by Tina Seskis
I look at my watch and it’s nearly lunchtime. I try to move but I want to stay. “I really should get out of your way soon,” I say and as I speak my lips move against his. “I’m sure you must have plans."
“You know what, I’ve had a bit of a full-on week,” says Robbie. “And it’s a revolting day – so what I’d really like better than anything right now is to sit here and listen to music and maybe watch a movie later and just shut the world out.” He pauses. “And if you could stay and do it with me that would be even nicer.”
I hesitate. I try not to think of the real Ben and Charlie and where they are, what they’re doing. I worry about Angel worrying about me. And then I make my decision. I pull away and take his hand and kiss it all the way along where the palm meets the fingers and I look at him, not shy any more, and say, “You know what? That sounds just perfect.”
49
After the success of the Highlands, the new year came and the winter months dragged listlessly by. Then before Ben knew it, it was nearly May and he was forced to confront the biggest milestone of all, the anniversary of the day his life had changed forever. For this he found he wanted to be completely alone – he couldn’t face having even Charlie with him, not without Emily there, so he left him with his parents and drove into the Peak District. He parked the car and walked – in as straight a line as he could, although he didn’t know why – for hours and hours, veering off paths, beating through brambles, crossing fenced-in fields, hauling himself over rough rocky terrain. He’d originally thought about climbing Kinder Scout, where he’d proposed to Emily (and she’d laughed at him for getting down on one knee, before getting down herself and saying yes please) but he couldn’t face being up there without her, and besides he didn’t want to risk seeing anyone. His walking was relentless, meditative, and he almost forgot the time, forgot where he was – he even forgot Emily for blissful brief seconds, what they’d had and what they’d lost. He knew Charlie had sensed the date too, although Ben couldn't tell him of course, he wouldn’t understand, but he seemed upset when Ben dropped him off, not howling exactly but crying pitifully, which in a way was worse. Ben carried a small tent on his back and when it was late and almost dark he stopped and pitched it beside a gently-flowing river where there were no sounds besides the burbling water and the occasional shriek of an unknown bird. He lay awake half the night and almost enjoyed the feeling of being all alone in the world out there, of having the time and space to grieve and breathe, and when he awoke he felt oddly refreshed, relieved that he’d got through the day and arrived on the other side, as sane and intact as he could be.
50
Robbie doesn’t ask me any questions about myself and I don’t like to ask him anything either, although I’m curious at how he seems so young and can afford such a swanky place, how he’s such a good cook, such a gentleman. We find we like the same music and we lie together on the couch and listen to the Doves and Panics and Libertines, to Oasis and even Johnny Cash, but when he puts on Radiohead I cringe and tell him I don’t like them. Robbie says nothing, he seems to understand, and he puts on a playlist instead and after a while that song from The Wannadies comes on, and as the chorus kicks in he looks straight into my eyes and doesn’t flinch and I feel like my heart is going to break. The rain hasn’t stopped and the temperature has dropped further, but we don’t care as we gaze at each other and cuddle and snog the afternoon away like a pair of teenagers. Robbie seems happy for us to stay on the couch, to stay dressed, and the desire in us builds and crunches through our clothes, but neither of us has the inclination to take it any further right now, and so we don’t.
51
Ben asked his parents if they’d mind having Charlie the next night too, the Saturday night, as it had taken him ages to find his way back to his car, and by the time he’d arrived home with scratched-up legs and feet covered in blisters he’d been too exhausted and wrung out to cope with looking after anyone, even Charlie. He closed the curtains and ordered a curry and settled down to Saturday night telly – something he used to claim he hated, but which Emily had always loved and insisted they watch, and secretly he’d quite enjoyed it too, not that he would ever admit it of course.
