Not Without You

by Harriet Evans

  ‘I am so glad to hear that.’ He tugs my knickers off. I’m not wearing a bra. I’m naked underneath the loose cotton shift and corset, my hair free from its wig, tousled and longer than it has been for ages, my shoulders bare. He puts his hands round my waist, staring at me in delight. ‘What an unexpected treat this is going to be,’ he says, as we climb onto the bed. I laugh. ‘I’m going to enjoy every inch of you, Sophie, and I hope you return the favour.’ He pulls my hand down to his crotch, and rocks his erection against me. I kiss his neck, smiling into his skin, because it just feels lovely to have someone again, and it’s him, it’s Alec, it’s – just great.

  It’s nearly seven by the time we fall asleep curling together, my head on his chest, his arms around me, and then half an hour or so later I’m woken as he pushes me aside and rolls to the other side of the bed, where he lies on his back, his hands clasped together on his breast bone, like a prince on a medieval tomb. I stare blearily at him, and then drift off again and sleep like the dead, until a noise wakes us and we’re up again.

  I’d forgotten, when we were together that summer so long ago, that I’d roll against him so hopefully, and he’d always leap out of bed in the mornings. He never wanted sex then, though I always did. The one thing George had in his favour was that he wanted sex. Most of the time. In fact, that’s – yes, that’s the one thing we had in common.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ I say, holding the duvet open.

  ‘No fear, you’ll just clamp your woman muscles around me and I’ll never get free,’ he says, leaning over and kissing me. ‘Besides, look at the time. It’s nearly eleven.’

  I lie back grumpily. ‘But we didn’t go to sleep till seven. It’s fine. They’re letting us sleep in. Sara isn’t coming to wake me till midday.’

  Alec is tying his dressing gown, a blue silk affair with a nice purple weave to it, tightly around him. ‘Well – but we don’t want to lose the rhythm of the day.’

  He wants to get rid of me. Of course. I have to get out of here before he thinks I’m begging him to let me stay. Poor Alec – I sneak a look at him. He’s rattled. He’s worried I’m going to start crying and telling him I want his babies, because all women fall for him: Eloise the poised French epitome of elegance; Helen the bouncy unguarded runner; even Margaret the pensioner tour guide at Anne Hathaway’s cottage – they all fall for him, because they know he’s bad news in some way, but he’s curiously comforting at the same time, unthreatening. Why? I’m dangerously close to being that person too, I realise.

  I sit up and ruffle my hair in what I hope is a cool, unbothered fashion. ‘Actually, darling, I need to speak to Artie anyway,’ I say, ignoring the fact that it’s three a.m. in LA. ‘Can you do me a favour?’ I stretch and yawn. ‘I’d better get back, but I don’t want to do the walk of shame in this.’ I hold up the Elizabethan shift. ‘Would you mind slipping along to my room and grabbing some clothes? Jeans and a T-shirt, they’re both in that cupboard on the left as you go in.’

  Alec is torn between laziness and relief. ‘Sure,’ he says, relief getting the better of him. ‘Let me just put my dressing gown on. Give me the key.’

  After he’s gone I lie back again, rubbing myself luxuriantly against the sheets. It’s lovely being here with him, it’s lovely feeling someone else’s skin on mine, someone inside me, someone I love as much as Alec. In fact, it’s a lovely day. Everything is good. I reach over to my bag and take out my BlackBerry, turn it on, scroll through my emails on the achingly slow Wi-Fi.

  Then the phone messages start loading, and buzzing as I hold the phone in my hand. One after the other.

  ‘Sophie, where are you? It’s been two hours now since the last one … call me, this is Artie.’

  ‘Sophie dear, it’s Tony. Would you call us? We’d love to know that you’re all right. I’m sure you are – just be good to have it confirmed! Ah – if you could. Just call. Please. I don’t know if you’ve been back to your room yet, but please don’t – it’s a maniac. I’m sure you can’t have been.’

  I jump out of bed, pull on the white towelling robe that hangs on the back of the door, and race down the corridor, around the corner. There’s a crowd of people, a policeman looking like an outrider in a fluorescent tabard and black jacket, a rumbling walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder. ‘She’s here,’ he says briefly, as he sees me approach. I run into my bedroom.

