Then, if I think about it, my own story has so many untold chapters, unturned pages. None of us are what we first seem.
50
Mark
Mark is standing in the middle of Natalie’s sitting room, waiting as per usual for her last-minute dashing-around, finding-something-appropriate-to-wear ritual. However, he’s walking on thin ice, since the note incident, so needs to avoid any kind of provocative comment. Natalie has finally accepted he hid the note to save her feelings, wrong but all good in intention. Whether he’ll ever tell her the truth, he’s still to fathom out. Morwenna is not making it any easier for him; he feels bad putting her in this situation but even so. Because of all this, despite feeling irritated by Natalie’s chaotic attitude, he’s keeping quiet, taking in lots of deep breaths, slow outbreaths. Natalie was supposed to be cooking for him, one of his work contacts and his partner but felt she couldn’t, in her words, ‘suffer it tonight,’ so he suggested they dine out instead. Still, at least there’s been no mention of the note.
‘Not long now,’ she calls from the bedroom, which he understands to mean it will be some time yet. ‘What did you say the dress code was?’
‘Smart casual. Do you think you’ll be long? I’d rather not be late if we can help it.’
‘I know. I know. But I did say when you called, I was meeting Mo first, then needed to check in on Daniel before I left.’
Mark bites his tongue. Bloody Daniel. Someone else vying for the attention of his girlfriend. Seems that once again he’s at the bottom of an ever-growing list. It bothers him more that she made time for Daniel than for Morwenna. Daniel was in the gallery earlier; he seemed perfectly fine, so why did he need checking up on? She isn’t his mother. In fact, if anything Daniel seemed chattier than ever. Whether this was happy chatter or nervous chatter wasn’t for him to discern. He pulls at a piece of loose paint on the wall. He had this entire building completely renovated, ended up costing nearly double what he’d budgeted for. He never was happy with the decorating job. Painted too soon on damp plaster.
Wandering over to the window, he stares out across the skyline, his gaze drifting down to the garden as he ponders over Natalie’s concerns this week. A dark shadow in the garden. As he told her, there are always dark shadows in the garden, even without a highly temperamental imagination. And what was she to expect, with all the worrying about her father, the notes? Of course, she was prone to seeing obscurities in the dark. Aren’t we all? There are many times when it feels as though he’s on the run from his own shadows. Doesn’t matter how often you check the locks on the door, you can never escape what lies within. Everyone has a past to live with, under, run from.
He’s disturbed from his thoughts by a high-pitched bleep. Turning, he spots Natalie’s mobile light up on the small dining table aside the kitchen area. At first, he manages to turn away but it’s not long before the impulse overcomes him. They are partners, after all – what could be the harm? Only last night she was searching through his glove compartment; she would have read his mobile too, probably, if he hadn’t set a password. What was he thinking? Why the hell did he leave the damn note hanging around in the first place? He could kick himself. Isn’t this always the way, expending so much effort covering tracks then tripping up on something obviously stupid? He finds himself wandering towards the table but as he reaches within a distance to read the screen, the back light disappears, the screen reverts to its black face with the time. ‘How long, Nat?’ he calls out.
‘Umm. Two. No, make it five. Need to straighten this frizz ball on my head.’
Mark doesn’t answer; he picks up the mobile. Unless Natalie has changed her password, which would be even more suspicious, he borrowed her mobile only last week so he’s pretty confident he knows the password. Anyway, she’s so predictable sometimes – the name of her childhood cat, given this is the only part of her past she talks of with tenderness, is hardly original. He types in the password and the screen re-illuminates. ‘Okay, no probs, no rush,’ he calls over his shoulder.