It wasn’t the same watching on his own, without laughing at the tears pouring down Emily’s cheeks and her telling him to shut up, she couldn’t hear what the judges were saying. He found himself wondering where she was right now, what she was doing – and without Charlie there to restrain him, make him put on a show, he felt the same thumping grief as on the day he’d looked under the bed and realised their leather holdall was gone, that she was gone.
The doorbell rang. Shit, it must be his curry, he needed to get a grip. He swiped at his eyes and grabbed his wallet.
As he opened the door he stopped, staring at his visitor like he couldn’t believe it, his mouth hanging open, foolish almost. What was going on? Where was his curry? Had she come back? His heart leapt as if he’d been shot, and then it crashed, like he was on the floor dying.
“Oh,” he said.
“Can I come in?” said Caroline. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come, but I tried you last night too, and I just needed to see you, to say sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” said Ben, and he knew he was being rude.
“Please let me in, Ben. You’re not the only one who’s suffering, maybe we can help each other.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, but he stood aside and she walked in anyway. He followed her into the living room and as she took off her coat the doorbell went again, and this time it was his curry, but his hands still shook as he paid the delivery boy. In the kitchen he divided the food onto two plates and there was plenty for them both, he’d ordered much too much as usual. He grabbed himself a beer, and then hesitated – maybe he shouldn’t drink it in front of Caroline, wasn’t that a bit taunting, but then he thought, fuck it, and he poured her an orange juice, that’s all he had in the way of soft drinks.
Just as he’d loaded up the trays Caroline teetered in on her heels and asked for a wine glass, and out of her handbag she produced a bottle of white wine wrapped in red paper, misting it was so cold. She must have bought it just now, the insensitive cow, from the off-licence at the end of their street, but as he was tired and uneasy he said nothing, he really couldn’t face a fight. They ate in silence in front of the TV, while a man ate golf balls and an old woman danced with her poodle, and Caroline’s skirt kept riding up as she balanced her tray on her naked thighs. By the next ad break she’d finished her wine although the glass she'd poured herself had been massive, and she asked him to get her another.
Something in Ben broke a little then and he got up and stormed into the kitchen, into the fridge, and he ripped open another beer and tipped up the can, poured the liquid down his throat, as fast as he could, why the fuck not? The fact she’d gone to that off-licence had made him so explosively angry he needed to obliterate the feeling, smash it to pieces, and as he gulped down the alcohol he realised he wasn’t even angry with her anymore, he was angry with the whole horrible world.
52
Much much later it has grown dark, but we still haven’t moved from the couch. We’ve half-watched two movies, we’ve kissed and groped through countless albums, and I’ve fallen more than a little bit in love with him, have fantasised just a teeny bit about a new life together, maybe one day us even getting married, becoming Mrs – who?
“What’s your surname, Robbie?” I say through my bruised pumped up lips.
Robbie looks uncomfortable for the first time. “Uh, it’s um, Brown,” he says.
I stare at him. “That’s my surname,” I say. “Wow, it’s fate,” and I laugh.
“I’m hungry,” he says quickly. “Do you fancy getting a takeaway?”
“There must be loads of places round here, what about going out for something?” I say.
“I’d rather stay in with you,” he says. “It’s raining outside, I’ve got some champagne, we can just chill – plus you won
’t need to worry about what shoes to wear with that outfit.” He looks at me in his too-big jeans and shirt, and he has a point.
“OK,” I say, and I don’t mind, in fact I prefer it.
“Is curry all right?”
“Perfect,” I reply. “You choose, I like everything.” He rummages in a drawer for a leaflet, and when he orders he rattles it off as fast as he can and his voice sounds a bit weird, high-pitched for some reason.
He disappears for a moment, and comes back with a bottle of champagne and two tall glasses. The sight makes me think longingly of Angel’s pink silk purse, and I realise with a lurch that I never gave it back to her. I picture the pair of us last night in the toilets at the Dorchester, of how quickly I broke my promise to my boy, and then I think about how I turned my back on him anyway when he needed me most, so what difference does one little line make every now and again?
