‘Good. I hope I do,’ I hissed. The loft-extension works from one side of our flat had kept us sleepless for about six months, and on the other, there was a baby with colic. I was feeling such ire towards Joe, I wanted all the children to wake up and piss their parents off for hours – to piss him off, too – to march up the street on their little sausage legs, tiny fists waving banners, to storm through our flat and circle him, screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THIS LIFE, MISTER?
‘Being in this flat with you is like talking to a child,’ he said, refusing to raise his voice. I could tell he was just acting at being reasonable and I wanted to punch him. ‘Just . . . don’t be tiring, Rose.’
‘You’re asking me not to be tiring?’
‘Yeah. You are so fucking tiring,’ he said. ‘We all think it.’
I was stunned. ‘You know what, Joe? Fuck your Christmas.’
‘What did you just say?’
‘I just said – fuck your Christmas. Go on your own to fucking Wimbledon with your fucking family.’ I kicked the presents and they scattered everywhere.
Joe looked at me with a mix of disgust and by now, a grim satisfaction. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘You’re a fucking psycho.’
*
Joe went back out – to where, I neither knew nor cared. I packed a duffel bag, feeling high and weird and certain.
I left the presents, except for Connie’s, and locked the flat. I rubbed my eyes at the front door, took two very deep, detoxifying breaths, and stepped outside.
First, I went to Sainsbury’s to purchase a big ham. I loved Connie for her lack of snobbery over food; Sainsbury’s would be just as good for her as Fortnum’s. She probably had a ready-made turkey sandwich for Christmas lunch. I picked up lots of cheeses, vegetables, a chicken to roast, wines, a chocolate pudding, double cream – everything a reflection of the intensity and quantity of selfhood I felt inside, the giddiness and freedom to be doing this instead of that, with him.
But as I made my way up to North London, doubt began to seep in. Would Connie let me in? Would she have me, offer sanctuary? Or would I be crossing a line too far? I decided I would still risk it: Connie was like a siren call – the promise of a warm fire, good food. I was even looking forward to seeing the Christmas tree.
I didn’t let myself in, but rang the doorbell. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw me standing there with my many bags of shopping and my duffel.
‘I thought we could have a nice dinner?’ I said. ‘I’ll cook.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at Joe’s parents’?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not here out of pity, are you? You’re not doing a Bob Cratchit on me?’
‘No, Connie.’
‘Mmm,’ she said, but she turned into the house and I knew it was a sign to follow.
*
‘I was just going to have soup and bread,’ she said in the kitchen.
‘Oh! Well, of course,’ I said. ‘But—’
‘But a nice dinner will do just as well,’ she said.
I started rummaging in the shopping bags. I knew she was looking at me. ‘Is everything all right?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Because I wouldn’t like it if it wasn’t. For you, I mean.’
‘Have I interrupted you badly?’ I said. ‘I can always go back after a glass of something—’
‘No, no,’ she said, poking amongst the bags. ‘Get a bottle from the fridge. Did you buy any chocolate?’
‘I got you a bag of gold coins,’ I said, and she laughed. I went to the fridge and found a chilled bottle of champagne.
‘Open it, then,’ she said.
I obeyed her, pouring it into two glasses. ‘Cheers,’ I said.
‘Cheers,’ Connie replied. ‘Happy Christmas, Laura.’
‘Happy Christmas, Connie,’ I said, and I drank it like it was a magic potion.
*
I roasted the chicken and prepared everything else whilst Connie went upstairs to work. When it was ready, we sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. ‘You’re such a tremendous cook,’ she said, sighing happily.
‘Thank you.’
‘Your talents are wasted here.’
I said nothing. ‘Laura,’ Connie went on, reaching across the table and putting her hand over mine. Feeling the warm, confident weight of it, my body nearly sagged.
‘Yes?’
‘You are more than welcome to stay for Christmas.’ Connie kept her hand where it was and looked into my eyes. ‘That room is yours. For however long you like.’
