Staunch

by Eleanor Wood

  ‘Nan, don’t worry about it. Shall we just swap seats?’

  ‘No. I’m not having that. It’s not fair. I’m calling the stewardess and asking her to tell them to stop it. This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Nan, I know it’s annoying, but I don’t think you can –’

  It’s too late. She’s already pressed the button and is making a face I know better than to argue with. An extremely nice stewardess explains that she knows it’s annoying but she can’t ask them not to. Nan and I swap seats. She remains outraged.

  However, by the time we are due to land – despite our very, very long day – we are in a state of high excitement. We will be landing in India! I have never set foot in India before, and this heralds a trip of great adventure and family history and maybe even – finally – self-discovery!

  We pull in to land and I brace myself for the wheels hitting the ground. Instead, the plane swoops sharply back upwards and there is a collective gasp across the cabin.

  ‘Is that supposed to happen?’ Nan asks, reaching into her handbag for her Valium.

  Mrs Sharma clutches at my arm convulsively.

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ I tell them both, inwardly resigning myself to imminent death. A relief, in so many ways.

  While we circle Goa Airport repeatedly, an announcement kicks in.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ says the captain. ‘We need to make another attempt at landing as there are dogs loose on the runway.’

  ‘Dogs loose on the runway’? Dogs? Is this a joke? I presume this is an elaborate cover story for something that has gone horribly wrong. How can there be dogs loose on the runway?

  ‘Welcome to India, darling,’ my nan chuckles.

  March 2017

  After months and months of hanging out with The Lecturer, things had escalated. We saw each other most days; we frequently stayed up texting until 4 a.m. Sometimes we’d both press play on horror films at the same time in our respective beds, and chat throughout.

  I’d grown fond of him, to the point where I now couldn’t imagine my life without him. For his part, he constantly told me I was wonderful and beautiful; he found it so hard to talk to people except for me, I knew more about him than anyone else on the face of the planet.

  One night while drinking cocktails and putting the world to rights, nose-to-nose on a sofa, we finally kissed. And I suddenly felt like I never wanted to kiss anyone else again. I looked at his face and I truly wondered how I never noticed he was so fucking beautiful, back at the beginning. I have always been one for the whirlwind; I never really believed someone could grow on you. But this one sneaked up on me. I appeared to be, somehow, in love with him.

  I texted him when I got home that night: We need to talk about What Happened.

  He replied: Lunch tomorrow? I’ll buy you beer and a hotdog. See you in a few hours, lovely Ellie.

  Despite my hangover, I woke up the next morning in a state of high excitement. It was unseasonably sunny, which I took to be an excellent omen, as I put on a 1950s sundress and lipstick. I texted Emma, who had long predicted that I would end up marrying The Lecturer.

  ‘OMG, I was right! It’s finally happening. Let me know how it goes – I’m going to need every detail. Fuck, he’s been after you for so long, he’s going to think it’s Christmas!!!’

  The morning at work was interminable. I was incapable of getting anything done, as I kept putting on more lipstick and counting down the minutes.

  We arranged to meet in our usual spot, and we walked in the sunshine along the South Bank, where we sat outside and he bought me the promised beer and hotdog.

  ‘So, about last night …’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I believe you might have some questions for me.’

  ‘Well, more of a statement. Lecturer, it turns out that I seem to have fallen in love with you.’

  I waited for him to be delighted.

  ‘Oh, Ellie. I’m so sorry. I did not foresee this …’

  It transpired that he was in the middle of some sort of trial separation from the long-term girlfriend I thought he’d long ago split up from. He was apparently ‘confused’ about life. He had thought our increasingly flirtatious friendship was a safe space because I would never be interested in ‘someone like him’.

  ‘You’re wonderful and I’m regretting this even as I’m saying it,’ he told me. ‘But I’m afraid I’m no use to you. We both know you could do far better. Besides, be honest, how long would it be before someone like you got bored with someone like me?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No. Don’t.’

