I woke up at what must have been little over two hours later because the first thing I noticed was that it was darker outside. My second thought was that it was darker because the window was being blocked from view. At first I wasn’t sure what I saw, until my eyes finally opened properly and I found that it was Gregory stood over me, blocking the light. I had slumped down in my chair and I began to push myself up.
“Gregory,” I breathed, as I felt his hand against me. He was running the tip of his finger across my shoulders, circling it across my breast bone, teasing me that he was going to trace all the way down to my nipples. He was grinning. I shot round, looking towards the door. Shut.
“Already thought of that,” he said, and for a moment I got a glimpse of the cheeky face that I first encountered, the one that wanted me, that desired me. Slowly his tracing got harder. One finger, two fingers, then a squeeze, a flick of the nipple, and I felt myself flush. I was aware of the blood rush between my legs and in the time it took for me to complete one breath I was awake and scared. Scared that he would touch me and not find what he wanted. Scared that I couldn’t compare to Ishiko. Scared that his body wouldn’t remember mine and the awkwardness would last beyond the moments of physical connection.
He pushed his hand up my jumper and reached out for my bra, pulling at it until I was exposed. He ripped up my jumper and squeezed at my left breast, awkwardly falling out because the bra is too small now with the swelling of pregnancy. It hurts as he squeezes me and I can’t help but wince, but he mistakes this as a good sign and so it does nothing but encourage him. His other hand was fumbling at my face, his fingers pushing in and out of my lips like some sort of orgy, none of which were delicate or careful. I licked him back and he got more excited and pushed his thumb into my mouth until the rest of his hand was pushing against my cheek and my head was turned into the chair so that I could no longer see him, but instead just the door. My head was throbbing, my scar pulsating.
It only took him a second to flip me over, and the intrusive hand that was once in my mouth is now behind my head. I could taste the cushion. Lavender. Old lavender. It left dust on my mouth and my tongue. He undid my trousers quite expertly with one hand and shuffled them down. Within seconds it was over and I felt his weight on my hips. He stroked my face. Once. I heard him zip up his trousers. He sniffed a lot. His nose was runny. I remember as I watch him pull a handkerchief from his pocket that is was always runny after sex. I feel his hand on my back. It wasn’t loving or erotic. It was a signal that we had finished.
When I wake up on my bed it is 6:33 PM. I woke up smiling because in spite of what had happened earlier being anything less than satisfying Gregory was here again. He was alive. I could smell him on me. The world was good. I woke because Gregory opened the door. He was virtually ready, wearing his suit, with only a tie to arrange. I was wearing only pants and my necklace.
“Charlotte, it’s time to wake up. Time for a shower.” He looked away as if embarrassed. He stayed in the shadows and as soon as I was awake he was gone and the door was closed again.
I did as he said and stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water. It ran powerfully and loud. I left it to run for a minute or so whilst I stared at my used body in the mirror. I was good again, valuable. I was good for him and good for the baby. It was a body of worth, of pleasure, of the future. It had purpose other than to bleed and to die. It was only after several minutes of evaluation that I noticed the plughole was blocked and that the water was pooling in the shower tray. I turned off the water and found my rubber gloves from underneath the sink. I gave a quick poke at the plug hole but I couldn’t see anything stuck in it. In the few inches of water that had pooled in the tray there were a few hairs swimming freely, and a few that had floated up but remained attached to something beyond the drain. I couldn’t shower like this.
After wiping the gloves with a disinfectant wipe and placing them back in the Ziploc bag from which I took them and washing my hands with the vigour you would expect from me, I wrap the towel around me, enveloping my precious body and open my bedroom door. I could hear the telephone ringing on the hallway table. Nobody was answering it. Between rings there was another noise. A familiar noise, but foreign at the same time. It was a noise I had never heard before, but yet knew what it was. The song of a new bird, most definitely bird, undoubtedly avian, but nothing my ears have previously documented. The phone stopped. The birds sang. There were two. One I knew. One was new.
The door to Ishiko’s room was open. Ajar. Enough to hear somebody coming. I heard knocking growing louder and faster, and the familiar sounds of Gregory’s grunting grew in strength with each step I took and with each grunt I heard. Avoiding the creaky floorboard I arrived outside the door. I peered in and saw them for the first time in reality rather than in my mind, visible in the reflection of the wall mirror. She was sat on the dresser, her skinny legs wrapped around his soft naked flesh. His face was in her chest, her neck, over her arms, her cheeks. His tongue was out licking at her like a cat. One arm looked like it was gripping her hips against his, and another hand was on her breast. All the while I was stood there only a meter away from them his hips were moving backwards and forwards and in rhythm with his grunting. She was facing me but her eyes were closed – I think – and her head was tilted backwards. He was fucking her like he had never fucked me. I don’t know how long I was there for. Minutes, seconds. Could have been hours. That’s how it felt.
