The Other Twin

by L. V. Hay

  But he doesn’t. My green dress is hitched up; I smooth it down. Still unsure of his motivation, I decide stepping out of my underwear is the least awkward option, so I do. My face betrays none of my inner turmoil.

  ‘Matthew…’

  ‘Quiet.’ His tone is cold, a stranger’s.

  I’m shocked, but I can’t deny the thrill. Another smile twitches in my lip, but I bite it back. He pulls me into the bedroom.

  I observe as Matthew pulls his keys from his jacket, undoes his watch. He dumps them both on a cabinet. He unbuttons his shirt, lets the material flutter to the floor. He was always well built, but he’s put on more muscle since I saw him naked last. My ego makes me wonder if he’s spent more time in the gym in order to get over me. I reach out to trace one of his developed pecs with my fingers, but he slaps my hand away.

  ‘Wait,’ he orders.

  That anticipation surges through my stomach again. All the time he stares at me. I don’t tear my eyes away from his. He unbuckles his belt and undoes his trousers, lets them fall.

  I avert my attention from Matthew’s stomach. I grab the hem of my dress and yank it over my head. I stand before him, stripped. Defiant. I dare him silently to tell me to go.

  He steps forwards, his gaze travelling down my naked body. He holds both hands either side of me, like a magician. I am desperate for him to touch me, to feel his skin on mine, but he doesn’t. Yet.

  ‘You got yourself into this.’

  His hands move closer. I don’t say anything as I let him lightly trace my breasts, my waist. He leans towards me and whispers in my ear. ‘Say it.’

  I obey him, obstinacy deserting me for once. ‘I got myself into this.’

  Matthew’s impassive expression finally melts. He smiles.

  I let him fold me in his arms. For a microsecond, I’m outside of the moment. In my mind, I see Ana’s Facebook picture: Matthew in hospital, being comforted like a boy by Maggie.

  But then I’m back. I grab for his boxers with one hand. We both stumble. I find myself walking backwards as he pushes forwards, towards the bed. I let myself fall back onto it, him on top of me.

  ‘I missed you.’

  Before I can reply he clamps his mouth back on mine. He moves upwards, his weight on my chest again.

  He thrusts hard into me.

  I gasp as he buries his head in my neck, biting me. His nails rake the skin on my sides. He pinches one of my nipples, making me cry out. He is unapologetic.

  My hands find their way to his shoulders. I hold onto him, not wanting any space between our bodies. He grinds into me, but we both know it can’t last long.

  I cross my legs around him, over his back. He grabs my hips as I raise them off the bed. He speeds up, taking a sharp intake of breath as if trying to brace himself.

  Then with a grunt he’s done. He collapses onto me and stays there.

  A contented sigh escapes me. I feel the impetus between us evaporate with the rough clasp of his touch.

  Matthew rolls off me, stares at the ceiling. I prop myself up on one elbow and stare down at his face. His expression seems conflicted. He turns his face away.

  The consultant’s voice was soft. ‘It’s not a good tumour.’

  Like there are any good ones.

  She was a second-generation Chinese woman. Her voice was a strange mixture of a London accent and clipped vowels from speaking her native language at home. She hated telling us this, so she tried to buoy us up with forced optimism.

  ‘Good news is, we caught it early. Prognosis is very good. Nine out of ten, OK?’

  The consultant reached forwards, put a hand on Matthew’s arm. She then outlined treatment options for us: surgery and chemotherapy. It all seemed so straightforward. Doing it would be the hard part.

  ‘What about kids?’ Matthew said.

  The consultant averted her eyes, her answer obvious. There would be no kids. His face twisted with anguish.

  I looked at Matthew, surprised. I never knew he wanted a family. We’d never discussed it. Anyway, I didn’t care. I just wanted him well again. My Matthew doesn’t belong in this world. How could he be so gravely ill? He was barely into his thirties; the fittest and healthiest of all of us. It doesn’t make sense.

  But it would never make sense. Cancer never does.

  Nine out of ten. Prognosis very good.

