The Man I Loved Before: A completely gripping and heart-wrenching page turner

by Anna Mansell

  That night, one of the girls somehow managed to get me back to my hotel room. I passed out in the bathroom and when I woke up, there was a pool of blood around me. I was cramping. They weren’t normal cramps, this wasn’t like anything I’d experienced before. And it got worse and worse. I thought I was dying, I thought maybe I’d drunk so much something had ruptured. I called one of the girls to help me, she called a doctor. The pain got worse, the bleeding got heavier. By the time the doctor arrived, I’d begun to wonder. He confirmed my worst fear. The one thing I never wanted to happen had happened and then I’d killed it because I was too drunk for its first six weeks. It stood no chance. And I know some people say a foetus that young is no baby, but to me, for a moment, it was. It was our baby. And though I never wanted children, while I waited for the doctor, I fell in love with it. I saw it as a newborn, I watched it toddle, I saw it off to school, I imagined this tiny version of both of us and my heart broke because I’d killed it. And because I knew if I told you, I’d kill you too. You hated how much I drank. You hated the work I did, or at least the culture I was immersed in. And that work, that drink, that culture, had stamped out a life before we’d even had a chance to realise, to talk about what ifs, to make a decision based on facts not forced because of my inability to say no. To walk away.

  I will never forgive myself for that. I wouldn’t expect you to either. And I suppose that’s the main reason I wanted to write this letter. Because I never told you and you had a right to know.

  And that is why I’ll burn this letter, because I never told you and I have no right to do so now that we’re over.

  I know the lack of love between us is my fault. I know I pushed you too far. I think the night I lost our baby could have gone two ways. I could have realised what I was doing and stopped it but, instead, I used it as a reason to be angry, to be unavailable, to drink more. I couldn’t love you that much, right? If I could let something like that happen, then lie about it. So if that’s the case, there was no point trying to keep you. I didn’t deserve you. You were too good for me and the day you left was the worst day of my life, but also the most expected. I was vindicated. I was unlovable and you proved it by leaving.

  You will never understand how much I regret the me that did that to you.

  I loved you, Ben. More than you ever really knew, more than I could ever cope with. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough to make me change, maybe in another life.

  Yours, always and forever,

  Jem. X

  68

  ‘I thought you were sorting stuff, moving things over,’ I say, as lightly as I can. The Moomin envelope is on his lap, the letter quivers in his hands. I want to rip it from him, I want to scream in his face – how dare he read it? How dare he pry? But it’s almost as if I can sense how my causing a scene would go. It’s like I want to try and keep things calm, not cause a fuss, not cause a fight.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ he sneers.

  ‘Mitch, I…’ I reach for the letter but he pulls it away. ‘Mum wants photos of the room, I just came up to—’

  ‘Why would you keep it? If you weren’t happy for me to maybe find and read it some day?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just—’

  He reads it again, I watch his eyes scan over each word. My mouth runs dry.

  ‘You’re not over him, are you?’ he says, looking hurt.

  ‘I am. I promise I am.’ I sit beside him. I rest my hand on his leg. ‘Of course I’m over him. It’s you I love, I’ve told you. I know I’m not always very good at showing it, I just… find it hard. I’m learning, I’m trying to be better. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find it, I didn’t think you’d read it.’

  ‘I assumed we had no secrets. I mean, I knew the letter existed, that there were things you couldn’t tell me to begin with, but now? We’re basically living together. I love you. I thought you loved me, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I certainly wasn’t expecting this.’

  He gets hold of my hand, squeezing it too tight so I try and get it free from his grasp. Mum’s downstairs, she’s happy, enjoying a moment, I want to keep that for her. I kiss his fingers, looking up at him. Submissive. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s stupid. It’s all in the past. I’m ashamed. I did some awful things.’

  ‘You did,’ he agrees.

  ‘I hate myself for it. I thought writing the letter might help me deal with what I did, accept it even. But of course it didn’t. It couldn’t possibly. And that’s why I need you, you make me a better person, Mitch. I love you.’

