If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  ‘OK, I’ll do that. Use the window, I mean.’

  The thought of seeing you energized me, and I needed the distraction from the episode in the kitchen.

  The sash window was so stiff I almost gave up trying to open it.

  ‘Give it some welly,’ Edward shouted, which led to a cough.

  When I eventually pushed it up, the cold air punched me.

  I lit the beautiful stick. Then, fearful you would see me, I concealed myself with the dusty curtains and leant against the windowsill next to a macabre clown figurine complete with glass balloons.

  Sitting there, I had one of those thoughts. You know, when you worry that you’ll jump without really wanting to. So I held on to the curtain for safety.

  It wasn’t long before the show began.

  You came into view with only a towel around your bottom half. Hair wet. When you threw yourself down on the sofa, you appeared to be talking without your hand raised to your ear. At first, I thought perhaps you were using Bluetooth. But it wasn’t that, was it? There was someone with you. Someone out of my view. And you wouldn’t be half naked with your legs spread in a towel for one of your mates.

  Smoke caught on my throat, making me gag.

  Your head was in your hands, your legs wide. You stood up. Walked around. Shouting, pointing to the person, woman, off screen. Passionate hand gestures. Intense face.

  I heard Edward coughing. ‘Can I get some water, Constance?’ His voice crackled.

  ‘Yes . . . just . . . just hang on a minute.’

  ‘I think I’m choking.’

  ‘You’re not choking.’ It was so difficult to tear myself away, but I dropped the remainder of my fag in the ashtray.

  After a few sips of water, Edward’s cough subsided completely. I was almost annoyed that he wasn’t choking.

  ‘I’ve left my fag in the ashtray. I’m going to go and finish it.’

  ‘Slave to them,’ he said.

  You were nowhere. I gave up concealing myself with the curtain and hung out of the window for a better view. There was no sign of you. No sign of anyone.

  I stubbed out the husk of the filter and lit a fresh smoke, barely placing it between my dry, anxious lips when the main door of your flats flew open. And there you were. There she was. Fiona. Crying and screaming, ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.’

  You stood at the top of the steps, still in your towel. You must have been freezing, but you seemed oblivious to the temperature as you grabbed her arms, told her to calm down. That you were sorry, but you just couldn’t be with anyone right now. That if you’d thought for one minute she’d developed feelings, you would have nipped it in the bud immediately.

  I would’ve laughed had it not hurt so much. Listening to your patter. Your lies.

  She was still crying. Can you believe I felt sorry for her? Knowing what you were doing to her? How it felt. Though I didn’t cry when it was me. Wouldn’t cry. Did you even register that?

  She attempted to rest her head on your chest. But you gently took her by the wrists and widened the space between you both. She slipped her hand away and to my delight swiped it with force across your stunned face.

  You looked around to see if any neighbours had witnessed your pathetic show. The funny thing was, I saw Tippi Hedren coming down the road. You didn’t. You thought it had all gone unnoticed.

  As Fiona ran off crying, you looked towards the skies in fury. I ducked out of view, dropping my fag on the floor in the process and knocking the clown figurine off the sill.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ Edward shouted with difficulty.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Edward. It’s the clown . . .’ The fag had singed Poor Tiger so I stroked his head, apologizing, before stubbing out the cigarette and going to the bedroom to confess.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . It’s broken.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The clown thing on the windowsill.’

  ‘What clown thing?’

  ‘The clown figurine. With all the balloons?’

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘You don’t even know you’ve got a clown figurine, do you?’

  ‘Well, there’s quite a lot of stuff in here to remember.’

  ‘Well, there’s one less thing now.’

  When I returned with the dustpan and brush, you were back in your flat. Dressing in the bedroom. Tracksuit bottoms, I think, and a T-shirt. You didn’t appear upset. Almost unaffected by what had happened. You disappeared again, emerging a few minutes later, carrying a bowl and spoon into the lounge. I guessed cereal. You guzzled it and wiped dribbles from your chin. I was forced to leave you as I swept the glass. The clown’s grinning face stared at me, intact, surrounded by the shattered multicoloured shards. When I stood with the weighted dustpan, I watched you turn on the TV. You sat back, eating, watching, not a care for Fiona. For anyone.

