When I arrived, Edward was in the lounge, sat in his creased, faded dark blue and red paisley pyjamas. The top button missing, his grey chest hairs searching through the gap. His crumpled red spotted hanky hanging from the loose breast pocket.
‘You got dressed for bed early.’
‘What? Oh . . . oh yes. I did, yes.’ He couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘I think I’d like to go to bed now, Constance.’
‘I need to make you something to eat first.’
‘I’ve already eaten.’ Again he avoided my gaze. I recognized that lack of eye contact. What it meant.
‘You need to eat something, Edward.’
‘I’ll see myself to bed, then.’ He pushed himself up, the effort extracting all breath from his lungs.
‘Here . . . put your arm around me.’ I bent down to offer myself to him.
‘Stop fussing, for Christ’s sake. Stop trying to make me infirm.’ His face flushed at the embarrassment of his raised voice. I straightened myself and watched him in silence. He managed to stand. Remaining still for a moment, as if to wait for his blood to once again navigate his veins. ‘Well, thanks for popping in, Constance.’
‘I’ll stay . . . make sure you’re settled.’ I was addressing his curved back, shuffling out of the room.
When I could no longer see him, I dropped into my chair. For once not thinking of you, but listening to his huffs and puffs as he made it into bed. Sounds she’d make. Weak, fragile. Master of trickery with her smiling and ‘I’m fine’s.
And I didn’t like it. How it made me feel. What it brought back. I needed something to counteract it.
It was just the usual at first. Dialled your number prefixed with 141. Walked over to the window and watched as you picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Hello? Look, take me off your call list. I’m not interested.’ You dropped the handset on the sofa before bending, I presumed, to untie your laces.
I meant for that to be it. I swear I did. I was done. Satisfied. I even turned and headed for the door. But as I did, the feelings gnawed at me. Took hold. Made me think of things. See things burnt on my eyelids as I blinked. Images of her from that day.
It wouldn’t have happened if I’d had to input the digits individually.
The redial button made it so easy.
I returned to the window, pressed again.
‘Hello? For fuck’s sake.’
The line died.
You threw the handset down onto the cushion next to you. Put your feet up on a new glass coffee table that I hadn’t known about. This disgruntled me further. I wasn’t part of your private life anymore.
I pressed the button again. This time it rang out and I watched you ignoring it, ignoring me. Pause. Then again. You were staring at it. Cross-armed, cross-legged. Your one visible socked foot moving up and down anxiously. I wanted to tell you that you needn’t have worried. That it was only me.
I pressed it again.
And again.
And again.
I couldn’t stop. I wanted to. Believe me. But the more you ignored me, the more I needed your acknowledgement.
Until finally you picked up.
‘Who the fuck is this? Hello? Hello? Whoever this is, stop calling me.’ You lowered your hand for a moment. I waited for the line to go dead, but you raised it back to your ear. ‘Fiona, is this you? Is this you, Fiona? It is, isn’t it? You fucking nut-job . . . Oh my God, if you don’t stop this, I’m going to report you to the police.’
I ended the call.
Stepped away from the window. Jelly legs causing me to stumble. My heart thumped against my ribs. Once again my hypnotic state was over and I threw the phone onto the chair like a hot smoking gun.
For the next couple of days I could think of nothing else.
I avoided your eyes and presence. Terrified of triggering a moment when you’d look at me and it would all suddenly click. Realize it wasn’t Fiona at all.
It was around two on the Friday, as I was filling in Alison’s charity-walk sponsor form (for which I could only afford a fiver instead of a tenner like everyone else), when I thought the dreaded moment had arrived.
You were about to leave for a house call. I hoped that you’d not come back and all would be forgotten by the Monday. Alison said goodbye to you. I concentrated on the form as if oblivious. As you walked towards the door, I could feel my anxiety leaving with you. But it returned, reinforced, when you turned back around and headed over to the reception desk, with a summoning finger, calling my name.
I dropped the pen onto the sheet and, though petrified, magnetically responded to your request.
