He reached over, snatching the glasses from my grip. ‘I don’t need to see a doctor . . . I’m absolutely fine.’
My hands reached for the top of my head and I paced the only clutter-free area in the room. ‘Oh my God . . . you promised. You promised Maxine.’
‘The only thing that’s making me ill is your interrogation. And as for Maxine . . . it turns out she’s highly irritating.’
And suddenly I was swathed in that feeling. The fear of him leaving me. Loathing the selfishness. Of him not caring if he did.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said, and left to put his shepherd’s pie in the oven.
I remained in the lounge while his dinner cooked.
When I lifted the window to smoke, I turned my body inwards to face the room, not you. Extending my arm outside into the harsh, dark air. Focusing on Ursula, wishing I could be as calm and cold as I flitted between anger at you, Edward, Mum. But my will was weak and I glanced towards you for a split second. You were laughing at something on the TV. My rage intensified and I slammed the window shut.
I hovered next to the bed as Edward pushed food around the plate. ‘It’s not as good as the Sainsbury’s one.’
‘It is the Sainsbury’s one. Let me get you something else, then—’
‘No . . . no . . . I had a big lunch, that’s all.’
I perched on the chair, watching as he laboriously carried forkfuls of mince towards his lips. His crooked hand tremored so violently only tiny amounts made it into his mouth.
‘If you’re no better by tomorrow, I’m calling the doctor myself.’
His fork dropped to the plate. Gravy splashed the sheets.
‘For Christ’s sake. Let me tell you about doctors, shall I? The doctor came out to Amy. Doubled with stomach ache she was. Fever. We’d been up all night with her crying . . . screaming. “A tummy bug,” he said. “Drink lots of water. Be a brave girl. You’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.” I didn’t think it was right . . . knew it was worse. “You must listen to the doctor,” Irene kept saying. “The doctor knows best. She’ll be fine in a couple of days.” Well, she was dead in a couple of days.’ He placed his plate on the bedside table.
I dropped my head. We remained silent for a few seconds, until I said, ‘It’s awful about Amy, Edward. But if you’re no better by tomorrow, I’m still calling a doctor.’
‘You will not. You bloody well will not.’
I could sense arguing was futile so turned to leave the room. Stabbed in the back with ‘You’re not my daughter, you know.’
When I left Edward’s, I didn’t look up towards your flat. My eyes avoided your building completely. I lit another fag and coughed as the beautiful vile smoke entered my lungs. When I dropped the lighter and packet back into my bag, I checked my phone. No missed calls. No messages. None of the usual questioning from Dale as to when I’d be home. Thankful at least for this small blessing, I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder and set off for the Tube.
It began to spit with rain.
Brolly-less, I flipped up my collar to shield my face from the droplets, which rapidly increased in size and frequency. My ears ached under the biting shower and I retracted into the neck of my coat like a threatened tortoise.
I hadn’t gone far before I sensed something wasn’t right.
Through the now pelting rain, I could hear my footsteps slap against the wet pavement. But the rhythm was off. Additional beats interspersed my own.
I walked faster.
Uncertain whether to look round or carry on. Initially I chose the latter. But the speed of my follower increased too. Once again I played out the police interview in my mind. This time, Gary Oldman was the officer. And Sir Alec Guinness was Edward, the last person to see me alive. Again I played myself, this time with a wooden cross lying upon my chest.
I’d made it to the end of the road. My sight blurred with water, I could just make out the Tesco Express sign, guiding me to safety. With the relief brought by the presence of other people, I briefly turned back.
Rain distorted the image, but there was a figure submerged in the darkness. A man. Sporting a dark anorak. His face concealed by an oversized hood. But he didn’t appear to register me. Which led me to conclude that I was being paranoid.
I treated myself to a minicab from the station. Although it was only a five-minute walk away, the incident had left me edgy, so I called Dale to see if he’d come and meet me, but he wasn’t answering. I was desperate to be safe and cosy. For him to listen to my neurotic ramblings and make me a cup of tea.
Entering the house, it was unlit and felt no warmer than outside. I expected to see the line of light under Dale’s door, but it was absent. As was the comforting sound of shooting and zombie deaths.