  The ancient wallpaper has been ripped and torn off. The curtains are slashed, and there’s stuff all over the floor, ground into the carpet: make-up, jewellery, everything. I found out later that’s so it didn’t make any noise. They used the fire extinguisher to crush it all, like a tarmac roller. No one heard anything. The old, old walls of the Oak helped them, whoever they were.

  Alec is sitting on my bed, looking dazed. Angie and Sara are talking to the policeman, Tony next to them, then Nicola the hotel manager rubbing her hands together, and when I burst in they all look up in relief.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ says Tony. ‘Thank goodness.’ He puts his hand on his heart. ‘My dear, you gave us a fright – LOOK OUT!’

  Something swings low in front of me and Sara screams.

  ‘Jesus!’ Angie shouts, her caramel skin pale. ‘Fix that fucking thing to the wall, guys!’ Another policeman, by the door, mutters something.

  ‘What the hell—’ I say. I can feel my whole body shaking, and yet when I look down I’m totally still.

  ‘Nice rig-up,’ says the policeman. He glances at me, recognises me, clears his throat and then carries on, his voice suddenly low and serious. ‘So, uh, yeah. Whoever did it knew what they was doing. Fixed it up to swing at you when you opened the door. They’d have killed you.’

  My eyes fix on something hanging above me. The fire extinguisher, looped up and around over a hook on the ceiling, is swinging gently, as though it’s caught in a breeze.

  I look up at it. ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Someone drugged Angie,’ Sara says. ‘She should have been listening for you to come back. Kim told her you were back at the hotel but she didn’t reply. Kim’s new. She should have done. But because she didn’t, she saved your life.’

  ‘Well, no,’ Angie says. ‘If you’d have gone straight back to your room –’ she avoids my gaze – ‘I’d have come in and got this thing in my face.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘I didn’t wake up till ten. I was on the floor in my uniform. Someone must have spiked my tea.’ She looks round. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How did you – find it?’

  ‘I woke up and I couldn’t get the interconnecting door to work. I called Sara and she couldn’t either. We called Nicola and got her to let me in. She opened the door and this swung at her. If she’d been two inches taller she’d be dead.’

  ‘I normally wear heels, too,’ says Nicola, who is rather short. She gives a nervous, near-hysterical giggle. ‘Girls, eh?’

  I shake my head. I still don’t understand.

  Then I see it.

  Directly in front of me is what I would have seen first when I opened the door, written in some kind of marker pen, in the mirror of the hideous seventies wardrobe:

  YOU THOUGHT I WOULDN’T FIND YOU

  There’s a white rose, taped to the door.

  Alec stands up and comes over to me. ‘It’s OK, darling,’ he says, putting his arms round me. ‘It’s just some drunk idiot with a grudge. We’ll find them, don’t you worry.’ He kisses my head, as the others watch us, ridiculous in our dressing gowns. I remain still, watching the extinguisher swing on the thin rope above me, creaking like a hanging man in a gale.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘LISTEN TO ME,’ Artie yells down the phone, as the car eases along the gravel drive. ‘You don’t get out of that car, you do what they tell you, you go straight to London. I’m coming tonight. I’m nearly at LAX. I’ll see you tomorrow. OK?’

  ‘OK, Artie, but there’s no need. The police are covering it, and I’ve got security everywhere I look.’

  ‘What the fuck use was
security before, hey? HEY? She fell asleep, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘She was drugged. Someone knew what they were doing. It’s not her fault. They got past security last time, remember? They’re clever – whoever he or she is, they’re clever.’

  There’s the sound of muffled shouting. ‘I’m in the car. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Artie, please,’ I say. ‘I’m fine, I don’t need you—’

  ‘I’m coming anyway,’ he says awkwardly. ‘I have a few meetings with Patrick and some producers for his next project. He’s in town for a premiere, you remember? I told you. We were gonna have you guys go together?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I did. This is crap, this is total BS! I’ve been trying to get a bunch of stuff through to you the last couple of weeks and you never return my calls.’

  ‘What stuff?’ I say. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I think your assistant needs some fine-tuning, is what I’m saying. We’ll talk about it. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay cool, take care of yourself.’