‘Yes, Dr Stevens.’
You slipped a piece of paper into my hand. ‘I almost forgot . . . I’ve got a new number. Can you tell the other girls as well?’ You didn’t notice the paper pulsating between my fingers, and must have misinterpreted the outward evidence of my internal panic for curiosity, as you whispered, ‘It’s a long story . . . Can we catch up after work?’
I nodded.
You smiled, then counteracted our intimacy with a loud ‘Goodbye, Alison. See you in a couple of hours.’
As you can imagine, I was in a swirl for the rest of the day. Intoxicated on a cocktail of excitement and fear. Unsure if I’d imagined it. Got the wrong end of the stick. Or perhaps it was a trick and I’d been caught out. But I chose to focus on your smile, which indicated that I was safe.
Dead on five you came into reception, coated up, and said goodbye to us all. I took this as confirmation of my insanity and felt the disappointment resume. Then, when no one was looking, you mouthed, ‘Meet me up the road.’
It was the first time we’d walked side by side for so long.
We were propelled back to the beginning. The ease, the friendship. I playfully touched your arm and joked that the wind had given you a Bobby Charlton.
‘You’re twenty-six. How do you even know Bobby Charlton?’
‘Erm, hello? I’m from Manchester.’
I braved asking what you’d wanted to talk about, but you said you’d tell me when we were warm, inside somewhere. As I nodded, my teeth chattered. Do you remember? How your woollen-clad arm encased me, rubbed my shoulder, until that ten-pound note flew from your pocket, taunting you as it danced away whenever you got close. When you finally caught it under your foot, saying, ‘I’ve got you, you bastard,’ you were oblivious to my dropped smile. I was so content that I knew it was no longer enough for me to walk behind you.
On your suggestion, we went to the Wheatsheaf. You didn’t mention the ‘kissing’ we did there. Not even as a crude joke. Just referred to it as somewhere we ‘both knew’. When we walked past the alleyway, nothing even registered on your face. Whereas I flinched at the image of my bare body bruising against the brickwork.
Inside, the place was much quieter than the previous time. Like a different pub. It was still early doors and the Friday-night shenanigans had not yet begun. I opted for a battered leather sofa in a purposely chosen cosy alcove, as you ordered our drinks from the lone barman reluctantly slicing lemons. I watched your every movement. The exaggerated dip into your pocket for money, your attempts to straighten out your hair.
Then I remembered Edward. He was expecting me, and I hadn’t turned up. I mimed with my finger that I would just be a minute and went outside to call.
‘Hey, I’m so sorry, but I’ve had to meet a friend who was upset about something. Are you OK? Have you got stuff in to eat?’
‘Don’t you be worrying about me. Go see to your friend, darling girl.’
The guilt made me light a fag. ‘Are you OK, though? You sound a bit shit? The phone’s beeping again – make sure you put it on charge.’
‘I’m fine. A nurse came today . . . Maxine. Wonderful, she is . . . She’s an artist as well as a nurse. We had a lovely chat about Klimt.’
‘Oh . . . oh, OK.’
‘She’s going to come regularly now. To check on me.’
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‘Oh . . . OK. Well, that’s good . . . I already check on you, though.’
I waited for him to reply but realized the line was dead and I’d been talking to myself.
You were sat at the table in front of two large glasses of brandy, not the Coke I’d requested. Noticing my confused frown, you said, ‘I know, I know, but I thought you needed warming up.’
Was it all part of the plan? To infiltrate my mind with memories of our first time. My body with alcohol.
‘So, what was it you wanted to talk about?’
You laughed and stared into your glass, swirling it repeatedly. ‘Blimey, can’t wait to go, eh?’
You have no idea how much I wanted to be strong. Say I had somewhere to be. ‘No, no, not at all.’
You sighed, returned your glass to the table, remained with your head down, distressed. I was unsure what to do. Like I was with Dad that day. I know what I wanted to do. My hand hovered behind your head, wanting to touch you.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s nothing. I . . . It’s just . . .’ You looked back at me, desperate. My stomach lurched at the fear you’d confront me after all. You breathed out, long and slow. ‘There was a woman. Way before . . . you know . . . before us, I mean.’