  The consultant’s gaze was serious; she tried to bore her message into us, but it bounced off.

  Shock and trauma are centred in the kidney, she said. Her expression was wistful, as if she was retelling a bedtime story, though I saw a glimmer of belief in her eye: Tumour can change people, if you let it.

  Now, Matthew and I lie in the darkness, not speaking, our bodies no longer touching. Back then, Matthew’s love seemed like a Springer Spaniel’s: enthusiastic, loyal, bright. Now, Matthew’s temperament has been replaced with a more lupine quality: suspicious, aloof, angry.

  Everything we had seems lost. But it isn’t cancer that’s done this to us.

  It’s me.

  I want to say something, but I can find no words. Words don’t really mean anything, do they? He does not attempt to hold me like he might have once.

  There’s space in the bed, a chasm of history between us as we both drift off.

  Forty-three

  Wicked Witch

  Mirror, mirror on the wall … who is in charge of it all?

  You, of course. They dance to your tune, try and keep up with your demands. But they will always fail. Their efforts will never be enough, especially his.

  Your outside shell is deceiving. Your love is blinding, all encompassing. Those who worship at your altar fall to their knees in front of you, awed by your presence. But your love always comes at a price. They must give up parts of themselves to become a part of you.

  Rebellion is not tolerated. Instead, you insist Jenny does not exist. You don’t seem to trust your own eyes. Or maybe it is her beauty that offends you? And she is beautiful. But you tell her she is nothing, deny her. She scratches her skin, trying to uncover the real girl inside, but finds only blood and bone and hurt … You say you love her, but refuse to set her free.

  Or is it my blood that runs in her veins, too?

  Perhaps both. Twenty-five years of lies lead to this.

  But your days are numbered. Deep down, you know this. It’s why you have him doing your dirty work for you. Bringing Jenny back to your toxic folds, warning me off. Yes, I know a threat when I hear one.

  So here is one, for you.

  Let her go. Or I will be that voice, for Jenny.

  Unlike her, you can’t stop me.

  India

  POSTED BY @1NDIAsummer, 27 November 2016

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  Forty-four

  ‘So, has there been anyone else?’

  Matthew woke in a better mood. He brought me coffee, kissing me on the lips like he used to, as if we’d never been apart. But now, with my enquiry, his shutters come down again.

  ‘What does it matter?’ His tone is accusing, his expression irritated, as he pulls his head through a t-shirt.

  My gaze flickers to the brown scar on Matthew’s side, before it disappears out of view. It’s neat, keyhole. I think he wanted me to see it, to gauge my reaction. Even though I Googled the images at the time, I still thought the scar would be bigger. Yet it seems so small, for something so life-changing.

  I smile uncertainly, trying to keep the mood light, ‘Just curious.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Poppy, it’s been nearly five years. Do you think I’ve been living like a monk, or something?’ Matthew’s voice is gruff as he pulls a pair of trousers, neatly pressed, from the chest of drawers, ‘I know you can’t have been.’

  I’m stung at th
e inference, even though it’s true. I remember the wandering hands of D, the night my sister died. The various men before him, after Matthew and I split. Though I went looking for sex, I never wanted anything serious. I barely ever wanted a second date. Just someone to warm my bed, take my mind off the stress of work. The guys I met were fun, but they weren’t Matthew.

  I try and keep my tone playful. ‘Maybe not, but no one measured up.’

  To you, I add silently. I want him to smile now, say the same back to me. Then we can laugh and lie back down on the bed together. That’s how it’s supposed to work.

  If Matthew can read my thoughts, he’s not letting on. He yanks on his jeans, one leg, then the other. He says nothing.

  Put out, his unresponsiveness exacerbates my hostility. ‘Why didn’t you defend me to Ana, at the ball?’

  Matthew’s expression is impassive again. ‘She has a right to her opinion.’

  Resentment flowers within me. I always knew the depth of Ana’s rage at my actions. But she seems to have conveniently forgotten that just a few weeks before Matthew’s diagnosis, I’d been offered an unconditional offer at Goldsmith’s University to do a postgrad course. We’d been making plans to move to the capital together, before Matthew’s test results came back with the news that would blow everything apart.

