by Jess Ryder
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I stood up. ‘Tell Jen I’m not giving up. That I’ll never give up.’ He started to say something in reply, but I’d already walked away.
34
Now
Anna
* * *
It’s Sunday morning, and I’ve managed to wriggle out of the weekly invitation to the eleven o’clock Eucharist by resolutely staying in bed and pretending to be fast asleep. Chris knocked on my door at half-nine, offering eggs and bacon, but I didn’t answer. I had to dive under the covers so as not to smell the delicious smoky aromas drifting under the door. Even popping to the bathroom was out of the question; I knew he would be listening for the flush of the toilet and appear miraculously in the corridor when I emerged. Such are the games we play. Anyone would think he was tempting me to sin rather than salvation. But I don’t want God’s salvation, it’s meaningless to me.
To my surprise, he doesn’t come home until late afternoon. He smells of smoke and grease and his sallow skin is pink with heat. There’s a brown sauce stain down his checked shirt and grass stains on the knees of his trousers. I remember it was the church barbecue this afternoon, a fund-raiser for the homeless centre.
‘I wished you’d come, you’d have had such a good time,’ he says, opening the windows on to the Juliet balcony that isn’t a balcony at all. ‘I don’t know how you can breathe in here.’
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ I say. ‘About the barbecue, I mean.’ I look around guiltily. I fell asleep on my bed and missed lunch. My breakfast bowl is still sitting on the kitchen table, tiny nuggets of granola encrusted on its sides like unpolished jewels. A fly has just buzzed in and landed on my empty banana skin.
‘I tried to remind you this morning, but you were dead to the world.’
I feel my cheeks reddening. ‘Sorry.’ I turn away from him, busying myself with the tidying-up. ‘I should have washed up straight away, only I was … erm …’ The rest of the sentence is drowned under the running tap.
‘It’s okay, Anna.’
I shudder as I squeeze detergent into the sink. Every time he uses my name, it’s a reminder that he knows it’s false. Our little secret. As long as I behave, he won’t tell. Even though I changed my name for my own protection, there’s an implication that I’ve done something to be ashamed of. Or am I being paranoid again? I plunge my hands into the too-hot soapy water and inhale sharply. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I relax? Chris is a kind, generous man; he’s just spent the whole day at church. He is being perfectly lovely towards me. I’ve nothing to be afraid of.
And yet …
I feel it. I feel his power.
He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye, turning his head ever so slightly to catch my face in his peripheral vision. How much does he know? My thoughts drift inevitably to Sam. If I stay in Morton, he will always be able to find me. Information is valuable. I can think of one person at least who’d pay a lot of money to know where I am.
Logically I should start looking for another job, another town in which to hide. And yet I’m reluctant to pull up the weak, wispy roots I’ve dug into this dull Midlands earth.
‘I think maybe it’s time I moved back to my own flat,’ I say, balancing the cereal bowl on the drying rack. I turn around and dry my hands on the small towel.
Chris starts with surprise. ‘Don’t go yet. I’m really enjoying having you here. It felt like somewhere to dump my things before, but now it feels like home.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with me. It always takes a while to get used to a new place.’ Sometimes you never get used to it, I think, but I keep the words in the back of my mouth.
‘I hate living on my own,’ he replies, and a shadow of sadness crosses his features. ‘Honestly, there’s really no need at all for you to go back. It’s not even very nice. No offence, but … a woman like you shouldn’t be living there. I get the impression you’re used to far more luxurious surroundings.’ There he goes again, dangling his line in the murky water of my past. Has Sam told him about the five-bedroom house in one of north-west London’s most exclusive areas? Has he been on a property website to find out what it’s on the market for? It would take his breath away.
‘You’ve been incredibly kind, Chris,’ I say, ‘but I don’t want to outstay my welcome.’
He smiles. ‘You could never do that.’ He approaches and takes my left hand, squeezing the knuckles together where there was once a ring. It feels more comfortable than I thought it would and I let his hand stay locked around mine.
‘Have you been stuck indoors all day?’ he asks. I nod, and he tuts. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. Just across the playing fields.’