I hadn’t been using my room much and it felt unlived in, abandoned. Cold air laced with mustiness. I removed some crisp, dried knickers from the radiator. The ridged metal was lukewarm at best, so I dragged out the small electric fan heater from under the bed. Blocking the image of the suitcase from my mind.
Once plugged in, the warm stream smelt of burning dust. But I didn’t switch it off. I was too wet and cold to worry about fire hazards. Shivering as I climbed out of my sodden clothes, the contrast of the now hot blast made every hair on my skin stand to attention.
I collected my dressing gown from the floor, wrapped myself up and sat on the bed, wondering where Dale had got to. I called him again. This time he picked up.
‘Hey. Where are you? I’m home now . . . I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
I could barely hear his response. The combination of broken signal and pounding rain meant I could only catch snippets, such as ‘shop’, ‘pizzas’, ‘couldn’t’, ‘nearly’. After a prolonged silence, I realized the call had dropped.
I remained still, just enjoying the warmth against my legs. Momentarily pushing away all the shitty events of the day. But as Mum would say, I was cold to the bone, so was contemplating getting up to make a cuppa when I heard a key in the door and the weather forcing its way into the hallway, stopping dead with a slam.
‘Bloody hell, it’s mental out there,’ came Dale’s voice.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I shouted back.
He mumbled something about putting the stuff in the kitchen. I left my room and followed the sound.
‘They had a two-for-one on pizzas, so thought we could have that tonight.’ I could hear him in the kitchen.
My bare feet suffered shocks with each step along the vinyl hallway floor. I stopped at the doorway. The tiles in there would be even worse.
I couldn’t see Dale. He was behind the door, putting stuff away in the fridge. But I could hear the persistent crinkle of plastic bags.
‘They only had margherita, though, so I bought mushrooms separately for us to add.’
‘Perfect,’ I said against the sound of the fridge sealing shut.
‘How soon do you want to eat?’ He pulled the door back to show himself. Dripping wet. Wearing a navy anorak. Pushing a large hood from his head.
I rocked back onto my heels as his icy lips kissed mine.
‘Are you OK?’ he said.
‘Yes . . . yes, I’m fine. You’re soaked. We could’ve had something else to eat. Saved you going out.’
‘There wasn’t anything.’ He unzipped the anorak. Particles of water flicked onto the floor.
‘Is that new? I’ve never seen you in it before.’
‘Kind of – someone left it at work ages ago, and it was pissing down, so . . .’
‘Oh right . . . Well, it looks good.’
He removed it and placed it on a kitchen chair. Ruffling his hair back to life. ‘Don’t you fancy pizza?’
‘Yes . . . yes, pizza sounds great . . . I’m just going to put some clothes on.’
He came closer. ‘Please don’t.’ His cold, damp hands circled my waist and pulled me towards him.
‘Dale . . . you’re making me all wet.’
‘Already? Blimey.’
‘Dale,
I’m serious. Please . . .’ I pressed his hands away.
He remained in front of me. Dropped his head for a moment, then returned to look directly into my eyes. ‘Sure,’ he said, repositioning an unruly strand of my hair to behind my ear. ‘It’ll be ready in about fifteen.’
I barely saw you the following morning. The one time I brought you a tea, my coldness must have been apparent.
‘Are you OK, Constance? You’re very quiet today.’
‘Am I? I really don’t think I am,’ I said, and left, stony-faced.
You were then on house calls for the afternoon, and I was thankful it was a Friday and I’d have a couple of days’ break from seeing you.
Although, the whole weekend I was barely present. Thoughts of you and her, whoever she was, tortured me, along with a nagging feeling about Dale and the anorak. To the point where I felt unable to be around him and feigned a migraine as an excuse to migrate to my own room. But after a cold, rainy trip into Ealing on the Sunday, where everyone seemed to be wearing dark hooded anoraks, I realized I was being paranoid. And if I was being paranoid about Dale, then I was probably being paranoid about you.
