Another Love

by Amanda Prowse

  I didn’t like it one bit. I was scared and that felt wrong, because I was in my house but I was scared. ‘I want my dad.’ I remember saying that over and over before finding the courage to leave the room. ‘I want my dad. I want my dad.’

  I lay in the gap under my bed until it became hot and uncomfortable and so I sat on the bed and waited. Dad did come home eventually. I heard him shouting, so angry. He tore round the TV room like a tornado. He was furious and he was swearing. I’d never heard Dad swear in anger before then, not properly, but that day he used every conceivable word, and it wasn’t only what he said but his tone. He sounded like a stranger. I didn’t hear Mum make a sound.

  He was out of breath when he came upstairs, as though he’d been rushing. He told me he’d come hurtling down the motorway to Bristol the moment he’d got Miss Clements’ message. I was still in my uniform, sitting in the corner in the dark. He clicked on my bedside lamp and sat down. I saw his fake smile, a smile for my benefit, and even though I knew he was putting it on, I was glad that he was trying. He stroked my hair as he cuddled me.

  ‘Do you want some supper?’ he whispered.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want anything apart from to rewrite the day and make it happen differently.

  He rocked me gently and told me that everything was okay. It didn’t feel okay, not at all, it felt about as far from okay as it could get. He pointed to the tray on the floor and asked me what it was and so I told him. ‘It’s a big fat lump of shit.’

  He pulled away and held me by the arms and he shouted at me that I was never to use words like that, never! He left me alone and I lay on my bed feeling the loneliest I ever had. It was like everything was messed up and I was scared. First Miss Clements and then my mum and then my dad. It was like they had all been turned inside out and I could see their ugly insides.

  I kicked off my school shoes but stayed in my white socks and grey pinafore with my red cardigan buttoned up. I was too scared to go to sleep.

  That was a horrible day. I saw worse, heard worse, but that one day sticks in my memory for so many reasons.

  Sixteen

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Sara croaked from the landing.

  ‘Thanks,’ Romilly answered from beneath the duvet.

  ‘I’ve got a banging headache.’ Sara giggled as though this were a badge of honour, proof that a good night had been had by all. Romilly remembered announcing the same thing with the same undeniable note of triumph. She had been sixteen.

  Sara hummed as she skipped down the stairs. Romilly knew her friend was over the moon to have her staying with her, guessing correctly that not only did Sara find Romilly’s tangled life a good diversion from her own worries, but she was also very glad of the company. For her, however, the situation was as embarrassing as it was distressing. She resented her friend’s cheery optimism, as though this was some kind of student gap-year adventure and not a temporary safety net while her whole world fell apart. Romilly could only really cope when she was drunk and didn’t have to think about the fact that there was only the space of a football pitch between her and her family; her family in her home, the home which she’d been thrown out of. She was torn between hating her dependency on the woman who she knew was a bad influence and feeling eternally grateful that she at least had somewhere to go. She closed her eyes and wished Sara would stop humming.

  Smacking her lips, she could tell she had slept with her mouth open and had probably been snoring as the back of her throat was horribly dry and her tongue thick. Her spit had a rancid bitterness to it. She tried again not to think of her daughter, breakfasting with her dad only four doors away, with her hair in bunches and her bag packed ready for school. She ached for her. Instead, she buried her face in the pillow on the spare bed in her friend’s house and let herself cry.

  David had been quite clear. She couldn’t precisely recall how she and Jasper had ended up on the driveway, him with a bloodied face and her in her pyjamas with her trainers by her side on the grass. And she couldn’t remember the finer detail, but she did remember the sense of panic, the shouting, the feeling of utter desolation, as she walked up the cul-de-sac, barefoot with her trainers in her hand. Mr and Mrs Rashid had watched her, and she might have shouted at them. This piece of information was new, actually. She winced as a few more snippets from that evening began to reveal themselves, as they often did days later, bursting through the fog of confusion like a magician’s assistant from a box, only instead of a round of applause these came with a dollop of shame and regret.

