‘That’s what I thought.’ He puts a hand underneath my chin, moving my face up to look into his. ‘I thought maybe we could drive down to the coast today, if you don’t mind an idea from leftfield. It looks really nice out. I looked it up, and we could be in Brighton or somewhere like that in an hour, maybe ninety minutes. What do you say?’
‘I say yes.’ The idea of getting outside the M25 fills me with unexpected relief. Maybe this is what I need. A chance to be somewhere with no memories attached – clear my head, get some sea air. Putting my arms around Francis’s neck, I straighten up to give him a hug. ‘Just give me ten minutes,’ I say, ‘and I’ll be down, OK?’
‘You got it.’ Francis quits while he’s ahead, disappearing from the room swiftly, humming a jauntily triumphant tune as he goes back downstairs.
Guilt twists inside me as I watch him go. I shouldn’t even be replying to these messages. In the mirror, I stare myself out. I have my own life. You’re not part of it. And that’s what you wanted. The words are forming themselves silently on my lips, my reflection mouthing them earnestly back at me.
Suddenly, my phone beeps and jars on the table next to me, making me start. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize and, for a second, my heart leaps into my mouth before I read it. Hi Caroline. Hope you don’t mind me texting you, but I was a bit worried about you yesterday. Maybe you’d like to come over to mine for a coffee or something? Amber x.
Frowning, I try to work out how she could have got my number. I’m not even sure I’ve ever told her my last name. I think my details are still listed on the website I set up a couple of years ago, when I was thinking about going freelance, and I seem to remember mentioning that brief career dalliance in the course of our chat in the café, but still, it would have taken some pretty rigorous searching to turn that up. I picture Amber hunched over the keyboard in concentration, trying various clutches of search terms, the light from the screen illuminating her face. It’s very easy to imagine her this way, and once again I’m conscious that her interest in me seems a little more than normal.
I lay the phone aside. I won’t reply just yet. I’m not sure I want to see her and, besides, the less I let the past trickle out into the world, the more I can suppress it. It’s a rule I’ve lived by for years now. If something is alive only in my head, then it’s barely real at all.
It’s twenty degrees by the time we arrive in Brighton and, for a mid-week afternoon, the seafront is busy, small crowds of locals and holidaymakers lured out by the promise of some early sun. We wander along the promenade and back again for ages with no real plan, content to be aimless until something catches our eye. As I had hoped, the clarity of the sea air soothes me. I feel drained but somehow pure, limbs faintly aching, as if I’ve burnt out the last stretches of a long illness.
Francis nudges me, indicating some girls in their early twenties striding along the seafront in cut-off shorts and bikini tops. ‘Bit optimistic. It’s not exactly roasting yet, is it?’
As we draw closer, I see they are all wearing glitter on their faces, and that the tallest and most scantily clad of the group has a satin sash looped around her body. ‘Hen do,’ I murmur. The girls are laughing uproariously, swigging from bottles of alcopop and flashing their eyes challengingly at anyone who meanders into their path. ‘Got to get into the spirit.’
‘Yours wasn’t quite like that, was it?’ Francis comments as they pass.
I struggle to remember. Eight years ago. A relatively sober and restrained affair in a central London bar and restaurant with a dozen friends, followed by a few hastily organized activities. ‘Things were different then,’ I say, but whether I mean they were different when it came to social norms, to expectations, or to me, I’m not sure.
‘I remember you being pretty pissed when you came back, mind you,’ Francis says. ‘Didn’t you fall over the coat stand?’ He carries on talking, reminiscing, but I’m still watching the girls as they come towards us and his voice fades away.
I’m looking at one of the more subdued members of the group, wandering along towards the rear. Her hair is long and dark, blown behind her shoulders in the light breeze, and she’s wearing a chiffon scarf draped around her neck. There’s something in the way she looks, something in the way she’s walking, that makes me shiver. It hits me – the start of that black cloud descending, the weight of memories that are too dangerous to be faced pressing down on me.