Although the need in me is expanding now, into every last crack in my messed-up mind, I worry about Robbie and what he’d say. Somehow he doesn’t seem the druggy type, and I’d hate him to think less of me, so I push the thought of the little purse away again, as far away as it will go. If it wasn’t in my bag I’d be fine now. Just pretend it’s not there. Robbie fills our flutes and toasts us, toasts the last 24 hours, kisses me again, and the thought of the drug drifts hazily away.
When the doorbell goes Robbie jumps up and says, “I’ll be back in a minute, would you mind getting that,” and he shoves a £50 note into my hand as heads to the bathroom. I buzz up the man smiling into the video screen, and he delivers aromatic food in smart cardboard boxes that I dish up onto white square plates in the gleaming kitchen. Robbie reappears and we take the food into the living room and sit back and stuff ourselves, it's like we’re starving, and as we eat we watch Britain's Got Talent, and it feels so nice, a proper Saturday night in, like I used to have with my husband. I find we laugh at the same jokes, make the same kinds of comments, and whenever I look at him, my stomach tingles and my pulse goes crazy, until I have to look away. Robbie opens another bottle and we lie down and the drink has had its effect now, and so eventually Robbie pulls me up and leads me to the bedroom and this time we don’t just lie and cuddle, we’re ready, it’s like we’ve known each other forever, and it’s fucking wonderful. It’s like Robbie is some amazing gift from God and being here in this moment, it all just feels right right right. The only thing missing is that extra buzz and when I finally give in and suggest the cocaine we’re both a bit drunk, on champagne and love. Robbie looks at me for a long while and then he says, “For you I’d do anything,” and I don’t know why but it doesn’t feel sordid with him, in his fancy apartment in Marylebone, it feels exciting and glamorous and mind-blowing. Hours later we finally fall asleep and when I wake up the dawn is peering through the half-opened shutters, and I am lying guilt-ridden and Robbie is lying dead.
53
When Ben came back from the kitchen he was still fucking fuming, but he was almost as angry with Emily now, for leaving, than with Caroline, for coming. It seemed too much to bear at this time of all times to have to confront someone who looked like Emily, sounded like her, yet wasn’t her. She shouldn’t have run away, how self-centred was that? He was so drunk now it was like his wife’s absence was a physical void, as if his stomach had been gouged out and there was nothing but a gaping hole where his insides should have been. He put his hand to his midriff – yes, he was still all there, he hadn’t been cut up in the night. He glared at Caroline lounging on his sofa in her too-short skirt, and wished she would just fuck off, what did she want anyway. He went over to the wicker chair that he swore he hadn’t sat in since that first magical night at Emily’s flat, years ago now, and it was so battered and uncomfortable to sit in, they really should get rid of it. No, he should get rid of it, there wasn’t a they anymore. He wished again that Caroline would just take the hint and get the fuck out of there, but he was reluctant to ask her directly to leave, in case she made one of her scenes, and he couldn’t face that tonight.
“Where’ve you been?” said Caroline, and her voice was slurred.
“In the kitchen,” Ben said, and he wondered dimly how Caroline was also drunk, he’d only just brought in her second glass of wine – but he hadn’t spotted the half bottle of whisky empty on the floor.
The TV continued its fake emotional assault on them. They watched a little girl with a big voice murder a Whitney song, and then a group of grown men in dungarees dancing with wheel barrows, until Ben thought he really couldn’t stand any more, he had to go to bed, and on impulse he pressed the remote and the screen went black. The silence blared. Caroline huffed and as she turned to glare at him he realised she looked ill again, pale-faced and fragile under her makeup.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he said eventually – maybe she’d leave once she’d told him. Caroline bent her head and twisted her fingers.
“I wanted to say sorry,” she said.
“About what though?” Ben persisted.
Caroline looked awkward. “About what happened,” she said. “I’m sorry about everything.”