  We walked back to work in silence. I texted Emma to say the grand declaration had not gone according to plan.

  ‘Do you need wine?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I just need to go home and cry.’

  I did exactly that. And then I told The Lecturer I didn’t want to talk to him for a while and got straight onto Tinder, where I rushed headlong into a terrible mistake.

  June 2017

  Flash-forward a few months later, I was about to turn thirty-six and I needed a break. I’d pushed The Lecturer as far back in my mind as he would go, but I’d been over-extending myself and I was at a low ebb. So I decided to spend my birthday on holiday in Spain with my grandmother.

  I was in the throes of a newish but intense relationship with a man who I was tying myself in knots over, while failing to see how utterly awful and problematic both he and our relationship were. It was only afterwards that I would refer to him as The Bad Boyfriend.

  The night before I went away, Bad Boyfriend and I had a Friday night out, in what was supposed to be an early celebration for my birthday. I booked a table at a restaurant I’d wanted to go to for ages. I was excited as I put on a pretty dress and my best knickers. When I arrived to meet him at the pub across the road, he was already there.

  He was sitting in a corner looking like a giant elegant cat. A cat who happened to be dressed like Keith Richards circa 1969: great hair, obscenely tight trousers and a bit of eyeliner. He was the very embodiment of My Type, which I guess was part of the problem. He was also the antithesis of the bookish, slightly awkward Lecturer.

  He’d bought me a pint of cider. I detest cider, but I didn’t tell him that. I smiled and drank it anyway, quickly. I’d seen how temperamental he could be. I wanted this to be a lovely evening; I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. More than that, I just really, really wanted this to work.

  ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart.’ He smiled and handed me a paper bag.

  I was surprised and delighted in equal measure. He could be so lovely. That was also part of the problem. I’ve never met anybody capable of being so charming.

  Inside the bag was a beautiful rose quartz necklace and an obscure, out-of-print book I had happened to mention on our first date.

  ‘I can’t believe it! How did you …?’

  ‘Well, it took a bit of finding, but I called this antique bookseller in Hastings and … Anyway, I can’t reveal my secret methods. You might go off me. Happy birthday.’

  ‘How did you even remember?’

  ‘Actually, I liked you so much that first night we met, I made a note on my phone so that I’d remember it. I decided there and then that I’d buy it for you on your birthday.’

  It was the best first date I’d ever had. We went to a fancy cocktail bar and spent the entire evening dancing in the toilets because the music in there was better; it was the most fun I’ve ever had on a date.

  ‘So, what are you doing for the next twenty-five years?’ he had asked me at the end of it.

  ‘Pfft, why so pessimistic? Make it forty.’

  At the beginning, he would ring me twice a day and play me obscure Bowie B-sides and tell me I was the coolest girl he’d ever met. We skipped to the ‘eating takeaway curry in bed’ stage of things by about our fourth date. He would wear my pyjamas and we’d watch Netflix on my laptop. It was so cosy. It was all a great relief, to be honest. We had only been dating for a couple of
months, but he kept telling me how committed he was to making our relationship work. He told me I was exactly what he had been looking for.

  After a long spell of knocking about with indifferent and unsuitable men, and the eventual disappointment with The Lecturer, this had felt like the light at the end of the tunnel, the easy answer I’d been looking for.

  But lately, things had felt like they were going wrong. He had been saying he wasn’t sure he was over his ex. He had been ringing me up crying in the middle of the night a lot, and shouting at me for no reason. He didn’t think he could handle a relationship after all. It felt like trying to hold water in my cupped hands.

  I was determined to make tonight a great success.

  ‘Anyway, how has your day been?’ I asked.

  ‘Terrible. Fucking shit. I was trying to be cheerful because it’s nearly your birthday and you’re going away and leaving me, but now you’ve asked, I just don’t know if I can do it.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Can I help?’

