The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

  The pub had called last orders, so we staggered into the night air. At the hotel I sneaked in the Staff Only door, following you down the corridor. You were staying in one of the bedrooms that came with the job. I’d lived in one myself once, and it was strange to be on the staff corridor again, the brown nylon carpet snagging underfoot.

  You were drunk. At the pub you had downed five pints in rapid succession, so your key slid as you tried to find the lock, but I didn’t offer to help.

  Eventually you managed to open the door and find the light switch, throwing your keys and wallet on the bedside table. The small room was a mess, although the dingy flowered light shade barely shed enough light to see much. It was littered with pizza boxes and kebab wrappers. I kicked a can, spilling final dregs of lager onto the floor. You frowned, as if suddenly seeing the room through my eyes. There was nowhere to sit other than the bed. It was unmade: a bunched-up duvet, a crumpled under-sheet, and I resisted the urge to straighten it. As you reached to switch on the CD player a pile of clothes got knocked to the floor. I bent to pick them up.

  “Don’t.”

  I froze.

  “I don’t want you to do that.”

  I righted myself, waiting as you collected your jeans and shirts, piling them back up.

  “I need a coffee. You?”

  I nodded. My voice had deserted me since I entered your room, and I was glad when you left, listening to your padding feet down the corridor to the communal kitchen.

  I breathed in and the smell was delicious. The heat from the boiler pipes warmed the room, intensifying the smell of you. I was used to the aroma of a kitchen and could smell orange and basil from your aftershave, but underneath the earthy scent of sweat. I gingerly found a way to the bed, where the smell was strongest, neatened the duvet and sat on the edge. I bent low over the pillow, and saw fine gold threads of lost hair. I wanted to wind one around my finger.

  I looked around, greedy to find out who you were: a guitar with a broken string, a portable CD player with a scattering of discs beside it, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels with a stub of candle pushed in the neck. The only things in the room that made it yours, along with a few bits of clothing and a razor on the enamel sink. Everything else was rubbish, newspapers and cans. Your wallet was on the bedside table, with your keys. I picked up the wallet and opened it. Inside was a clear plastic window, meant for a driving licence or credit card. But you had a photo. A blonde woman, pretty and delicate, wearing a white dress, clutching a bouquet. Wide, hazel eyes, and a full smile, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. Emma.

  Hearing the kitchen door bang, I returned the photo and positioned the wallet. I thought about how I must look, nervously perched on your bed. Would you wonder why you’d invited me? I must look desperate, asking for it. The travel clock on the floor said it was nearly midnight. You came in holding two mugs, handing me the one with the chip.

  “The milk smelt funny, so it’s black.”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I blew on the steam, knowing I wouldn’t drink it anyway. My stomach was in knots. You put on a CD, some bluesy music, and sat on the bed next to me, your shoulders hunched as you sipped coffee.

  “I should be going, Jason.”

  “What about your drink?”

  I took a gulp and the near-boiling water burned my tongue.

  “I’ll walk you home.” You sounded reluctant.

  “No need. I always walk home alone after my shift.”

  “Yeah, but it’s midnight.”

  I stood, wanting to escape, to breathe easy, to be alone, but I also wanted to be with you. You took off your jumper, the T-shirt underneath was tight on your body. You weren’t going to walk me home, then. You rubbed your eyes. “Christ, I’m done in.”

  I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I walked home alone.

  18

  You’d only arrived in Suffolk a few months earlier and had no friends in the area. I wondered why you didn’t go back to Newcastle but was afraid to ask. Even though I knew you must still love Emma, I didn’t want to hear about her. Didn’t want to hear you say that you hoped she’d come back to you. Didn’t want to think about that photo you carried in your wallet.

  We went to see a Bond movie at The Palace, the two-screen cinema in Felixstowe, a crumbling place where a weathered woman still offered tea or coffee on a tray before the main feature. You took a sideways glance at me. “From the ark, isn’t it?”

  “I like it.”