  I try and keep a lid on my fury now. We’ve been down this road before. Many times. ‘I still wanted you to come with me. You were coming with me!’

  ‘Things changed.’ Matthew’s back is to me. He busies himself, grabbing socks from a drawer. He sits on the bed to put them on, deliberately not looking me in the eye. ‘You left me behind.’

  I’m aghast. ‘You know I didn’t. I would never…!’

  ‘And yet you were gone, exactly when I needed you.’ Matthew’s voice is flat, not accusatory. Somehow that makes it worse.

  ‘I wanted you to come with me,’ I repeat, stubborn as ever.

  Matthew finally regards me, his expression withering. ‘How could I? I had cancer.’

  But I’m not taking that. ‘There are hospitals in London, for God’s sake. Better ones, probably, than here!’ I can’t believe how we’ve fallen into the past so readily. ‘I would’ve looked after you. You know I would.’

  ‘I needed to stay here,’ Matthew sighs. ‘Look, it was your choice: stay or go. You left.’

  Here we are again: the Ultimatum. It has always been about my choice, never Matthew’s. But I didn’t have a choice, not really: the very fact I still wanted to go was held against me. Not just by Matthew, either. Ana; even India. Both of them reckoned they knew what was best for my boyfriend, what I should do.

  I could understand it from Ana, as she was his twin sister. But my sister lectured me endlessly, telling me Matthew would do the same for me. But how the hell would she know? She’d never known the inflexible side of Matthew, or the part of him that would run back to Mummy whenever there was trouble.

  Choking down my anger, I turn my back on Matthew. I grab my stuff off the floor and sweep through to the bathroom. I lock myself in the tiny room. I debate quickly about taking a shower, but decide against it. I’d only have to put dirty clothes back on. I want to get out of here as quickly as I can. I splash water on my face and slick my rumpled hair, before yanking my dress and shoes back on.

  Like the British-Chinese consultant said, Matthew was lucky. They caught the tumour early. It would be a question of battening down the hatches and getting on with chemo, yes, but we could handle it! Together, as a couple. Why didn’t he believe in us?

  So I left and began my postgrad course. I felt certain that Matthew would join me inside of a month. I even made enquiries at Brighton hospital, asking what would happen if he wanted to move his treatment. They said it would not be a problem; London was only up the road, after all.

  But Matthew didn’t join me. Instead, I found myself in a Mexican standoff: he wouldn’t budge, so neither would I. I tried to follow his progress, first via my parents (‘We can’t get involved, Poppy’), then via India, who wanted to give me a piece of her mind every chance she got. As far as my little sister was concerned, it was simple: Come back. Mum and Tim wouldn’t intervene with that either, waiting patiently for us all to sort it out like adults.

  But I was too stubborn. I sent Matthew cards, gifts, letters. They came back, returned to sender, unopened. I tried texting and emailing him. No reply. Before long, I backed off, still sure Matthew would have a change of heart.

  He didn’t.

  As I appear out of the bathroom, I see Matthew is dressed for work. He looks tired and stressed. It’s all I can do not to walk over to him and put my head on his shoulder, make him wrap those big arms around me just like he used to. But that’s all changed. I don’t know how.

  ‘Matthew…’

  I will him to turn from the window, look at me. I can feel the words bubbling up, about to spill from my lips. I want to tell him that last night it seemed like we slipped back into the past, in a good way. We rediscovered each other, called each other back from the brink. I want to tell him I should have come straight back to Brighton, tried to salvage our relationship.

  That it was my fault.

  For some obstinate, pathetic reason I stayed put in London. It wasn’t as if I even had much to stay for: I was unable to get a long-term teaching contract after my postgrad. So I lived like an overgrown student; the best I could afford was that crappy studio flat. Now I’ve been fired, and I’ve ended up boomeranging back to Brighton anyway.