  You slowly placed the bowl on the floor and answered your phone. Whoever the caller was, they made you smile, laugh. I observed you throughout the conversation. Timed it by the dodgy cuckoo clock. Six minutes. They’d amused you for the duration. Your head thrown back, fingers running through your hair. I found it hard to believe that Fiona could have brought you round so quickly. Then I remembered Sarah.

  Needing to walk away from you for a moment, I carried the dustpan into the kitchen and disposed of the clown on top of the broken plate.

  Edward had fallen asleep, so I gently removed his glasses and placed them on the bedside table. Took the phone handset and switched off his light.

  When I returned to the lounge, you were back to stuffing your face and watching TV. With Edward’s phone, I blocked the number and dialled.

  Looking confused, you picked up the call. ‘Hello?’ you said. ‘Hello?’

  I remained silent.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Fiona, is this you? If it is, please fuck off and get a grip. We weren’t in a relationship. Just let it go.’

  It wasn’t me who put the phone down this time. It was you.

  With confirmation that Fiona wasn’t the mystery caller, with frenzied hands I removed the folded Post-it from my pocket and dialled Sarah’s number.

  It rang once. Twice. Three times.

  ‘Thank you for contacting Everton Car Insurance—’

  I ended the call. Rushed over to the window. Slammed it down and pulled the curtains shut.

  Knowing Fiona had been eradicated, I became more positive. Regained my purpose. Our romantic reunion. Concentrated on ways to bring you back to me. Laid to rest all that had gone before. Forgave you.

  One Saturday Dale suggested we went for a coffee on Chiswick High Road. Which was unusual considering he’d rant about the prices they’d charge when it would only cost twenty pence to make at home. But that day, he was adamant, and I wasn’t going to argue as I welcomed time away from the bedsits.

  It was pleasant being out. Though Christmas was already in the shops and triggered mixed feelings. The dread of the first one without her and the amusing memories of the ones we’d had.

  The cafe he chose was cold. Not helped by the shiny metal chairs, which sent shocks through my flesh.

  We sipped our cappuccinos. Played the role of a normal couple.

  ‘You know we’ve almost been together two months now, Constance?’ He slurped the froth, then released the cup to reveal a whitened top lip. ‘It feels longer, though, doesn’t it? But I guess we were together way before any of that really, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes . . . I . . . I suppose so.’

  ‘But I reckon anniversaries are based on the first time a couple makes love.’

  My throat closed, causing me to choke on the coffee. After the cough subsided, I croaked, ‘Dale . . . don’t say that out loud.’

  ‘I’m sure everyone here knows about lovemaking, Constance. You’re so childish sometimes.’

  Embarrassed, I smiled at the windswept woman leaning over a high chair and encouraging a plastic spoon into her crying baby’s m
outh.

  ‘She definitely does,’ he said under his breath, folding and unfolding his hand in a cutesy wave. It stopped crying and stared at him. ‘I hope that’ll be us one day,’ he said.

  ‘What? Me feeding you puréed vegetables?’

  ‘Funny. No . . . having a baby. Though obviously we’ll marry first.’

  I stood. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo.’

  He took my hand. ‘Thank you, Constance.’

  ‘For what?’ I twisted awkwardly back towards him.

  ‘For, you know . . . being you.’

  He looked at me with desperate eyes. Wanted me to say something meaningful back.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said, and slid my hand from under his.

  On my return, he was surprisingly upbeat. ‘Let’s talk birthday presents.’

  ‘It’s not for a few weeks yet.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but—’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of an urn or a nice box for her ashes.’

  ‘Not for your mum’s birthday, for yours.’

  ‘That’s . . . I meant mine.’

  He laughed. ‘You can’t get an urn for your birthday. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I already know what I’m getting you. Something you’ll love.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t really want anything . . . Honestly, don’t worry. We didn’t do birthdays, Mum and me. They were only a few weeks apart so one would usually have to borrow off the other for presents, so it seemed pointless.’