I let him lead me out of the flat and we carry on holding hands in the lift, only separating to get through the main doors of the block. We stroll across the playing fields, arm in arm, and he tells me about his day. It feels strangely normal. Normal and right.
* * *
Nothing else happens that night. We sit on our usual sides of the sofa – not touching – and watch television, like we’re a married couple. After the weather forecast, Chris says he’s tired after all that barbecuing and needs to go to bed. I wait until I hear his door click shut, then go to my own room. I’ve slept too much in the day and it takes hours to get off to sleep, but when I do, my dreams are gentle, and although I don’t see Chris specifically, I know he’s there.
Something changes overnight, because in the morning there’s a different atmosphere in the flat. Small, easy smiles dart between us as we navigate between kettle, toaster and fridge. Our arms brush as we reach for the butter or take a mug off the shelf. We meet each other’s gaze. It feels like the start of something new. A slow, cautious start. Without either of us saying anything, Chris has asked me to move in properly and I’ve accepted.
* * *
A couple of weeks go by and I’m feeling unaccountably happier. I have a session with Lindsay and she notices it as soon as I enter the room, tells me I’ve ‘had a breakthrough’. Sometimes it just happens for no particular reason, she says, often when you least expect it. The brain gets bored with tramping down the same old pathways, jumping across the same old synapses. It decides to stamp a new route through a field of fresh grass. When I tell her I’m not in the mood for talking about the accident, she says that’s fine – excellent news, in fact.
‘What would you like to talk about instead?’ she asks. It’s as if she’s always known there’s more to my story, that I’ve been holding back the most important stuff. I hesitate. Has the time come to let it all spill out? To go back to the top of the page? I think not. I tell her about Chris instead, how much I appreciate his friendship and how I’m wondering if we might possibly be moving towards more.
‘More what?’ she says, knowing full well.
The following Wednesday evening, he asks me if I wouldn’t mind making my own way home and not to bother cooking for him because he’s meeting up with a friend. He doesn’t say who, but I get it into my head that she’s female and it’s a date, probably someone he’s found on the internet. As I walk home from the bus stop, swinging a bag containing a microwave meal for one and an individual chocolate dessert, I suspect the empty sensation in my stomach isn’t simply hunger. It’s the seed of a feeling, barely germinated, but I recognise it all the same and it troubles me.
I thought there was something brewing between us. Have I misread the signs?
I lie in bed, listening for sounds of a visitor: girlish giggles and drunken hisses to be quiet. But he’s back by 10 p.m., on his own, and goes straight to his room. Either it was a genuine friend, or the date went badly. Perhaps he mentioned God too many times. Or perhaps he realised that the woman he really wanted was already under his roof, waiting patiently for the right moment.
It comes on Friday night. Margaret invites everyone on the fourth floor to celebrate her sixty-fifth birthday. Sandwiches, crisps and a large cake are provided, and her husband
has put a tab behind the bar.
About forty of us crowd into the long, thin function room, a mixture of colleagues, friends from the rugby club, neighbours and family. Everyone seems to know each other, from the past if not the present. Morton is such a small town. I find myself listening to several exchanges between people who went to the same school. Everyone is out to have a good time, and there’s none of that social competitiveness I remember from my old existence.
We stand around in circles of various sizes, shouting above the sounds of the sixties that are blaring through the tinny speakers on the wall. Nobody is dancing yet, but no doubt it will come when we have more alcohol inside us. Chris is quietly attentive, fetching me drinks and throwing me small apologetic glances as the conversation meanders around former sporting triumphs and old teachers.
I find myself staring at him, admiring his nose in profile, the way his hair curls around his ears, the tightness of his stomach compared to other men of his age in the room. He’s nothing like as good-looking as Nicky; he doesn’t make my stomach flutter, or my toes burn with desire. But I mustn’t let my thoughts drift in that direction. There’ll never be another Nicky – my first love, my soulmate, the receiver of my virginity. I don’t think anyone would believe that at forty-three, I’ve only ever made love to one man. I’ll never see Nicky again. Am I going to be celibate for the rest of my life, or am I going to break free?
