Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1)

by Isabella Wiles

  I know I need to grow up. It’s days like today that remind me how much more mature Vicky is than I am. Honestly, she’s way ahead of me. I know they say girls mature faster than boys, but I can be such a big kid at times. Great when you want a goofball to lighten the mood, or to inject some fun into life, but hopeless when life throws you a big curveball. Vicky manages the curveballs with grace and dignity and this is one almighty curveball. I’m not sure how I would cope if I ever lost her. She would never have let herself get pissed last night, leave her phone charger behind and basically monumentally fuck up as I have. “What a bloody idiot” I say again.

  I’m almost home. I reckon I’ll get there by 6am or just after. I know she’s going to be pissed at me. Flippin’ furious, I expect, and she has every right to be, but at least once I get home we can go together. Hand in hand on the way in and I can comfort her when it’s all over. I think I’ll take her away for a quick holiday in a couple of weeks’ time when she’s feeling better. Somewhere warm where we can just kick back, chill out and relax. Eat some fine food, drink some chilled wine and soak up the sun. Perhaps I’ll take her and show her the amazing hidden beaches I discovered on Milos, or perhaps we could rent a villa in the south of France. Total privacy and space to heal.

  I screech around the corner of the one-way system that splits Stoke Newington High Street just as I see a bus disappear behind the shops, heading in the other direction. I park the car in the underground car park of our block of flats and take the stairs two at a time, before bursting through the front door of our home, throwing my keys into the bowl.

  “Vicky. Vick-yyyy, I’m here, I’m so so sorry,” I shout as I run into the bedroom, the kitchen, then the bathroom.

  “Fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I shout in frustration, running between the rooms in the flat. Why the hell isn’t she here? Where the hell is she? Maybe she’s just nipped downstairs to the dairy for a few supplies, I think. That seems the most logical explanation. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. I can feel myself becoming more and more angry that she hasn’t come back.

  One, two, three, four, five missed calls… eight, nine, ten. My phone beeps incessantly as the screen lights up, showing the seemingly endless stream of missed calls and voicemails from last night, now that I’ve found my charger and given it some life. My stomach lurches as I realise how desperately she was trying to reach me.

  Why didn’t I just say “No” when the boys offered, well I say offered, more like insisted I had another beer, and another and another after that? I cringe when I think back now. Soon after the beer, came the whiskeys, followed by more whiskey and then tequila shots. I lost track of time until I was completely wasted, crashed out on someone’s sofa.

  I pick up the handset, my fingers trembling as I hit the button and listen to the waiting voicemails.

  “Chris, where are you?”

  Bee-eep.

  “Chris, I thought you’d be home by now?”

  Bee-eep.

  “Chris, this is not on. You said you’d be home by now - call me.”

  Bee-eep.

  “Chris, I hope you’re OK. I’m really worried now. Please call me.”

  Bee-eep.

  “Chris, where the fuck are you?”

  I feel the sting of tears in the corner of my eyes as her voice, wracked with fear and frustration, pleads for me to come home. Each message becoming more and more insistent, more and more desperate, eventually descending into frustration and then anger.

  Her final message, I realise, must have been left only moments ago.

  “I’m sorry Chris, I don’t know what’s happened, why you haven’t come home, or where the fuck you are, but if I’m going to get to the appointment by bus I have to leave now, so quite frankly, fuck you!”

  Her words pierce my heart, the pain as real as if I’d been speared with a real metal arrowhead causing me to hyperventilate, my hands grasping my throat as I try and catch my breath. I know now she’s not just down the street grabbing some water and chocolate for later. She didn’t wait for me. She’s gone without me. I called home at 9pm last night to say that I was leaving at 10pm and I would be home a bit later than I’d originally planned but that I’d be home soon after. I couldn’t phone again as my phone went flat soon after that. But I said I would be home and now I am. I’m here but she went on without me.

  A cold realisation creeps slowly over me that I’ve not just let her down by not coming home when I said I would, but I have no way of reaching her, or of even knowing where she’s headed. She’s got the address of the clinic.