*
Connie tried to make up my bed in the spare room on the first floor, but her hands were bad so I finished the job. Closed curtains, fresh covers, the little lamp on the bedside table switched on, that dim-glowing yellow of childhood, next to a small vase of holly on the side, that she had held sheepishly between two hands as she stood at the bedroom door. I was touched, and even more so that Connie had not asked me why I was here and not with Joe. She did not probe, she did not pry. I felt very guilty, though, for not being the person she thought I was.
That Christmas night in Connie’s spare room, time felt suspended. She was up very late, and I heard her quiet footstep on the stair towards her bed. Eventually, I caught sleep. I dreamed of my mother and me on a beach – not in Brittany, where my father had conjured her, but rather on the shoreline of Connie’s new book. The sands of Massachusetts felt as real to me as I wandered them, following my mother’s back. We were both of us looking for something, but she would not turn to me. I could not see her face. I’d done something wrong. I hadn’t been truthful, and she would not turn to me.
26
For a moment the next morning, I had no idea where I was. My bed had shrunk from a double to a single, the configuration of the room was alien, and the faint morning light so different. Everything was quiet. I turned on my side, then yesterday came. The argument in the flat, the presents all over the floor, champagne and roasting a chicken. Connie’s. The spare room. The vase of holly. Christmas Day.
Today there would be no stocking for me. No Lucia and Wilf incandescent with excitement, no Ben pottering for a corkscrew, no Dotty or Daisy – god, their names as a pairing were so ridiculous – and most of all, no Joe. Immediately, I felt relief, followed swiftly by disarray and fear. I kept waiting for the moment I would cry, but I couldn’t feel it coming.
I checked my phone on the little bedside table. My dad had texted: JOYEUX CHRISTMAS OUR SWEET ROSE. LUV TO ALL, LUV DAD AND CLAIRE.
Happy Christmas, Dad! I texted back. Hope you’re both having a lovely day. xxx
I put the phone down and pressed the pad of my index finger lightly onto a sharp prick of holly. Nothing from Joe. I wondered what he’d told his family – probably that I’d gone to Brittany. That was the safest lie. Not even Dorothy would let me sit in the flat on my own on Christmas Day.
To my surprise, my dad replied immediately. DID U LIKE YOUR PRESENT?
I realized I’d left my present from him in the flat. The only present I’d brought with me was the one for Connie. I’d noticed around the house during my sporadic dusting stints that Connie was an avid collector of ashtrays, although she didn’t smoke. For her Christmas present I’d found a humdinger, a beautiful Deco number from a charity shop. It looked genuine enough to have come from somewhere proper, from a real dealer of antiques.
Haven’t opened yet! I texted.
DID U GET A NICE PRESSIE FROM JOE?
Haven’t opened any presents yet. Just having breakfast.
CLAIRE SAYS ARE U OK?
I’m fine. Are you having a nice time?
YES. OK DARLING, I’LL CALL U IN A BITE?
*
Connie had placed two towels on the chair by the window and I put on my jeans and blouse, scooped the smallest towel and went to the gold and black bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I came out, Connie was waiting outside the bedroom door. ‘I heard you were up,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas.’ She was dress
ed in her usual black, and looked tired.
‘Happy Christmas!’ I said.
‘What do you normally do on Christmas Day?’ she asked.
‘I’m happy to do whatever you do.’
‘I don’t really do anything.’ She looked nervous.
‘Well, there are no rules, then,’ I replied.
‘You could boil that ham?’ she said.
‘I’ll boil that ham.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘That’s my job. Are you sure—’
‘It’s Christmas. No rules,’ Connie said, stomping off along the landing. From inside the bedroom, my phone started to ring. She turned. ‘Will that be Joe?’ she said.
‘It’s probably my dad.’
‘Then you’d better answer it.’
I went in and picked up the phone. ‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hello, my love. Happy Christmas.’
I felt immediately heavy at the sound of him, and sank into the side of the bed. I liked hearing my father’s voice, but it unlocked a younger self, and jarred with the person I was in this house, right now. Tears came to my eyes, and a big rush of heat ran over me. This was the first time I’d heard his voice since our conversation on the beach, since he’d brought the concept of Constance Holden into my life.
