Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  In the kitchen she prepares a salad. She holds lettuce leaves under the tap, letting the cold water run until her fingers ache. She sets out some slices of ham and a slab of cheddar cheese on a plate and removes the tissue paper wrapped round the loaf she bought that afternoon. There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge and she pours herself a glass. If Patrick had known about the interview, he would have bought champagne. He’s good at celebrations.

  She hears the clatter of his keys as he drops them on the table in the hall. He comes into the kitchen and flicks on the light.

  ‘Cordy!’ He stops when he sees her. ‘What are you doing in the dark?’

  She screws up her eyes against the sudden glare. ‘It’s restful.’

  He wipes his hand over his face. ‘I’m shattered. I was ready to come home hours ago.’ He bends down and kisses her cheek.

  She catches a whiff of perspiration. ‘Is the project nearly finished?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow. It’s got to be at the printers by then.’

  ‘Have you eaten? I put stuff out just in case.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His hand rests lightly on her shoulder. ‘We had takeaway pizza at lunchtime.’ He sits down and cuts himself a slice of bread and some cheese. ‘I’ve almost gone past food now.’

  She watches him bite into the bread. His skin looks washed out, its paleness emphasising the scar. His hair is flat and lifeless.

  ‘If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?’

  Patrick’s question takes her by surprise. She was expecting him to eat, make some excuses and then disappear to bed.

  ‘How can I whittle it down to one thing?’ She laughs. The sound is loud and false. ‘I’d like to be smaller and prettier, have my parents stay married, not be a single mum, be a brilliant artist … ’ She listens to her voice prattling into the silence. This isn’t what Patrick’s question was about. The counsellor’s told her people often ask something they want you to ask them. ‘What about you?’ she says. ‘What would you change?’

  He tears a piece of bread into small pieces. ‘I’d rewind the tape and meet you for the first time again.’

  ‘Would you?’ She pictures the party in Oxford. It’s a cold night in February, and she’s wearing the green dress. Snow fell earlier and the toes of her black suede boots are stained white where she’s walked through wet slush. She hasn’t eaten all day, and she’s drunk two glasses of wine and feels sick. But then the picture changes and a different scenario begins to unfold: Patrick doesn’t catch her eye across the room; he doesn’t smile and thread his way through the crowd; he doesn’t arrive in front of her and say ‘My friend over there dared me to come and speak to you’; they don’t look to the other side of the room to where they both know there is no friend, and laugh together. It’s not going to be the wonderful beginning she remembers, because Patrick wants to change it.

  His voice interrupts: ‘I owe you an apology.’

  I led you on. I made you think I was genuine. Convinced you I loved you. That you were worth loving: the words pound in her head. She’ll pretend she doesn’t understand what he’s trying to tell her. ‘You can’t help being busy.’

  He pushes bits of bread around on the plate. ‘I’m not talking about work.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t been honest.’

  ‘No?’ This is it then. It’s over. He doesn’t love her. He thought he did, but … he’s met someone else. The knots in the pine table spin as she focuses all her energy on them. Not that. Please don’t let it be that. Please don’t let him have met someone else. Concentrate. If she starts counting, she won’t be able to hear what he’s saying. Perhaps that’s the answer. If she can’t hear him, it’ll be as if he hasn’t said it. It won’t be real. It can’t be real, can it, if she doesn’t hear what he says?

  ‘Are you listening to me, Cordy?’

  She makes herself look across at him. It’s the first time their eyes have met for weeks. She nods.

  He clasps his hands together as if he’s saying a prayer. He raises them to his mouth and presses them against his lips. Minutes seem to pass, though she knows it’s only seconds.

  He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at her. ‘This is going to be difficult,’ he says. ‘I’ve been trying to think how to tell you for days. How to package it, so it wouldn’t sound so bad. But there isn’t any way to soften it.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Charlie at the window. His mouth is open in a miaow. He’s usually fed at this time, but she doesn’t move.

  ‘I told you both my parents are dead. I thought I could leave it at that, but I’ve realised I was stupid. I want you to know about me. Understand what makes me tick, and you can’t do that if I don’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘My father was violent.’

  ‘What? You mean he hit you?’

  ‘Not me – my mum. Nobody knew. He had his own business, was well respected in the town where we lived. Nobody would have believed it if they’d been told. It was all behind closed doors. I wanted her to leave him, but she said she had no money, nowhere to go. When I got to sixteen, I was bigger than him, and it stopped for a while. I got a job in London, so I could only go home at weekends. I hated leaving her but I earned more money in London. I rented this bedsit and I saved my wages so that I could get somewhere for my mum to come and live with me. One weekend when I went back, she had this huge black eye and it hurt her to breathe – I think she must have had a cracked rib or something.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘I couldn’t stand it. I had a go at him that time.’ Patrick fingers the scar on his cheek. ‘He slashed a bottle down my face.’

  The scar seems to grow redder and more livid, the longer she stares at it.‘The injuries got worse: she had a fractured jaw and a broken wrist.’ Patrick speaks in a monotone, as if he’s reciting facts he’s learnt by heart. ‘The police said they couldn’t do anything unless my mum complained. I went to his office and I told him I’d kill him if he hurt her again.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Patrick laughs, a harsh barking sound. ‘That I was as neurotic as she was and he’d never laid a finger on her.’