I turn to Francis and grab his hand. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s walk out on to the pier,’ and I hold on to him tightly as I steer us away from the hen party and towards the horizon’s blaze of white light.
I won’t think about this. I can’t. The words echo in my head with every step I take and, with each repetition, I feel these thoughts being driven out. I ride it out until it’s over.
‘We could do it again,’ Francis says after a while, when we are wandering towards the arcades. I look at him blankly. ‘Not the hen night,’ he clarifies. ‘You know. Renew our vows or whatever.’ His tone is light, as if he hasn’t really thought about what he is saying.
I can’t work out if it’s a joke or not. Renewing vows is something I connect with couples in their twilight years, casting around for some entertainment to give them focus and purpose – or with those eager to pull the wool over their own eyes, convince themselves that their love is still worth celebrating, despite the mess they’ve made of their lives.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Francis says. ‘I wasn’t being serious. Well …’ He waves a hand, letting the thought drift off half formed.
‘Yeah,’ I say, nonetheless. We have wandered along the left-hand side of the pier, and I lean on to the railings, looking out at the gently rocking water, curls of foam carved out and smoothed over by the wind, the smell of sea-spray sharp and salty on the air. Seagulls are swooping and crying above our heads, wheeling in wide-winged circles. One settles on the railings inches from me, cocking its head inquisitorially in our direction, black, glassy eyes surveying us beadily. I smile. ‘Sorry,’ I tell it. ‘No food here.’
‘He’s not the only one who wants food,’ Francis says, taking my hand. ‘Let’s walk a bit further and then go back and get some fish and chips. Could eat them on the beach, if you like?’
We waste a few pounds on the arcade games, feeding coppers into the brightly flashing machines with no hope or expectation of return. Francis wins a small stuffed dolphin toy with a lucky throw, knocking over some stacked-up aluminium cans, and presents it to me.
‘There you go,’ he says. ‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’
‘Thanks, but I think Eddie might appreciate it more.’ Looking down at the small purple dolphin, I imagine his hands grasping out eagerly to snatch it, and there’s a pang of sadness. It seems odd that he isn’t here with us, galloping up the promenade, pestering for candyfloss and ice cream.
‘You could give him a call,’ Francis suggests, noticing my silence.
‘Yeah, I think I will.’ As we retrace our steps and wander towards the fish-and-chip place we spied earlier, I dial my mother’s number. There’s a scrambling at the end of the line when it’s picked up, and a muffled, ‘Go on, then,’ in the background, but Eddie doesn’t speak. I listen to the sound of his breathing, heavy and intent down the line, waiting.
‘Hello!’ I sing out. ‘I’m just here at the seaside with Daddy. He’s won you a toy.’
‘A toy?’ His voice comes loud and clear now, piqued with interest. ‘What toy?’
‘A dolphin,’ I say, not sure if he will understand. ‘Like a fish, you know … but bigger. We can give it to you when we get back. Are you having a nice time?’
‘… Yes,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘We went to the playground. I miss you.’
His voice is even and untroubled, but all the same my eyes smart briefly with tears. ‘I miss you, too, sweetheart.’ I want to say more, but Eddie’s breathing is already growing more distant, and I hear the clunk of the phone being laid down. He’s t
oo young to concentrate on the phone for long, and it comes to me now how much of our bond relies on simply being there, in the same place at the same time.
Another scuffle, and my mother comes on the line. ‘Having fun?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, slowly. ‘But it’s hard. Being away from him, and …’ Something shifts nebulously in the back of my mind, a half-expressed, suppressed thought; the image of you, nearer my child than I am.
‘Come on now,’ my mother says briskly. ‘Eddie’s fine. You’re meant to be relaxing.’ I know she means well, but there’s a brittle edge to her tone that makes me wonder if she’s getting exasperated. It’s as if there’s an unspoken question there: What more do you want? I’m not even sure what the answer is.
As I hesitate, I see Francis coming out of the fish-and-chip shop, holding two bulging paper bags and a bottle of wine, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. ‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘Just about to have something to eat.’
‘All OK?’ Francis asks, when I have hung up, and I nod.