  We’re on the main road, driving east towards London. It’s late afternoon and the sun is beating down on my neck as we head into the woods beyond the hotel. I look out of the window, at the countryside I know so well and have come to love as the trees close around me. I think about Mum; I haven’t told my parents I’m leaving. As the trees flash and flicker sunlight I can’t see my face, and when I jump with a start at a branch clattering against the window suddenly a reflection appears and Sara is staring back at me. I gasp and then realise it’s not Sara, it’s me. My fringe, once my most recognisable feature, has started to grow out and I brush it to the side or pin it back. Anyway, we could be sisters.

  She cried as she said goodbye to me at the hotel. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down. I’m supposed to be watching out for you. I’m supposed to know everything about you.’

  I’d hugged her tight, not really knowing what to say. ‘No one could watch out for this, Sara. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  She’d gripped my arms. ‘It shouldn’t be like this.’

  I stared into her eyes and I thought it then, how alike we are. She had a Breton-style navy-and-white striped top on; I have the same, but hers has a red trim. I’ve seen it somewhere before I’m sure, and I can’t remember where. How cruel life is that she, a Californian girl with her perky smile, her natural talent and her slightly intense drive to succeed, to be good, to be liked, would have been better off if she’d been me. Her personality in my body.

  ‘You shouldn’t have known anything. I don’t know anything. It’s fine.’ I’m strangely calm as I’m saying this to her.

  I look in the glass again, at my reflection, looking for Sara’s face, remembering the night long ago when she persuaded me to let Bryan cut my fringe. It occurs to me for the first time that I think I slept with him that same night after he did it. How strange that she was the one who helped me all those years ago and I still haven’t helped her at all, unless you count hiring her which, really, is not some great act of friendship on my part, is it? Did she know I slept with him? … I’m going mad. I’m seeing stuff that’s not there. She’s not me, I’m not her. I sit back, my mind racing, and bite on my thumbnail, lines of dialogue racing through my head. What’s real, and what isn’t?

  ‘Go away. She shouldn’t have sent you. I’m Rose. Eve’s been dead for forty years.’

  Her parents were dead.

  A Girl Named Rose.

  I’m Rose. I’m Rose. I’m Rose.

  My face in the mirror, Sara’s face this morning, her top, that stripy top, the face at the door …

  And suddenly, I see it all.

  I scream, as we emerge out of the wood and into the bright sunshine. Jimmy swerves, Gavin looks over his shoulder, one big square hand on the dashboard.

  ‘What? What’s up?’

  ‘Jimmy.’ I lean forward. ‘I need to go to Eve Noel’s house again. I’ve just realised something—’

  Jimmy corrects his steering but doesn’t turn round. ‘What’s this? My instructions were to take you straight to London, Soph—’

  ‘I don’t care.’ My knuckles are white, gripping onto the headrest. ‘You have to take me there. I’m sorry. I’ll be ten minutes, no more.’ He looks in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s really important, Jimmy,’ I say. ‘Trust me. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t. You trust me, don’t you?’

  Gavin says, ‘I’m not letting you go somewhere I ain’t called them up about—’

  ‘You can call the police, let them come in with me – you can come in with me. I promise it’s not dangerous.’ Now I see it clearly, I know it’s OK. One side of the mystery, at least. ‘There’s nothing there to be afraid of.’ I turn back to Jimmy. ‘Please, please, Jimmy. If you don’t, I’ll get out at the next set of lights and go there myself. I’m not a prisoner, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Jimmy reluctantly. ‘Though what Tony’ll say about it I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Tony won’t mind,’ I say. ‘I’ll cover for you, honestly. I have to go.’

  Five minutes later, we’re rolling up the sparse gravel drive once more, towards the dirty white house. The ivy seems even more out of control than last time; it seems to ooze out of the building.

  We grind to a halt and sit on the drive, while the engine runs. I get out and shut the door. ‘Stay there. I’ll call you if I need anything.’

  ‘Ten minutes, then I’m coming in,’ Gavin says. I show him my phone is on, and walk up to the front door to the old rusting black letters, and as I stand there I remember the smell of oil and musty age. I can hear a cat mewing, and I ring the rickety bell. I’m just becoming convinced once more there’s no one there, when the door opens, without any preceding sound.

