by Lia Louis
When I step out of the booth, Katie is standing waiting for me, fully dressed, boots, coat, and handbag.
I stare at her. ‘Kate?’
‘Oh, Katie, you’re not going?’ Olivia says, her eyes snapping up. Her face is pale, her eyes, cloudy. ‘Tell me you’re not going.’
‘Nathan’s coming to get us,’ she says sharply. ‘And actually, yes. I would like to go too, please. I don’t feel comfortable.’
Olivia shakes her head and looks down at her phone. She says nothing else. And that, is that.
Minna and Kirsty look up and smile sadly as we leave, and as we step over the threshold, I hear Auntie Shall say, as if talking about a naughty child, ‘She’s always been the same. Always has to be about her. Did I ever tell you about Pete and I’s vow ceremony? Did I? It’s jealousy, I think. Pure jealousy.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
27th November 2004
I stand beside Roman on the edges of the gravel by the entrance to the church. Joanne, Auntie Shall’s best friend, faffs with Shall’s enormous up-do and sprays it with blasts of hairspray, into the crisp winter air. Roman lights a cigarette and looks down at me beside him.
‘The dress is disgusting,’ he grins. ‘But you look beautiful, J. Amazing. Seriously.’
I’m hardly listening. My heart feels as though it’s swelling, filling my throat, and my eyes won’t focus clearly – why can’t I focus? I don’t want to be here. I don’t think I can do this. I can’t.
‘Tux looks good, right?’
I nod. It’s all I manage. Because it does – he does. The trousers are a bit creased, and his bow skewed, but Roman looks incredible in his black tux. So striking. Like a man and not a boy.
‘Not bad for a scummy kid, eh?’ he says, blowing a smoke ring. The smell of hot ash is making me want to be sick. I step away, eyes fixed on the ground, trying to remember the exercises Cassie taught me at The Grove because this is a panic attack. It has to be, though I’ve never felt quite like this before. Focus on one thing in your line of sight or close your eyes, Cassie said. So, I do. I stare at the church window, though it’s blurred in my vision – in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four.
Olivia looks across the gravel at us. Her friend, Sian, another bridesmaid, Joanne’s daughter, whispers something to Olivia, her breath creating clouds in the cold. They giggle over at Roman and Sian waves, all fingers. He smiles back at them; gives them that flirty, stupid smile where he bites his tongue, and winks.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Roman puts on his silly Sean Connery voice. ‘You’re not jealous are you, Ms James?’
I feel funny. Everything feels funny, like the world is tipping to one side. I need to get out. I need to go. It’s cold out here, but I feel hot under this fur collar. Red hot. Roman’s hand lands on my arm. ‘J?’ he ducks. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I … I feel weird,’ I say, pressing my hands to my chest. ‘I don’t— I can’t … God, I’m gonna pass out.’
Roman tosses his cigarette to the floor, and steps in front of me. ‘You’re OK,’ he says, lifting his hands to hold my arms. ‘You’re fine.’
‘I’m not. I feel dizzy.’
‘You’re fine, Lizzie. I’m here. I look a massive twat in a tux, but I’m here.’ He laughs, although it’s a nervous laugh. Not his real one. ‘Deep breaths, OK?’
I can’t even nod. I can’t even gulp down enough air. My head feels as though it’s a tightly twisted spinning top, finally let go.
Sian goes into the church first, as rehearsed. Joanne waits to go, hovering at the entrance, hands together at her chest holding yellow flowers.
I’m next. But I can’t. I swear I can’t. I can’t walk down that aisle. I can’t have everyone staring at me. My legs wobble and my gullet does that thing again – where it starts to close, or at least halves in size. I told Dad. I told him I couldn’t do this, even Hubble tried to tell them, to let me sit with him, in a pew, that it was bad timing, that I had only just started college which was big enough, that I’d not long been on the tablets, that I needed to take small, steady steps. But they wouldn’t listen. Dad, Auntie Shall … either of them.
‘Lizzie!’ squawks Auntie Shall across the churchyard, the small mustard and cream posy in her hand held tightly to her waist.
