The Last Day

by Claire Dyer

  I didn’t tell her how Boyd had built this studio for me, laying brick upon brick, cementing himself to me, how he positioned it so the windows would face north, how he measured them to be just so for the light, how he dug the path that links the studio to the back gate and how he cleared the path down the side of the park so I could wheel my bike down it. I didn’t tell her about when I painted his portrait and how he’d sat for me, his face that blend of animation and peace, that almost-smile, his eyebrow, the one that lifts and falls as if it’s got a mind of its own. I didn’t tell her how he’d promised we’d have at least five children, take holidays by the sea, or that we had had sex here, right here, on the floor, near where she is sitting and that he’d come in me and it had trickled out of me and been warm against my thighs.

  I also didn’t tell her about Colin and the comfortable sex and easy conversations I have with him. And I didn’t tell her what happened in the room where she now sleeps with Boyd, or ask whether Boyd has told her any of it. Nor did I tell her how sometimes I listen to them in the night and imagine Boyd’s body on hers or how I wait for her to have that dream again so that once more I can hear the sound that sounds like a child crying in my house.

  However, for all these things that separate us, I think, as I lean up to erase a sketch mark from the paper, there is the one immutable thing we have in common: Boyd.

  ‘I think,’ I say, ‘we ought to leave it there. He may be back soon.’

  The sitting has lasted an hour and a half but it seems like only a few seconds have gone by.

  ‘OK,’ Honey says easily, slipping off the stool. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  I put down my pencil and fold the cover of the pad over the drawing. ‘It’s only a preliminary sketch,’ I say.

  ‘Can I bring you down a cup of tea, or something?’ Honey asks.

  ‘That would be nice, thank you.’

  And then Honey’s gone, with her inexplicable past, leaving me with mine, wrong-footed again. I’d thought this would be a business transaction: I would paint Honey’s picture, Honey would sit quietly while I did so. I hadn’t expected to feel like someone had come and taken the box where I keep my most secret self and started prising the lid open and that all the unspoken things that are lying inside it would be at risk of flying out.

  The mask I wear when I’m smiling at people on the bus, or saying ‘Thank you’ to the ladies in the dry cleaners, or when I’m with Colin, or Honey, or Boyd, is slipping. I can feel it starting to peel and, for all the mess and the canvases and the pictures of bloody animals and my bicycle and the radio still playing quietly in the background, the studio suddenly seems emptier than it’s ever been. I never expected to feel this type of loneliness again.

  Honey

  The weather’s unseasonably warm for October; a kind of Indian summer. The sky is cloudless, high, a washed-out blue and, in the sunshine, it feels like it could still be July.

  It’s been a good day at the office: Warwick Road completed, Boyd received a new instruction in Silver Street, but Honey is uneasy, she feels that any moment Trixie or Boyd will notice that she’s constantly looking out of the window, stopping by the doorway and gazing out into the street.

  She is watching for Reuben to come back, waiting for him to do so.

  She’s lost count of the number of times she’s imagined him there: a flash of a jacket, him walking by, his slight limp, the colour of his skin. Then her breaths come in short, sharp bursts and she has to do something to distract herself. Surely Boyd and Trixie must have noticed. It’s getting harder and harder to keep on pretending that everything is OK. The medium’s warnings sit heavily on her shoulders, her heart flips giddily; she has no idea how much longer she can go on.

  And then Trixie surprises her by saying, ‘Hey Honey. Do you fancy grabbing a drink after work today? We haven’t been out together for ages – if at all, come to think of it. We should, shouldn’t we? If you’re not doing anything this evening that is?’

  ‘Oh, that sounds lovely,’ Honey says. ‘I’ll tell Boyd when he comes back from the viewing. You’re right, we should go out. I know I could use a drink!’

  * * *

  The lighting in the wine bar is odd, pools of intense white light beaming down onto the wooden floor and, outside the perimeters of these pools, the rest of the space is in shadow. They’re sitting in a booth towards the back of the bar, a scrubbed pine table between them. On the table there’s a single lighted candle, a salt and pepper pot, a rack of serviettes and a menu leaning up against the wall.