  ‘I doubt it. You wouldn’t understand. I’ve had a tough day at work and my ex is being impossible and …’

  He proceeded to talk for the next hour about the problems he’d been having with his ex. He made me read a whole string of text messages from her, which was a bit weird, but I decided it was probably better to be included in this saga rather than left out. Maybe it was a good sign.

  ‘Um. I’m really sorry to interrupt,’ I said eventually, ‘but we’d better go. Our dinner reservation was ten minutes ago and I don’t know how long they’ll hold the table.’

  ‘Actually, I think I’m too stressed to eat. I can’t really manage food,’ he said. ‘Is it cool with you if we skip dinner? You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Oh … Of course, no problem. It’s cool.’

  As far I was concerned, it was always fucking cool. In reality, I was surprised he could hear me over the sound of my stomach rumbling. But he was very thin and I was worried he might think I was disgusting if I admitted I was really looking forward to eating dinner.

  So, instead of having a lovely romantic meal in the restaurant I so carefully chose for the occasion, he carried on bitching about his ex while drinking heavily, and I tried my best to look sympathetic and not hungry.

  I was relieved when he finally changed the subject, but it was in an unexpected direction that wasn’t really much more positive.

  ‘By the way, just so you know, I don’t think we should sleep together tonight. I’m too stressed. I need a break. I’m not coming home with you.’

  ‘Um, OK. Cool.’

  ‘Let’s just get really fucking drunk.’

  ‘Um, OK. Cool.’

  We drank more cider, then we drank some trendy gin in an awful bar, and eventually ended up in a pub where he started buying tequila shots. At some point late in the evening, we ran into a friend of his.

  ‘This is Eleanor,’ he said. ‘She’s a writer.’

  He liked telling people I was a writer. It was just me actually doing writing that he didn’t like. I hadn’t been doing much writing lately, because every time I tried to do something that didn’t revolve around him, some sort of drama would kick off in his life that required my full attention. If I said I couldn’t see him because I was doing something else, sometimes he’d call me every few minutes throughout the evening. Sometimes he’d ignore me, and that would make me so anxious I couldn’t concentrate on anything else anyway. It was exhausting. I was too tired to write.

  This friend was someone he’d told me a lot about, someone important to him. The friend happened to be reading a book I had read; this was my chance to show that I could be fun and cool and get on with his friends! We ended up discussing books and our favourite writers. I did my best to include Bad Boyfriend in the conversation, but it became more and more difficult. He’d gone all monosyllabic and teenage.

  Suddenly he downed his drink and stood up. He banged his glass down on the table, as hard and dramatically, and as close to my face, as possible.

  ‘Fine, I get it. I’ll just leave you two to it. Have a great fucking night, yeah?’

  He had stormed out the door before I’d quite processed what the hell had just happened.

  I abandoned my bag and my jacket, and apologised hastily to his friend as I chased after Bad Boyfriend as fast as I possibly could. I found him angrily smoking a cigarette at the end of the road. The look on his face made me burst into tears.

  ‘You’re supposed to be with me,’ he said.

  ‘I … I was just trying to make conversation with your friend.’

  ‘You know it makes me feel left out when you talk about all that bullshit stuff you like. I don’t know all those books and films you’re always going on about. It’s not my fault, I’ve always had to work too hard. I haven’t had the advantages you’ve had. You know that. So I don’t understand. Why would you behave like this?’

  I tried to stop crying and I inwardly told myself, sternly, not to apologise. He should be apologising to me. I knew that. I didn’t deserve any of this. If this relationship was going to work – and I still really, really wanted it to – I needed to develop some boundaries. I spent a lot of time thinking about boundaries, on the nights when he would ring me up crying at 3 a.m., and I’d be so tired I could barely get through the next day at work.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. It just slipped out.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart. It’s OK, don’t cry. I forgive you. Shall we go back to your place?’

  I was so relieved to be back in favour, I didn’t even mind that this point of the evening was often when the real problems started.

