by Heidi James
The girl turns back, a leather-clad housewife, clutching her cleaning apparatus.
‘Well, what do you think?’
Cora’s injured finger throbs, it soothes her. She recognises the boundary of her self.
‘I want something discreet, that I can wear under clothes and not be noticed.’ She is surprised by her own voice, surprised by knowing exactly what it is she came for all along.
‘OK, what about this?’ The girl reaches back under the counter and pulls out a small black box. Lifting the lid she reveals two small clamps, similar to the others already on the counter. There isn’t much variety in human joy. ‘These ones are adjustable by turning this screw just like the others, but they lie flat against the skin so if you wore a bra over them they wouldn’t be seen. I guess you shouldn’t wear them for too long though, I mean they could cut off the blood supply.’
‘I’ll take them. How much are they?’
‘These ones are £40. Are you interested in any other bondage or S and M toys?’
‘Pardon?’ Cora breathes in her new complicity with the girl, the place, this world.
‘S and M. We’ve got lots of great dungeon equipment. We’ve got a few doms on our client list, so we have some great pieces. They’re like art. Really beautiful.’
‘No, not today, another time.’ Cora takes her purse from her bag, exposing her injured hand to the sales girl.
‘That looks nasty. What happened there?’
‘Nothing, just a silly accident.’ Cora handed the girl the cash. They can’t afford this. Him and her, their joint finances could only stretch so far. She shouldn’t be spending money on something so disgusting, so selfish. The rot has set in. She must try to hold it back, or cut it out like a tumour; she must work to stop the decay. She should find other ways to answer herself. But it’s done. The money has gone. The girl hands her a black carrier bag. She could change her mind. But how embarrassing, the girl would be annoyed. She’s rung it through the till now. And so too late. She can’t go backwards. This is what she has chosen. She turns and walks out the door. The street is exactly as she left it.
Her time is up. She hurries towards the station, the black bag shrinking her attentions. It swings gaily by her side. To and fro. It skips and twitches with her footsteps as if it were alive. She hurries, knowing relief is captured in the box. She has found a way to manage. To call herself back from the dead at a twist of the screw. She looks where she is going, recognising everything she sees, knowing the names of objects, of places. Life, her life anyway, unlike books or films, doesn’t have a particularly significant moment, a revelation, a turning, when things started to waver, there was no definitive moment when the change occurred. Not even this event. She is an accumulation of small moments. One breath after another, shuffling in and out through her nose. All she can think of is forgetting. Of returning.
The station is jammed with commuters. She can’t avoid them; she must get on the train at the right time. She checks her phone. No calls. Not from him, nor her work. She has made it. She is exhausted, her feet and back throb deliciously. Her body is entirely hers. The message board indicates her train is in and ready for boarding. She pushes forwards, in a rush for home. Now she has the means to transform her guilt and shame she can go back. She flashes her pass at the barrier, automatic arms swing open, she is admitted, she belongs, she has her ticket; there will be no keeping her out now. She toes the line.
It was raining on our wedding day. It was also raining when I proposed to you and you said no. I’d taken you to Paris. Is that a cliché, to go to Paris? Probably, I never was very good at these things. Anyway, we were in Paris, we wandered around the galleries and walked halfway up the Eiffel Tower before you got too scared. We took a boat trip down the Seine and got drunk over lunch in a café. Then, finally, I took you to dinner and, after eight courses of food that baffled us both, I got down on one knee, proffering the carefully chosen ring. You said no. Do you remember? I wonder if you do remember. It often seems that the details of our life together are beyond you – forgotten and meaningless. Even the most important and supposedly significant are beneath your radar now. You forgot our anniversary. You said you didn’t, said that you’d left my card at work but I could tell by the look on your face that you’d forgotten when I gave you your card and flowers. It feels as if you’re fumbling your way through our marriage. Hands outstretched, your eyes closed.
When we first met you told me how superstitious you were. How you saluted magpies and threw spilled salt over your shoulder. How you never walked under ladders, or put shoes on a table or let knives cross at the blade or left a hat on the bed. You said a bird trapped in the house was a dire portent that warned of the death of someone close. You read the world as if it were sending you signals. It made me laugh, it seemed so at odds with you, with who I thought you were, clever and logical and stridently atheist, but still it was charming, and you could’ve done anything and I’d only have loved you more.
So, you couldn’t say yes to my proposal on a rainy day you said, you said it didn’t bode well for our future. You made me wait for sunshine, and do the whole thing again. So I finally proposed a few days later, back at home in less glamorous Clapham, when the sun was finally shining and you’d got up and had a shower and I’d made you tea and toast and I asked you again, kneeling on the chilly kitchen floor, and this time you said yes. The ring was too big for your tiny finger, but you didn’t mind. We went back to bed and celebrated over and over. Your lovely arms around me. Kissing your neck, your hair still damp, your legs wrapped around me, holding you, my hands on your bottom pulling you closer, your feet digging in, pulling me in tighter, as if we couldn’t possibly be close enough.
