I walk back through the house. It smells like Mrs. Wexley, old but clean, perfumed. I see that there are a series of photographs tipped on their fronts, frame legs sticking up in the air. Each one I discover is of Mrs. Wexley. Tipped over no doubt so that their lie remains unchallenged by her judgmental face. I stand each one back up, an advocate for the absent wife, and close the door behind me. I have enjoyed the afternoon. I know exactly what I want to do.
Chapter ten
I called John Wexley on his mobile when I got home and told him that Marianne was tucked up in bed after an afternoon of drinking. I told him that she seemed upset and had insisted on upturning all the images of Mrs. Wexley before I managed to get her to bed, which he seemed a bit surprised about. It was immediately obvious to me that he never knew they were facing down, and that she must have done it whilst she was alone in the house, erasing her from reality even if just for a while. Marianne must enjoy that time alone in the big house, when there are no whispers from reality to prevent her pretending that everything is hers. I wonder if she wears Mary's clothes.
In case you haven't realised yet, I have decided to use Marianne as a model for Ishiko, assuming that most mistresses are made of the same stuff. Before bed that night I super-glued the frames of our photographs to their respective bases, even the Scottish honeymoon photograph that sits on top of the 1925 Steinway and Sons baby grand piano in the drawing room. I knew that in doing so I would ruin the restored mahogany that somehow still smells like the warm winds that traverse the southern forests of Cameroon. But Ishiko can fuck herself if she thinks she can strip this house of me when I go out.
Unfortunately the next couple of days were spent in a delirium of vomit. The idea of an early morning walk and routine change was interrupted because it didn’t matter what I did, any movement, any food, all resulted in me throwing it back up. I spent most of the time in bed. Indeed that first night Gregory did venture back into our bedroom as I had requested and he slept alongside me as promised. When I woke him up at 4:00 AM with an urgent need to vomit he watched from a safe distance for a while, standing nearby whilst I threw up. But once I started the routine of rinsing and hand washing, a routine that on this occasion was incessantly interrupted by a repeated need to be sick, and I admit was never once completed from start to finish, he soon departed. The problem was that it was almost impossible to vomit without in some way touching the toilet. This understandably brought about the onset of tears, a headache like you wouldn’t believe, and utter conviction that there would be another seizure within the next half an hour if it didn’t stop. This is the point in time when he decided it best to leave, whilst mumbling to himself about how it was impossible to remain in close proximity to me.
After he left I decided to pick the wound on my head to ease the pressure, and I found not only blood, but also something green and slimy. It was a welcome distraction, although it smelt revolting enough to cause another episode of vomiting. I washed the wound in the shower and promised myself I wouldn’t pick it again. That is the story of how sleeping in the same room came to an end. On a positive note and by a sheer stroke of good luck he arrived in the guest bedroom to find the bed unmade, and afterwards I heard the creak of a floorboard as he stomped towards her bedroom. I heard him shouting at Ishiko for the lack of clean sheets dressing his bed. I was so tempted to poke my head out of the door to watch the scolding unfold, but instead I waited behind it, enjoying the acoustics of the old house before returning once more to the toilet to vomit. The guest door slammed and for the next two hours, before a fitful sleep took me, I heard nothing.
During my waking moments, punctuated by sporadic offerings of sleep filled with underworld dreams of Marianne sailing away with Wexley, or of Mary Wexley dying alone and painfully, I would think of Ishiko and Gregory together. I thought of them downstairs, pretending I wasn’t here, of them holding each other and of him stroking the blunt fringe that chops off the upper part of her face. I thought of his lips on her skin, soft and young, and tight. There were moments when I felt something other than anger, sometimes sorrow, despondency that she would win and I would be the one alone, perhaps in solitary confinement in this very room for the rest of my sorry life. Sorrow that he didn’t want me or the child inside of me. Other times lust would swell up inside of me and I would do shameful things to myself again, the picture of her burning me as I held it scrunched up in my free hand. Afterwards I would hold my stomach, cradle the tiny swelling in my palms and make promises that I couldn’t be certain to keep.
By Friday I was feeling better and I woke up surprisingly bright and nausea free at 7:38 AM. I rinsed as always and headed downstairs. I rather expected to find a scene of quiet, and in a way I did. What I expected was an empty conservatory, Gregory showering and Ishiko in the kitchen clearing, pretending they hadn’t spoken to each other or done anything with each other for the duration of my isolation. Gregory however was standing in the conservatory drinking coffee, gazing out at the lake as the sun rose, burning through the soft layer of silken mist that hovered over the surface of the still water. He was smiling. He turned to look at me, and still he was smiling.
“Good morning, darling.”
“Good morning,” I offer, confused at what I have stumbled into. I feel weak, and rough. I know my eyes are an ugly mixture of black shadows and red swelling, bloodshot, with the taste of bitter vomit in my mouth. The dry patch on my right hand is very itchy and the dryness is spreading towards my arm. I see my place is set for breakfast and there is food on the table.