‘I … can I—’
‘Can she have a minute, please?’ calls over Roman, his hands not letting me go. ‘Lizzie.’ He crouches. ‘Easy breaths.’
‘I feel so weird, Ro. Like … I’m going to be s … s-sch-sick.’
Roman watches my face. His brow furrows. ‘Liz,’ he says, voice low. ‘Did you … did you have anything at the house?’
‘What?’
Roman’s eyes widen. ‘The champagne, Lizzie. You said at your dad’s house they had champagne. Did you have any?’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I breathe, ‘I’m not drunk, Roman. I had one. Barely even th-that. Someone left half a sm-g-glass in the garden—’
‘But …’ Roman leans in. ‘The meds—’
‘I’m seriously going to be sick. My head, Roman. It’s spinning—’
‘J, you can’t drink on meds. The tabs you take … you can’t.’
My heart stops. My eyes snap up to look at him. I try to focus. ‘I didn’t even think, I— I was nervous. It was one glass. I …’ I stop as sick pushes its way up my chest. I swallow hard. I can’t believe I was so stupid. An idiot. I’m a reckless fucking idiot.
‘It’s OK,’ says Roman. ‘You’re just having a panic attack, and the drink’s probably made it all feel worse. You’ll be alright, it’ll pass. Trust me, I know. Let’s get you some water, OK? Maybe think about sitting down—’
‘Lizzie!’ squawks Auntie Shall again.
‘Sorry, can I just get her some water—’
‘No, you cannot! Lizzie? Lizzie !’ Shall turns towards Olivia and screeches at her to get Dad, and I call out to her not to, but I don’t think they hear. I can hardly inhale, let alone speak clearly. My heart is going to explode. I’m sure of it. I’m going to stop breathing. Or I’m going to be sick. Or faint. Or all of them.
‘J …’ Roman is practically squatting now, in front of me, holding my arms, looking into my eyes. ‘J, I’m going to get you some water from the café across the street, OK?’ I nod and hold onto his hand. Roman’s fingers tighten around mine. ‘The panic will pass soon, remember? Then we’ll just be left with you acting a bit like Liam Gallagher at the 1996 Brit Awards with any luck, and who doesn’t enjoy a bit of that?’
‘Excuse me!’ Auntie Shall grabs my shoulder. My head swirls, but I focus on her. I try.
‘She needs a minute.’ Roman stands tall beside me. ‘Give her a minute and she’ll be OK.’
‘No!’ she screeches again. ‘The ceremony has begun, you stupid child. Don’t you dare try to dictate to me what’s bloody best.’
Then she takes one look at me, quivering on the gravel, my chest rising and falling the way someone’s might mid-cross-country-run and spins around, growls with gritted teeth, ‘Now!’ and storms back towards to the church door. She says something to Joanne, who nods and step-together into the church. She straightens Olivia in front of her, her hands on her shoulders, then looks back at me, hoping, I suppose, that I’m not about to ruin the order she has hammered into our brains over the last few months.
Roman watches me, like someone does a ship too close to an iceberg; with hope that it’ll miss and be alright, but body steady and ready to act if it isn’t. I look up at him.
‘Lizzie? Can you—’ he starts.
‘I have to,’ I say, nausea rising.
‘Don’t. Not if you can’t.’
I glance back over at Auntie Shall and Olivia, both staring at me, rigid with the cold, both swaying slightly in my vision. I think of Dad. I think of him waiting for me, in the suit he was so paranoid looked too big on his slowly-shrinking frame, the way he watched me all morning, in the same way Roman is looking at me right now, just waitin
g for me to crumble, and I swallow. I lie. ‘I think I’m starting to feel better.’
Roman nods. ‘You’re sure?’
The organ plays loudly, I can hear Auntie Shall ranting, squawking, beneath the long, sombre chords.
I nod at him. He holds out his hand and I take it. Together we walk to Auntie Shall, my legs wobbling, the world still tipping ever so slightly, my stomach churning with what feels like hot acid. Sick. I feel so sick.