  ‘But the injuries. How could he explain those?’

  ‘He said she was clumsy and always falling over.’

  ‘You didn’t believe him?’

  ‘After what he’d done to me? Of course I didn’t, but I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Oh, Patrick. What happened then?’

  ‘I finally had enough money to buy a flat and I persuaded her to leave him. We kept it all a secret and she left while he was at work.’

  ‘How was she afterwards?’

  ‘She was still terrified. But I could have made her better. I know I could. But a few weeks later I came home from work and she was on the kitchen floor. She was unconscious.’

  ‘You mean he’d found out where you were living?’

  ‘That’s what I thought at first. It turned out she’d had a massive stroke. She died the next day.’

  Cordelia’s fingers are white where she’s clutching the table.

  ‘He’d killed her as if he’d put his hands round her throat.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel good to let your mum down so badly. Not be able to protect her.’

  ‘You were young. What could you do?’

  ‘He came to the funeral. I couldn’t stop him. But after that I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He wrote me loads of letters, but I sent them back unopened. I hated him so much, and that frightened me. I thought I might have inherited something from him. I might be violent too.’

  ‘But you’re one of the gentlest men I know.’

  Patrick smiles at that. ‘Thank you, but it’s a hell of a thing to have in your background. I decided I could never have a relationship in case. I moved away. I changed my
name. I did everything to erase him from my life, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. Then last year, he died. He hanged himself. And I was free. Free for the first time since I was five and realised what was going on. That was when I found you.’

  He looks at her. He’s still got a half smile on his lips from when she said how gentle he was. He’s waiting for her to say it’s okay, none of it matters. But suddenly she can’t. A sliver of ice slides along her spine.

  ‘You ‘found’ me?’ she says.

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t believe my luck.’

  ‘You ‘found’ me?’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that.’

  ‘You make me sound like something washed up on the beach.’

  Patrick leans forward. She thinks he’s going to take her hand and she wraps her arms round herself, so that he can’t touch her.

  ‘Cordy, you know how I feel about you. I chose the wrong word, that’s all.’ His face is near, but she won’t look at him. She presses her arms closer against her chest and her fingers dig into the soft flesh under her arms.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘you chose the right word. You found someone as lost and vulnerable as you.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I love you, Cordy.’ He clutches his head in his hands and leans back on the chair. His breath comes out in a gasp.

  There’s a spot of candle wax on the table and she scratches at it with her thumbnail. It slides off in one piece. She moves her hand to the right and starts on another blob. A pile of white wax begins to grow.

  Patrick rests his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. ‘Talk to me, Cordy. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Why should I? I poured my heart out to you about my dad, but you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about yours.’

  He runs his hand through his hair. It sticks up in tufts, and she wants to reach out and flatten it.

  ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you,’ he says.

  ‘No, you wanted me to be the pathetic one. The one with all the problems, while you were the super-hero.’

  ‘If that’s what you think, I don’t know what else I can say.’

  Twenty-one

  Vanessa was preparing mushrooms, cutting the end from the stalk and slicing through the fleshy texture, while Andrew fried the onions. Their tang hung in the air and although it was a cold day, Vanessa reached up and opened the window.

  Andrew turned to her, wrinkling his nose. ‘They do pong a bit.’

  Vanessa loved working together in the kitchen like this. One of them was usually the boss and one the skivvy: preparing vegetables, washing up, stirring sauces. Today Andrew was boss. ‘You’re bound to want time for prettying the house, flowers, candles – you know how you are when we have visitors.’

  ‘I like it to look nice.’

  Andrew put his arm round her shoulders, leaving a floury imprint of his fingers on her jumper. ‘And I love you for it.’ He touched her lips gently with his.

  ‘Oops!’ He pulled away, as an ominous smell rose up behind them.

  She watched his back as he bent over the saucepan. He’d had his long hair cut short and the skin of his neck looked unnaturally pale and tender. She wanted to press her mouth against that little hollow at the bottom of the hairline like she used to with the children when they were babies.

  ‘What time are they arriving?’ Steam spiralled around Andrew’s head.

  ‘Lizzie thought about six.’

  ‘Dinner at seven, then?’ He flipped the tea cloth over his shoulder and slid some cubes of beef into the saucepan. They sizzled and fizzed.

  ‘Okay. Cordelia’s going out, thank God – she’s in a vile mood today, and I’ve bribed Esme to play with Jake until he goes to bed.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘What’s the bribe?’

  ‘A Queen tape.’

  ‘Did you have to?’

  ‘I wanted to make sure we got some peace.’ Vanessa went over and put her arms round Andrew’s waist. She rested her head against his back. The material of his thick cotton shirt was soft and fleecy. She rubbed her cheek against it.

  He twisted round, and took her face in his hands. ‘Hey, you sound anxious. Are you worried about this visit?’

  Vanessa screwed up her face. Andrew’s gaze was so direct, so honest, it was hard sometimes to meet it.