By Monday I was calmer about the whole situation. And by Tuesday I’d convinced myself I’d been fretting unnecessarily. That it was probably an old friend that you’d been speaking to. Perhaps from university. Possibly not even female. And I was relieved I hadn’t let my imagination ruin things. Taint what I’d looked forward to all week.
Peculiarly tired, I clock-watched the entire day. Culminating in me willing the big hand to complete the extra ten minutes to bring it to five o’clock.
‘Are you doing anything nice this evening, Dr Stevens?’ I asked as you said your goodbyes.
‘Just poker with the boys. Need to recoup my losses from last week.’
Alison giggled like an imbecile, and Linda smiled with a disapproving moralistic air.
‘Oh, well, good luck,’ I said.
‘Thanks. I’ll need it. I’m a much better doctor than poker player.’ You winked at me, then left. Once again releasing the butterflies from their chrysalises.
Edward was fully dressed and sat in his chair, listening to a book-reading on Radio Four when I arrived. I was so relieved he’d returned to his original dapper self.
‘Constance, thank Christ you’re here. This book is utter tripe. Tell me, what do you like to read?’
‘Me? Well, I . . . I don’t really . . .’ I took my seat. ‘Reading wasn’t really a thing in my house. How are you feeling today?’
‘Well, you must read, darling girl. You’d love it. Being completely absorbed in other worlds, lives . . . Are there any books you’ve ever fancied reading?’
I shook my head, then remembered the card I bought you. ‘Oh . . . well, Wuthering Heights, I guess.’
‘Really? Well, I must have a copy somewhere.’ He pushed himself up, stopping halfway. Wheezing.
‘There’s no need to look now—’
‘You know, Constance, I was a journalist for many years, among other things. Worked for a few of the rags.’ His breathing got the better of him and he stopped in his tracks, then returned to his chair. ‘I’ll have a look for you later . . . if that’s OK, darling girl? I’d better have a think first, where it would be . . . Anyway, what I really wanted to do was write a novel. Not the sensationalized claptrap I was churning out every day for the papers but something with depth – something people would remember me for. So I got up every day, wrote before work. Sat at my typewriter and bled, as Hemingway would say. An Explanation of Love, it was called. But sadly I never finished it.’
‘Oh no, why not?’
‘Because I realized, there really isn’t an explanation of love. And of course, it also turned out to be sensationalized claptrap. Just longer.’
I laughed. ‘You’re looking good today, Edward. Nice to see you dressed. Are you feeling brighter?’
‘Of course, look at me.’ He spread his arms to show off his navy jumper and paisley cravat with pride.
Ashamed as I am to say it, the truth is it felt better to believe him.
I stayed while he ate a sandwich and supped on a cup of extra-sweet tea. Happy as I was to see him eating, sitting there with me, it made it almost impossible to watch your movements. And after another mini-debate about vegetarianism – ‘That’s why you always look like a Victorian ghost, dear girl’ – I turned to check on you, but your car had already gone.
Outside, I came alive. The warmth of anticipation made me immune to the freezing temperature. Leaning against the pillar at the top of the steps, I smoked a cigarette to mentally prepare. The streetlamp in front of your building flickered annoyingly, so I averted my eyes. But in doing so, I noticed a movement in the adjacent hedge. Presuming it was a cat, I winced as headlights approached, then firmly shut my eyes, praying for its safety as the car sped past. When I reopened them there was no dead cat, thank God, but it happened again. The rustling. I licked my finger and put out the fag, returned it to the packet, then crossed over.
The image of Dale’s anorak reared its head again. The paranoia of prying eyes. I pulled out my phone and dialled him. It rang once, twice. Then, ‘Hey, Connie. I was just about to call you. You on your way back?’
‘Yes . . . well, in about half an hour. I’m just seeing him into bed.’
‘OK, well, hurry up. I’m starving.’
‘I will. I promise.’ As he rattled off a shopping list of stuff to get from Costcutter, I separated the leaves of the bush with my free hand. There was nothing there. Not even a cat.
With the call finished, I was preparing to walk up your steps when I noticed Tippi Hedren and her dog approaching. Minus sunglasses but headscarf still in place, she didn’t exchange pleasantries. Didn’t even acknowledge me as the dog lunged towards my thighs, whining for attention.