  But he doesn’t turn his head. His plea hisses through his teeth – part anger, part sorrow. ‘Don’t, Pops.’

  It’s like a blow to my breast. That sense of connection I felt to Matthew last night has broken. Maybe it was all just my imagination. Perhaps Matthew really is a stranger to me now?

  Saying nothing else, I stalk out, slamming the front door after me.

  Forty-five

  I traipse through the streets, still dressed in the clothes of the night before, black rings of smudged mascara under my eyes. The Walk of Shame is imprinted on me, for everyone to see.

  An elderly woman sits outside a greasy spoon in the frosted, prespring air, a newspaper in hand and a dog at her feet. She looks up at me as I wander past. I brace myself for the judgement in her eyes as she drinks me in. Instead, a smile plays at her mouth as her attention drifts back into her own memories. I wonder whose house she crept from, and back to where. To her parents’? From a lover’s to her spouse’s? Only she can know.

  I let myself back into the Coach House, expecting the third degree from Tim. But my stepfather is not seated at the table, nor does the stench of a freshly lit cigarette permeate the air. I call out ahead of me, just like I always do, but no voice answers back. I’m relieved. I grab a drink of water from the tap. As I see a blurred reflection of my face in the aluminium sink, a flash of Tim comes to me; the jagged stress in his voice, the anxiety making his body form squared-off shapes. I close my eyes and it’s gone again.

  As I drain the glass, I feel, rather than hear, footsteps overhead. It’s Tim’s heavy tread. I move towards the stairs, rest a hand on the banister. I hear his low voice mutter something, as if he’s talking on the phone, or to himself.

  Then there’s a loud crash, as something heavy thuds against the far wall of the stairs. It’s thrown with such force it hits the banister on the opposite side, then crashes towards me. I duck, just as a shower of clothes rains down on me, followed by a suitcase, which hits me in the shoulder. It’s light and empty, so I’m unconcerned for myself, especially as the silence is broken by a loud, guttural howl of despair from upstairs.

  Alarm and fear jump through me. ‘Tim!’

  In a blink I’m at the top of the stairs. My eyes widen at the sight of my stepfather. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and stained. His eyes are bloodshot, his face flushed with drink, yet it’s ten o’clock in the morning. His usually neat hair, parted at the side as long as I’ve known him, stands on end, making hi
m look deranged.

  ‘Tim … Tim, stop!’

  My heartbeat flutters upwards as my stomach sinks. Is it Mum? I want to say. Yet I can’t summon the words to my lips. Tim makes no indication he’s seen or even noticed me. He’s in his own world.

  Helpless, I watch him through the door of my parents’ bedroom. Ornaments crash with a tinkle of ceramic against the wall, breaking as they drop to the skirting board. He grabs the bottom of their bed and overturns it, that animalistic shriek of desolation now mixing with fury.

  ‘Bitch!’ he yells.

  I flinch as if stung, though I know it’s not directed at me. Tim never swears – and certainly not derogatory language about women. Instinctively, I realise Tim’s display is about Mum, though not in the way I feared. She might not be dead, but she has abandoned him. Nevertheless, hearing the vitriol in my stepfather’s voice, heavy with outrage, is deeply disquieting. Tim roars into the air again and I watch him stamp one foot through the back of the bedside cabinet, then sweep my mother’s make-up brushes and perfume bottles off the dressing table.

  Finally, he’s done. He collapses to his knees and erupts in noisy sobs, his shoulders shaking like a child’s. Somehow, this is even more alarming than everything I’ve just witnessed. Tim never cries. At that moment, I want to turn on my heel and disappear into my room. A treacherous voice in the back of my skull even tells me he would prefer it that way.

  Instead, I creep forwards. Place a hand on his shoulder. He grasps for me, for any kind of comfort. He puts his burly arms around my legs. I untangle myself from him and kneel beside him, letting him rest his head on my shoulder. I can feel his tears soaking through my stupid green dress. I wish, not for the first time that morning, that I had stayed home with Tim last night, rather than go to the spring ball.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tim,’ I murmur and I mean it.