‘Are you there?’ he said.
‘I’m here.’
‘Are you all right?’
I shuffled back on the mattress and leaned against the wall. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘You know I’m a bit meh about Christmas.’
He paused. ‘I’ve been thinking about what I told you. About your mother.’
I closed my eyes. ‘Oh?’
‘I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have left you with that.’
I opened my eyes again and looked around the room – Connie’s theatre posters, her green-striped wallpaper, the bookcase full of her books. Downstairs, I could hear her clanking tea mugs onto the kitchen counter. I imagined telling my father the truth about where I was. What would happen if I did? He might not even believe me.
‘It was all a long time ago,’ he went on, sounding uncertain in the face of my silence.
‘I know it was,’ I said. ‘It’s OK, Dad. I’m glad you told me.’
‘You should have come here this year.’
‘Yeah.’ I leaned forward and rubbed the hard curve of a holly leaf between my thumb and forefinger. It was so robust. ‘Perhaps I should.’
‘Claire’s saying we should come and visit you and Joe in the New Year. Would you like that?’
I tried to taste the truth behind my dad’s question. Was he reluctant? Was he really waiting hopefully for me to tell him such a journey wasn’t necessary? If he’d been the one to suggest a visit, expressing pleasure at its possibility, that would be different. But it had been Claire’s idea. I imagined it: him and Claire arriving in Portsmouth off the ferry, getting to Joe’s flat and realizing I wasn’t there – realizing that in fact, I’d left my job and had probably left Joe, and was now working for, of all people, Constance Holden.
‘It’s really OK,’ I said brightly. It’s so cold in January. You don’t have to. I’m fine.’
‘We can talk about it. Any time you like.’ He hesitated again. ‘Do you – need me to do anything?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Well, I’ll text later. But have a good day, OK? Have a glass of something. Hope Dorothy’s made you something good.’
‘She’s boiling a ham,’ I said.
My dad laughed. ‘Of course she is.’ There was a pause. ‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I love you too.’
We rang off, and I sat for a few moments, feeling raw. Then Connie called me down for tea.
*
Later that morning I started to boil the ham and got on with making a parsley sauce, alongside roasted potatoes, carrots, parsnips and sprouts. Connie sat at the kitchen table, having perked up since our early morning encounter. ‘I’m taking the day off,’ she said. ‘Happy bloody Christmas!’
She proffered me a cracker from a box which she must have purchased along with her yards of tinsel. We pulled two, reading out the bad jokes, fiddling with the small plastic pouches that revealed a keyring with a bottle-opener for me, and a miniature puzzle for Connie that she didn’t even bother to open, discarding it to one side immediately. We placed the paper crowns on our heads, hers purple, mine green, queen and princess for the day. I gave Connie her present, and she unwrapped it self-consciously, her fingers struggling with the string and tape. I wanted to reach out, make it easier for her, but I knew she’d hate that. When she finally got through the tissue-paper layers and saw the ashtray within, she was delighted. The sight of her turning it round in her hands with pleasure, gave me a true happiness I hadn’t known in ages. ‘But it’s perfect!’ she said, looking at me with true astonishment.
‘So you like it?’
She placed it down gently. ‘Is it jade? It looks like jade. Maybe from the twenties?’
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘My god. It’s so . . . thoughtful!’
Again, I got the impression that it had been a long time since anyone had been thoughtful about Connie. I don’t think she even realized how grateful she seemed. ‘Did Joe help you with it?’ she said.
‘Joe?’
‘Well, it must be antique.’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, he did a bit.’
‘Please thank him for me.’
‘I will.’
Connie disappeared, coming back a minute later, bashfully handing over a small bag. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said.
‘Connie, you didn’t—’
‘I wanted to,’ she said.
Inside the bag was a box. Inside the box was a gold necklace, with a gold initial L hanging off it. ‘It’s Victorian,’ Connie said. ‘Do you like it?’