  The Palace was never more than a quarter full. There were only a handful of people watching the film, a group of teenage boys at back, and us. Once the light came down, I could hardly focus on James Bond, fixated instead by your bare arm leaning on the armrest between us, your long legs stretched out in front. Though facing forward, my eyes flicked sideways to your splayed limbs, your fidgety hands. I was like a schoolgirl, daring to imagine your hand on my thigh. I shuffled lower in my seat, pretending to concentrate, when all my thoughts buzzed to you. It was ninety minutes of torture.

  “Nightcap, pet?”

  “Great. The Grosvenor?”

  “No. My room.”

  This time the room was tidy. The bed was made, clothes hidden, CDs in a pile. A bottle of red wine stood waiting, with two mismatched glasses. You knew I’d come back with you. Oh God, please let me do this right.

  I was a freak. A 28-year-old virgin with a lanky body and breasts like half-risen pastry. I was odd, but then my life had been odd. My best friend was a 70-year-old widow and the only boy who ever fancied me was creepy Alfie.

  You uncorked the wine, an expensive bottle that had come from the hotel cellar, and poured, downing a glass before handing me mine. Your stained mouth was tight as you re-filled the glass. The warm alcohol hit my curdling stomach, tasting like medicine, and I felt sick. Pressing play on the CD player, the same music as before, you sat next to me, close enough for me to see the stubble on your chin, the patch of freckles on the bridge of your nose. I wanted you to touch me, but I was so afraid. My feet felt itchy, ready to take flight. I crossed then recrossed my legs before standing.

  “I think I’d better go, Jason.”

  I got my jacket from the floor, checked my keys in my pocket. In seconds I was at the door, my hand opening the latch, nearing safety, turning to say goodbye, when you were there, in front of me, too close. I was backed to the door, when your hand slapped against it, slammed it closed.

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  You came closer, your breath in my mouth. I could feel your heat, my own temperature soaring. The kiss was full and fierce, your tongue quickened in my mouth as your hands stroked my neck, over my back, under my top. I felt like you were falling on me, crushing me, and I was glad, hardly coming up for air.

  You pulled away, steadied yourself, and opened the door. It was time for me to leave. It was over. I looked at your downcast face, saw your eyes slide away.

  “See you tomorrow?” I begged.

  You shrugged, nudged me into the corridor and left me standing in front of a closed door.

  The next day you didn’t show up at work. At first I thought maybe you’d just switched shifts, or that you were too hungover, but when you didn’t show the following day I knew something was wrong. I’d lost you. The opportunity had slipped through my grip. You had gone. You had left me. It was my fate to be alone.

  I made mistakes in the kitchen, cut my finger on a paring knife, sliced meat into vegetarian meals. Eventually Chef threw down his tea towel. “What is it, Rose? You’ve been a klutz all day. It’s not like you.”

  I chewed my nail. “For God’s sake!” he yelled, ripping my hand away from my mouth, “whatever it is, don’t come back until it’s sorted.”

  I left the kitchen, heading into the main part of the hotel where some guests were checking in. The receptionist was busy handing a key to a man in a morning suit, and I ducked through the door that led to the staff accommodation. The nylon carpet crackled under my feet as I walked past an open bedroom do
or, where two waitresses leaned out of the window, smoking and laughing. Someone was in the communal kitchen, bent over a cereal bowl, but it wasn’t you.

  Your door was shut and I stood listening to the silence. I leaned my forehead against it, and, without hope, I lifted my knuckles to the door and tapped lightly. No response. Panic rose in my throat. I would never see you again.

  I rapped louder, the blows of my fist matching the beat of my heart.

  “Jason? Jason? Jason. Please. Jason.” Several doors opened along the corridor, but I couldn’t stop, my voice getting louder and louder.

  When you flung open the door I nearly fell in. You stood, naked except for a hand towel held around your waist, bleary eyed from sleep. “Christ, Rose. Where’s the fire?”