  Once we’d made the decision, I let her sort out all the details. Make the doctor’s appointments, research, and then attend the clinic. The only question I’d asked when she’d said she was going to have to get it done privately was, “How much?”

  How could I have been so insensitive? Since that conversation I’ve basically checked out. To be honest I haven’t really wanted to know the details. I’ve not wanted to ask if she needed any help, assuming she was doing just fine on her own. Listening to her heart-wrenching messages now, I appreciate fully for the first time how much she really needed me - needs me - and I’m not there. I don’t know where she is or where she’s headed. I should know, and I don’t. I’m so ashamed.

  I start ripping the flat apart looking for clues. Sifting through every pile of papers I can find. There must be a letter or some detail somewhere. I feel physically sick as I appreciate how alone she must be feeling. All alone, thinking something bad has happened to me or worse still, that I’ve abandoned her.

  I wish I could send her a message telepathically. Send her the strength that I know she’ll be needing as she struggles to handle this horrible, horrible day.

  “Hey, goose, I’m so, so sorry. I have no excuse. I’ve completely fucked up but I’m here for you now. Get in touch. Tell me where you are. I’ll come for you. I love you.”

  What I really want to say is, don’t go through with it, Vicky. I love you. We’ll find a way to make it work. I don’t care how hard or difficult it will be. I was just scared when you told me. I didn’t know what to do, how to handle it, but I do now. I know I will love any child of ours as much as I love you. Stop - don’t go through with it. We’ll make it work.

  I’m powerless. I feel angry and frustrated. The woman I love is trekking somewhere across the sprawling metropolis of this enormous city, about to abort my child and I don’t know where she is, I don’t know where she’s going, and I have no way of finding her. Why didn’t she leave me a note? She could have easily left me the details. Surely, she’d know I’d come for her. Maybe she intended to make me suffer too. I surely deserve it, but could she have done that intentionally? Would she really be that cruel? She must know that I don’t have the details and that when I finally arrived home, I’d be desperate to find her.

  I flop onto the sofa, rubbing the sides of my head with the heel of my hands. Think damn it, think Chris, I say to myself.

  Four hours later and I’ve still heard nothing. I’m like a caged animal, pacing helplessly back and forth. I have no option but to wait. I have to be here when she calls. I’ve searched the flat from top to bottom for any clues but found nothing. I’ve never felt more useless in my entire life.

  How could I have let this happen? How could I have done this to her? Sweet, gorgeous Vicky. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to her. She doesn’t deserve me. My thoughts come thick and fast.

  What if she doesn’t get in touch, what then? What if she never speaks to me ever again? What if she leaves me? Arrives home later and silently packs her bags in front of me and moves out immediately? I could hardly blame her. What I’ve put her through is unforgivable. But how would I cope if I ever lost her? She means everything to me.

  I fall back against the back of the sofa, every part of my body tight and tense. I’m emotionally wrung out, hungover and out of options. I finally give in to the tears that now spill over and roll freely down my face. I
’ve never been more frustrated and angry. Angry at myself first and foremost for messing up so badly. I’m cross with Vicky for not leaving me a note or any details. I’m frustrated that I have no way of reaching her and I’m ashamed at myself, so ashamed. She’s so amazing. I’m so lucky to have her, why can’t I be better, do better? Be the man she needs me to be?

  I will never forgive myself for this. Never, for as long as I live. Never ever!

  Just then, the shrill sound of the telephone ringing breaks the silence in the flat. I wipe my dripping nose with the back of my hand and dash for the landline in the hallway, picking it up quickly and almost shouting my greeting into the receiver, “Hello? Vicky?”

  “Er, hi, Chris,” the voice at the other end is male, definitely not Vicky, and now sounding slightly confused. “No, it’s David,” he sounds giddy and joyful, the complete antithesis of how I feel. “I just wanted you and Vicky to be some of the first to know. Michelle had the baby this morning.”

