Pretenders. The

by Zaza, Agatha

  He sipped his tea and found it had gone cold. He became aware of how long having breakfast had taken him. He reluctantly returned upstairs. Turning the shower on, still in his pyjamas, he waited first for the water to hit the right temperature, adjusting the handle this way and that, somehow missing the perfect temperature with each manoeuvre. Then he stood beside the glass shower stall and watched the vapour rising, wishing away every drop of water and every joule of heat. Regardless of how awful any day had been before this one, he’d bathed and changed his clothes every single morning. Every morning, regardless of how he may have felt or what challenge was before him, Edmund put on a clean set of clothes. The walk-in wardrobe was equally divided between him and Ovidia.

  ‘I’ve never met a man who has so many clothes before,’ Ovidia had once remarked.

  He cocked his head at the sound of her voice — though it was in his own head. Through the fog that was his memory, he remembered the conversation hadn’t taken place here but at his previous flat, with its sleek dark wood and masculine leather furnishing. A lifetime ago, it seemed. Ovidia had been looking for a cardigan, shaking her head at his selection of dark blue, grey, and black sweaters before finally settling on one in a shade of grey lighter than the rest. She’d turned towards him as she neatly folded its cuffs to sit perfectly on her petite frame, and she caught the glint in his eye. They’d both shared a shower just before, and the aroma of the soap they’d shared still lingered as he put his arms around her again.

  He shook his head clear of the memory. This morning, he couldn’t muster the energy to shower. His resolve and a lifetime of habit let him down, and he watched the water run until he accepted that he would not be taking a shower nor changing that morning. Tightening the belt on his dressing gown, he went back down the stairs.

  He passed through the ground floor and its two reception rooms. He picked up his daily newspapers from beside the front door. As he returned, he was reminded once more of the now nameless interior designer who had talked about this room as becoming ‘a tasteful yet welcoming room that extends from here right into the garden’. She’d made an exaggerated sweeping motion with her arms. He stopped at the drinks trolley, picked up a tumbler, and examined an unopened bottle of whiskey that he supposed had been a gift from a guest or work. He took the bottle and tumbler and went down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the glass extension.

  Once there, Edmund sat down and poured himself a drink. He opened one of his papers and folded it neatly and systematically to the crossword page. He sat down in the grey armchair after tossing its cushion on to the floor. He looked at his pencil and then his watch — it was nearly seven. He leaned back into his chair and stared through the glass into the sky.

  4

  Outside, Ovidia was barely conscious of her surroundings. Her mobile was tucked into her running sleeve and recorded every step she took, every turning, and every detour. As if in a cocoon, she was shielded from the sounds of everyday life on the street on which she lived. She was impervious to the sounds of her feet rhythmically pounding the pavement or a dog barking relentlessly somewhere near. Her fluorescent yellow shorts flapped against her thighs and her T-shirt was standard, unassuming, like her speed. She wore a black mesh headscarf that hid her hair in little twists and protected it from a light sweat.

  It was a warm morning, a spring day that could turn to rain later. A few clouds floated aimlessly and unthreateningly; a light breeze was in the air. As she ran, all sense of time and distance dissolved. Houses, shops, and the doctor’s practice became vague objects in the periphery of her vision. She saw only what was just ahead of her, and then immediately it was behind her, gone. She’d lived on this road for nearly five years; she knew the area surrounding it and every detail of the route on which she ran. She knew where clutches of people gathered and had to be circumvented, she knew where delivery trucks parked and their drivers leered at her, and she knew the dips and trips of the streets and where she had to watch her feet.

  The street of elegant homes ended and became a mishmash of modern, dated, and classic buildings. Ovidia ran past parks and boutiques, first heading away from the river. She could have gone further and added hours more if she chose to — she knew where to turn to add a dozen or more miles to her run. She decided against it.