I got dressed and ran to the corner shop to buy the only bottle of champagne they had. You called your parents and then I called mine. We threw a party at our new flat and everyone came and you wore that black velvet dress with a slit all the way up to your thigh. You didn’t drink too much. Your dad gave a toast and pressed an envelope with cash into our hands. He held you close to him, his arm around your waist, while I said thanks and everyone cheered and your mother stood quietly next to you both, round like a ball in a blue and cream dress with her tight curls like a helmet on her head. She’d made us a cake, heart-shaped and pink with our names iced on in white. My mother thought it was twee and laughed about it all night. We cut it together, my hand gripping yours, you gripping the knife, in a rehearsal of our wedding day, while everyone took photos and cheered.
It rained on our wedding day, and I was afraid you’d say no at the altar. We’d even joked about it, how all that planning and expense would be in vain just because of the weather. You didn’t of course, not even you were that superstitious. In your white dress and blue shoes. Your hair all piled up on your head and threaded with flowers. You whispered ‘Do I look stupid?’ as we stood together at the altar and I shook my head. If I’m honest, I think all brides look a little silly and nothing at all like themselves, but who would say it? Especially after all that money and planning and time. And anyway, you were marrying me and that was all I cared about. We could’ve got married just the two of us alone wearing jeans and I’d have been happy.
As it was it was still pretty small, much to my mother’s disapproval. I think she was hoping for a huge formal bash that she could invite her friends to, with a toastmaster and four courses for dinner. She even offered to hire a marquee and have the reception in their garden. You said no. You were adamant that we’d have a small, intimate wedding in the hotel near your parents’ house. I’m not sure if that was to save your father’s pride or because that’s genuinely what you wanted. You said you weren’t interested in placeholders and matching table linen and flower arrangements and all the other things that were deemed essential to successful nuptials. I didn’t care how we did it, as long as we did it. It didn’t matter to me that the food was ordinary or that the hotel’s carpets were
ancient and smelly or that the champagne ran out an hour earlier than predicted. You were my wife and I loved to say it. I would bring you up in conversations – my wife this, my wife that – because I was so proud.
People warn you that it can all go wrong, that marriages don’t last anymore, that divorce is on the rise. But you don’t think it will happen to you. Of course you don’t. You think you will be the exception to prove the rule. I still think that. I don’t care who he is, or even if there is someone else. We will get through this. We have to – it isn’t about the two of us anymore, we’re a family, a unit. And we must stay together.
I often think of our honeymoon. Fourteen days of immaculate pleasure. You even gave up smoking for me. For our future babies. We went to my parents’ place in Mallorca and sunbathed naked by the pool. We fucked in the sea, your legs around my waist, your swimsuit pulled to one side. We got drunk on cocktails in the restaurants by the old port and chose lobsters from a tank for our dinner, which you then refused to eat in a fit of tearful guilt. We hired mopeds and scooted about the island till I crashed and skinned my elbow and knees and you deemed it too dangerous. We seem to have always had an incredible time together by the sea. Perhaps that’s the answer, move to the seaside. Perhaps a change of scene would be good, a new start together.
Cornwall or Devon. We could buy a cottage, change careers, finally get a dog. We’d have room then and they’re not as dirty or dangerous as you think. The kids would love it. We could find Patch a football club and Jess a ballet school; they’d make new friends quickly. All that space, the sea, more freedom, clean and safe. Away from the city and all its poisons. We could have chickens, grow our own fruit and veg; I could build the kids a tree house and a sand pit with a paddling pool. We could even have goats. I could work for myself, start a consultancy or an agency or something and you could stay at home with the kids and paint or take a course in art history. We could forget the past and begin again. We could have another baby. I think we could be happy away from here. Make a clean break together. Just us four and the new dog.
The house behind the door is silent. No one is home, she couldn’t have wished for better. The black bag dangles from her wrist. Raps against her leg. She inserts her key and walks into the hallway. She scrapes her feet on the mat, rubbing off the dirt from the street. She doesn’t want to walk it into the house. She wonders where they can all be, it’s his turn to collect them. The car is on the drive; maybe they are at the park. He is good like that: he takes them out to play. He runs with them and falls over, throwing them into the air. Pushing them high on the swings. He is good. She has watched them, chasing round and round. He helps them climb to the top of the frame, calling encouragement and climbing up to rescue them when they get stuck and cry. Another sort of mother would tell him to be careful, would watch with her heart in her mouth. Another sort of woman would tell him to stop, let them catch their breath before tickling them almost to death. She doesn’t, she says nothing. What she feels is the flattening of time. Her skin thickens like hide and she recedes, pulls back to where she can’t hurt them. Too late though, the dirty deed’s been done.
She walks through the hall to the kitchen. She will wait a moment before going upstairs and opening the little box inside the black plastic bag. She will wait just a moment. She will linger. She reaches to open the door with her intact hand. She hears a shuffle, some movement behind the door to the kitchen. The moment of expectation is puffed like dust into the air. She isn’t alone. She has a premonition of what will happen next. She remembers what day it is. She composes herself, realigning her mechanism. She walks back to the bottom of the stairs and hangs up her handbag and the black plastic bag. Her liar’s face settles. She walks back down the hall and opens the door. Surprise. Surprise.