  I swallow hard, his words slapping me cruelly around my face. “That’s great news, David.” It takes all of my inner strength to remain composed before I can speak again. “How’s Michelle doing?”

  “Both her and the baby are doing great. I know when you tell Vicky, she’ll want to know all of the details… so here goes. It’s a girl,” the delight in his voice obvious, “born at 9.03 this morning, weighing 7lbs 4ozs. No name yet. No complications in the labour which started late last night. Michelle was amazing, although she’s very tired now as I’m sure you can image. She’s absolutely gorgeous though, Chris. I can hardly believe it… I have a daughter. I’m a father!”

  “That’s great news, David,” I reply, my back stiffening involuntarily. “I’m delighted for you. Please pass on my love to Michelle. Tell her I’m proud of her.” My words catching painfully in my throat at the enormous effort it takes to keep my voice level. “I know Vicky will be over the moon when I tell her,” I add.

  “Yes, I’ll tell Michelle you’re asking after her. Is everything alright, Chris? You don’t sound like yourself,” he asks.

  “Yes, yes everything’s fine, David,” I lie. “Let us know when you’re back home and open for visitors and we’ll pop round and meet the little nipper.”

  “Will do.”

  “Take care. Thanks for calling. And much love to all three of you,” I say finally, before hanging up.

  My legs give way instantly, as I collapse backwards with a heavy thud, my body colliding with the hard surface behind me before my legs crumple completely from underneath me causing to slide down the back of the front door before I land with a clumsy thump on the floor. My head in my hands, it’s my turn to sob uncontrollably. I don’t recognise the sounds that escape from me. I sound like a wounded animal, shrieking in pain as all of the emotions I’ve struggled to compress all day erupt like a hot angry agonising volcano.

  I’m all alone and the only person I want to be with has vanished. And it’s all because of me. This is my doing and I have no one to turn to and no one to blame but myself.

  It was 5pm that day before the phone rang again. I hadn’t stopped wandering back and forth in the flat, unable to do anything but pace around like a caged animal, then sit and wait, before pacing around some more. My emotions rotating in a never-ending cycle. Anger, frustration, rage followed by despair.

  In the end it wasn’t Vicky who called, but some friendly female nurse. It appears Vicky had at least put me down as her emergency contact on the consent form, for which I will always be eternally grateful.

  “You’ll be pleased to know. Everything went absolutely fine,” the nurse had chirped. The irony of the nurse describing the desired outcome from Vicky’s surgery as a place labelled ‘absolutely fine’ not lost on me. “Because we ended up needing to give Victoria a full general anaesthetic, she’s still a bit groggy and she’ll need someone to come and collect her. She needs to go home with a responsible adult. We can’t send her home in a taxi on her own.”

  On hearing she was OK, relief flooded through my veins like a warm hot toddy on a cold winter’s day, as silent thankful tears pooled in the corner of my eyes.

  “Are you able to come and collect her?”

  “Absolutely, I’ll come now,” I’d said, sniffing loudly and wiping away any emotional residue with the back of my hand.

  “Great. She should be ready to leave from seven this evening. We’re just waiting for the doctor to do his final rounds so she can be signed off.”

  Having made a note of the address, I’d grabbed my keys and bolted of out the door. I knew I was going to have to battle with the rush hour traffic to get there, but in that moment, I would have driven through hades to reach her.

  When I’d arrived at the clinic, which was in the grounds of a large converted Victorian villa in Streatham, South London, I’d given my name to a receptionist and a nurse had come and collected me, walking with me into a large south-facing room on the first floor. The light from the last of the mid-summer day’s rays streaming into the room from the large bay window.

  If I thought my heart was broken before I arrived knowing the anguish I’d put Vicky through last night and today, it broke all over again when I’d walked into the room. Lying on her side, motionless on a hospital bed, still in a hospital gown, her eyes bloated from crying. I’ve done this to her, was my first thought, how can I ever expect her to forgive me?

