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . It was good. It was pretty quiet in there, so it was nice just having a beer, catching up, you know.’

  And there it was. The additional detail for legitimacy. You weren’t even skilled at it.

  You turned to me with the dish. I smiled.

  As you wiped my hand, it carried me back to that day. And it was too much. Too painful.

  ‘I must get on. Linda will go mad.’

  ‘Well, I just need to put a fresh bandage on and then you’re free.’

  Free. It was as if you were gloating.

  I was about to snatch my arm away when you said, ‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry about yesterday, Constance.’

  I tried not to appear startled but couldn’t stop myself from exhaling a long breath. ‘Oh God, Samuel. So am I.’

  Your lips were unnecessarily close as you pressed the gauze against my broken skin. I was certain you wanted to kiss me, though knew you wouldn’t. Considering why the whole issue started in the first place. You wound the bandage and my hand already felt better, secure.

  ‘You’re such a special person, you know, Constance. You understand me . . . and that’s so important.’

  You’re such a worrypot, Mum would say. And she was right. I’d done it again. Fretted unduly. So inexperienced that I couldn’t even identify a lovers’ tiff.

  ‘So are you. Special to me, I mean.’

  ‘Thank you, Constance . . . That means a lot. It really does.’ You smiled and your eyes moistened. The bandage completed its final cycle and you tore off tape to secure the end. ‘And I know you’re going to meet someone great. I just know you are . . . Sorry, did I hurt you then?’ I’d pulled my arm away. Stood. ‘Is the bandage too tight?’

  ‘It . . . it stung a bit, that’s all. I’d better get on with my work. Thank you.’

  ‘Sure, sure . . . but before you go . . . I’m so sorry, but let me give you this.’ You delved into your pocket and brought out a twenty, then a ten-pound note, which you pressed into my uninjured hand as you whispered, ‘Look, I can’t tell you what to do . . . but obviously we were . . . well, unprepared yesterday . . . I know I didn’t . . . you know . . . inside . . . but not using a condom was . . . Well, we don’t want any disasters to deal with, do we? I’d write you a prescription, but it’s too risky.’

  I scrunched the notes in my fist. ‘No . . . of course. I’ll go to the chemist after work.’

  ‘Thank you. Obviously, I’d take it myself, if I could. Hey, let’s get that sandwich at lunch, shall we?’ My legs wobbled as I turned. ‘Whoa, are you OK there? I forgot about the whole blood phobia thing.’ You pointed to your own knuckles.

  ‘Yes . . . I’m fine. Thank you.’ I made it to the door, fingers grappling for the handle, stability.

  ‘Constance.’

  I turned to look at you.

  ‘Thanks for being so great about everything.’

  Tell me, Doctor, when people die of a broken heart, does it always happen fast? I know it happens. Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. You mustn’t be surprised that I know things. I know lots of things now. But I wonder if heartbreak can also cause slow, drawn-out deaths. Over months, years. Perhaps that’s why your mother died. It was why mine died. She had cancer, yes. But really, she’d been dying for twenty years. Since that day. That weird day.

  After leaving your office, I’d somehow kept it together. Switched off. Didn’t cry. Though I was glad of the relief from pretence when Linda sent me into the stationery cupboard to check stock levels. I couldn’t think straight, let alone count bloody prescription forms, but when I returned with a list of fabricated numbers, Dr Franco was waiting for me in reception.

  ‘Oh . . . Dr Franco. I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . but I . . . I can’t do today after all . . . Dr Stevens wants to go through something with me during lunch.’

  Linda took the list from me. ‘What are you talking about? Dr Stevens has just this minute left. He’s on home visits for the rest of the day.’

  Sat in Dr Franco’s vast consulting room, engulfed by the soft leather seat, staring over at the books and certificates that laced the walls to avoid his dark, full-of-concern eyes, I felt like I could have died of takotsubo cardiomyopathy. I didn’t. But I still often wonder if I will.

  ‘Now, I don’t want you to feel worried or nervous, Constance. It’s only a chat. A friend who wants to help if I can . . . You don’t even have to stay.’ He moved an antique wooden chair with a red velvet seat from near his desk and placed it a few feet away from me before sitting, smiling.

  I was going to politely decline. Say it was very kind of him, but I didn’t feel comfortable talking about it. Then he said, ‘So how are you? How was yesterday?’ And my face must have betrayed me because he followed it with, ‘That good, eh?’

  I dropped my head. Wanted to tell him. Someone. Not about the funeral, about you. Ask him what to do. How to get you back. That’s all I wanted. He’d know. That’s what they do, these people, isn’t it? Decipher minds. And if you can do that, know how people think, you can get them to do anything.

  ‘Why don’t you start by telling me about your mum?’

  I stared up at him. ‘What do you mean? Like what?’ My foot tapped an anxious rhythm on the worn Persian rug and I pressed my knee to make it stop.

  He unfolded his arms and turned to retrieve a pad and pen from his old lea
ther-topped desk. ‘Just so I remember things . . . Nothing formal, don’t worry.’ Then he looked at me in expressionless silence. Waiting.

  I didn’t want to think about it. Her. So instead, I wondered how old Dr Franco was. I’d always presumed he was in his sixties, but when I observed him closely, the skin on his face was smooth, line-free, and I suspected he was one of those people who’d always looked like an old man. Even as a kid.

  His desk clock ticked like a bomb. Staring back down to my fiddling fingers, I thought I could play the game. Endure the excruciating awkwardness. But I’m ashamed to say he won. I told you they can get you to do anything.

  ‘She died in April. Cancer. What’s more to say? Life’s shit. It happened . . . No point talking about it . . . It won’t change anything.’ I glanced up to check his reaction. I’d said it so many times that even I believed it.

  He twirled his pen like a baton, then scribbled words about me. It was unsettling. The scratching of the nib grated. In what other circumstance is it acceptable that someone writes secret notes about a person in front of them?

  ‘Look, I don’t know why I’m here, to be honest, Dr Franco . . . I was being polite because it was so kind of you . . . but I’d really rather not talk about it.’

  He stopped writing and placed the pen in the crevice of his pad. Removed his glasses and folded the metal arms neatly inwards before laying them next to the pen. ‘OK, OK, Constance. I understand. You can leave whenever you wish. As I said, it was just a chat.’

  That’s why understanding minds is so powerful, manipulative. He knew that part of me I didn’t even know myself. The part of me that wanted to stay.

  A few moments ticked by.

  ‘What was your mum’s name?’

  ‘Angela . . . Angie.’

  ‘Like the Rolling Stones song?’ he smiled.

  I looked at him suspiciously. He’d delved further with his mind worms than I’d expected. The song would often play on loop in our house. Dad would take her by the hand and they’d slow-dance in a way I’ve not yet experienced but hope to one day. Though back then, I’d pull out my tongue in disgust. Dive into the sofa cushions to hide my horrified yet excited face.