Auntie Shall practically pushes me down the aisle, as if I am a carriage on a track. I hate letting go of Roman’s hand, but I pretend the flowers in my hands are him. I pretend they are keeping me anchored, upright and safe. I don’t look anywhere but ahead. I just need to get to the end of the aisle; I need to get to the front. Then I can sit down, then I can find Hubble and squeeze myself next to him. Or I can sneak out and lay on the grass somewhere. I can drink water and vomit. I can go home to my bed, cocoon myself in the covers. I just need to get this done with, walk to the end of this aisle, wait for Olivia, who should be behind me now, and then for Auntie Shall. That’s all I need to do. A minute or two, at most, and I can go.
I trip over my feet, but I don’t go over. I skip, almost, and I don’t think anyone notices, or if they do they don’t show it. God, my head … it is spinning. It’s like my brain is going to spin so much it’ll propel out of my skull and slap on the church floor in front of us.
I see Dad. He smiles at me, then his brow furrows. He mouths something. I force a smile back and look to the altar. Step, together, step, together. Almost there, almost there. Uncle Pete has turned now and he’s smiling at me. I force one back but god, I feel sick, and everything sounds like it’s underwater. Is this how drunk feels? I have never been drunk before, not even tipsy. Why did I do it? Why did I drink the champagne? I didn’t think. I’ve been taking the tablets a little while now, and it’s become a habit so fast, like brushing my teeth, like washing my face, that I just didn’t even consider it. I just wanted to join in, like everyone else. Have something for the nerves, like Joanne did.
A hand. A wave. It’s Hubble. Relief floods me as I lay my eyes on him. He’s sitting in the second row, just behind where the bridesmaids will be, and I keep my eyes on him – soft smiles and safety – as I pass him. Seconds later, I join Joanne and Sian at the altar. My arm touches Sian’s and she moves away as if she’s just touched a turd. But my breathing – now I’ve done it, now I’ve made it to the altar in one piece – is getting easier, my throat not as tight, my chest not as tightly wound. It’s just the nausea and my head, which feels like it has a spinning top inside. Even the smell of the flowers is making me want to vomit. Swallow. Swallow it away. ‘It’s a tiny half hour out of your whole, entire life,’ Mum would say if she was here. ‘It’ll be over before it’s begun.’
I’ll be OK. Of course I will. The hardest part is over.
Olivia appears, and shortly after, Auntie Shall arrives at the altar, taking Uncle Pete’s hands, and we all sit as the vows begin. The vicar waffles, we sing a hymn, and although my head spins and my stomach churns, I am holding it together. I honestly think I’m going to be OK. But then … I’m not. I am going to be sick. I really am going to be sick. It pushes like an about-to-erupt volcano in my chest and I gulp, my hand flying to my mouth. Instinctively I stand. I won’t be seen if I run around the outside of the pews and out of the doors. I need to get outside. I need to throw up. But Joanne grabs my wrist.
‘Lizzie,’ she whispers through a tiny gap between her lips, her eyes wide. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘I’m going to … be sick,’ I whisper back, hand at my lips, pulling my hand from her, but she doesn’t let go.
Then Shall ducks, strides forward. ‘Sit down,’ she hisses, her mouth pulled into a fake grin. The vicar, smile fixed, eyes me then continues talking.
‘Please,’ I say, breaking free from Joanne’s grasp and striding past her. ‘I’m s-sick … I’m …’
Auntie Shall stops me. I hear the shuffling from bodies on pews. She’s making a scene now. She should have let me go. Nobody would have seen, nobody would have known, or cared.
‘Lizzie, sit down now.’
‘I’m going to be …’
‘Are you … are you drunk?’ Auntie Shall whispers, her hand at her chest, eyes wide.
‘Please.’ I gulp hard, my body convulsing as vomit forces its way up my throat. Auntie Shall strides back, eyeing me like I am a wild animal on the attack. And it’s too late. My body has won. Right here, at the altar, in front of a church full of people, in front of a vicar, in front of a man with an obscenely large video camera and tripod, and Jesus himself, I vomit. Not once. Not twice. Three times. On my dress. On my flowers, which without thinking, I shove in front of me to catch it, because I so badly don’t want anyone to see. And a third time, onto the shining wooden floor of the church, and onto Auntie Shall’s shoes. I hear her squeal before I hear the church doors squeak open in the distance.