  What had she said to the lovely Rashids? She wasn’t sure, but what she could remember clearly was knocking on her own front door the following day. David had opened it a few inches and had spoken through the gap, like she was selling something of which he had no need or was talking about a faith in which he had no interest.

  ‘I don’t want Celeste to get upset,’ he’d growled, ‘so just go.’ He hadn’t even waited for her to ask if she could come in.

  ‘David… David, please, I’m—’ I love you! I love you so much, proper love!

  ‘You’re what?’ he spat. ‘Sorry? Is that what you are, Rom? Are you sorry? Again?’

  ‘I just—’ I want to come home! I need you!

  ‘You just what?’

  ‘I’m—’ I’m sorry! I am!

  ‘Here’s the thing. I’m sorry too. Sorry I ever thought you might be able to change, because I was wrong, you can’t. And all I want to do now is protect my daughter.’

  Our daughter… ‘I love her.’ She couldn’t stop the sob that was building in her chest.

  ‘She was so frightened. Can you imagine what it must be like for a little girl to have to come home with her teacher and to find a strange man and her mother so drunk that she couldn’t stand and then pissed all over the room?’ He shook his head. ‘The carpet, everything stinks!’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘She is nine years old and I’m damned if that’s how she’s going to be brought up. You forgot to pick her up from school! You were so drunk, you…’ He wiped his brow, exasperated. ‘There is no point, Romilly. No point whatsoever. What exactly is it you want?’

  ‘I want to see Celeste.’ She sobbed.

  ‘Not going to happen. Anything else?’ His tone was firm, resolute.

  ‘I don’t have any clothes or anything,’ she managed through her tears.

  ‘I’ll send a bag up when I can. I saw you stagger up to your mate’s, is that where you’re staying?’ He looked up the cul-de sac.

  She nodded.

  He gave a wry laugh. ‘Figures.’

  And then he shut the door, leaving her standing on the driveway staring at the front door. She laid her hand on it, remembering entering their home that very first time. ‘Come on. Together!’ Her fingers flexed as she recalled the feel of her hand inside his and the way they’d both smiled as she’d placed the new key in the unfamiliar lock and turned. She thought about her little girl on the other side, probably in her pyjamas and ready for bed, teeth cleaned and fresh from her bath. Romilly wrapped her arms around her trunk and turned, ready to trundle up the road to Sara’s. The sooner she could get wasted, the better. Then, for tonight at least, she might be able to forget.

  About to walk away, she paused and gazed again at the front door with the brass furniture that she had chosen and polished. She wondered how long it would be before she was welcome on the other side again, if ever.

  That encounter had been two days ago and still no bag had been delivered. Romilly slopped around Sara’s house in her pyjamas and when they were in the wash she borrowed a pair from her friend. It mattered little to her; in fact, wearing pyjamas helped her feel like she was poorly, fluey, suffering, and at some level this helped absolve her of responsibility for her drinking.

  It was late morning when, from the sofa, Romilly heard a knock on the door. It woke her up; she’d been snoozing there since the night before, too sloshed to make it up the stairs. Her head ached and her vision was fuzzy. She popped her glasses on. At
the sound of David’s voice, she sat upright.

  ‘Can you give her this?’ His tone was no less cold than it had been the other night.

  She jumped from the sofa and hurled herself into the hallway. ‘David! I need to speak to you. I… I just need a minute, just to speak to you!’

  He let his eyes rove over her pyjama top, which gaped with misfastened buttons. Then he ground his teeth and turned to walk back down Sara’s driveway.

  ‘Don’t ignore her, you prick! She has a right to half, you know. Fucking half! I should know! Been there, done that!’ Sara laughed as she leant on the wall.

  ‘Sara!’ Romilly mouthed her disgust at the way her friend was speaking to her husband.

  In a flash, David turned on his heel and raced back up the path. He stood with his face mere inches from Sara’s as he snarled his words, his shoulders back, one foot forward, his index finger pointing in her face.