  Inside, she felt her emotions simmering as if about to boil over — again. Her temples throbbed, and her eyes felt heavy in their sockets. From the moment she’d woken that morning, she’d been aware of her heart leaden in her chest, every heartbeat counting down to later that day when, she imagined, it would stop beating.

  She slowed down as she returned to her street, reluctant to go home and to face Edmund. She wished she could run past the house and never set foot in it again. Then her thoughts wavered as she remembered how she and Edmund had made love the previous night, briefly and tinged with a sense of finality — an unspoken understanding that it would be the last time.

  Ovidia glanced towards her own building across the road where her flat took up the third floor of a house of a similar age. She debated where to go. She could go to Edmund, and they could be unhappy together, or she could be on her own in her flat. She could simply lie down and cry without having to be aware of Edmund’s look of exhaustion — or was it disgust? There, at least, she could turn the TV on loud to something filled with expletives, sex, and gore to take her mind off the approaching evening.

  ‘How can you not have cable?’ It seemed a lifetime ago when the two of them had sat on her sofa, tucked into each other, interrupting TV shows with kisses and opinions, a time when they were still new to each other. She had been holding the remote, dug out from between the sofa cushions.

  ‘Quite clearly because everything is rubbish,’ Edmund had replied, as they’d flicked through the endless menu. ‘Pirates, Norsemen …’ Eventually he’d deferred to her choice. She couldn’t remember the show she’d chosen, but she remembered that, minutes into it, he’d put his hand between her thighs and the show was abandoned.

  Ovidia had moved to this street before she’d met Edmund. Her flat was indistinguishable from its neighbours in its brown brick Victorian terrace, her side of the street far less ostentatious than the terrace opposite. It had occurred to her many times that her and Edmund’s arrangement was odd. Though it had always seemed like a natural transition, perfectly ordinary, as if, throughout the city, lovers lived across the road from each other. She was proud of her flat, having been forced to save money by bulk-buying noodles and tinned foods for months after having paid a larger deposit than she’d planned. She’d never told Edmund about that brief period of her life, the culmination of an adulthood of independence. She could have easily bought something cheaper that would have caused her less financial stress, but she made the argument that the flat would be worth it for the resale value. In reality, she’d been fulfilling a long-held dream sparked by a picture she’d seen in a magazine many years earlier. It had been a spread on a London abode of someone she’d long forgotten. But what had stayed with her was the difference between the grace of the Victorian building in contrast to the bland ’70s and ’80s constructions in which she’d been raised. Besides, she told herself at the time, if she had to give it up for financial reasons, it would be of no consequence — more of an inconvenience than anything. Still, something about the flat’s old-world grandeur captivated her; it encapsulated her new beginning and decorating it gave her something in which to immerse herself.

  When she began to spend most of her time with Edmund, she’d played with the idea of getting someone to rent it, but she couldn’t stand the idea of someone else in her home. She’d been considering changing careers and wanted a way to cover her mortgage. Shortly after she’d mentioned her tentative idea to Edmund, she’d found money in her account as she examined her online statement. Each month after that, the same amount appeared — never discussed or negotiated. It always arrived, whether she worked or not. At times, when she was honest with herself, and quite
often when disappointed with herself, she felt as if what had been her dream was no longer really hers. Still, she continued caring for the flat, refining its décor, filling its shelves with books almost as if she’d known that one day she’d return to live there.

  Ovidia came to a standstill on the pavement continuing to procrastinate. Usually she knew exactly what she would do next. After three hours of running, she’d have mapped out her day — she knew what she was going to wear, what she was going to eat, and, of course, which home she would go to. Sometimes, if Edmund was away, she’d go to her flat and throw herself on the sofa, still sweating from her run. Today her mind, paralysed by dread, couldn’t be made up.

  ‘What do you think about when you’re running — you don’t listen to music or radio?’ Edmund had asked her early on in their relationship, before he’d bought the house, when his car had been parked in front of her building almost every night.

  ‘I just think, I suppose,’ Ovidia had responded, thinking it a strange question.