  ‘I don’t know how I can believe you, Jem,’ he whispers. ‘I am trying so hard and yet, this is how you repay me. Earlier, you told me you didn’t trust me—’

  ‘What? That’s not… I didn’t. I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Pretty much! It’s what you implied. With all that stuff about that woman. And yet here you are, keeping secrets from me. Manipulating me. I can see how you’re looking at me now, how you’re touching me, trying to get me to forgive you by being affectionate. I’m not stupid, you know.’

  ‘I know you’re not stupid. I don’t think that for a moment. Here, it’s fine. Give me the letter. I’ll rip it up now. I don’t know why I kept it. I’m sorry, here. Please.’

  He looks at the letter, slowly picking it up. My heart stops as I watch him decide what to do before he eventually hands it over to me. ‘Go on then,’ he says, staring, eyes wide. ‘Rip it up.’

  I fold it in half. My hands shaking. I grit my teeth. I think back to the moment I wrote it, sat in here, weeping as I told Ben everything. I think back to the moment the postman dropped it through the letterbox and I panicked about Ben reading it. I think about bumping into him on the bench about the look in his eye as he left me. Sorrow. Pity. I think about how I felt when the letter came back, that mix of sadness and relief. And how I’ve kept it in my room because somehow letting go of it was like it was finally the end. Which it should have been. I should have burned it like I intended. And I wasn’t strong enough.

  So I rip it up. And I keep ripping. Dropping bits and picking them up to rip them smaller. I hold back the urge to cry because now is not the time for self-pity. And when I’ve finished, there’s nothing but fibres and tiny catches of words that could never be pieced back together. I put them in the envelope. I look up at Mitch. ‘There,’ I say. ‘It’s done. Gone. Just like it should have been when I first got it back. I should have been able to talk about it with you, tell you what had happened and move on. No more secrets, I promise.’

  He stands, slowly, taking the envelope from me, dropping it into the tiny wicker bin in the corner of my room. ‘It’s for the best,’ he says, resting his chin on my head. ‘It’s for us,’ he whispers into my hair and I wonder how he can look at me the way he has yet still want to be with me. Does he love me that much or is this all part of a way to control me? Does he feel like he’s got one up on me? ‘Now he’s gone, we can start our future properly, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, the butterflies gone, my belly now leaden with fear and anxiety.

  ‘Now, go on, take photos for your mum. Show her what we’ve done. Then come back up here and let me show you how much you need me in your life.’

  I force a smile. I take out my phone and standing in the doorway start taking photos. My heart races and my chest feels tight. And I’m not quite sure what just happened.

  69

  ‘Jem…’ says Mitch, startling me awake from a heavy sleep. There’s an empty bottle of gin on the side. Mitch had sneaked it up to Mum’s room and presented it to me when I finally made it back up last night. I tried to tell him I wasn’t up for it, I told him about that time at Leanne’s, I made excuses, but he got frustrated at my lack of appreciation, so I drank it anyway. Now, he strokes my hair, perched on the side of our bed, Mum’s bed, his breath stale with morning after the night before.

  ‘Eurgh!’ I grunt.

  ‘I know,’ he agrees.

  ‘Why?’

&
nbsp; ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. We were celebrating.’

  ‘Celebrating?’

  ‘Our new room. You finally letting go of the past.’ My heart lurches. The conversation, the letter, the look on his face, the shame. I wasn’t letting go, I was numbing my feelings, just like I always do. ‘Thought I’d go and get pastries. Or bacon. Maybe pastries and bacon.’

  ‘I don’t know if I could eat anything, to be honest. This is why I don’t do gin.’ I bury my head beneath my pillow as he gets up off the bed.

  ‘Don’t be a lightweight, come on, I’ll be half an hour. Go get a shower. Get some water on your face, you’ll be fine. I’ll get your mum a paper too, yeah?’