“Not as sorry as me,” Ben said, but he said it without pity, just bottomless sadness.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” Caroline asked. She waited as the question spun around the room and he took so long to answer that she thought he hadn’t heard her.
“No, not now,” he said, and it was the first time he’d acknowledged it and it was devastating, so he got up to leave the room, he couldn’t cry in front of Caroline of all people, but he stumbled over the whisky bottle and fell awkwardly, almost on top of her. The sofa was low and deep and squashy and although he tried to get back up it seemed too much effort all of a sudden, and so he slumped there, drunk and defeated.
Caroline shifted over and put her arms around him and held him quietly while he sobbed, out of his mind on beer and grief and loneliness. He found her touch weirdly comforting – although she was so different in temperament to her twin, she felt like Emily, even smelled like Emily, as well as looking like her, obviously. Ben hadn’t held anyone except poor Charlie for so long it was disorientating, and reminded him of happier times – so when she started stroking his hair and saying there, there, it would all be OK, he even thought in his drunkenness that maybe she was Emily, and when she leaned in to kiss him he let her and he even kissed her back and it all became so urgent and animal-like it was as if he didn’t even notice that it wasn’t his wife, but her flawed malignant twin, until it was too late. Afterwards he realised what he’d done and screamed at her to get out and leave him the fuck alone, and then he staggered from the room and fled upstairs, slamming the door behind him.
54
Gorgeous Robbie has blood congealed in his nose, the bed is cold and his skin is blue. There is absolutely no doubt he's dead. I don’t scream, instead I leap out of the bed and run to the window, naked, panting – like a dog. I am so horrified I can’t think straight. I cannot, cannot look at him again, the image is stuck in my brain and I know it’s another vision of hell that I will never be rid of, another life I have ruined, for daring to love him. I gag at this thought, but manage to hold the vomit in my mouth long enough to reach the bin and then it spews everywhere and I sink to the floor, and for the second time in two days I'm covered in my own sick and I wish this life would just hurry up and end now. As I stand up my legs are wobbly and my chest is rising and falling faster than I knew it could, and my breath is getting shallower and shallower until I know I’m hyper-ventilating but I can't seem to stop. What can I do? Who can help Robbie? (No-one, it’s too late.) Who can help me? (Ditto.) I can’t call Angel, Simon, not even my mum or dad, my phone is dead and I don’t know any of their numbers. There are only two numbers I know off by heart that could possibly help me – my old house in Chorlton, and 999. I desperately want my husband, I want Ben, he’ll know what to do, and so I dial the Manchester number almost without thinking, and as the call connects I remember myself, wh
at on earth would I say, and after three rings I hang up. My hands are shaking but I just about manage to call 999 and after a few seconds an efficient sounding operator comes on the line.
“Fire, police or ambulance?” she asks.
I don’t know. He’s dead, I know that much, what good can an ambulance do?
“Hello?” she continues. “Do you want fire, police or ambulance?”
I pant and talk at the same time. “There’s somebody dead here.”
“Are you sure? Are they still breathing?”
“He’s cold and blue. I think that makes him dead.” And I start to give great gusting sobs down the line, for Robbie, for his poor lost life. It’s horrendous.
“What’s your address, love? Tell me your address.”
“I don’t know. I’m somewhere in Marylebone.”
“OK, we’ll get that number traced. Stay on the line, pet, try to calm down. What’s the deceased person’s name?”
“Robbie. Robbie Brown.”
“And your name?”
“Catherine Brown.”
“Are you his wife?”
“No,” I wail. “I’ve only just met him.” The room starts to whirl and I assume I’m fainting and then I realise it’s the blue lights down in the street and the police are here already.
Thank God. Until I remember I’m still naked, covered in vomit, and I run to the bathroom, am in and out the shower before it has time to get hot, and by the time I’ve wrapped one of Robbie’s sheet-sized towels around me, the police are banging on the door.