  I pushed past, diving into darkness. I was shaking, as you called down the corridor, “it’s okay, everyone. It’s fine.” Then you closed the door and turned back to me.

  “What’s up?”

  I stood still, trying to control my breathing. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  You sauntered sleepily back to bed, dropping the towel on the floor as you slid under the duvet, pulled it high to your cheek and yawned. “I’m knackered. I didn’t get to bed till 5.”

  You closed your eyes. The room was warm and dim, cocooning us. I knelt on the floor beside the bed, my face close to yours.

  “I thought you’d gone away. When you didn’t show up for work . . .”

  You didn’t open your eyes. “Yeah, well. I’ll say I was ill.”

  “Why haven’t you been at work?”

  “I was with Emma.”

  My chest felt tight. “Are you back with her?”

  “It was only while her bastard husband was at work. After we’d slept together she kicked me out. Bitch.” You rubbed your face into the pillow. “Last night my heart hurt and this morning my head hurts.”

  “I would never throw you out, Jason,” I said.

  You looked up from the pillow. Your hand snaked out of the duvet, tugging my arm. “Come here.”

  Awkwardly, I joined you under the duvet. You pressed into my back, and I felt sweat on my palms. Through my jeans I could feel the contours of your knee, your thigh. Your mouth heated the skin under my collar. “You’d never leave me, pet?”

  “Never.”

  Your hand moved to the buttons of my shirt, unpeeling me. You unhooked my bra, pulled it away, so I was loose and exposed. Your mouth explored my breasts. You nuzzled my nipples, sending shivers through me. My stomach contracted as your hand found the zip of my jeans, tugging and pulling until I helped you fling them off. You rolled me onto my back and stroked my hips, your mouth travelling low to the waistband of my knickers, a wet line where your tongue traced the elastic.

  My hand cradled your head as I felt your tongue lick my inner thigh, desperate for you to carry on but desperate for you to stop. You released me from the thin cotton, your mouth following your hands.

  I went to an unknown place, somewhere above, and thought of nothing, but felt—oh, how I felt—every particle in my brain begging me to stop as my body gave itself to you totally. My heart and mind were hypnotised, seduced. I saw the soft shades of the rainbow.

  Soon, you were rising above me, supported by your forearms as you lowered yourself down and into me. It hurt and I sucked air, tensed against the motion of you. A new stinging, an aching fullness.

  I listened to your breathing, your guttural grunts as I realised you were about to orgasm. Then, after your shuddering release, you collapsed on top of me.

  I held you tight, kissing the damp nape of your neck, saying your name over and over. “Jason, Jason. I love you, Jason. Say you love me, Jason.”

  You closed your eyes and whispered, “Oh, Emma.”

  You missed work again and got sacked. So you packed your few belongings into a carrier bag and came to live with me.

  We never spoke about you saying Emma’s name. Nor did I tell you about it being my first time. But you must have known. And I knew I loved you, but you loved Emma.

  19

  I’m in my cell, lying on the bed.

  Janie is with me, her head resting on my shoulder, and we’re sharing a joint. She’s listening carefully, as I read the latest letter from her father. She doesn’t read well, and his letters show that he’s barely literate himself. The lined sheet is covered with disjointed sentences and misspelled words, some thickly scribbled out by black biro. Thankfully, they’re always brief.

  In two months Janie will be released, and the education staff have realised that she’s not equipped to deal with life on the out. To try and prepare her, they’ve organised day release for her to attend a course in basic literacy and numeracy at the further education college in Ipswich. She hates it, but she goes obediently, on the train, across town on a bus, to sit and learn lessons she should have done a decade ago. “How are the classes going?”

  She grimaces like a child forced to swallow medicine. “It’s so hard, Rose,” she says, “but my teacher’s nice. I’m allowed to wait in the classroom during break, ’cos I don’t like to mix with the other students. Miss Reed has a kettle and a jar of coffee in her desk, and we sit and have a drink together. Sometimes she brings chocolate biscuits.”

