Every Move You Make

by Deborah Bee

  Babe, you’re remembering everything all wrong. Take a pill or something.

  ‘The laundry room,’ Susan interrupts again, ‘the one with all the scratches on the wall, you said?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘There are no signs of anything unusual there, Clare. It’s a nicely painted room, with about a hundred pairs of women’s shoes in. Size thirty-eight, that’s your size, right?’

  ‘I’m a thirty-eight.’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘I have one pair of trainers, by the stairs,’ I say.

  Celia fishes them out of the Sainsbury’s bag.

  I snatch them off her.

  ‘The house is spotless, Clare. Nothing broken. Nothing smashed. No bottles in the recycling. No paraffin bottles in the bin. No matches on the floor. And the laundry room has no lock on it. It’s much nicer than you made out.’

  ‘Made out?’ I say. ‘You don’t believe me. Do you? You’re saying “made out” but you mean “made-up”. Bitch.’

  ‘What did you say, Clare?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you call me a bitch, Clare?’

  ‘No.’

  Babe, you’re losing it again.

  ‘There’s a picture over the mantelpiece, Clare. Can you tell us about that?’

  ‘The painting? The fields? It’s an oil painting. A country scene. Yellow and green. My dad bought it at an auction. For one hundred pounds, he said. Always used to joke that it was a lost Constable and would make us our fortune.’

  ‘Not this, then?’ Susan holds up her phone for me to see a photo.

  In a frame. Above the mantelpiece.

  My sitting room.

  My home.

  It’s me, with Gareth.

  It’s from the day we went to the wedding-dress shop.

  I rang him from work one day.

  Three or four months in.

  Said I just wasn’t really sure anymore.

  Would he mind moving out?

  Just for a bit, while I sorted out what I wanted to do.

  What was best for both of us.

  Still getting over my dad.

  Missing my friends.

  I’d waited till lunchtime.

  So we could talk privately.

  Then locked myself in the boardroom.

  Knew no one would come in.

  I told him I thought it was over.

  We were over.

  Said I couldn’t do it anymore.

  And he seemed fine about it.

  Just asked me to make him a promise.

  Babe, look it’s fine with me.

  I understand.

  I’m too much for you.

  Way too much for you.

  I get it.

  You’re punching way above your weight, we both know that, don’t we, babe?

  Make me this promise, though, Coco.

  Never call me.

  Get rid of my number from your phone.

  And if I see you walking down the street, I’m not going to know you.

  Do you understand?

  I won’t even blink, babe.

  Not a blink.

  We were never anything, OK?

  For me you don’t exist.

  ‘We broke up. He made me promise not to contact him. Told me I didn’t exist.’

  I keep looking in Susan’s eyes. I can see she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Then three hours later he called. To tell me that he’d met another girl. That he’d fucked her brains out all afternoon.’

  Sorry to have to tell you, babe, but she was a 1000 per cent in the looks department. Body like a fucking goddess.

  Tears streaming down my face.

  ‘So, I slammed the phone down. And then he called me back. All afternoon he called me back. Called and called. Said he would keep calling. Until I said I was sorry.’

  Twisting the tissue in my hand.

  ‘So I said I was sorry. I couldn’t bear to think of him with someone else. I loved him. I think I loved him more than I’ve ever loved anyone.’

  Sip of water.

  Blow nose.

  Susan glares at Celia as if to say ‘let her go on, don’t interrupt’.

  I clocked it.

  ‘And he came and collected me from work. Told me we were getting married. And he drove me to that wedding shop. That one in Chiswick. Chiswick High Road. He said I could have any dress I liked.’

  I run a finger under my eyes to wipe away the smudged mascara.

  ‘And he said he would wait and tell me which one suited me best because he knew about fashion. Knew everything about fashion because one of his best friends was a fashion editor for Vogue Italia.’

  Sip of water.

  ‘So, I tried on one dress after another. I loved it for a minute. They were a bit big. They didn’t have smaller sizes. But the lady was so kind. Pinched in the waist at the back with pins. Kept fiddling with the veils and the folds of skirt, like I was a princess.’

  I stop crying.

  ‘But they were all wrong. They got worse and worse.’

  Another tissue.

  ‘And on the last one, he came into the changing room. His body took up all of the space. Asked the lady to leave us alone for a second. And he got his hand behind my neck. Under the veil. Pressing it. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. And he did a picture of us both. With my phone. Told me to smile my best smile or we’d be playing with the matches when we got home. He took loads. Said my smile was too fake. Told me to imagine how happy I was gonna be when we got married. With my neck between his fingers.’

  Twisting the tissue.

  ‘And then he said that leaving him was the worst thing I had ever done. Ever. And when we got home, he took my phone to download the pictures. And I never even saw them.’

  ‘You’re quite sure that’s how it happened, Clare?’ says Susan, looking at the twisted tissues on the table in front of me, then at the photo again.

  Celia is looking at the floor.

  ‘You look perfectly happy here,’ says Susan.