  They’d been in bed when he’d asked. It had been on one of those mornings when she wasn’t running, and he’d resisted the urge to get out of bed at his usual early hour.

  He’d run his hand down her spine and tugged the top of her underwear — grey lace women’s briefs, the kind that come in a pack of five at M&S and that she bought on sale.

  ‘What about?’ he asked, putting his hands down into them and stroking her backside.

  ‘No one’s ever asked me that before,’ she replied.

  ‘Don’t you get bored — out there with nothing to do, listening to the sound of your feet?’

  ‘Sometimes I solve puzzles, like designing the perfect handbag, or a toaster that will never burn your toast,’ she’d spoken quickly, feeling self-conscious. ‘But mostly I’m a crew member on the Enterprise, you know, boldly going somewhere. Exploring the universe. That sort of thing.’

  Edmund had laughed, his foray through her underwear temporarily suspended. She’d listened to him laugh and was glad to have found him.

  Today her usual fantasies had eluded her. She’d run mile after mile, thinking about Edmund, thinking about herself, and about the events that brought her to this day. She cursed herself, scolded herself, demanded answers to questions she dared not ask herself. She replayed the morning’s events again and again. She tried to imagine what she could do for Edmund, tried to conceive of something to show him that she was there for him, but she couldn’t imagine anything that would make today any better.

  Her mind still churning, Ovidia started running again, taking the first turn that took her to the park behind Edmund’s house. There she stopped and walked until she could see the wall that marked the end of the garden. It looked ominous, uninviting — even menacing. Its grey-brown brick loomed like a gothic cathedral and filled her with dread.

  She sat down on a bench and inhaled from the depths of her lungs, just like countless online articles she spent ages scrolling through had suggested. She looked around at people making the most of the spring weather: dog walkers, drunks, runners, the elderly, and a group stretching through a yoga session.

  A mantra, Ovidia thought.

  ‘I will get through today. Just today,’ she said aloud, quickly glancing at all sides ensuring no one could hear her. ‘I refuse to think about the future. I will not cry,’ she exhaled.

  ‘I refuse,’ she began her mantra again, leaning back and closing her eyes and feeling some relief. She visualised herself running in happier times, on a boardwalk near the sea. She imagined the sound of her trainers, the sound of the ocean, but unhappiness intruded once more, and she groaned.

  ‘You all right?’ The woman was older with headphones clamped around her neck.

  Ovidia gasped in response, as her heart set off racing.

  Ovidia glanced at the woman and decided that she’d asked from genuine concern and not because she was being nosey. This passer-by had probably seen a woman sitting, miserable on her own, on a park bench and was worried. By asking Ovidia, a stranger, the woman probably had to defy her instinct to stay away. This was, after all, a city filled with those who stab, punch, and throw acid on strangers.

  ‘Just overdid it. Thanks,’ Ovidia mumbled, breathing deeply to calm herself and shocked such a simple interaction had shaken her so completely. She couldn’t believe that she’d become one of those people that strangers recognised as being in distress.

  Letting the woman walk away, she stood and walked out of the park. ‘I will not cry,’ she repeated again and again until she found herself outside Edmund’s house — which, until that evening at least, was hers as well.

  ‘Not today,’ she said raising one foot onto the top step to the front door.

  Ovidia stretched her legs and calves on the front steps. Then she went indoors, barefoot, her shoes abandoned beside the front door. She glanced inside, through the large room that took up half the lower-ground floor where Edmund would normally be on a Saturday morning. She paused in the bathroom and rinsed the sweat from her face, aware of its saltiness drying on her skin. Ovidia saw him when she emerged, sitting in the extension staring into the distance. Seeing him outdoors in his pyjamas and dressing gown, the enormity of the day ahead overwhelmed her.

  She inhaled and marched towards him.

  ‘Edmund,’ she said, exiting through the glass doors into the glass cube, ‘what are you up to?’ She tried to sound spontaneous, but she sensed she’d taken much too long to concoct such a simple question.