We pick our way across the pebbles to find a suitable spot to sit, and as we settle down I feel my muscles untensing again, seduced by the sea air. I pop a chip into my mouth, feeling heat and salt spread sharply on my tongue. The pebbles we’re sitting on are faintly glistening, slicked with spray.
‘We could move here,’ I say suddenly.
Sprawled next to me with his face turned upwards to the sun, Francis squints. ‘What? But … We only moved to Leeds about eight months ago. Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s not that.’ Leeds still doesn’t feel like home, but I wouldn’t fully expect it to, not yet. As I struggle to articulate what I mean, I realize that it’s stupid. I want this sense of being outside my own life, all the time. I want a holiday every day of the week. I put aside my crumpled newspaper of fish and chips half eaten, staring out to sea. ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘Just an idle thought.’
Francis nods in acquiescence, draining the wine from his plastic cup. I glance at the almost empty bottle beside him. ‘Hadn’t you better stop?’ I ask. ‘You’ve got to drive, remember.’
Francis looks across at me, and I have a small, uneasy premonition of what he is about to say. ‘I probably have had a bit too much,’ he says. ‘Couple of glasses. Maybe you should drive back.’
I shake my head. A gust of wind blows across our picnic spot, bristling the hairs on my arms. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve been drinking, too, remember.’
‘You’ve had half a glass,’ he insists, ‘at the most. Come on, Caro. It makes sense.’
With a lurch of nausea, I realize that he is serious. ‘No,’ I repeat. A pulse is starting to beat in my head, colouring the scenery around me in a tremulous pale blue haze. I can barely remember the feeling of my hands on the steering wheel, the way the engine flared up and sputtered when I turned the key in the ignition. It comes to me now in flashes – evil little glimpses peeking through the blackness. The long, narrow road I last drove up. The gleam of headlights scattering light on to the asphalt; you sitting beside me, your hand resting at the edge of the skirt rucked up to my thighs; the last few minutes beautifully free of what was to come.
The sky darkens, and I lie down, closing my eyes. I’m shivering, suddenly light-headed.
I can feel Francis watching me, and after a while he speaks again. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘there’s really no reason not to.’
It’s unfair, but I feel rage pushing its way to the surface. He knows nothing. Doesn’t understand. I remind myself that I can’t expect him to. It’s like trying to turn a juggernaut, forcing the anger back into its box and packing it safely away, out of reach.
Another minute’s pause, and then he sighs. I hear the sound of scuffling as he settles back down. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘We’ll stay another couple of hours, then. Wait for it to wear off.’
Silently, I nod. I don’t open my eyes.
Home
Francis, May 2013
THE TRAINS ARE fucked again. As soon as I get to the station, I see the departures board striped in pale blue: delayed, cancelled, status unknown. Down on the platform, dozens of people are milling restlessly and muttering to themselves like maniacs, jabbing at phones and swigging coffees.
A bored announcement filters through the hum of noise every so often. Trains to London Waterloo are subject to delays and last-minute cancellations. This is due to a fatality on the line. We apologize for any disruption this will cause to your journey. Some clever dick has thrown himself under a train. Of all the ways to go, it’s one of the hardest to imagine. Cinematic, comedic almost – a high-speed impact and an extravagant gush of red. I read once they sometimes find limbs miles away from the site of the crash. Nasty. All the same, there’s something about the idea I like; it’s the closest you can get in death to sticking two fingers up to the machine. Inconveniencing a few hundred fat cats on their way to work isn’t a bad by-product of self-obliteration and, normally, I’d be all for it, only of course, this time, it affects me, too.
The announcement is looping around again. We apologize for the disruption. The apology is aggressively stressed. We’ve said sorry, so fuck off. I leave it ten more minutes then walk back home and take the car. Usually, I avoid driving in because there’s hardly anywhere to park near the clinic and the roads can be snarled up at this time of day, but there doesn’t seem to be much choice. Strangely, I’m in quite a good mood. I turn the radio up and concentrate on the road. My hands are shaking and there’s a familiar pulse aching in my head, but that’s minor stuff. No pills this morning. Maybe not until the evening. I’m singing along as loud as I can and my head is white noise.