The children leap from behind the curtains. Balloons in primary colours are Sellotaped to the wall and the back of the kitchen chairs. A shop-bought cake is perched on a silver board in the centre of the table. He steps forward to light the candles. Everyone is smiling. Cora is smiling. The two children, whose names are Patrick and Jessica, Patch and Jess – there, fixed into position by a name – run to her.
‘We surprised you, Mummy! We surprised you!’
He walks to her, arms open, and pulls her to him. ‘Happy Birthday, darling. I know you didn’t want a fuss but we thought we’d surprise you.’ He kisses the top of her head. His fingers rub her back, strumming against the strap of her bra as if she were an instrument. The divide isn’t breached by his proximity. She stands, doing the right thing, conforming to what must be done.
‘Blow out the candles, Mummy.’ The children issue shrill demands, they’re in charge here.
She obeys, leaning forward, her mouth puckered; she takes a deep breath and blows. She closes her eyes to make a wish. What could she wish for when she has everything anyone would want? Which anyone? Who? Whoever. She has what they want.
‘What did you wish for? Did you wish for presents?’
Cora nods and, producing a smile, she reaches for the knife to cut the cake. Forgetting herself, she reaches with the wrong hand.
‘Mum, what have you done to your finger?’ They, the three of them, move in on her to see better.
‘Darling, what happened?’
She reaches for the lie she prepared. ‘I caught my finger in a door at work. It’s OK, nothing to worry about. Honestly, it doesn’t even really hurt anymore.’
‘It looks very sore, Mummy. Did you cry?’ The little girl is concerned, she looks at the wound like a mother, ready to comfort and mend.
Cora shakes her head. She wants to silence them and their inane questions. She wants them away from her. She slices into the cake, splitting the white sugar coating, dividing the words iced in pink across the surface, cutting letter from letter, until they’re meaningless.
‘Who wants a piece?’
The children yell ‘me, me,’ and she hands them the chunks of flour, fat and sugar. The husband tuts: cake before dinner and not even on plates. But it is a special treat. He lets it go. She spoils them. You spoil them. I spoil them.
‘Let me have a look and put a plaster on for you.’ He moves closer, reaching for her hand.
‘No, I’ll sort it later. It’s fine, honestly.’
He is watching her, his expression entirely legible. His shoulders drop, his eyes droop, he sags under the weight of his theatrical sadness. He is sincere. Completely sincere.
‘Why do you push me away, Cora? Let me help you.’
‘Honestly, I’m fine. Let’s enjoy my party, shall we?’
His hands drop to his sides. He will feel her rejection all evening but put on a show of bravery for the children. She sits down, tired. The party is over. She is coming apart, dismembered. The black bag and its contents are all she can think about. The children climb onto her lap. They love her, he loves her. Their love devours her; it roams about the house like a beast, ripping chunks from her body. She is the meat their love requires. The little girl pats Cora’s face; her breath, sugar-rotten, makes Cora gag. The child has a clot of dried mucus in the corner of her eye. Cora wants to shove Jessica and her dirty fingers off her lap but she daren’t move. The boy leans his head on her shoulders, lolling against her chest. Together their weight crushes her.
Behind the loving trio, he cooks the dinner. It’s her favourite dinner. He knows this because he makes it for her over and over again and she always eats it. She might even lick the plate clean, though she never has before. There is a confusion of voices here. The chatter invades every pore. She will never be alone. There is no alone. He pulls the lasagne from the oven, placing it on the table with a flourish. She longs for the black bag. There is a salad, mixed and dressed with oil and vinegar, just as she likes it, and some garlic bread. A birthday feast. There will be no pudding, as he had intended that to be the cake, and she spoilt that plan. Never mind.
The children climb off h
er and into their designated seats, one each side of the table. Accordingly the parents sit at either end, as they should. She stands and moves to lay the table. He directs her to sit. This is her treat. She is to do nothing. Not a single thing. She is not to lift a finger, especially her wounded finger. She is to relax, bone idle for the rest of the evening. This will give her time to indulge herself in the luxury of her offspring. He pours her a glass of wine. She digs a serving spoon – a wedding gift from his parents – into the lasagne and drops some onto the little boy’s plate.
‘That’s too much, Mummy.’ She ignores him, and serves the girl. The children will not eat salad; they refuse what is good for them and gorge on disease-inducing rubbish. She serves herself a small portion before handing him the spoon.
‘I should light some candles.’ He jumps from his seat and rummages under the sink for candles and the candlesticks. An effort must be made to mark the occasion. He lights them and places them on the table, illuminating his handiwork. Shadows puppet their gestures on the wall. They eat. That is all they seem to do. I spend my life feeding them and when they’ve finished I feed them all over again. She feels sick. She wants to go upstairs and lie down. She wants to go upstairs and open the box that is in the black bag. She wants to not be the monster that she is. She finishes her wine. He pours her another. He doesn’t spill a drop. He helps himself to more of the food. The children chatter, finish their supper and jump down from their seats. He clears the table; she must remain seated and enjoy her rest. It is her special day.