  “Hey,” I’d said quietly approaching her gently. “I brought you these to cheer you up,” holding out a bunch of her favourite Calla Lilies that I’d grabbed on my way across town. She’d said nothing and simply rolled away from me to face the other way.

  “I’ll leave you two alone so you can get Victoria’s things together,” the nurse had said diplomatically, closing the door behind her as she’d left.

  As soon as we were alone, I’d rushed around to the other side of the bed, falling to my knees, reaching for Vicky’s hands, desperate to hold her, to have her skin touch mine.

  “Oh, Vicky. I’m so so sorry. I know nothing I can say now will ever make this better. I’ve been such an idiot. I’ve let you down. I’m so sorry.”

  She’d looked back at me with a vacant stare.

  “If I could turn the clock back I would,” I’d continued, “but please forgive me. You have to forgive me, Vicky.” The desperation evident in my voice as I laid on my knees asking for her mercy, kissing her hands desperately trying any which way to connect with her. Her eyes remained dry as I’d wept big heavy wet tears of self-pity and regret.

  After a long pause and in a monotone voice, all she’d said was, “Take me home.”

  ***

  “Make sure you put a warm coat on,” I say as I wrap Vicky’s scarf snuggly around her neck, concerned that she’ll catch a chill if I don’t. “The sun maybe out, but there’s an autumn chill in the air today.” Vicky looks back at me, smiling weakly. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes and have lost their sparkle as she looks blankly at me from her beautiful face. “You look lovely,” I say, kissing the end of her nose before reaching for her hand and lead her out of our flat.

  In a few hours from now, we will officially become the ‘Supporting Adults’ to Michelle and David’s baby girl. Preferring not to have their daughter christened in church, they’ve opted to bring together all their friends and family in a non-denominal naming ceremony which is being held at the historic Hotel Russell, just around the corner from their flat.

  “It’s a way of officially welcoming her into the world and into our family, without choosing a religion for her,” Michelle had said when explaining her and David’s decision.

  “Yes, we’d rather let her choose her own beliefs when she’s older,” David had added.

  Jessica, as she’s been called, is three months old now and is growing into a proper little cherub. All soft curls, sweet baby smell, Disney-esque eyes and squishy puddings for arms and legs. She’s an absolute delight and squeals with laughter whenever she’s picked up or tickled.

&n
bsp; Vicky is still very withdrawn and clearly mourning the loss of her own baby, but she absolutely dotes on little Jessica. The only time I’ve seen her smile in the past three months, is when she’s been looking after the baby. The rest of the time, she seems to be living on autopilot, simply going through the motions, having had all of the joy and life sucked out of her.

  “My baby will never have a grave, Chris,” she says across to me, as we walk together through Abney Park cemetery to catch the bus into town from Church Street.

  “I know,” I say sadly, holding her hand tightly.

  “No one even knows she ever existed. Her name will never be on a headstone for people to ponder about her life or her story.”

  “You don’t know it was a girl, sweetheart,” I say softly.

  “I do, Chris,” she says sharply. Her eyes turning to glare at me, daring me to question her. “Mother’s intuition,” she says defiantly.

  Fortunately, everybody else seems too busy with their own lives to have noticed the change in Vicky, and her persistent sadness and lack of enthusiasm for life. We’ve only seen Mellie a few times in the past few months and only when we’ve been together en masse visiting Michelle, David and baby Jess. Michelle is too busy being a new mum to worry about anything or anyone else other than herself.

  Vicky is managing to get up and go to work as usual, so she is functioning. But there’s something more to her sadness than just our baby dying that day and I am worried. It’s been three months now and I can’t seem to reach her. To pull her out of her depression and back into life. I know she’s still in there, buried behind an impenetrable wall of steel. Whenever we’ve made love in the past few months, I’ve noticed that she may have been lost in the moment momentarily, but it feels like she’s lost in her own moment rather than connected together with me. It’s as if she’s willing to give up her body but is holding onto her heart.