I did like it. It was beautiful and delicate, but I felt such sorrow as I rested it in the palm of my hand. It was a physical reminder of my lie, and whilst part of me wanted nothing more than to wear it, another part wanted nothing more than to kneel before Connie, tell her my real name, and explain to her that in no way did I deserve a present like this.
‘What’s wrong?’ Connie said, looking worried. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘God, no. No. I love it, Connie. It’s beautiful. But you shouldn’t have.’
‘Are you going to put it on?’
I obeyed her, half expecting – half hoping – that the necklace might be charmed, that as soon as it touched my skin, it might burn the false person inside it. But nothing happened. The L sat in the dip between my collarbones and fitted perfectly. It felt right.
‘Sublime,’ Connie said. ‘I knew it would be.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No. Thank you, Laura.’ She paused, looking a little shy. ‘I’m very glad I found you.’
‘I’m very glad I found you too,’ I said.
Connie moved away, as if embarrassed. Battling with my own conflicting feelings, I went back to the stove and stirred the parsley sauce. I felt as if I belonged in this peaceful moment, with my L round my neck, in my paper crown, warm inside Connie’s kitchen. I was safe within all these circles, and the outside world was cold and shapeless. To spill out my truths, to hand this necklace back, would mean possible rejection, and I simply couldn’t bear it.
‘Does Joe know you’re with me?’ Connie asked.
‘No.’
‘Won’t he be worried?’
‘Probably not.’ I kept stirring the sauce. ‘He thinks I’m cold,’ I said suddenly. ‘Connie, do you think I’m cold?’
‘No, I don’t. You’re not cold,’ she said.
I felt a sob rising up inside me, and I swallowed it down. I wanted Connie’s kindness, but when she gave it to me, I didn’t feel like I deserved it. ‘Sometimes I think I must be,’ I said, turning to her with my wooden spoon aloft. ‘The things I’m capable of.’ I swallowed, surprised at what I was saying.
Connie fr
owned. ‘What are you capable of?’
A drop of parsley sauce fell to the floor. I couldn’t say the words.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Laura,’ Connie said. ‘You’re dropping the sauce, by the way.’
‘Connie,’ I said, my voice croaky, replacing the spoon back in the pan. ‘I don’t mean to bring bad feeling into Christmas Day. Honestly, I don’t.’
She waved away my concern with a crooked hand. ‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘I’m just a bit worried about you, that’s all. You’ve looked pale recently.’
‘Have I?’
‘You and Joe seem to have had a falling out?’
‘I didn’t think I’d be here,’ I said suddenly.
‘You mean in my house?’
‘In my life. I’m nearly thirty-five.’ I felt an unnameable grief threatening to rise in my throat. ‘I – thought I’d know what I needed to do.’
‘It takes a long time to know what you need to do, Laura. Longer than thirty-five years.’
My tears were coming now. ‘I don’t think I love him,’ I said, my voice strangled with sadness. ‘Connie. I don’t know what to do.’
I stood by the stove as the sobs began. Connie approached and put her arms around me, tentative but warm. I dipped my head and laid it on her shoulders, and let the tears fall.
*
Fifteen minutes or so later, we sat in the front room. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck, but I was calmer for crying, better for forming those words – that sentence I’d dreaded speaking aloud. ‘It’s never happened to me before,’ I said.
‘What hasn’t?’ asked Connie gently.
I stared into the carpet, feeling hollow, light, as if I might take off. ‘I’ve had people stop loving me when I didn’t want them to,’ I said. ‘That was brutal. I thought I was going to go mad. But I’ve never experienced this. How it feels when the love you’ve had for someone . . . leaks out of you. Like you’re slowly being drip-dried, and you can’t tell whether it’s right or wrong, whether it’s something you want or not. Whether you really want to break the contract, to say it’s not enough. I’ve stopped feeling, Connie. I don’t know who I am. I don’t care about anything except—’ I stopped myself.
The Confession Page 19