I lit up again, forced to hang back as she entered. Allowing time for her to settle in her flat. I didn’t know which floor she lived on but gave her the duration of a whole cigarette before letting myself in.
I didn’t enter blackness this time. The hall light was on. Far from calming me, my fear increased and I froze, listened, until I was certain of your absence.
It’s hard to describe the feeling I had being in there alone. A conflicting mix of danger and safety. Your lack of presence was loud, yet you were everywhere. Not like the house after she’d gone. It didn’t scream death and torment and guilt. It was gentle. Magical. Romantic. I sensed you in every room, around every corner. Smelt you. My stresses dissolved. I was at home there. Both with and without you.
I headed straight for the bedroom. There was so much I wanted to touch, see, after being cut short last time. I followed the scent of your aftershave. Then stopped before entering. Worried there would be something in there I didn’t want to see. Know. But the truth is, there was nothing about you I didn’t want to know. However much it may have hurt.
I exhaled loudly when all appeared comfortingly unchanged. No strewn posh slut’s knickers. No discarded condoms.
The bed was unmade. Duvet thrown back. I patted the sheet for signs of wetness. All was dry and soft, and I crumpled onto it like a marionette. You, my unknowing puppeteer. I pulled your pillow around my head, over my ears, inhaling so deeply my eyes watered. It was all you. No cheap perfume or woman’s sex. Just you.
I closed my eyes. Only for a moment. Yet I could feel my body float away. It would have been so easy to drift into a dream, so I forced myself to sit up, and once again having forgotten to take a photo, I attempted to return the bedding and pillows as before.
Still perched on the edge of the softened mattress, I opened your side drawer. My sweating hands slid over the handle. Eyes closed, I pulled. Prepared myself. But inside were only the familiar things. The copy of Great Expectations. The bookmark no further. An old mobile, ibuprofen, a phone charger, a tin of boiled sweets, a half-finished pack of fags with a lighter stuffed inside, a comb, weaved with strands of your hair, which I brushed against my ch
eek, then popped into my bag. And finally, the thing that brought me to look there, the box of condoms. My mouth dried as I lifted the flap of the packet. Counted the contents. There were seven. It was a pack of ten. One had been used with me. I convinced myself you must have bought them when you were seeing Fiona and shut the drawer.
En route to the en suite, I passed Laura’s cupboard. Clicked it open. It remained untouched from the first time. I found comfort in that. The fact you weren’t dwelling on what was in there, touching, smelling, like I needed to do. I pushed aside the hangers. The finery mocked me. I hated her and her privilege and had the urge to remove my key and make a hole in the black lace dress, hung like an elegant ballroom dancer. But it was so expensive, pretty, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
My eyes lowered to below the delicate hem.
The box. Your mother’s box.
Unsealed, the folds were merely placed to conceal the contents. Begging me to look. Despite the wintery weather, the flat seemed excessively hot and I wiped my perspiring hands on my trousers before touching. My first finger slipped beneath the nearest section and I lifted the cardboard. A glimpse of white. I opened it fully. Taffeta, lace, beading. It was beautiful. Your mother was no doubt an enchanting bride. I imagined how sad it must have been for you to look at it. I understood. It was like the diaries. Locked away. Avoided.
I lifted the heavy dress. It was so long and voluminous that even with my arms stretched, part of the skirt remained inside the box. I held the bodice against me. The embroidery delicate, fine. The tiny beaded flowers only visible on close inspection. I imagined myself wearing it. Standing next to you.
The tinkle of something falling to the floor broke my daydream. A pearl had removed itself and rolled across the parquet.
Panicked, I shoved the dress back in its home. Closed the box. Once again draped the clothes over it and shut the cupboard before getting on my hands and knees to find the runaway bead. Finally I glimpsed it under your Ercol drawers. Once I had it in my palm, I went over to my bag and dropped it in. Another souvenir.
I kept my bag with me from that point on, placing the strap across my body so my arms were free. I checked the clock. It was already nearly seven. I envisaged Dale pissed off, fretting, and I resented him for rushing me.
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