By half-ten, I’ve had enough of the party. My feet are aching from standing around and the wine has gone to my head. Chris seems to sense my need to go. He edges his way around our cluster of work colleagues and whispers in my ear, ‘Shall we get a taxi?’
I nod gratefully. As we leave together, I wave goodbye to Margaret and she gives me a conspiratorial thumbs-up. Of course, she thinks we’ve been an item for some weeks; she doesn’t know that this will be our first night together.
We don’t start snogging in the cab or tear each other’s clothes off as soon as we get inside the front door. There’s a calm, dignified air to our passion, but it’s no less exciting. I lead him into my bedroom, and as we gently remove each other’s clothes, our bodies tremble with anticipation.
I can’t remember how long it is since another human being touched me. It’s only once it’s over and Chris is lying slumped on top of me, kissing the side of my neck and telling me that I’m beautiful, that the tears start to fall. I don’t know exactly why I’m crying – for Jen, for Anna, for all the horror that has led to this small, brief moment of joy? Something like that. I quickly wipe them away with the back of my hand, not wanting him to feel their wetness on his cheek.
He eases himself off me and lies back. ‘That was amazing,’ he says, putting his hands behind his head. I roll off the mattress and stand up, quickly grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my naked body. His eyes follow me as I skirt the bed and leave the room for the bathroom.
I stare at this new person in the mirror, the person who has at last managed to connect with another man. It’s a huge step forward, and most importantly, it feels like the right thing to do. I offer a smile to my reflection in the mirror. My make-up has smeared, and my eyes are smudged with black kohl. I quickly wash my face and drink a long glass of water.
When I come back into the room, I notice that Chris has switched on the bedside lamp and is studying something beneath its glow.
It’s the photograph.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I found it under the pillow,’ he replies.
‘You found it, or you were looking for it?’ My tone is accusatory. I feel more invaded by this than by what we’ve just done with our bodies.
‘Found it, of course. I had no idea …’ He screws up his face in frustration. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean … I was just rearranging things and it slid out.’
I hold out my hand and he passes it over. I glance at her beautiful smiling face, then open the cabinet drawer and pop the photo in, sending her back to the dark.
‘Who is she? Your daughter?’
‘No, I don’t have any children. Do you mind going now? I want to sleep.’
Chris groans. ‘Please don’t be like that. I didn’t mean to pry, it was an accident.’ I wince as he says the word, even though I know he’s not referring to the crash. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. I’ve no right to intrude. This is your room, your bed, your life.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I snap, and he looks as if he might burst into tears. I try to soften my tone. ‘Please, it’s late. I think it would be better if we slept apart.’
‘Anna, please forgive me. Don’t make me go. We’ve had a wonderful evening, let’s not spoil it. Talk to me.’
‘I don’t want to talk!’ I tighten the bath towel around my chest. ‘I was trying to forget – just for one night. A few hours, a minute even, just one second when it wasn’t on my mind. But no, it’s not allowed, I see that now. I’m still being punished.’
His eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’ he says. ‘Punished for what?’
I sink onto the bed and my shoulders round over. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Yes, you can, you can tell me anything.’ He shuffles across and holds out his arms. I lean into him and he wraps himself around me. ‘Why have you got a photo of this little girl?’
‘Because she’s dead,’ I say. ‘And it was my fault.’
35
Then
Natasha
* * *
I spent most of Emily’s birthday in bed, hiding in the musty darkness of the duvet, hoping that if I managed not to see the sun, the day wouldn’t really exist and I could believe that we had somehow skipped it. It was a trick the calendar played most years with 29 February, so why not with 23 September? Thinking of Emily with Jen, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and blowing out candles, was completely unbearable. My brain refused to allow it, but my body wouldn’t co-operate. My belly felt full and heavy as I remembered that precious day, exactly two years ago, lying in our super-king-size bed, overwhelmed with a mix of excitement and pure dread.