  ‘When we were leaving the shop, I saw this picture of a dress in the window, on a model. And I was looking at it and he said, “I went out with her for three years. In Australia she’s a supermodel.” And that night, when he was fucking me, he whispered in my ear ‘By the way, babe, I didn’t really fuck anyone else.’”

  By the way, babe . . .

  I’m not certain if Susan or Celia believe me.

  One of them hands me another tissue. I’m so busy crying I can’t see who it is.

  ‘Do you think she could have a break, DS Clarke?’ says Celia.

  ‘Not right now,’ says Susan. ‘We’ve got a lot to get through. Clare, can we continue?’

  I nod.

  I don’t want to continue.

  I want them to go away.

  But I figure they will just come back.

  I’ll never leave you, babe.

  ‘Are you sure there’s not more you can tell us about Gareth, Clare. Give us some background. So we can try to work out where he’s gone. Relatives? Work colleagues?’

  All the time Susan’s saying stuff, I’m shaking my head.

  ‘By the way,’ she says. ‘That work colleague of yours, Simon Quinn? He doesn’t confirm your story about getting his arm broken. Said he can’t remember how he did it. That he was drunk. Said he was sorry not to be able to help. Asked after you,’ she says.

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘He says you must have got confused.’

  You know what, babe, you’re getting really forgetful.

  We went to the shops yesterday.

  Did you forget?

  You must have.

  Take another tablet.

  That’s what Stephen said to do.

  Whenever you get forgetful, take another vitamin. Up your energy levels.

  ‘What about Gareth’s old friends?’

  ‘I asked him about his past and he always said it wasn’t interesting. He said he had friends all over the place. But there
was no one he kept in contact with regularly. Told me he was the type of guy who liked to sip Cristal ‘as and when’. Said that’s all I needed to know: he was an ‘as and when’ guy, always prepared for his next adventure.

  ‘I think that’s why he always had a bag packed. A suitcase. Just small. On the top shelf of the wardrobe which he thinks I don’t know about, and guesses I can’t reach.’

  Looked inside.

  Quickly.

  Packed.

  All his old stuff.

  Old jeans he used to wear.

  Shirts and sweaters he wore when I first met him.

  Not the designer stuff he’s bought since.

  ‘There’s all this stuff he orders online then keeps locked in a cupboard. I can smell it. New, expensive clothes. Comes in smart black boxes with ribbons and tissue paper. Most of that hasn’t even been opened. And there was a passport too – his photo but in someone else’s name. An old tin box full of stuff. Papers and jewellery and old photos.’

  Susan is scribbling everything down.

  Celia is supplying tissues.

  ‘Do you remember the name on the passport?’ Susan says.

  ‘I didn’t get that far. I had to be quick.’

  ‘Was the first name even Gareth?’ says Susan impatiently.

  ‘I don’t know. It was an American passport, I do remember that. He said he worked for the CIA. But then again, he also said that he was a concert pianist. And that he could give Robbie Williams a run for his money.’

  ‘Did he not do any work?’

  ‘He had been doing modelling.’

  ‘So what were you living off?’

  ‘I had money, my inheritance from when my dad died. I had my cards. He used them for everything.’

  It’s not fair if you have money and I don’t.

  Our lifestyles need to be the same if this relationship is going to work.

  Everyone knows that.

  ‘And no exes calling him?’ says Susan.

  I shake my head.

  ‘I never knew who he was speaking to. We did bump into this girl, one time,’ I say. ‘In a bar. Mayfair. We’d been to some drinks party with this guy he’d worked with in Miami. We’re sipping Cristal, and this girl comes in, and he points her out. Says she was with him for six months. He wasn’t with her, you understand. She was “with him”. Big difference in Gareth’s world. And I watched him rearrange his face. Properly rearrange it into a sneer. And she totally blanked him. To the point that I doubted he even knew her.

  ‘Maybe she just looks like the girl you went out with,’ I said, trying to make him feel better.’

  I need a shower.

  ‘He said he needed a shower. Right in front of all the people we were standing with. Like suddenly. In the middle of the party. Really loud.

  ‘And I said, “What now?” because I was totally confused. Why would anyone, in the middle of a party, suddenly announce that they needed a shower?’

  You can either come with me now and wash me, or I’ll see you when I’m next in town.

  ‘And he said that I could either go and wash him now, or he’d see me when he was next in town. He said that to the entire room.’

  ‘And what did you say?’ says Susan, lost in the story.

  ‘He was living in my house, at the time,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t work out what was going on at all. When we got back to the house, he kissed me suddenly, urgently, and said “I want you to take that off”, pointing at my dress. “And those”, pointing to my bra and pants.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’ Susan said.

  ‘Well, I felt cheap. I did. But I guess it was thrilling, too. To be desired like that. I said to him “You can fuck me any way you want,” ’ I said. ‘ “I want whatever you want.” ’

  ‘And what did he say?’ says Susan.

  ‘He said, “I know.” And he fucked me so hard, and so violently, I couldn’t walk for three days.’