  ‘What would you like?’ Trixie asks.

  Trixie’s left her car parked at the back of the office. Boyd has said he’ll give her a lift home when he comes to pick Honey up and Trixie has said she’ll get a taxi into work tomorrow morning.

  Giving a rare insight into her private life she’d also said, ‘Can’t really afford it, going out or paying for the cab, but I deserve a treat don’t I? And it’s a relief not having to …’

  Here she’d stalled and hadn’t said any more.

  Honey is studying the menu, is glad she’s wearing her short-sleeved cream mohair sweater, black leggings and knee-length low-heeled boots: it’s a look that fits in here. She’s not wearing any jewellery but has outlined her eyes in kohl, in what Boyd calls her Claudia Winkleman kind of way, and has dabbed frosted pink lipstick on her lips.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she says, resting her chin on her palm, ‘a glass of white wine I think. What about you? I’ll get them if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ Trixie says hurriedly. ‘Think I’ll have the same. Anything to eat?’

  ‘No, thanks and you must at least let me pay for my drink,’ Honey says. ‘I’d happily pay for yours, too.’

  ‘I said it’s all right,’ Trixie snaps and then says, more softly, ‘if we go Dutch that’ll be fine. I’ll go and order for us, shall I?’

  Trixie looks tired and the skirt she’s wearing is worn, a bit of the hem has come loose. She looks like a slightly faded version of the woman who interviewed Honey all those months ago.

  Honey closes the menu and smiles at Trixie as she stands up and starts to make her way across the room, travelling through the spot-lit areas until she reaches the bar.

  As Trixie’s waiting for the drinks to be poured, Honey notices her look back to where she’s sitting but then she gets distracted by her phone and is checking emails when Trixie says, ‘Here you go,’ and puts the glasses down on the table.

  ‘Ooh, thank you!’ Honey lifts hers and taps it against Trixie’s. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers!’ Trixie replies.

  They drink.

  ‘This is nice,’ Honey says. ‘I was saying to Vita recently that I don’t actually have many friends. Perils of being a bit of a nomad I guess.’

  ‘Guess so.’ Trixie takes another sip. She doesn’t speak and bizarrely Honey feels a nip of unease, a need to fill the space and silence between them with words.

  The wine bar is filling up around them; knots of men are standing at the bar drinking lager from long glasses, and the tables towards the front are filling up with couples and a group of friends on a girls’ night out. There is the babble of voices and the soft bass of the bar’s background music.

  The wine is slipping down nicely; Honey is relaxing and her edges are beginning to soften.

  ‘Um,’ Trixie says. ‘You said the word ‘nomad’ just now. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Did I?’ Honey’s taken one of the paper napkins from the rack and is folding it into squares, half then half again; she presses it between her palms and looks up at Trixie. ‘Did I really?’ she says again.

  Trixie takes another drink, leaving another gap in the conversation. Again, that strange need to fill it comes over Honey. Her vision is getting blurry and she’s feeling raggedy at the edges. It’s a nice feeling though, as if her muscles are melting.

 
Camilla’s warnings about club drugs had been frequent and loud, but where Honey is now is a separate world to Camilla’s. This sense of peace and wellbeing is because Honey is, for once, relaxed, happy. Alcohol can have a greater effect when you’re contented than when you’re miserable. At least this is what Honey has learned over the years.

  ‘Well, you know when I came for my interview,’ Honey says, ‘I mentioned that my past hadn’t been orthodox, I guess that’s what I meant. I remember you were so kind. You said that we’re all made up of fault lines and scars, or something like that. You were the first person who’d not pressed me for details and I really appreciated that. It was hard enough being at the interview and,’ she pauses, ‘that was before I’d even met Boyd!’