  ‘Come on, what is it?’

  ‘I think the meat’s burning.’

  He spun round and shifted the saucepan to another ring. ‘That’s sorted. Now tell me what’s worrying you.’

  She picked at imaginary pieces of fluff on his shirt. ‘My life was a mess when I knew Lizzie. I want her to see things have changed … how happy I am … how wonderful you are.’ She met his eyes. ‘That sounds goofy, doesn’t it?’

  He bent forward so that he could reach her mouth. She tasted herbs, basil, on his lips where he must have licked his finger. She took his hand and lifted it to her face. Closing her mouth round his finger, she moved her lips gently up and down it.

  ‘Whatever goofy is,’ he said, ‘I like it.’

  Vanessa went upstairs and took clean sheets and pillowcases from the airing cupboard. She and Andrew had a room at the back of the house. It was tiny – you had to inch your way between the wall and the bed to climb into it – but Vanessa loved the way the roof sloped low over the window and honeysuckle scented the room on summer evenings.

  She plumped up the pillows and smoothed down the bedcover, letting her hand linger on its satiny material. She wasn’t sure she wanted to give it up for Lizzie and Sadie, but the Lizzie who’d returned from the States was even more determined than the one who had left: ‘I’d like you to meet my friend, Nessa,’ she’d said on the phone. ‘Her name’s Sadie. We’re lovers.’

  ‘Why do you think she announced that?’ Vanessa asked Andrew.

  ‘So there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings,’ Andrew said. ‘We’d better give them our room. If they’re lucky, some of our magic will rub off on them.’

  Sadie was short and plump with blonde candyfloss hair. She was wearing a pink tracksuit and knee-high white boots. She was scarcely five foot and Vanessa had to smother a laugh when she saw her standing on the door step next to six-foot Lizzie, who was dressed as always from head to toe in black. During dinner, she cast covert glances at Sadie’s enormous bosom. She imagined Lizzie, who was skinnier than ever, disappearing into its soft mounds.

  Sadie spooned up the last of her gravy. ‘That was divine, Andy. You’re some cook.’

  Vanessa opened her mouth to correct the name, but felt Andrew’s foot meet her shin bone and shut it again.

  Sadie wiped her lips with a napkin. ‘If I’d met a guy back home who could cook like this, I wouldn’t have needed to be a dyke!’ She opened her mouth wide and laughed.

  Vanessa stared at her pink tongue.

  Sadie elbowed Lizzie, who was putting a piece of carrot in her mouth. ‘What do you think, babe?’

  ‘Just because a man can cook doesn’t mean we’ve solved the problems of patriarchal culture.’

  ‘Patriarchy, matriarchy, wackyarchy … do you know she’s so clever, Ness, honey. I look at her sometimes up on the platform giving her speeches and I think, wow – that gal’s all mine!’

  ‘Vanessa and Andrew don’t want to hear that stuff, Sadie.’

  ‘Babe, lighten up. We’re with friends here.’ Sadie beamed showing a perfect set of straight white teeth.

  Vanessa glanced across at Lizzie. She was biting her bottom lip, a habit Vanessa remembered. ‘Are you going to stay in the States permanently, Lizzie?’

  ‘It’s where the most exciting work is. I’m involved with the anti-pornography campaign at the moment.’

  ‘She’s a key member,’ Sadie put in.

  Lizzie kept her eyes on a piece of meat she was chasing round the plate with her fork. ‘The main problem is the kids.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re not happy.’ Lizzie’s voice was flat. �
�I’m thinking of sending them back to the UK.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Alan’s been badgering me for custody. I might let him try coping with the three of them.’

  Vanessa took a sip of wine. The old Lizzie would never have contemplated giving up her children. ‘What do they want?’ she asked.

  ‘Communication’s not their strong point. How about you and the girls? Do you get on?’

  ‘We have our moments,’ Vanessa said. ‘Esme’s fine; Cordelia’s usually angry about something, but she’s better than she used to be when we were in London. Too many memories there, I think.’

  ‘Say, this is heavy stuff,’ Sadie said. ‘I thought this was a party.’

  ‘And so it is.’ Andrew pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘More wine anyone?’

  Sadie beamed up at him. ‘Great idea.’ She turned to Vanessa. ‘Honey, I adore this sweater you’re wearing. Is it designer?’

  ‘I designed it,’ Vanessa said. She had on a black jumper with a deep pointed V and a bold zigzag pattern in yellow running across it. ‘I call it the bumblebee.’

  ‘I’d love one like that to take home with me.’

  ‘I’ll knit you one.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘I knitted this.’

  ‘Gee, you’re some babe.’

  ‘You still knit then, Vanessa?’ Lizzie’s eyebrows arched higher than ever.

  ‘Yes, I’ve set up my own hand knits company. I do the designs and I employ two knitters.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you could earn a living from knitting.’

  Lizzie’s tone made Vanessa bridle: ‘I think of myself as a fashion designer rather than someone who knits,’ she said and looked quickly at Andrew, who’d returned with more wine, wondering if she sounded too precious. He winked at her. ‘I love colour and shape. I’m into three-dimensional stitches at the moment.’