I sipped my brandy. Suppressed both the surge of happiness at your use of the term ‘us’ and the anger at the lie you’d just told.
‘It was a one-off thing. I . . . I didn’t even fancy her . . . She was just there.’
I was just there too, Samuel. I was there. ‘Where?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where did you meet her?’
You picked up a beer mat and swivelled it between your fingers, eyes averted. ‘I don’t know. At a party somewhere. It . . . it was ages ago . . . I can’t even remember.’
I waited for you to continue. Encouraged you to squirm.
‘We had a rubbish drunken shag, and to keep her happy and not feel used, I took her out a few times and then ended it like I knew I would do all along . . .’
I took a gulp. Waited. For you to either finish what you were saying or to realize your insensitivity, describing what you’d also done to me. Except you didn’t even take me out to prevent me feeling used. I poured more alcohol onto my fire. When I looked at you, it wasn’t just your face that was blurred by the influx of brandy but the line between love and hate.
‘But now she . . . she . . .’
‘I can’t stay long, Dr Stevens. I’m meeting my boyfriend.’
I delighted in your face. Your flaring nostrils and widened eyes. ‘Dr Stevens again, is it? OK . . . Sorry. I just really wanted your advice . . . So you have a boyfriend now?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do . . . Advice?’
‘Well . . . I’m . . . That’s great . . . I’m really pleased for you, Constance.’
I smiled through your corrosive words. ‘So, the advice?’
‘Oh yes, well, this woman . . . She hasn’t . . . Well, she just can’t seem to let go, Constance.’ You used your agitated hands to smooth your hair.
‘Is it Laura? You’ve already told me that about Laura. That she couldn’t let you go.’
‘Did I? No . . . no . . . it’s not Laura . . . It’s someone else. She keeps ringing me. I swear she’s crazy.’
‘So another woman can’t let go either? What do you do to them?’
You looked right at me. Eyes wide open, as if to prove your innocence. ‘Nothing . . . I swear. You know me. I’m not like that. I didn’t lead her on or promise anything, but she keeps ringing me.’
‘And saying what?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. Nothing. She doesn’t speak . . . She’s just there. I can sense her.’
‘Sense her?’ I sipped my drink to hide the blood surging to the surface of my skin.
‘I can feel her on the other end of the line. Not saying anything.’
‘Oh. I see. Maybe there’s a fault on the line—’
‘I know it sounds crazy . . . but I promise you she’s at the other end.’ You picked up the beer mat just to throw it back down again.
‘And how do you know it’s her?’
Would it shock you to know that I was no longer scared? Or embarrassed? That I didn’t feel shame or guilt? If anything, I was empowered. The way you glanced down. Unable to keep your fingers still. How I’d made you feel powerless.
‘I just do . . . There’s no one else it could be.’
I tipped the remaining dregs into my mouth.
‘You knocked that back quickly. Can I get you another?’
I firmly placed the empty glass on the table. ‘But why? If it was such a long time ago that you got together with her, why are you so sure she’s the culprit?’
You shot me a puzzled look, then remembered your lie. ‘Oh, well, she was just strange from the beginning, clingy. Immediately after sex you could tell she thought it was something more than it was, you know? It’s so silly . . . I can’t believe she’s got to me. So stupid . . . It’s just freaking me out a bit . . . Sorry . . . Sorry, Constance. I just knew you’d be someone who I could talk to about it. You understand things . . . me.’
I placed my hand on top of yours. It felt so good, comforting, touching your flesh, hearing you say I understood you. But another part of me imagined folding in my fingers and digging my nails into your skin.
‘Hey, it’s OK. Do you want me to talk to her? Woman to woman?’