  ‘Ah, Boyd,’ Trixie says. She runs her fingers down the outside of her glass, chasing the beads of condensation. She’s almost finished her drink; Honey, on the other hand, still has half of hers left. ‘So,’ Trixie continues, ‘you were saying about your past …’

  Honey takes a large mouthful of wine. It’s like when she was talking to Vita; she imagines she will feel lighter if she confesses. So she does.

  ‘You,’ she says, ‘you and Vita are the only people I’ve ever told and this is because I trust you both. I’ve never had the luxury of being able to trust anyone before and you must promise not to tell Boyd. Ever. Promise me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Trixie says. ‘You can trust me.’

  And so she tells Trixie about the man on the boat and the explosion and how she had to jump to safety and swim to shore and how she believes he is coming to get her.

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ she says, ‘outside the office. On the other side of the street. It’s just like the medium said it would be.’

  ‘Ah, the medium,’ Trixie reaches out and takes hold of both of Honey’s hands.

  The napkin Honey’s been folding is a discarded, crumpled mess on the table by now but Trixie’s hand are warm. She holds Honey’s for a few seconds and then says, ‘I’ll get us some more drinks, shall I? Then you must tell me everything the medium said. I’ve been anxious to know but didn’t dare ask.’

  ‘No, I’ll get the drinks.’ And Honey stands quickly and strides across to the bar. She feels a bit dizzy as she approaches the bar, blinks once, then twice.

  The crowds are thickening, the sound of voices and music is getting louder, the wine isn’t as chilled this time and it doesn’t taste the same as the first drink, but still Honey drinks it as she tells Trixie about the medium’s predictions about the step and how she’s been told she’ll fall and how the man from the boat will find her. The words trip off her tongue as if they have a life of their own; she couldn’t stop them even if she wanted to.

  ‘You poor thing,’ Trixie says as Honey finally finishes. ‘How have you borne this? Did you tell Boyd what the medium said?’

  ‘Of course not. I told him she said everything will be fine. I wouldn’t want to worry him, he’s too good for that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Trixie says. ‘He is. But Vita knows, you say?’

  ‘I told her what I’ve told you and actually,’ Honey pauses, tips her head on one side and says, ‘it’s a relief to have done so. I thought I was strong enough to keep my own counsel on this, but obviously I’m not. I …’ she pauses again, ‘… once hoped I would be other than I am.’

  Boyd comes to collect them about half an hour later. She and Trixie spend the intervening time talking about work and Boyd’s mother. And then they’re in the car and Boyd is driving, his large hands on the wheel, his head turning every now and again to talk quietly to Honey sitting next to him in the front. She can feel Trixie’s presence in the back but everything is getting hazy, it feels like she’s floating. It’s relief she thinks, relief at having told Trixie some of the truth. She realises Trixie hasn’t said anything about herself, and nor had Honey asked. She feels a little guilty about this.

  Honey doesn’t actually remember much about the journey home; obviously Boyd was in the car and she seems to recall him talking to her, his voice low and soft. She does remember, however, Trixie leaning forward and touching Boyd on the shoulder as they pulled up outside her house. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ she said and Honey remembers them waiting in the car until Trixie had unlocked her front door, stepped inside, turned – a silhouette against the orangey light from her hallway – and waved.

  But not much more than this. She thinks Vita poured her a glass of water when they got in and that she said something sharp and disapproving to her. She also thinks music was playing, something that sounded like Bob Dylan. She didn’t know Vita liked Bob Dylan.

  She also thinks Boyd made love to her; recalls feeling wanton and snaking her arms around his neck in bed and thinks she cried out, but can’t be sure. She also seems to remember Boyd sitting on the edge of the bed sometime during the night and that his shoulders were moving as though he was weeping. But this may have been a dream. What she does know is that she didn’t dream about the explosion and that she woke feeling like shit with Boyd standing over her with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  ‘Good Lord woman, you were in a fine state last night,’ he says tenderly, putting the mug down on her bedside cabinet.