He flicks straight to her ‘recent call’ list. Not 100 per cent convinced of what he’s searching for, only an inkling she’s not being straight with him, something is going on with someone behind his back. Through the dialled numbers, received numbers, then the missed numbers – nothing but his number and the unknown caller she mentioned. We all get those calls, Natalie, stop reading into everything, upsetting yourself, he told her. Which is the truth: only our personal context turns thoughts to the dark side, when we begin to read into normal occurrences more than we should. Poor Natalie, he does feel for the upbringing she lived through. Next, he opens the text messages and, bingo, there we have it, as he’d thought all along, history informing his instincts. Once bitten, twice shy, so very true. Giddy with the blood rushing to his head. She hasn’t even had the good grace to attempt to cover it up. Nigel. Bloody text from Nigel. Like a lapdog, agreeing to meet her. Agreeing to meet her at her request, obviously, which she must have deleted, but there’s her response, with a kiss. Blatant disloyalty. Turning the mobile to standby, he clenches his fists, counting to ten, releasing, fighting his primeval urges to march to her room and demand an explanation or, more like, her excuses. Sorry, Mark, I couldn’t help myself just like before, it just happened, I didn’t mean to hurt you either, just like my last boyfriend, the one I thought you knew nothing of. He’d been desperate to believe he was wrong too. I mean, Nigel? Bloody Nigel? Christ, how desperate must she be? It wasn’t too long ago that she likened him to an over-starched sheet. Or was this only to throw Mark off the scent?
He paced over to the window. What the hell was her game? Why not just tell him straight? Why play games with him? Serial infidelity.
‘Coming,’ Natalie calls from the bedroom.
It takes everything Mark has not to retaliate, battling with the rage quickly descending. He can’t say anything, not without revealing he’s been snooping through her mobile. Maybe he should say nothing, catch them out instead, or at least stay mute until he decides how best to play this.
‘Here I am,’ she says all innocently to his back. Mark grimaces at her reflection in the window, clenching his jaw, gathering himself together before turning. He hates deceit and liars and cheats. But is he any better? He spins around; Natalie, all smiling face, all virtuous, all perfidious. He can only see the face of Natasha, the face he once trusted, before Natalie. He loved Natasha with everything he had. He gave her everything and like a fool he trusted her, even when his head was advising his heart to challenge. He didn’t want to see what it seems everyone else already knew, laughing at him behind his back. Even Morwenna knew: she and Natasha worked at the gallery together. Natasha betrayed him, hurt him as no one had ever before. At the time he swore he would never be able to trust again. Then, along came Natalie. Almost a mirror image of Natasha with many similar traits except for the cautiousness in Natalie’s eyes.
‘I’ve changed my mind about tonight.’
Natalie’s smile fades. ‘What? Why? I’m all ready to go now. Do I look so awful? You’re kidding, right? What about the other’s?’
Mark shakes his head, fumbling for car keys in his pocket, feeling angry but at the same time an overwhelming sadness. ‘No… I, I’m not feeling so good. I’ll call and cancel. It’s best I get myself off home, have a night in. Sorry,’ he says as an afterthought. He’s struggling to speak because what he really wants to do is scream, ‘Liar, unfaithful bitch.’ But there is the smallest of chances he has this all wrong. He can’t tumble down this route without more proof. Last time it ended up with him in court, then some kind of restraining order being stamped on him, non-molestation choruses vented in the air. And not long after – being arrested, questioned, accused. Manslaughter. How had it come to manslaughter? He’d hired the best London chambers barrister. Manslaughter. At worst it had only ever been a passionate accident, at best, as his barrister argued, self-defence. He didn’t set out to kill, for sure, not even with that final blow; he didn�
�t foresee him falling, cracking his head on the step. He’d been his best friend since school. ‘I need some time alone. I’m really not feeling good.’ Briefly, he manages to meet Natalie’s eyes. She’s all bewilderment – innocent? Deceit? ‘Sorry for…’ He gestures towards Natalie’s dress. ‘I felt a little dodgy earlier, should have cancelled.’ He makes his way towards the front door, eager to escape while he still feels an element of control.
‘Wait,’ Natalie calls. ‘If you’re feeling so ill, you shouldn’t drive, shouldn’t be alone. I’ll quickly get changed, come with you. I’m insured to drive your car, aren’t I?’
‘No.’ Mark doesn’t look at Natalie, he simply holds out his hand. ‘No. Thank you. I’d really rather just go home alone. Go to bed. I’m fine to drive.’ As he reaches the front door, aware of Natalie behind him, he has a violent urge to confront her, drag it out of her, the truth. The details, how long she’s been unfaithful to him for, how long, Natalie? The voice of Natasha swimming through his mind: We’ve not really been happy for a while, have we, Mark? I just didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t want to hurt you. It wasn’t something I planned. It just happened and then… Stop. Stop. Stop, Mark repeats over to himself.