I left for the fear that they would hear my own heart beat which was threatening to tear through my chest. I forgot the creaky floorboard and as I stepped onto it I woke from my trance and I ran to my room and closed my bedroom door behind me like a scared child shutting out the world. Like I was in the wrong. My hands were over my ears, except for the odd occasion when my knuckles reached up and struck themselves against my forehead. My skin tingled from top to bottom. My skin trembled on top of my bones like a fibrillating heart. I wretch. I swallow it. He must have heard the creaky floorboard because I hear that the singing has stopped. There is silence. I discard my towel and get in the shower irrespective of the water in the tray and the hairs and one of them wraps itself around my big toe like a noose so I start counting in my head maybe out loud but I cannot be sure but each number is met by a different image of them together flashing before me and I only get to twenty one seconds before he opens the bathroom door and he is fully dressed but his shirt is a little bit dishevelled and his hair is a mess because what is usually slicked over into a nice neat side parting has worked its way loose and he has.....
“Charlotte, can you hear me?" I look up, see his lips moving, and try to concentrate. "Everything OK?” he says, a cheery little bird with a smile sweet as acid.
“Why shouldn’t it be?” I am standing completely still, still wearing my pants, water cascading over me. I can feel it trickling into my mouth and it tastes like blood.
“I thought I heard you call me?”
“No.” My face was covered in water. If I am crying, of which I have no idea if I am or not, my tears would have been camouflaged and he wouldn’t see them.
“Oh, OK.” He slackened off the door handle which I can see he is gripping very tightly. Something catches his attention on the other side of the wall behind him. He only moves his eye lids a fraction, but it’s enough for me to notice and enough for me to realise that she has followed him. His knuckles are white, the bones almost piercing through his skin. “Well, hurry up, we have to be leaving soon.” He closes the door behind him. I was alone again.
I washed. Everywhere. Everything. I covered myself in shower gel. Inside and out. I even drank a bit and then decided it was bad for the baby so made myself sick. I dried. Got dressed. I did my make-up. I put my hair behind my ears. Side parting. I wore a blue dress. Long shift dress. It’s my favourite, Gregory tells me. I put black shoes on. Stilettos. Pointed like weapons. I walk down the stairs. Gregory is standing there. He is wearing his coat waiting. Ishiko holds mine. I stop and sta
re at her. I can smell her. She smells of sweat. Of sex. Of Lavender. Of him. I now know he fucked her over that same chair. Where I sit. Where I slept. Where he groped me. Where I was the warm up show. How many times I have been out and they have been alone. I cannot count them.
“Come on,” he says, urging me on in a kind of irritated fashion, spastic and seizure like, but I can sense a degree of apprehension. I don’t say anything.
I take my coat from Ishiko never once ceasing to look at her. She doesn’t look at me. I wear it. She hands me my gloves. I follow him out of the door. I turn back. I stare at Ishiko. I don’t care what she has that I do not. I don’t care about her at all. He sits in the car and starts the engine. He opens the door of the car and leans his head out of it and shouts, “Come on, Charlotte.” She realises that I am staring and politely bows her head away. I close the door behind me. I get in the car. He smiles. I smile. We both lie. We embrace the falsity of our lives.
One of them has to die. No. I'm going to kill them both.
Chapter twelve
We are late arriving at the fundraiser. We have travelled the five minutes distance to The Sailing Club in silence, the only exchange between us the occasional false smile. At one point I considered grabbing the steering wheel and ploughing our car through the hedgerows and plunging it into the lake. I envisioned the whole scenario in my head; taking hold of the wheel and pulling it towards me, striking the bushes, the bumping and banging as the car rocked over the uneven surface, and then the silence of hitting the water, all to a soundtrack of him screaming to let him go. I imagine his hands fumbling about over the handle of the door, or maybe the button to open the window, but he cannot escape because I am gripping his arms as the car sinks beneath the surface. I doubt I would be strong enough to hold him for long, and I have already decided that my initial plan is foiled. There is no way of overpowering him. He would correct the car and we would remain on the road. Those big hands would grip the wheel and push me away like a stray cat and we would arrive at the fundraiser with him certain of my craziness and angry because of such an obvious display of it. He would have Dr. Abrams on the phone before the night was out, and I no doubt would end up back in a bed with cot sides and a nurse to keep me company.
So we travelled in silence which, although short, gave me some time for consideration. It didn’t take me long to establish that not only was my idea of crashing the car flawed, my initial plan was also unsuitable. Kill him, and then kill her? Then what? Raise our child alone? I would spend my whole life alone in that house with nothing for company other than a baby. I would be driven crazy, OK, crazier, and eventually the child would grow up and leave as screwed up as I am now and I would be left with nothing for company except the old crumbling walls of Windermere Grove.
We arrive at the entrance to The Sailing Club and somebody has done a nice job. The air is as crisp as fresh linen, and the bay trees at the entrance are decorated with fairy lights which look so romantic it makes me think of a Shakespearian love story. Gregory reaches down for my hand but my fingers remain limp as he takes it in his hand. I cannot bring myself to hold his back, so instead I allow my hand to be held. We are back in public mode. A happy couple. I am sure that I can smell lavender. It’s warm in here and I undo the buttons of my shapeless wool blend coat which I apparently like. The fairy lights continue throughout the hallway and I can see them spreading across a trellis work on the ceiling and it appears that space has descended upon us and that the stars are there within touching distance. I want to enjoy the beauty that somebody has created tonight, but I cannot.