“Today is a good day, Charlotte. Have you seen outside?” I gaze reluctantly in the direction of the lake. I am looking out onto a clear blue sky, an uninterrupted ocean of sky that seems wider than the deepest of canyons without a ripple or waft of cloud to disturb it. Grizedale forest is visible in the distance, the tree tops clear and green, their cover of grey lifted. I gaze right and see the Langdale Pikes in the distance, their snowy caps glistening under the winter glare. “Look at the beauty of the world, Charlotte. We have barely seen you all week with your sickness, but even you have risen on this fine morning. It is a sign.”
I am silent. I am not sure what answer is expected of me, and the pleasantries are disconcerting. I have already mentioned how unnerving unexpected friendliness can be. I was right. I force a smile to my lips and comment something banal. “Yes, the weather has changed.” In the background I can hear a concerto playing, Bach, if he has taught me as well as he believes.
“You are feeling better?”
“Yes.” I’m right, it’s concerto number three, G Major. Maybe it’s F major.
“You like the music?” He spots me trying to decide.
“Bach,” I say.
“Bravo,” all the emphasis on the O. “Bravo,” he says again. This spurs him on and he sets his coffee down on the table and walks over to me, one hand on the base of my back, the other on one of my wrists. “Come, sit down. Eat. You are weak, and as you are pregnant your nutrition is of greater importance to you now.” He guides me to my seat where I sit without resistance. I am looking up, staring at him, wondering who this imposter is. He has acknowledged the pregnancy, and for a moment I am stunned. I cannot say anything. There is a pause of long drawn out seconds that would span the width of the Nile delta before I feel able to say anything. I can see behind the chirpy smile there is still that ingrained worry about me that must to him now feel as natural as breathing.
“Yes.” It’s all I can manage. It satisfies him.
“Today, I have something to show you. Something good. You will like it. Eat, shower, dress. OK?” I nod, shielding my eyes from the intense low sun. “No,” he says, extending the word in a breathy coffee scented whisper, lingering over it the way he does Ishiko’s beauty. “Feel it. Feel it on your skin.” He takes my hand away and draws my eyes closed with a delicate raking of his chubby fingers across my lids. With the other hand he tilts my face towards the window, and I feel the heat as it travels through the glass,
no airflow inside to feather it away. The light burns at my eyes, but my cheeks warm up and I imagine them nipped and pink, as if I were sat next to a fire. To feel his hand on my face and the smile that I believe to be there is a treat in an otherwise difficult and scabrous life. I cannot help but smile myself. Naturally this time. I haven’t even tried.
He lets go and I open my eyes. He is watching me. What a morning it is. I have woken in a different time. I have woken on day one and perhaps this is the day when the first brick is laid, or the first drop of water escapes the frozen waterfall. “To feel the good, we must let go of the bad,” he says. “To see the beauty of the forest, we must first look beyond the expanse of the water.” It sounds like a metaphor, and for anybody else it would be. For me, it is a literal statement. A fact as sure as both life and my attempted death. He smiles again, and kisses me on the cheek. I think his fingers stroked my stomach but I cannot be certain. He might just have rested a napkin on my lap because when I look down there is one there. “Half an hour,” he says as he literally skips out of the door.
I eat a croissant after cutting it into small pieces with my knife and fork. I shower and dress as he suggests. Nausea threatens during the shower but I swallow it down. It is the first time I have looked in the mirror for the last two days. My hair seems to have grown, my fringe almost long enough to look like it was never a fringe. My face is a little chubbier perhaps, but it could just be the smiling. I realise I have barely given any thought to Marianne over the last two days, and now it is Friday and she will be leaving again. I must see her today. What I am wearing is irrelevant.
As I walk down the stairs he is waiting at the bottom. He is dressed in his winter coat, a long woollen trench that stops at the knee, unbelted and double breasted like a woollen tube. He is fixing his gloves and Ishiko stands beside him, his scarf in her hands ready.
“Come on, darling. Let’s go. Come on, come on.” In the background now I can hear Rachmaninoff’s second concerto and Gregory’s head is swaying in time, eeking out the last drops of pleasure in the music before we leave. He holds my coat and I make a half turn on the bottom step and he helps slide in my arms before turning me around and doing up my oversized buttons. “So?” he asks.
“So what?” I reply, uncertain of the question. He shakes his head towards the drawing room, a series of nods in the direction of the music.
“Any ideas?”
“Concerto number two,” I say shyly, eyes on the floor looking at his feet, or rather his shoes which are perfectly polished and shine like a mirror. He stares at me, his head coming in a little bit closer, waiting. “Rachmaninoff,” I complete. He smiles, his face in the air, eyes closed.
“That’s my girl.” He opens the door and the air gusts in as the leaves billow up like spray from a giant wave. It is biting cold, and as I reach for my scarf he is reaching for a woollen hat, which he insists I wear without uttering a single word. I oblige, and he takes my scarf from my hand and drapes it around my neck. I pull on my gloves. I am already beyond confused about where I have woken up, and to complicate matters further as he ushers me out of the door, he doesn’t even say goodbye to Ishiko.