‘Charlie!’ echoes around the church, but before Dad can even get to me, I’m running, dress gathered in fists at my side, towards the doors, where Roman is standing, fingers on the handle, blue skies and bright light breaking through the crack behind him. And we run, Roman in a tuxedo, me in a dress the colour of winter catarrh. We run from the church, through the town, and through backstreets and garages, gasping, Roman laughing, both of us holding onto lamp posts and fences to slow ourselves as we take corners. We only stop when Roman takes off his jacket and gives it to me to wear.
When we get to the park, we collapse against a huge oak tree and slide so we are sitting on the ground by its gnarly lumpy roots. Dusty mud covers our shoes, and when I wipe my eyes, make up smears all over the back of my hand – a smudge, like a milky way, of shimmering black mascara and pink blush. I can’t imagine how we look, sitting here like this, but nobody says anything for ages – we just sit, beneath blue sky and the spindly, naked branches of the tree, waiting for our cloudy breaths to slow. I wait for my mobile to ring – Dad, irate, or Hubble, worried. But it doesn’t. It’s lifeless.
‘Feel better?’ Roman asks finally.
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Puking is what you needed. Get it all up.’
‘It’s all over me,’ I say weakly. ‘And probably your jacket now.’
‘Sound,’ says Roman with an amused smile.
I can’t believe that what happened just happened. How will I look at them again? How will I ever, ever look any of them in the eye? I have ruined it. I ruined their big day. I want the ground to open up, suck me inside it. I want to run away.
‘And you say you can’t run,’ Roman chuckles, beside me, still breathless. He turns to look at me, waves of hair dangling over his beautiful eyes.
I smile, barely there. ‘Yeah. Who knew?’
‘You flew. We flew.’
I close my eyes and lean my head against the rough grooves of the oak tree. ‘But I shouldn’t have done that, Ro,’ I tell him. ‘I shouldn’t have run from her.’
And he just shrugs and says, ‘Yes, you should. You should run from her and never look back.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I’m afraid I can’t give out further information, for confidentiality reasons.’
‘But I know he works there. The other Berkshire hospital – Hynsondale – that’s closed, isn’t it?’
‘It is, Madam.’
‘So it has to be this one. And I know he was working with you over there, or at the very least, did, until a few weeks ago, because a friend sent him a package there, to you at The Hartland.’
‘I’m sorry, and I understand your frustration, but our staff is made up of many volunteers, doctors, and therapists, and then there are the patients, of which we can have up to seventy-two at any one time. All I can tell you is that our website has a staff page of our resident staff members, so if I can direct you—’
‘I’ve looked already. He isn’t on there.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Yo
u may wish to email our head office and they could see a way to assist—’
‘Listen, I’m sorry. Jill? It was Jill, wasn’t it? Look, I know for a fact that Roman Matias was working at your facility around six weeks ago.’
‘Madam, as I said, because this is a mental health facility, and we have lots of high profile, voluntary patients, confidentiality at The Hartland is of paramount importance and I can’t assist—’
‘It’s … sorry, it’s a mental health facility?’
‘Yes. It is indeed. Hello? Hello?’
‘Hi. Sorry. I— OK. Look, please could you run his name again? Through your … what was it? Staff database?’
‘I’m afraid it’s still not finding any results.’
‘Could you perhaps—’
‘Miss James …’
‘He may be under Meyers. Or are you able to just search for Roman? It’s an uncommon n—’
‘Miss James. Could y— please, if I may. Are you one hundred per cent sure that your friend is indeed a staff member here and not … a patient? Hello? Miss James?’
Nathan knows. I know he does. It’s the way he won’t meet my eye, the way the tips of his ears are red, like they always are when he’s embarrassed. Or guilty. We sit opposite each other at the greasy spoon at the top of the road from work, two cans of Coke between us, so cold, the tins were tight like drums with pressure when they were first placed down by the silent waitress. He pushes the ring pull of the can around and around with the tip of his index finger, his eyes quickly and routinely looking at me beneath dark lashes, and then back at the Coke can.
‘It’s um … nice of you to think of this,’ he says with a stutter. ‘Us meeting for our lunch breaks. We don’t do it enough.’