Your eyes lit up with the idea. Then you remembered that I couldn’t because I already knew her and you were a fucking liar. ‘No . . . no, I think that would make it worse. I’ve changed my number now, anyway. Threatened her with the police. I don’t see how she can call me. Though . . . I didn’t tell you everything.’ You pulled your coat onto your knee from the seat next to you and fished into the pocket. Your hand emerged with the card I’d so lovingly addressed to you. ‘She also sent me some psycho card.’ You threw it on the table with such disregard.
‘Psycho?’
‘Yeah, look at it. An anonymous card. But look at the envelope and inside. It’s all cut-out letters . . . really fucking scary.’
I felt tears rise. I hadn’t meant for it to seem like that, Samuel. And had at least hoped you’d liked the quote.
You placed your hand on top of mine this time. Not because you’d noticed my upset but for me to soothe yours. ‘Constance . . . do you think it’s me? I mean, do you think I somehow inadvertently make them crazy?’
‘Well, they can’t all be crazy, Samuel. Maybe you upset them in some way.’
‘But I’m a nice guy. I don’t set out to hurt anyone.’
I stood, unsteady. ‘I feel a little light-headed from the brandy. I’m going to get a Coke. Do you want anything?’
When I returned with my drink and a packet of crisps to soak up the alcohol, I sat down and said, ‘I’ve been thinking . . . I’d relax about it now. If she knows the number’s not working, and you mentioned the police, she’ll definitely stop.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do . . . I really do.’
‘Thanks, Constance. I knew you’d make me feel better about it all. You calm me.’
I smiled.
‘You know what? I’m not going near a woman again unless I truly have feelings for her.’
I tried to think of something worse you could have said, something more hurtful, more cutting, but I couldn’t.
‘Do you want some crisps?’ I pulled open the packet and ripped the foil apart with my teeth.
‘Anyway . . . sorry, Constance. I’m so selfish . . . How are you? So, a boyfriend, eh?’
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
You sat back, smiling, watched me as I ate the crisps. I felt so self-conscious I could barely swallow. ‘What?’
‘No . . . no . . . I shouldn’t . . .’
‘Tell me.’
It was then you moved away the coats wedged between us. Sidled closer and whispered, ‘Well, I . . . I shouldn’t say this, but I really don’t like that you�
��ve got a boyfriend.’ As soon as the words entered my ear, you stood. ‘Sorry . . . sorry . . . Ignore that. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m going to the loo . . . Ignore me.’
Alone, I drank my Coke with the pretence that your words hadn’t set me alight. That they weren’t the words I’d fantasized about hearing. Words that were now cemented deep in my head, my heart. Impossible to ignore, regardless of your instruction.
‘Shall we get out of here?’ You’d returned and were reaching for your coat.
I silently agreed and did the same. Unsure of your intentions as I buttoned up. ‘Don’t forget your card.’
‘No, thank you. They can throw it . . . Gives me the bloody creeps.’
I smiled. ‘Good idea,’ I said, allowing my scarf to slip from my fingers.
Outside, bitten by the cold, we headed down the road. I stopped, raised my hands in exasperation. ‘I’ve left my bloody scarf inside. I thought I was extra cold.’
‘You’re as bad as me, Constance. Let me—’
‘No, no, don’t be daft. I won’t be a sec.’ Before you could argue, I was running back towards the entrance.
Inside, I mingled with the two couples settling into our seats, apologizing as I dipped under the table.
‘It’s my scarf . . . I left my scarf.’ I re-emerged, head full of blood. ‘Sorry . . . and this . . . I forgot this as well,’ I said as I pushed my arm between the men’s bodies, sliding the card off the table and into my bag.
Outside your flat, you asked if I wanted to come up for coffee.
I did think about Dale. Of course I did. But should we deny ourselves happiness if it presents itself? A happiness that for me had been so rare.
When you lay upon my body and moved inside, when you kissed my mouth hard, with each rough jolt I replayed what you’d said – I’m not going near a woman again unless I truly have feelings for her. And I thought how silly it was that those words had hurt me so intensely. When, as we lay there hand in hand, I realized they were in fact the proof of how you felt.
If I Can't Have You Page 19