  She’s standing there again.

  Those blank dark eyes, the fine, translucent skin, the delicate bones in her cheeks, at her neck. Her hand is clutching the frame.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says. Her eyes dart to the black car behind me. ‘Why have you come back?’

  ‘My name’s Sophie Leigh,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for Eve Noel.’

  She swallows. ‘I know who you are,’ she says. ‘And I told you before. Eve’s dead.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ I say. ‘You’re Eve. I know you are.’

  She laughs, and shakes her head. Her hands shake. ‘You’ve seen me once. How are you so sure of that?’

  A hard knot is forming in my throat. ‘I’ve seen every one of your films hundreds of times,’ I tell her. ‘I’d know you anywhere. I live in your old house. I’m an actress, not as good as you. But I know how you can hide yourself away if you want, so no one looks for you. And I know sometimes you want to become someone else. You’re not Rose. You’re Eve. I don’t know what happened, but you’re Eve. Where’s Rose, Eve? Where is she?’

  She inhales, with a long, soft hiss, and I feel my skin prickling.

  ‘No.’ She bares her teeth. ‘No,’ she repeats, her voice rising so it’s a wail, long, ghastly, animal-like. She makes to push the door shut.

  But I put my foot in the way. ‘I’m not here to upset you,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I just – want to know.’

  ‘Why?’ She gives a little laugh, pressing against the door, squashing my foot tighter. For all that she’s tiny, she’s surprisingly strong. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘None, none at all,’ I tell her. ‘But … I loved Eve. I know you didn’t want to be her any more, but … I know you’re not Rose.’ I take a deep breath and ask again. ‘Where is she?’

  A soft voice behind her says, ‘Eve. Open the door. It’s all right, dearest. It’s all right.’

  I am very still, praying the men in the car don’t move, make a sound. The door opens wider with a slow creaking sigh and I step back, my mouth falling open. Because even though I’d realised this must be the truth, it’s still a shock.

  There’s two of them, standing in front of me
. They are almost identical, but Eve is slighter, more uncertain. Her eyes are blank. The woman standing next to her holds open the doorway. She nods at me. Like she’s been expecting me.

  ‘Hello, Sophie. I’m Eve’s sister,’ she says, her quiet voice firm, her gaze steady. ‘I’m Rose.’

  the empty horizon

  I LOST THE baby that night. The night of the Oscars, the night I found out that Conrad killed himself. I didn’t really want to talk about it much, and I still can’t. I started bleeding and it wouldn’t stop. I went to hospital, and the next day something slipped out, after contractions that wracked me like a tide that goes in and out. She was a girl. I thought she would be. But she was dead.

  I never saw her. They never let me see her. I don’t know what her face looked like or … what kind of person she was. I couldn’t keep her alive, because I wasn’t good enough to look after her, to be able to do anything right, to stand up for myself or for others, and that’s why she died. But I wish I had seen her. Just once.

  In the hospital it was calm and white, and people talked about me in low voices, and they wore white too. They kept me sedated afterwards. I knew this because when I was awake I’d start to cry, and they’d give me something to drink, chalky, curiously dry, and then I’d fall asleep again.

  But I kept on waking up and crying, and I kept on shouting, and trying to climb out of bed, to leave. I didn’t know where I was going, I just remembered feeling that these things were important, and the voice in my head that was the real me kept saying I had to leave, to go back to Rose. I’d had the letter about Rose, and it was important. But then I realised that, perhaps, I was Rose, and it made sense. I’d left her behind in England, a ghost, and taken on this new person, and the new person was fake, she had to die.

  When I wouldn’t stop screaming and clinging onto things, when I scratched a nurse and bit through the cardboard clipboard that a doctor had in front of me, then they changed. They were impatient, im-patient, like they wanted another patient. They moved me somewhere, in an ambulance van, the windows blacked out. It was a large building high, high above the sea – I know because I caught a glimpse of the ocean as they loaded me from the stretcher, wriggling under the straps that bound me like a fish caught on the ship’s deck. My stomach was still swollen, a dome, like something was in there, but there was nothing, nothing at all.