  I nod, realising how much I actually want him to leave the house, to give me a tiny bit of space. How much I want to stand beneath the shower and let water wash all the feelings away. ‘Thanks. She’d like that. She loves a paper. Not to read, just to have lying round the house like she’s clever.’ I’m doing my best to act like everything is fine, like I’m fine.

  Mitch laughs, feeding his legs into his jeans, stumbling a little.

  ‘I think I need to stop drinking,’ I say, trying to sit myself up a bit, pausing halfway until my head stops banging.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We were just having a bit of fun. It’s fine. You’ll be right after a shower and food.’ I freeze as he comes back to me, dropping a kiss on my forehead. I paint on a compliant smile as he jogs out of the room, grabbing Mum’s card as he goes. I want to say ‘No, don’t take hers. Take my card if you don’t want to pay for it.’ But he’s gone, and I don’t want to make a scene, and she did say to use it, so I guess it’s fine.

  * * *

  I’m staring at the wall, ten minutes later, totally zoned out. I can hear the radio on downstairs, Mum must be awake. I drag my sorry arse out of bed and into my room, looking through my bag for Alka-Seltzer. I pull my old phone out, catching the home button. The screen lights up. There’s a message. Shit, I didn’t talk to Leanne about visiting. Except the message isn’t from Leanne, it’s from Ben’s number.

  For God’s sake, leave Ben alone. He doesn’t want to hear from you. He doesn’t want anything to do with you. And after everything in that letter? I don’t blame him. You’re now blocked. Move on with your sad, disgusting life.

  I scroll up, breath held, and there it is. Picture after picture of the letter I wrote. Each paragraph zoomed in to make it easier to read. All sent last night, to Ben’s number.

  I hover over a message to him but there’s no point if I’ve been blocked. I look down in the bin at what remains of the letter. I ripped it up. So, Mitch had to have already done it by the time I found him. And yet he said nothing. He pretended like he was hurt, not angry. He made out I was at fault somehow. That he was disgusted in me but prepared to forgive me. Yet, he must have been going through my drawers to have come across it. He said he was moving them into Mum’s, not teasing through the contents. Who does that? And did he have any right to make me rip it up like that? I mean, I did it because I didn’t want a fight. Like I always do, apologise, back down. Anything I feel, he shifts the gaze and it’s my fault.

  He had no right to go through my drawers, never mind send this to Ben.

  How fucking could he?

  I stand in my room, the walls closing in. I’m confused, conflicted, angry, hurt. Frightened. The scene in Cole’s car park, Lisa definitely was Mitch’s ex. There’s now no question in my heart. She was right.

  I google gaslighting: to manipulate (someone) by psychological means into doubting their own sanity.

  And then I google narcissist: a person with exaggerated sense of self-importance, a lack of empathy, a history of exploiting others for personal gain.

  And I catch sight of myself in the old bedroom mirror that still has stickers round the edge when I decided to decorate it, aged twelve. Twelve-year-old me had such hopes and dreams. Such vitality. She was complex, sure, she’d experienced rejection and loneliness, she’d had to grow up pretty quick when her dad left, but she wasn’t nearly as vacant as I am now. She had fight. She had belief. Where did it all go?

  Am I that weak that I’ve missed the signs? How did that happen? I was supposed to be sorting my life out. What the hell have I done?

  I wrap myself up in my dressing gown. Mum might know what to think. She’ll tell me I’ve got it wrong, she’ll reassure me. Except that when I do get downstairs, it’s clear there’s something not right. She’s sat up but rocking her hips side to side in her chair, her eyes closed.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Oh, hey, love, erm, can you get me some painkillers? There’s codeine in the drawer.’

  ‘Of course, hang on.’ I pull out packs of pills, sifting through until I find the codeine in amongst the steroids and blood thinners. The leftover pain relief from her op, the packets and packets of Halls Mentho-lyptus. ‘Here, take these. There’s some water.’