  ‘You are a nasty piece of work. You know exactly what you’re about, you know what you’re doing and you know the damage you have caused. What had we done to deserve someone like you? What had Celeste? You are bitter, jealous and fucked up. It must have killed you to see what we had, how happy we were.’

  ‘I want us to be happy, David…’ Romilly seized on his words, talking with her hand outstretched as if reaching for him.

  He turned his head briefly in her direction. ‘We were, Romilly. But that’s finished.’ He looked back at Sara, who was holding her stance without a flicker of remorse or fear at his words. ‘You have been instrumental in helping my wife fuck up her life. We have a daughter, a little girl…’ He stopped. ‘And now I am only thinking about her, doing what’s best for her and trying to keep her safe. Do not speak to me or my child again. Not one word. Do not look at us or I swear to God, I will be back and you have no idea what I am capable of. None at all.’ His voice shook as he strode back down the pathway.

  ‘David?’ Romilly called after him. He carried on walking, without looking back. Romilly sank to the floor as she realised that for the first time since she was nineteen she did not have the beautiful David Arthur Wells to lean on.

  Sara slammed the front door. ‘I don’t like being spoken to like that in my own home!’ she snapped, arms folded. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘He’s just upset. It’s… It’s not his fault…’ She instantly tried to justify the actions of her husband. ‘You shouldn’t have said that stuff about me getting half, I don’t want it to come to that and if it did, I wouldn’t want anything. I just want to go home.’

  Sara stared at her and twisted her lower jaw. Her words, when delivered, were cool. ‘I think, Rom… I think it’s best if you don’t stay here any more. I’ve been a good friend to you and you didn’t defend me once, not once. Even now, you’re like, “It’s not his fault!”’ She imitated Romilly’s voice. ‘I’d like you to go. I mean, not immediately. You should get changed and have a coffee first.’ She flicked her blonde hair extensions over her shoulder and went in search of caffeine.

  ‘I… I don’t know where to go,’ Romilly whispered as she was gripped by a new, all-consuming fear.

  *

  After packing her small bag and slipping her feet into her trainers, she closed the front door of Sara’s house and skirted the shiny Mercedes in the driveway. Cautiously, she crept across to her own home and hovered at the end of the path, texting her husband, unsure if he would even read it. Then she hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder and walked up Stoke Hill towards the Downs, making sure to keep her head high and her step light, as if she was like any other woman out for a stroll and not foundering hopelessly, wondering where she might spend the night.

  An hour later, clutching her bag to her chest, she tucked her hair behind her ears and stared anxiously at the café. Her face was glowing with the red-hot sweat of need; she’d had a vodka for breakfast and had stuffed the rest of the bottle into her handbag, ready to drink once this meeting was over. The tea room on the Downs was somewhere they had often stopped at for a cup of coffee or to get Celeste an ice cream mid walk, regardless of the weather. She had hoped that choosing a place that was familiar might help her nerves. It didn’t, not even a bit. She approached the apron where the little metal chairs and tables were dotted around outside and fought the desire to vomit, she was so nervous. David looked up and saw her. He opened his mouth as if to speak but clearly couldn’t think of the words and so instead he slowly pulled out the chair next to him, as if helping a relative who was elderly or infirm.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she whispered, trying to keep her eyes averted, staring at the concrete water tower across the grass and not letting him look directly at her, trying to hide. ‘I… I’m sorry about the way Sara spoke to you.’

  ‘You look terrible.’ His voice was low, ignoring the reference to earlier, but there was no anger in it now, just pity, which was even harder to deal with. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ he asked, coaxingly, like he’d used to do with Celeste.

  ‘No. Thank you.’ The thought of food sent bile rushing up into her throat. She swallowed.

  ‘A cup of coffee then?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She nodded. ‘Black.’ Even the idea of milk made her retch.