  Thirty-Two

  Sally

  Whenever anyone says ‘official’, you know, official with a big fat capital ‘O’, it always makes me wonder. It’s like, ‘here’s some total shit for you, and meanwhile, the unofficial version – which, by the way, is what actually happened, and which, by the way, totally implicates us – that version we’re too embarrassed to tell you.’ So, they’re going to issue an ‘official apology’, and I’m thinking, go on then, what really happened?

  ‘The tagging company was told by the probation service about the release of Terry Mansfield, Prisoner number 127963 after 3p.m. and was therefore unable to get to the offender before the following day. The offender was permitted to spend his first night under the care of his mother at her registered address, without being monitored.’

  Jane is reading an email. She’s come to visit and we’re one along from Clare who’s in Rose – God, I really can’t stand these pink names, couldn’t they have just numbered them? – with Sue and Celia, who looks a lot like a God-botherer if you ask me, what with the big old crucifix and the buck teeth. Do you think God-botherers spend so much time with their eyes shut praying that they don’t notice their own buck teeth, or facial hair for that matter, and I’m talking about excess facial hair on women, by the way, not a regular beard or moustache on a man?

  A gay guy once said to me that if you can see your facial hair, everyone can see your facial hair.

  ‘When the tagging company arrived at 415 Grafton Road, Liverpool . . .’

  ‘Street’ I interrupt.

  ‘Quite,’ she says. ‘When the tagging company arrived at 415 Grafton Road, they discovered that Mr Terence Mansfield, the offender, was not known at this address.’

  ‘Isn’t that New Brighton way, Grafton Road?’ I say, thinking. ‘Yes, Wirral,’ I remember.

  She shrugs. ‘When the tagging company contacted the probation officers, they were told that it was the tagging company who were responsible for sorting out the problem. But the tagging company had been given the address by the probation officers.’

  ‘You couldn’t make it up, could you?’ I say to Jane. ‘They couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery, this crowd.’

  ‘It gets better,’ she says. ‘A court official had put a “handwritten notification on an obsolete form, with a misspelt address and the incorrect postcode, indicating that an illegal 12-hour curfew was received”.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ I ask.

  ‘I think your piss-up in a brewery analogy sums it up,’ she says.

  ‘Orgy in a brothel?’ I say.

  ‘Yup,’ she says, nodding.

  ‘Bun fight in a bakery,’ I say.

  ‘Totally. Under normal circumstances an offender who had avoided curfew for more than twelve hours would be taken back to prison. But since this case is regarded as an official miscommunication . . .’

  ‘And unofficially a giant cock up,’ I interrupt.

  ‘. . . the offender can make himself known to the local probation officer within the following twenty-four hours, who will then inform the tagging company, without penalty.’

  ‘And he didn’t do that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because no one at the probationary service noticed that the tagging company still hadn’t put the tag on and the records showed that Terry was still at the registered address of his mother. It kept showing up as that.’

  ‘So, he’s still on the loose.’

  ‘They have no idea where he is.’

  ‘Terrific,’ I say. ‘Anyone looking?’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking because he’s in breach of his release terms, he’s wanted for arrest.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘It’s probably not a priority, if I had to guess.’

  ‘Why isn’t it a priority?’

  ‘No one likes to admit a mistake.’

  ‘Not a priority. Doubly terrific. Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘Always,’ she says, not knowing about the mugs, obviously.

  *

  Prashi off
ered to go down the shops for me, after I found her another pink scarf in the garment wardrobe, which actually shut up her girls for about three and a half minutes, so I asked her to get me a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Prashi’s never drunk a sip of wine before, let alone bought an entire bottle, cos her mother told her ‘Indian women can’t handle their drink’, and then she’d read in the The Times of India that ‘Women go crazy taking selfies when they are drunk’, and that’s put the fear of God in her even more – even though her phone doesn’t even take photos.

  *

  When Prashi staggers up the stairs to my flat later in the afternoon, she’s totally cock-a-hoop that she’s bought her first-ever bottle of wine, and she’s managed to get what I’d asked her for, even though she’d just handed over the bit of paper it was written on at Tesco Express.

  ‘Will you stay and have a glass?’ I say to Prashi.

  ‘No! I will be sick.’

  ‘You won’t be sick,’ I say. ‘Not on one glass.’

  ‘I will become a woman of loose morals,’ she says, laughing. She just doesn’t want a glass of wine, and really she’s taking the mick out of me for caring that she won’t.

  ‘Are you saying . . .’ I shout down the stairs after her.

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ she shouts back, shrieking with laughter.

  Kitty is on the way up.

  ‘Hear you’ve been getting Prashi to supply your alcohol habit,’ she goes.

  You just want to kick her, she’s so fucking full of herself.

  ‘Nice time tap-dancing?’ I say.

  She curls her lip and we both turn our backs on each other, although it doesn’t get past me that she’s now moved flat again, to next door to us, our floor, now that Marina’s gone off to live in her place in Hackney with her mum and her sister. Good for her, that’s what I think; Marina, not Kitty.

  I can hear Clare coming up the stairs too. She’s got her clothes – they look like her clothes – in an orange carrier bag, but you’d think she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, the amount of time she’s taking.