  She knocks them back, wincing and shifting as she tries to get comfy.

  ‘I’ve had this pain, down my back, into my groin and across my stomach.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘On and off, all night.’

  ‘Mum! Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I thought it would wear off if I kept moving. I’ve been sitting up, shifting around. It would ease for a bit, then come back. I just couldn’t quite trust myself to get to the drawer, I had paracetamol in my bag here but that didn’t really touch it.’

  ‘Do you want me to call someone? Get the doctor out?’

  Mum wafts away the suggestion. ‘No, no. Don’t be silly. I’ve probably just eaten too much, all that pork belly. Pork never really agreed with me, did it? Even before all this nonsense. It’s probably just a kind of indigestion or something. It’s fine. Honestly, I’m fine. Just lift my legs up for me, let me try stretching out ’til the tablets have kicked in.’

  I do as instructed, watching her tense, then relax as waves of pain seem to peel through her body. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Mum?’

  ‘Of course. I’m fine.’

  The front door opens and Mitch shouts up the stairs, ‘Who’s for pastries?’ before noticing I’m down with Mum. ‘Ahh, there you are. Good morning, beautiful, it’s nice to see you vertical. More than can be said for some, eh!’ He winks at Mum then kisses me.

  ‘She’s not very well,’ I say, coldly.

  ‘Oh no. Have you had pain relief? Do you need anything?’

  ‘I sorted it.’

  ‘Great, well done. Come on then, tea? Coffee? That’ll help too. What you both having?’

  Mum winces a little less than before, then smiles. ‘Tea for me, love, please.’

  ‘Erm, coffee,’ I say, on the back foot from his sudden return, as if nothing’s changed. Which I suppose for him, it hasn’t.

  He busies himself round our kitchen, making breakfast as he chats and charms. I want to scream out: Why did you send that message? What were you thinking? How dare you do something like that? But I can’t, not with Mum. So I just play along as he serves up coffee and croissants. And eventually, Mum’s shoulders start to shift back in place, the waves of pain growing further and further between for her.

  But my own waves of pain and confusion, each time I think of the letter and the text messages – and Mitch in our kitchen, completely taking over – increase.

  70

  I spend the rest of the morning being… compliant. Yeah, that’s the right word for it. I’ve done what was expected of me. Well, mostly. I’ve smiled and laughed. I’ve found ways to avoid his affection. I’ve used Mum as an excuse not to have sex. He didn’t like it, said it was my fault that he wanted me. That I shouldn’t be so sexy, that it wasn’t fair to make him wait, but it was a step too far for me. I can keep the peace, just for now, for Mum’s sake, but I’ve realised how much everything is on his terms. Always. From the moment I kissed him at the park gates and he turned away, to the night he came round with alcohol and we both got shitfaced, then ha
d sex in the lounge. Swiftly followed by him holding back again until in the right time, at the right place, on his terms. His terms don’t suit me any more. Everything we do is the way he wants to do things, when he wants to do them. Drinking, eating, going out, staying in. It’s all how he wants it. Moving into Mum’s room, I mean, yes, that was ultimately Mum’s idea, but he started the thought process. Who’s to say he hadn’t planted a seed with her and maybe that’s why she suggested it?

  And what about my phone? Was it faulty or was it him? Lisa intimated as much. If I go back over those early dates, that weren’t even dates at that point… were the signs there from the beginning? Was he at it from the start? And what for? What did he want from me, from us? He has his mum’s house to live in, he has her money. What does he want from me?

  My head is full, spilling over with questions and thoughts about these last few weeks, months. Which is why I didn’t answer Leanne when she texted to check in, then phoned me twice. I’ve been quiet again, she’ll know something is up. And that’s why she’s on the doorstep now, both kids in tow, a hamper of pamper presents all wrapped up in a bow.

  ‘Blimey, I thought you’d never answer!’ she says, bustling in, handing me Elsie Alice as Harley runs straight into the lounge, launching himself onto the floor.