  He returned to the table minutes later and placed the mug in front of her, along with three long sachets of sugar and a teaspoon. She looked up at him, wondering why he’d brought sugar when he knew she didn’t take it. It made her feel like a stranger and it erased a little of their history. Not a little, in fact; a lot. One of the first things he’d done for her was make a cup of tea, and in times of sorrow or celebration they would always flick on the kettle. She couldn’t guess the number of hot drinks he’d made her, but it had to be thousands.

  ‘Thought you might like some sugar. I know you don’t take it, but, you know, if you don’t… don’t want anything to eat…’

  She smiled briefly, with relief and understanding. A small group of students, boys and girls in skinny jeans, trainers and hoodies, with messenger bags slung over their shoulders, jostled each other and roared their laughter as they ambled along the pavement towards the halls.

  ‘Their whole lives ahead of them…’ He watched them and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘How is Celeste?’ she whispered. She was still unable to meet his gaze; she was too distressed and embarrassed.

  ‘As you’d expect, really.’ His clipped tone gave little away.

  ‘I will try, David. I promise. I will try and… sort myself out.’

  ‘How will you?’

  She opened her mouth to speak but realised she didn’t have the answer. ‘I…’

  He tapped the tabletop. ‘The thing is, Rom, you’ve been to two of the finest facilities, both of which promised great results, using quite different methods, but the one thing that was common to them both was that they felt you weren’t ready to get better, that you didn’t or couldn’t see that you were ill. And that’s the stumbling block, right there.’ He shrugged. ‘As far as I can see, you could spend months, years in those places, but until you know here…’ He placed his hand on his head. ‘And here…’ He touched his heart. ‘That you need help, then it’s a waste of everyone’s time and money.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And I can see you nodding, going through the motions, but I just don’t feel it. Until you accept that you need proper help, I’m shit-scared I’ll be coming home again to find my daughter a nervous wreck and my TV room covered in piss.’

  She shook her head at the thought, wishing he would stop mentioning it.

  He swivelled his head to stare at her, studying her features and letting his eyes travel over her hair. She felt her cheeks colour under his scrutiny and pushed her glasses up onto her nose.

  Suddenly he reached into his bag beneath his chair and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He placed it on the table and twisted the label to face her. Her eyes flicked from his face to the bottle, thinking how good it would be to have that in her possession for that afternoon
and night. It always gave her a small sense of calm to know that she had bottles waiting for her, and the lack of alcohol at her fingertips had the exact opposite effect, sending her into a state close to panic. It was a curious gift but one that she greatly appreciated, showing her he understood what she needed.

  ‘Okay, Rom.’ He turned to face her. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You have me and Celeste sitting here in front of you.’ He pointed at his chest. ‘And you have this bottle of vodka.’ He touched his fingertips to the lid.

  She looked from him to the bottle and back again.

  ‘You can only have one today, but not both. Us.’ Again he touched his chest. ‘Or this.’ He rested his hand on the neck of the bottle and she felt a flicker of panic that he might remove it. ‘Which will you choose?’

  She stared at the man she loved and knew that she owed him the truth. A truthful response to this simple question, but a choice that had repercussions she could only begin to imagine. She felt her face flush with sweat and her head shake with the tremor of longing. She spread her palm on the table and swallowed, letting her fingers creep towards her husband, picturing the two of them wrapped in a white sheet in the afterglow of love, on their bed, in their home, while their daughter slept soundly down the corridor… And then, as if guided by something stronger than her, she reached out and gripped the bottle, sliding it into her lap, from where she placed it in her handbag and laid it snugly next to its twin.

  Romilly averted her gaze to the water tower again and wrapped her arms around her form, trying to muster some warmth and stop the shaking. When she looked back, David had his head in his hands and he was crying.

  Celeste

  When Mum disappeared, I was strangely relieved. I pestered Dad with questions, repeatedly asking if he knew when she would be back, and he was really patient with me. He must have thought it was because I couldn’t wait to see her again, but the truth was I was afraid of her by then and I was afraid of being left alone with her. The last time I’d seen her, that horrendous day with the cake, she’d called me a fucking nightmare and looked at me in that awful, hard way she did when she was sloshed, like she only half recognised me. Like she hated me.