  He always had sex with me like he hated me. The first time, it started off OK and then got a bit rough and he apologised afterwards, said we were both too drunk and had got carried away. The second time it was normal and fine, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It stayed normal for a while, until once he whispered in my ear that I was a dirty whore. I so clearly remember the sudden disappointment I felt. Things had been going so well. So I ignored it and hoped maybe I’d heard him wrong. He often claimed I had heard things wrong.

  The next time he whispered in my ear that I was a dirty whore who wanted to be raped. By then, I’d done such a good job of ignoring all red flags, I guessed I might as well just carry on and keep pretending not to hear him. After that it steadily got worse but – in a very twisted and self-abasing sort of logic – I guessed I’d kind of consented to it by ignoring it in the beginning.

  He would hold me down and spit in my face and call me a dirty animal. He had a particular fondness for inserting inanimate objects into unexpected orifices with no prior warning. Sometimes this was done in a fashion that would leave me crying on the toilet for a good couple of days afterwards. Once he shoved his fingers so hard down my throat I couldn’t swallow properly the next day. At least this time, he didn’t stick a cucumber up my arse. I had managed to distract him recently by purchasing quite a small rose quartz dildo. Life had been a lot more comfortable since I did that. We were both into crystals.

  He always said it was my fault for ‘having this effect’ on him. He didn’t even want to come back here, remember?

  I tried to bring all this up once, suggesting we instigate some rules or at least maybe a safe word. Like ‘macaroni’ or ‘umbrella’ or something, as ‘fuck, you’re really hurting me’ didn’t appear to be working. In fact, it seemed to make things worse. He reluctantly said something long-winded and incomprehensible about how I should understand his sexual preferences were separate from what he was really like as a person. I didn’t really know what to do with that, so I probably just muttered ‘cool’ and asked him if he wanted another glass of wine.

  I’d always prided myself on being open-minded and he was an expert in making me feel like I was being the unreasonable one. I tried to tell myself I was being ‘adventurous’. Nervousness can feel a bit like excitement, and I started to get the two mixed up.

  It was always worse if we were both drunk, whic
h we frequently were. Sometimes when we woke up in the morning and he was nice to me, and he brought me a cup of tea in bed, I would wonder if I’d been imagining things. He’s willowy and softly spoken; if you met him, you’d think he was a gentle hippie. Then later, after he had left, I’d realize I was bleeding and covered in bruises, and it was all real.

  One morning we woke up and the bed was soaked in blood; we were both covered in it. He was so solicitous about my gynaecological health, he actually managed to convince me it had been nothing to do with what he’d been doing to me the night before.

  ‘I think you should go to the doctor, darling. It’s like a fucking Tarantino movie in here. Has this ever happened to you before? It’s not normal, you should get it checked out. I’ll come with you if you want.’

  I was nearly thirty-six years old. I had never had a properly Bad Boyfriend before. I had always thought most people were nice, or at least ineptly doing their best, like me. I guess that’s why it took me so long to realize how bad this was. I’d never heard words like ‘gaslighting’ and ‘narcissist’. Up until then, I’d been lucky. I had no frame of reference for such things.

  I genuinely didn’t want to lose him, this beautiful charming man who appeared to be a lot madder than I had realized and was possibly trying to systematically break me down, bit by bit.

  I was invested by now. I had believed him when he said we were perfect for each other. At first, I had felt seen and understood, for the first time in such a long time. I was so grateful to him.

  He was the first man I had really opened up to in a long time. I told him all about my stepdad: how mad I went and how much I still missed him. I really thought I could trust him. He was a person who’d been through a lot and had a turbulent family history. His ‘Dickensian orphan life’, as he called it. I told him everything. I cried and he stroked my hair and told me I didn’t deserve any of this.

  He was convinced I should try to get back in touch with Stepdad, pointing out I’d always regret it if something happened and I missed the chance. Both of his parents were dead, so he should know.