* * *
“Many months ago, you gave me a wonderful idea,” he says as he parks up outside his hotel. “You told me that the hotel was a claustrophobic hole and that you couldn’t survive if you had to spend time there. You told me that the corridors were dark, obnoxiously tight I think were your words, oppressive, and that the new wing was like an extra limb, surgically attached.” He is smiling, somewhat unnaturally I might add, and he has the faintest touch of insanity about him, like he is trying too hard. “I thought perhaps it was just your mood, but,” he stopped and glanced at the hotel, taking in its corners and edges and mismatched angles which tell the story of two architects, two generations, and two completely different ideas, “but perhaps you were right.” I have no recollection of this conversation, but I agree entirely with what I said, if indeed I said it.
“So why did you bring me here?” In fact I am annoyed that he would bring me here if I actually said these things. It is quite a repulsive act of betrayal, and my earlier pleasure is fast slipping though my fidgety gloved fingers.
“Because, my darling, things have changed. There is indeed still a lot more to change, but we have made a start.” I do not know if he is referring to me, us, or the hotel. “I want to show you how I have corrected those problems. So that we can spend time here together. It was a plan born before our hardships. Before you did what you did.” His eyes dip into his lap, and for a second or so I can see that he cannot bring himself to look at me in this moment because my very face reminds him of what he has endured. In this instant, as I see the shadows beneath his eyes, the dropped shoulders, and the overwhelming effort that he seems to be making I wonder if it is unfair of me to begrudge him his moments with Ishiko. In this moment I wonder whether it would be fairer to just let him enjoy that easy time, when the woman who is there with him smiles back, when she doesn’t ask anything in return, and when he can predict her actions with a degree of certainty. Perhaps he needs this time out, and that this is the very glue that holds us together. I consider this, but I realise with little effort that I cannot and could not tolerate such vulgarity in my life and if this is what he needs, he better fucking learn how to need me instead.
“Now I think,” he stops to correct himself, realising from experience that he shouldn’t make predictions about what I will think or feel, “I hope, that you feel more comfortable here.” Before I can answer he has opened the door and he is getting out of the car. I watch him walk past the front of the bonnet, and he peers in, tapping his knuckles on the car as if to urge me on, beckoning me out.
As I walk through the hotel I realise that I haven’t been here since the day I attempted to take my life, the incident for which everybody consoled Gregory and commented what a terrible accident it really was. These same people I am sure must have discussed in private that accidents like that simply do not happen. I am an interesting sight to them now, the one who came back from the dead. I am the one who has seen beyond our little world, the traveller who returned home with tales of far off lands before people realised there was a world beyond their own. I am the one who has embraced and seen that which we all fear, the loss of life, death, the end. People pretend that they are all living, and that death has no business to bother them. They do not want to believe that in reality we are all dying one step at a time since the moment of our birth. We pretend to ourselves that we are growing, that we are flourishing, and that death will call to us only once we reach our final path. They do not want to accept that every step we take is part of a journey towards the inevitable.
But there are those of us who can feel the call of those already departed, the bewildered souls who float between the real and spiritual worlds. It is especially true for those like me, who sank beneath the surface with the intention to embrace a watery death, to be willingly pulled under by the vengeful ghosts of those who drowned in the same water in years gone by. They knew that I already belonged to them, that I was an escapee, ready to be brought home. They promised me a quiet death, quick and suffocating. They knew that I was ready, and I knew it too. Yet still I find myself here, living and breathing. I came back like a living ghost, bringing something with me from the other side as if I had been marked by death. I live as an apparition, moving furniture, providing chills along the spine, gluing down photographs. I never really escaped. I am still drowning. Every day I splutter through life, choking. Now, under loves heavy burden do I sink. They should have left me to it, because at least now it would be over.
A woman in the restaurant spots us and stops what she is doing to walk towards us. She is holding out her hands as if we have been reunited, the best of friends, or mother and daughter.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she says reaching her arms around me and kissing me on the cheek. I try to respond but the hug I offer in return is weak in nature, half hearted.
“Charlotte, look at you.” She grabs at me without any hesitation, with no formality. I wonder if we were close before my brief departure and that perhaps I have forgotten about her, that I lost our friendship underneath the waves and that it is floating around down there with so many other things of mine which were precious and that were taken from me. “It is good to see you looking so well. Look at you!” She stands back to admire me, and I smile without encouragement as she regards what a wonderful example I am. Gregory too is smiling, a sort of nervous pride washes over him, and he looks abashed. It’s as if somebody is praising his own creation, which I suppose in many ways I am.
“Thanks,” I say, eyes down, infected by embarrassment as she puts her hand up to my face and strokes my cheek. I feel electricity between us and feel an inconsolable need to reach out and touch her back. I can feel my hand flickering at my side and I think she notices it to because she reaches down for it and rubs at it with both hands. Even through my gloves she feels warm.
PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Page 10