Labour started in the dead of night with a dull, gnawing ache in the small of my back. It woke me, and I lay still for several minutes, feeling woozy and disorientated, unsure whether I was dreaming or if this was finally the real thing. Emily was nearly a week overdue and there had been numerous false alarms in the last few days, even a wasted trip to the hospital. I’d stopped telling Nick every time I felt a twinge, because he went into a panic. Even now I was reluctant to wake him in case it turned out to be just backache. But as I lay in the darkness, feeling the pain wrapping itself around me, tightening its grip, then releasing, I knew this was different.
I nudged Nick out of sleep, whispering in his ear, ‘I think she’s on her way.’ His eyes snapped open; he sat up immediately and sprang out of bed, stepping into his clothes like a fireman on duty. My bag was already packed and waiting by the front door. Little sleepsuits, nappies, pads for me, nipple cream, massage oil, a nursing bra, pyjamas, clean underwear … The satnav had been preprogrammed for the hospital and the baby seat was strapped into the back of the car. We were as prepared as we could be, but it had felt like playing a game of mummies and daddies. I couldn’t really believe there was a baby inside me; that I’d give birth and be allowed to bring her home.
Nick bustled around, helping me to put on a pair of loose jogging bottoms and a baggy T-shirt, then heaving me to my feet. I clung onto him for a few moments and we had a group hug, my tummy rock-hard and round between us. Part of me wanted her to stay there, where it was safe and warm. But she’d already started on her dangerous journey out of my body, and there would be no stopping her.
Nick made me a cup of tea, but I couldn’t drink it. The dull ache in my lower back had turned into a rich, burning pain. I paced around the bedroom, pausing to hold onto various pieces of furniture as I breathed through the contractions. Nick couldn’t bear it. ‘We’re going now,’ he said, and although I suspected it was too early, I didn’t argue. He’d booked us into a private maternity ho
spital and I knew they wouldn’t dare send us away.
Leaving the house in the dark chill of night made me think of teenage holidays – catching the coach to the airport for a cheap early-morning flight. Toes icy in my sandals, the sour, dry taste of sleep in my throat, my stomach gurgling with hunger and anticipation. Feeling excited about the trip, but nervous of flying – of surrendering my life to the skills of the pilot and air traffic control. Mum had always been unsympathetic towards my fears, quoting the incredibly low odds of a crash compared to crossing the road. How easy that had been compared to what I was embarking on now.
As we drove to the hospital, I tried not to think about what could go wrong, reminding myself that giving birth was the most normal thing in the world; that thousands, maybe millions of women did it every day. I was lucky, I’d be in excellent hands – Nick had made sure of that. My birth plan was idealistic: no wires, no intrusive monitors, no pain relief. I wanted to crouch in a tub of warm water and let my daughter swim, mermaid-like, out of the cavern of my body. But Nick wanted all that science and technology could offer. He wanted Emily to travel by business class. Why else would he be paying? This cargo was too valuable to risk damaging it in transit. He’d pay lip service to my desire for a natural delivery, but at the first sign of trouble, however minor, he’d demand the consultant perform a C-section.
Which was what happened, of course. Emily’s heart rate started to dip slightly during contractions and the midwife thought she might have the cord around her neck. That was enough for Nick. The consultant was summoned and before I knew it, I was being wheeled into theatre, a mask held over my face. There wasn’t time for an epidural to take effect, so I missed the moment she came into the world, missed hearing her gulp of air, her first tiny cry. When I woke from the anaesthetic, I saw Nick standing on the other side of the room, holding a small bundle. Tears were streaming down his face. He was so wrapped up in the wonder of his creation, so engrossed with falling in love, he didn’t notice that I was awake. I called out to him, but he didn’t even look up. I suddenly felt excluded and forgotten. An empty vessel, no longer needed. At the time, I dismissed the feeling, put it down to the magnitude of the moment, the effect of the anaesthetic, the fog of the pain relief, the exhaustion … But two years on, replaying the moment in my head and knowing what I now knew, I realised I’d seen the truth that day. Nick hadn’t wanted a family, not one that included me, anyway. He’d just wanted a baby.