The drive is quicker than usual, but I spend more than ten minutes crawling around the roads by the clinic waiting for a space. Nothing’s doing and, in the end, I give up and park on the double yellow. These days, this sort of rule feels even pettier than it did before, and the idea that there are people who make it their life’s work to prowl the pavements looking for somewhere to slap their little tickets seems so irrelevant and inane it isn’t worth bothering about. Besides, if I don’t get inside soon, I’m going to have to go straight into the session without even having a coffee, and I can’t face that.
As I duck across the road, a Chelsea tractor comes bombing around the corner and the arsehole up front slams on the brakes, blaring his horn as if he’s the one with right of way. I give him the finger and stare him down for an instant through the windscreen before carrying on to the other side. Life is chock full of these lovely little interactions. Warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it? That said, it’s the closest I get to human contact at the moment, if you take out the hours in the counselling room and the odd ships-in-the-night moment with the woman I think I’m still married to, only she’s barely said a word to me in weeks and I can’t remember the last time we slept together. In fact, I can’t remember the last time we slept in the same bed. Night-time is something of an artificial construct for me at the moment. When you spend half the daylight hours asleep and half the dark ones awake, the days blur into one and it’s harder with each rotation to tell where one ends and the next begins.
By the time I’m in reception pouring myself a coffee and checking my notes, what passed for a good mood is already hanging by a thread, and it snaps entirely when I clock who it is I’m seeing. Going in blind isn’t something I used to do, but it’s getting harder to plan ahead and, so far, it seems to have worked out all right. In this case, though, forewarned might have been forearmed. It’s a couples session – Mark and Kirsten, a pair of forty-somethings who’ve been dipping in and out of counselling for almost three years. He’s a drinker, and she doesn’t like it. He keeps saying he’ll knock it on the head, and she believes him then gets uptight when, lo and behold, he decides he might as well just stick to the status quo.
Sometimes, my job is far too obviously open to self-reflection. There might as well be a neon sign hanging from above the clients’ chairs, flashing in capital letters: RE
MIND YOU OF ANYTHING? No one understands – Caroline, least of all – that it isn’t awareness that is the problem. We all have our sickening moments of clarity, our hours of bleak revelation in the greying dawn. But in the background, life is grinding on and, sooner or later, the machine takes over and we’re swept along in its wake, and getting off that treadmill seems like a pipe dream in the face of the inexorable progress of habits and compulsions that have been hard-wired for years.
Mark and Kirsten are hovering in the waiting room, making discreet little coughs and rustlings designed to make me realize it’s almost ten minutes past.
I usher them into the room. ‘Get yourselves settled.’ They both look bloody awful, like they haven’t slept in weeks and have spent their days screaming at each other with the occasional break for cigarettes and hard drugs. Having said that, they’re looking at me as if they’re thinking the same thing. I didn’t look in the mirror before I left this morning. Haven’t done for a while. I can do without the disconnect.
‘So,’ I say, when I’ve sat down, ‘tell me about the past few weeks. How have things been?’
Mark just shrugs and stares at his feet. Early on, I remember we had frequent moments of awkward but genuine connection, he and I – it was relatively easy to crack the shell and get to what was inside. I can already tell that’s over. He’s gone into lockdown, where the no-man’s-land outside his fortress stretches so far everyone else is just mist and shadows.
Kirsten is talking, a relentless barrage of words. ‘Nothing’s changing. I just keep hearing the same promises, and things get better for a short while, and then we just go round again. It’s like it washes over him. In one ear and out the other.’ Her fingernails are bitten down, streaked by remnants of hot-pink nail polish. She hasn’t washed her hair in a while and the roots are faintly glistening with grease. From what I remember, she used to keep herself in pretty good condition. I wonder if it’s a tactic, an attempt to show Mark how he’s wearing her down. If so, I know from experience that it won’t work.
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