  Typical, Janie has become teacher’s pet.

  “How difficult would it be,” I ask, “for you to take a little detour? Into Ipswich, I mean. A bus ride away from the college.”

  “Easy,” she boasts. “Last week when I got to the train station, I nipped into McDonald’s and spent my bus fare on a Chicken Deluxe. I hadn’t had one for months and it was lush. I had to walk to the college, and I was nearly an hour late, but Miss Reed didn’t say a word. She didn’t even call the prison to rat on me.”

  Janie is such a child that she gets away with light monitoring. Everyone is fooled by her stupidity. That will be useful to me.

  I turn my attention to her dad’s letter, and begin to read.

  As usual he makes excuses for not visiting her, claiming poverty and distance as the reasons. In the next sentence he’s telling her about his holiday to Spain. Sometimes I skip bits that I think will hurt, protecting Janie. I make other stuff up: “I hope you’re being a good girl,” I improvise, “and remember that I love you.” It’s a small gift, but she’s pleased. I don’t think a lie is wrong if it brings happiness.

  I fold the letter back into a square, slip it into the scruffy envelope, and hand it back. Janie clasps it to her girlish chest. I touch my joint to her lips and tell her to breathe deep, which she does. She coughs, pushes the spliff away. I stroke her head back into my lap, playing with her mousy hair.

  “There, there, lovely,” I murmur. This is when I like her best. She pulls her knees to her stomach and closes her eyes as I take a long drag, allowing the drug to leaden my limbs. “Your daddy loves you,” I tell her. “He’ll visit soon.”

  “No. He won’t,” she says, surprising me with her insight. “But I don’t care.” She looks up, eyes wet. “No one’s ever taken care of me like you, Rose. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

  “But we’re in prison.”

  She brings her head to my shoulder. Her breath warms my neck. “I’d rather be here with you than free and on my own.”

  I let her nuzzle my neck like a puppy, her slim arms sliding around my waist. What a sad life it is if you’d choose this over freedom. I kiss her head, smelling the cheap prison-issue soap. Janie would do anything I asked. Such love is a gift indeed.

  This is what I’ve become, a scheming creature. I have to plan for the parole board, behave well and answer questions in a calculated way. I don’t recognise the girl I once was. How naïve I used to be.

  I look at myself in the mirror and I look old. Although I’m still quite young, I feel ancient. Prison has aged me, it’s made me cynical. Ugly places make people do ugly things. So do ugly experiences. Do you think beautiful places lead to goodness? Remember Felixstowe beach, white shingle and yawning blue skies that make you
ache, they’re so perfect. Remember the warm air breathing over our faces. We were happy, weren’t we?

  Prisons are the ugliest places on this planet. All grey concrete and steel. The clangs and clicks, shouts and screams, doors banging, the locks and keys. It’s always cold. A bad place crammed with women who’ve done bad things. And the workers, who chose to be here, locked away with the rest of us, even if they do hold the keys.

  I wonder what made Cate Austin want to be imprisoned. Not that she’ll ever tell me since her job is to get me to talk. She’s a listener. A judge.

  She buttons herself down to keep herself strong. Even though she lives outside the walls she doesn’t bring the season in with her like other staff do. And though she can choose what she wears, she wears similar clothes every day, a uniform of navy jacket and white shirts, dark trousers. She stands apart from the others, the teachers and psychologists. Her hair is cut at an angle into a bob, which she scrapes back behind her ears. It’s the colour of autumn and could be pretty.

  I need to know more about her to influence my report. She keeps her cards close to her chest but sometimes she let’s one slip. Her blind panic, for instance, when her daughter was hurt, how she ran to the door, forgetting everything, a part of her that she would prefer to keep hidden. Vulnerability. We’re both careful about what we hide, what we reveal. She has a job to do, a reputation to keep. She has to draw me out, know when to pounce. But the prize I play for is freedom. For me the stakes are higher. I’m playing for my life.