  He squeezed my hand and smiled before picking up a copy of the Guardian from the table next to him and passing me the supplement.

  We flicked through our respective publications in silence. Each time someone entered or left the cafe, they let in the raw air and I became uncomfortably cold, concluding I may as well be freezing outside but with the added joy of a cigarette.

  ‘I’m just going to pop and get some fags.’

  He didn’t look up, only stroked my arm as I stood to leave.

  Before reaching the Tesco Express, I was seduced into going inside a shop called Annie’s, which was filled with quaint delights I couldn’t afford.

  Tracing my fingers over a cool glass case full of delicate jewellery, I wished that the angel-wing pendant at the back was Dale’s present. She loved angels. But at ninety-five pounds, I knew my wish would remain just that.

  I dragged myself away from both the silver and the suspicious gaze of the sales bitch and wandered over to the small wall of cards, immediately being drawn to a beautiful watercolour of roses with Mum on the front. It was her first birthday since she died and I was dreading it. As I’m sure, unlike Dale, you’d have understood.

  I’d lied about our not celebrating birthdays. We always did. It’d just be the two of us, of course. There was no one else. In the early years I’d overdose on cake and watch her descend into alcoholic numbness, and in the latter years we’d fall there together. How was I expected to celebrate the day she gave me life when she no longer had hers?

  Trying to put it out of my mind, I scanned the other designs.

  It was then I saw the card.

  Rough, thick, cream-coloured paper. On the front, in a swirling black font, it said, Whatever our souls are made of, his & mine are the same. Underneath in smaller writing, Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights.

  When rushing back to the cafe, my purchase pushed inside my bag, I almost forgot to stop at the Tesco Express for the cigarettes. Stood in the queue, I picked up a small bag of Lindt chocolate balls for Dale, to counteract my guilt.

  That night, once Dale had fallen asleep during an episode of CSI, I went to my room and extracted the card. I was unsure what to do with it. Obviously, I couldn’t just write a message and post it to you. Thinking of my options, I slumped onto the bed, distractedly flicking through the magazine that Dale had stolen from the cafe for me. And it was after an article on whether snails offered the answer to anti-ageing that I noticed a review of Samuel Beckett’s Endgame at the National.

  I’ll admit I did have my doubts about writing a message to you using kidnapper-style lettering. I wasn’t insane. But there it was. Your complete name. Telling me it was what I should do. Approval.

  The card burned a hole in both my bag and mind for the remainder of the weekend, which was mainly spent watching Dale killing zombies and tidying my bedsit after him shaming me. ‘Jesus, Constance. You’re not a teenager anymore, you know.’ Shoot, shoot, shoot.

  On the Monday I was aware of its existence the whole day. Fearful it would somehow fall out onto the floor. ‘Who’s Samuel?’ I imagined Alison would say. Then her eyes would widen, her hand block her mouth. But that didn’t happen. It remained tucked away. My exquisite secret.

  When I followed you after work, aside from the harsh wind, all was soothing. Your earphones were in, your collar up, hair billowing, and I was full of joyous anticipation. Like a child about to give their first gift.

  Catching up with Edward about the events of our respective weekends, I was delighted he seemed so well. Reminiscent of the Edward I’d met that first day, feisty and diamond-eyed.

  Despite the happiness this brought, as I sank into what we now referred to as ‘my chair’, I couldn’t concentrate on his words. I did try to appear interested, and avoid looking at you, but I was too aware of you wandering around your flat.

  ‘I watched a documentary on Saturday, and, Constance, did you know that NASA have discovered stars that are cool enough to touch?’

  ‘No . . . no, I didn’t know that.’ I supped on my tea, myself light years away. Which in hindsight was a shame. I really am interested in touchable stars.