‘Please, Natalie, give me some space. I’ll call you.’ With this he opens the door and leaves. How has he allowed this to happen? He runs down the stairs; as he passes Nigel’s door he fights with himself not to hammer on it. Finding himself standing the other side of it, his head urging him to keep walking, his heart goading him to confront the bastard. Adrenaline and cortisol steering through his veins. He’s now up against Nigel’s front door, his head resting on the wood. He wouldn’t even need to knock; he could easily kick this door down. He’s so consumed he’s totally oblivious to Daniel, standing behind him.
‘Mark? You okay, Mark?’ Mark whirls around. His first thought is – does Daniel know? Or is it still in the private early stages? ‘You looking for Nigel? He’s there, but this is late for visiting Nigel. He doesn’t like late visitors.’
Mark moves away from the door. Except for Natalie, he thinks. Sweet, sweet Natalie can call any time. As for Nigel, why is everyone so considerate of his needs? What you see definitely isn’t what you get with him.
‘No, he doesn’t, does he? I’ll catch him tomorrow, then. Cheers, Daniel.’ Opening the front door, he launches himself down the steps, in desperate need of cold fresh air. Drive, he thinks, get in my car, lock the doors and drive, anywhere.
51
Natalie
Well, that was beyond weird. I’m beginning to wonder what goes on in the wonderful world of Mark’s mind. If only he’d let on he was feeling ill before I went to all the effort of getting myself ready – it wasn’t as if I was fussed about going in the first place, it was only because I felt guilty about him having to cancel the others. Mark thinks he’s settled my mind about the note, but I’m not convinced of anything any more and now this. I start sieving back through the evening since I arrived home earlier on; Mark wasn’t too long behind me. When he got here, I could tell he was somewhat annoyed I wasn’t ready to leave. But not exactly angry or anything. After a few slightly frosty seconds, he smiled, said it was fine, to take my time to feel nice about myself. He’d some emails he could flick through. He certainly didn’t mention he was feeling unwell. He looked a little tired, nothing especially unusual about that. By the time he left he did look positively flushed, a bit like someone with blood-pressure problems. I feel bad, I should have insisted I go with him, but when Mark makes his mind up, it’s a done deal no matter what.
I knock again on Mo’s door, this time a little harder. I’ve been so consumed with my own ponderings, I’ve not noticed there’s no sound from Mo’s flat, then I remember she mentioned earlier, it’s one of her art club things tonight. I can’t bear returning to the flat to be alone, so I decide to call in on Daniel. To be honest, I should anyway, I’ve been feeling guilty about my lack of general contact with him lately. Tommy was there the last time too; it wasn’t the same with him listening in. I know he does this. Popping in with the shopping, and when he opened the cupboards to put it away, they were full to bursting – Daniel had already been shopping. Why does he need to go meddling in Daniel’s cupboards? Daniel’s perfectly fine doing it for himself. Housekeeper? I’m not convinced he has any idea what’s best for Daniel. He’s more like his gatekeeper.
As I’m pattering down the stairs I remember, I haven’t yet picked up the post from my pigeonhole, and there it goes again, the horrible jittery feeling. But I can’t not pick up the post. I knock first on Daniel’s door then wander down the hallway to check. Daniel opens the door. I see him peeking out into the hall. Where I am is dimly lit, he can’t see me. ‘Daniel,’ I call. ‘Only me.’ He pulls his door wide, sticking his head further into the hallway, welcoming me with a wide grin. ‘I’m not out tonight any more because… well, it’s complicated. Anyhow, means I’m free, if you need some company?’ I wander back towards his open door, clutching the post to my chest as if it will help to slow a rapid heart rate. In the midst of the white and brown envelopes, there’s one I recognise. From my father. I need this like a hole in the head.
I’ve been at Daniel’s for a good ten minutes before appreciating I’m not paying attention to anything he’s muttering on about. Something about seeing Mark, and Nigel not enjoying night-time visitors but he’s always happy to see people, whatever time of the day. Then he frowns. I’m wondering if it’s me, I’ve not spoken or said what I’m supposed to, then he adds, ‘Yes, that’s right, I like to be with the people I care about, any time. Whatever anyone has to say about it.’ I’m nodding my head not really sure where Daniel’s coming from, sipping coffee because Daniel doesn’t keep alcohol in, but nothing is going in beyond that. I need to open the letter, get it over with.