I see John Wexley up ahead and he waves to us. His wave is timid, and he is anxious about me, knowing that I have been collaborating with Marianne. He is wary of me because he has witnessed everything that has happened. He knows my friendship cannot be a simple offer. To him I will always be crazy and not to be trusted. Especially since I made friends with his mistress. That’s a risk. Girls talk about things, that’s what he will be thinking. Girls gossip and this woman is crazy, he will say to himself. It will have to be stopped. He knows Marianne is close to the edge already and the last thing he needs is a new best friend to make things worse. Craziness rubs off on people, that’s what he will say. It won’t be him that drove Marianne to take an overdose when the shit finally hits the fan. It will be my influence and my warped sense of right and wrong. I will be the one responsible. He will blame me. And he will be right to do so.
There is a swelling of blood collecting underneath my scalp and I am sure that it is bringing with it a headache. I attempt to pick my wound but I am still wearing my gloves and cannot get any leverage on the skin flap. Gregory notices and gives my hand a quick tug, as if he were bringing me into heel. Or heal. Maybe it's the same thing. “Not here,” he whispers, and a few drops of his spittle land on my cheek. Frantic, I wipe them away, repeating his words over and over, lip synching not here, not here, wondering how many germs he has managed to deposit on my face.
I spot the Lovells and the Calthorpes congregating at our table and Gregory pulls me along behind him. Only Dana is still buzzing about ensuring that all of her raffle tickets are sold. A waiter in a white shirt who is probably no older than twenty is serving flutes of champagne on a circular tray. He offers me one and I take it. He tries to leave but I say, “Excuse me.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Is there any lavender growing in here somewhere? Any table decorations with it in?” He looks around at anything that resembles a plant before looking back at me with an expression as vacant as a mannequin. Gregory can feel my resistance and he pulls on my arm a little harder.
“Charlotte, dear. Come on.” He gives me a tug and I feel my shoulder pull.
“Anything, come on,” I urge the waiter.
“Ur, I dunno sorry, I mean, I don’t know.” He looks at me as if he is thinking how weird old people are, and then turns to leave, his eyebrows raised in confused disbelief.
Almost everybody else is sitting and as we make our way through the crowd I feel a hand on my arm.
“Charlotte.” It is Stephen Jones of Stephen Jones Estates.
“Hello, Stephen,” I say. I feel a desperate urge to try and get away from him. I feel nothing good can come from a conversation between us. I haven’t seen him since I gave up my job.
“How have you been? Are you well?” We have arrived at our table. I have continued to walk and Stephen has followed. I have Gregory on one side, and John Wexley on the other. I scan the table but I don't find Mary.
“Yes, why shouldn’t I be?” I say.
“Well, we haven’t seen you all week.” I see that Gregory has heard. He is turning towards us.
“Of course you haven’t Stephen,” I say, smiling again, less false than in the car, but let’s just say I am not exactly happy at this little situation that is arising.
“You must have been busy. We have missed you in the office.” Lie.
“Ladies and Gentleman, take your seats please!” The owner of The Sailing Club is acting as compare, standing on a small wooden platform. I have seen the owner a few times since the day I came here and took Gregory’s boat and never brought it back. I make him very anxious. He knows accidents like that don’t happen. “Drinks will be served at your tables.”
“Stephen you should take your seat,” I say, trying to pull out my chair. Gregory has already sat down.
“OK,” he concedes, looking somewhat disappointed as he eyes up our table. “Make sure we see you this week, OK?”
“Of course, of course. I’ll pop in.”
He looks at me for just a fraction of a second longer than I find comfortable, and then says, “you look nice tonight.” I reach up and touch the pendant hanging around my neck, feeling suddenly conscious of my appearance as I watch him walk away. I sit, feeling bothered by the fact that I have promised to go to the office and wondering if I can just pretend this never happened.
The waiters bring trays of wine and champagne. I accept another
after realising that I have drunk the first. There is a moment of panic when I realise that I must have been drinking from the glass that they gave me because when I reach into my pocket I find the Ziploc bag and flute still in there and my headache is immediately worse so I reach inside my bag and pull out a disinfectant wipe and bring it up to my mouth to wipe my lips and the taste is medical and bitter and reminds me of the hospital but at least it is better than the thought of what might have been on that glass and when Gregory doesn’t flinch or make any comment I push the new glass away from me and Dana has joined us and she sits a space away from me and she is saying.....
“Charlotte, you look delightful tonight. Jemima doesn’t she look wonderful?” Dana always does this. Ever since the suicide attempt it is like it has become her personal mission to make me feel good. In her world everything is good if it looks good. If I know I look good, I must feel good, in her mind at least.
“Yes, you do Charlotte. You look well.” This is Jemima Calthorpe. She is quite the opposite to Dana. Dana’s compliments make you feel good, even if they are not always believable. Jemima’s always remind you of your flaws. To her I can’t look just nice. I have to look well, so that I remember at one point I didn’t. I don’t like her at all. She thinks of me as common, and I think of her as a bitch.
PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Page 13