  I waited with him as he chomped down on his bacon sandwich. ‘Now, Edward, did you know . . . that pigs are the closest species genetically to dogs? Except they’re more intelligent.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, I’ve eaten quite a few dogs as well and I can tell you they are nowhere near as delicious.’ He noted my look of horror and laughed. ‘Darling girl . . . I didn’t realize: it was in Vietnam.’

  Unable to deal with Edward’s canine-eating confession, I made my excuses to leave early. Outside, I placed my hand in my bag and held on to the card. Looking up, I could see your light was still on, but I was anxiously aware that you could head downstairs at any moment. Regardless of the risk, I was about to cross over when Tippi Hedren came down the road with her panting Labrador. As she climbed the steps with her key in hand, I lost my nerve and headed off, weighted with disappointment and with the perilous item still in my possession.

  The following day I brought Edward a vegetarian lasagne as punishment for the dogs. He was up, dressed in a pale green jumper I hadn’t seen before, a colour that drained the blood from his face, and his prior perkiness had given way to a sour mood.

  He clashed his cutlery against the plate. ‘What the hell is this dry crap? Just because I’m interested in astronauts doesn’t mean I want to eat their food.’

  After insisting he needed to eat more greens, I noticed you leaving your flat. Poker night.

  ‘Well, let me tell you, Constance. Your pallor is no advert for eating vegetables.’

  Edward was soon tired and pasty-looking.

  ‘If you saw yourself right now, you’re not a great advert for bacon,’ I said, tucking him up in bed. I brought the layers of heavy blankets up to his chin and stroked the hair off his forehead. The sensation instantly soothed him.

  Eyes closed, he felt for my other hand and gripped it tight. ‘I’ll eat less of the pigs for you,’ he said.

  Once more I stood outside clutching the envelope. This time, determined.

  The brutal wind wrapped my hair around my face, suffocating me. Freeing myself from the tendrils, I looked around for other life within the darkness. There was no Tippi Hedren. There was no one.

  I performed the procedure like a ballet. The glide across the road, the ascent of the steps, the raising of the large brass letterbox, the smooth insertion that led to the delicate drop, the turn and departure.

  With each act
ion the thrill increased.

  Lying in Dale’s bed, him snoring next to me, I imagined your return home. The initial dip to retrieve the card from the floor, followed by the surprise at your name pasted, grey, on the front. You’d begin to open it, then stop yourself. Pulse racing, you’d run up to your flat, craving privacy. Door shut. Lights switched bright. Keys clanking into the bowl. With anticipation you’d tear the envelope, then slide out the card. Opening it slowly. Palpitating heart.

  This was written for us, you’d read. My words pasted tiny and disjointed. Fluttering stomach. At first, you’d be confused. Then after, when it had sat with you for a while, and you’d undressed, cleaned your teeth, sunk into your soft, rumpled sheets and the beautiful feeling of your body suspended upon your mattress, you’d turn to the card, now propped up on your side table next to your clock, and you’d feel warmth from your bare feet upwards and smile, basking in the love of a stranger. The list of names, possibilities, running through your head again and again until that moment before you reached to switch off your lamp, when your mind lingered on one name predominantly. The one you hoped it was. Constance.

  The next day all remained the same.

  Your eyes didn’t glint knowingly towards mine. Dishearteningly, you didn’t hint at having received the card or that you’d hoped it’d been sent by me.

  All that effort. All the love I’d poured into it. Into you.

  I tried to be content with just following, watching. Remaining strong and not making silent calls. But like Mum with Martin, the smallest thing can hurl you into the comforting arms of addiction.

  It had been a particularly bad day. Harris was even more of an insufferable prick than usual. Red-faced and spitty, he’d told me to ‘pull my socks up’ because I’d forgotten to call Mrs Wheatley about her results. And when I’d finally left Wankerville, I called Dale on the way round to Edward’s to moan about Harris, but all I got was, ‘Well, you did forget to call her, I suppose’ and ‘I can’t believe you’re still visiting this Edward guy. I think you need to sort out your priorities.’ It didn’t dawn on him that I was. That I actually preferred being with Edward than him. That my visits had transformed from duty to want. That I enjoyed spending time with him, and, by default, you.