  Most, or at least many, other couples would have been in each other’s arms — or they’d like to think they would be — on a day like this. Soon after she’d met him, Ovidia had learned that Edmund was the kind of man who in public concealed his emotions and even in private was only expressive to those closest to him. She loved him knowing that even his passion was measuredly dispensed, his laugh was never the loudest in a room, and that there would never be a threat of spontaneous dancing or crude jokes at parties. She was glad that he was not one to make a scene or weep in public, or to drink and lose control. She hadn’t seen him cry or fly into a rage — ever — not even over these last few months. She knew that now was not the time to berate him for his stoic nature when it was something she once loved about him.

  ‘Oh,’ Edmund looked around as if surprised to find himself in the sunroom. Then he tapped the still-folded paper and said, ‘crossword.’

  Ovidia gave him a staccato kiss and perched beside him on the thin armrest. His crossword was still blank. ‘I can see you’ve done quite a bit of it.’

  ‘A little stuck, that’s all,’ he replied. ‘Funny, they’re usually quite simple.’

  ‘For you, they are.’ She lowered her gaze to his feet clad in bedroom slippers. She abruptly changed the subject. ‘Can’t we wait a little longer, please?’

  Edmund looked out into the garden at the splintered remains of the playhouse. ‘No, Ovidia. There’s nothing to wait for. We have to do this — we agreed.’

  ‘I know,’ Ovidia leaned against her partner, resting her head on his shoulder. She shut her eyes tightly and anticipated the tears that would seep through to his pyjama shirt.

  She raised her head. ‘You’re right. I just wish you weren’t.’ She wiped her eyes, though they were dry. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ Ovidia asked every morning, and, yes, he’d almost always already had his breakfast. ‘But you’ll have another cup of tea if I’m making some,’ she said, forcing herself to smile.

  She was always making a pot of tea, even though some mornings she felt like cocoa or coffee. They very rarely ate breakfast together; either she ran, or he was up too early. The pot of tea after breakfast brought them together, even if briefly. Some weekday mornings when Edmund would be almost out of the door, they’d drink it in only a few minutes, scalding themselves in the process.

  In the kitchen, she emptied the kettle of the water he’d used for his first cup and refilled it in the sink. On her own, she’d have microwaved a mug of water, but this way,
filling a kettle, waiting for it to boil, bringing out the sugar, and filling a teapot seemed like some form of expression of affection. Her mother always did it for her father, a quiet ritual Ovidia had thought nothing about before Edmund.

  Ovidia fried a piece of bacon and placed it on a slice of toast and ate standing, ignoring the four high stools, stretching her calves and flexing her aching ankle. She turned on the radio — finding a documentary about a classical composer that had already begun. She listened for a few minutes and then switched it off. She opened a kitchen drawer, and her stomach tightened at the sight of a sheath of pamphlets tucked within. She paused with her hand hovering over them, rolled her fingers into a fist and instead pulled out a pair of headphones. She plugged them into her phone and inserted the buds into her ears. She stared at the wall of kitchen units with its concealed fridge and dishwasher, the glossy matching kettle and toaster and a mug with a broken handle that was waiting to be disposed of. She found Cypress Hill, harking back to her teen years, their lyrics replete with expletives, the composers venting their anger at the world as the pot of tea grew cold.

  She remained standing, wondering how she could ever have another cup of tea with Edmund or kiss him or make love to him after today. He’d nudged her into making the decision, pushing just a little, again and again, until she was forced to concede. He’d put his arms around her and whispered what they had to do in her ear. She’d pushed him away, but he’d returned again and again, until she had to accept that there were no other options. He’d returned an hour later with a date and a time. The date was today, and the time was drawing closer like an enormous black hole that sucked her in with a force she couldn’t escape.

  She chewed her breakfast slowly, neither thinking nor tasting, until her food ran out. She glanced at the clock outlined on her phone. It was only nine o’clock.