  All she can say is, ‘I’m sorry,’ but it seems a feeble attempt at an apology. All she’d had were two glasses of wine and yet she’d felt this soaring, this huge feeling of liberation, this loosening of all the ties that had seemed to bind her. As she was unburdening herself to Trixie, it was as though the puppet master who’d been in the shadows for so long had been banished, the strings he’d been holding had been cut and she’d morphed from marionette to real person, someone new and unblemished, someone who had nothing to fear.

  Through the foggy bits in her mind come these recollections and she wonders whether, were she to tell Boyd about her past, she’d feel this same sense of being reborn. Would she, could she ever dare to?

  She’d once read somewhere that it’s harder to share your secret with someone than it is for that someone to hear it. And whoever it was, was right. There’s that moment when the words are out in the air and can’t be unspoken and are preparing to fall and then when they do, there is that moment when the person listening decides what to do with the information and nine times out of ten, it doesn’t change anything. Trixie and she will go on as usual, just like she and Vita are. By unburdening herself the way she did, she hasn’t burdened either of them, of this she is sure, but Boyd is another matter altogether. No, she will never be able to risk him knowing. He is looking at her with such love, such trust. She will do anything to keep both of these things.

  ‘I think you’d better take the day off today,’ Boyd says, as he takes a shirt from the wardrobe and starts unbuttoning it and slipping it from its hanger.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ Honey murmurs, having to close her eyes again. The room is not so much spinning now, but is rocking not-so-gently from side to side. She is aware of the cup of coffee he’s brought her, but the thought of drinking it makes her feel yet more nauseous.

  ‘As your boss, I insist.’ Boyd is putting on the shirt as he says this and she watches the way the material covers the flesh of him and finds that tears have sprung unbidden to her eyes. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ he asks, picking out a tie.

  ‘Nothing. But maybe you’re right. I’ll stay home for now. Maybe I’ll come in later.’

  ‘No, take the whole day. Sleep it off, take a bath. We’ll do something nice this evening, OK?’

  She can’t quite fathom how he’s really feeling. His voice is still gentle and kind and he could be thinking this amusing rather than sinister and yet …

  … yet she notices a tension and wariness in his shoulders as he moves around the room that she’s not sure she’s seen before.

  But she’s too sleepy and hungover to think about this too deeply and so she gives in to it and eases herself back down the bed. He comes over and arranges the duvet around her.

  ‘I’ll see you later, love,’ he says
and then he kisses her on the forehead and leaves the room, quietly clicking the door behind him.

  Honey dozes. The room fills with the musty scent of sleep, dust and hangover and, when eventually she wakes, the light behind the curtains tells her it’s around midday. She yawns and stretches and tries to move her head. It’s feeling better and, in the distance, she hears the sound of Vita climbing the stairs. She holds her breath. She hadn’t expected Vita to be home today.

  Then there’s a knock on the bedroom door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Vita doesn’t, but just pops her head around it instead.

  ‘Came to ask if you needed anything,’ she said, her tone brusque and business-like.

  ‘Oh, that’s really kind of you. I’d love a cup of coffee. I couldn’t face the one Boyd brought me earlier.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I’m only asking because Boyd rang me and told me to.’

  And she’s gone, her footsteps retreating down the stairs: clump, clump, clump. There is nothing ambiguous or subtle about Vita sometimes and it often puzzles Honey as to how the brushstrokes on her paintings can be so beautiful and delicate.

  Honey burrows back under the duvet and listens to the sounds of Vita moving about downstairs. There’s a knock on the front door and Honey hears voices. Vita’s talking to another woman, their words rise and fall but Honey can’t make out what’s being said. For a moment she thinks whoever it is must have gone because there’s been a period of silence, but then the voices start up again – some murmurings, followed by a sharp laugh and then the front door closes again and it’s quiet.

  It’s odd but she hasn’t been lazy like this for ages. In the old days she wouldn’t think twice about staying in bed all morning, but recently, the new her – the her who is with Boyd – has been driven and focussed and organised. She’s liked this new version.