‘Daniel. I’ve had another letter from my father – the thing is, I really hate the thought of opening it alone in my flat later. Would you mind if I…?’
Daniel shakes his head. ‘Open it. Open it, we’ll do it together. I don’t want you to be upset, Natalie. I wish he would leave you alone.’ Daniel doesn’t understand the entire story about my father. No one really does because I’ve only ever skimmed around the skirting before shutting the door, locked the door, then thrown away the key, from their awareness anyhow. Mo understands more than most and now Mark has a better insight, but still I’ve never done justice to the hurt, the pain and the enormous sense of being lost, lonely and frightened. Sometimes the bruising still feels as raw as if the brutal assaults were only yesterday. Just when I believe maybe I’ve moved on, the dreams happen, keeping it all so vividly real and alive. ‘Open it now, Natalie,’ Daniel says softly.
I look down to see I’m still clutching the post with one hand to my chest, so I lay it on Daniel’s sofa as I root for the toxic envelope. I could smell it. Stale alcohol, yellow nicotine-stained fingers, sweat and malevolence. Seems I’m extremely sensitive to smells. The envelope doesn’t have a smell but the evocative nature of it conjures a pungent aroma from the past, so strong it may as well be soaked on a handkerchief and held across my nostrils. I feel sick. Placing the mug of coffee down, I take the envelope in both hands and rip it open. I push back the bile rising in my throat; the thought of his bitter saliva, slithered along the seal, is all too much.
I decide to read the letter aloud; somehow it feels safer. The words of the counsellor assigned to me back then, in my ear: You’ll feel better to share, Natalie. Did she really have any idea? Share? Then what? Go back into the same toxic environment? A teenager, alone? No one to care – who could ever understand? How could sharing possibly make me feel better? The first time I baked cookies at school, I brought them home all proud to share, Miss Talbot saying I was a natural. My father took one bite, spat it out, opened the door, threw the lot onto the overgrown grass: ‘Even the bloody seagulls will struggle with those rolls of shit.’ Therapy wasn’t for me. Talking, sharing and ticking regimented official boxes develope
d by theorists couldn’t ever come close to helping.
Natalie,
My Natalie. I am disappointed in you. At first I was disappointed in me. But now you too have disappointed me. And I reckon your mother would also be disappointed in you. As a child, you were always a dreamer. Remember how you used to love those soppy films, how you’d sit crying over them, always loved the happy endings. When bad becomes good. You even used to read about all that stuff too. Happy endings, Natalie. Remember. Just like your mother. She liked happy endings. Have I ever told you your mother was one of the kindest people I ever met? Always looked for the good in people, always willing to give second chances. Never one to hold a grudge. Never one to judge. You probably can’t remember her very well. I think it must have been the pain of losing her (because she was the only one to ever proper give me a chance) that made me do bad things. But like I said – I’ve changed. I’m back to being me again. Natalie, for your mother’s memory, do the right thing. Give me another chance.
You can’t escape the fact, I’m your dad. You’re my daughter. You need to give me a chance. I won’t wait forever for you to come and see me. St Ives isn’t big enough for you to ignore me. I know where you work and where you live. I’ve already spoken to the lad at your flats (you’ve got a real nice place there, haven’t you?). He was very welcoming. Don’t let yourself down.
Love, your dad x
There’s a humming between my ears, the emotional blackmail ripping through my core. He’s not changed at all, he’s still the most selfish, in denial, evil person I’ve ever met. He always knew the only way to get to me was in using Mum’s name, using our mutual love as a weapon. He couldn’t stand the fact she gave me attention over him. Mum once whispered to me, after he’d beaten her sore, that he’d struggled after my birth, struggled with not having her undivided attention. I will never forgive him ever. I reread the letter in silence. It’s nothing more than a threat, but would the police take it seriously? The past informs me they wouldn’t – he’s not strictly done anything wrong. Better wait for him to confront me, maybe attack me again, then they’ll take notice. After all, he is my father and fathers have rights were the vilest words I ever heard when I was a child. But there’s another alarm bell ringing in the distance. ‘I’ve already spoken to the lad at your flats,’ I say over, out loud, before turning my gaze to Daniel.
I Know You're There Page 24