‘Good luck with it,’ I say, and I kiss him hard on the mouth. This time he relaxes, kissing me back and winding his arms around my waist. I want to take him upstairs to bed, to make another baby, but something has changed in him. He’s kissing me out of duty, not with any sense of desire. The thought makes me want to cry.
‘Bye, darling,’ he says, stroking my hair away from my forehead. ‘Have a nice morning, I’ll pop in at lunchtime.’
And then he is gone.
I stand there for a few seconds, acknowledging the unsatisfied throbbing between my legs. I think of Darcey, of her stupid pixie face, her coquettish giggle, her curves. I think of Jack’s iPad, sitting innocuously on the coffee table in the living room.
Before I have time to talk myself out of it I am walking towards it. I wait until I hear Jack’s car pulling out of the gravel driveway and off down the lane. In the living room, I sit on the sofa and pull the iPad towards me, flipping open its cover. It asks me for a passcode. I try his bank card PIN number, but it isn’t that. I try my birthday, but it isn’t that. I try her birthday, but it isn’t that, either.
In a desperate move I try our anniversary, and am stunned when the iPad unlocks. Perhaps I have got everything wrong. I am so tired, so very tired.
I click on the browser app and wait for it to load. There are hundreds of tabs open and they swim in front of my eyes: sports news websites, online wine merchants, eBay, BBC News, BBC Weather . . . I flick through them all, bored. The final tab is about post-partum depression, and I scan the words with little interest. I have read a million pamphlets on it, and nothing any medical professional can say will help. I close the browser app, frustrated, and move on to his calendar.
It’s a mass of coloured blocks: pinks and greens and blues and oranges. Neat little slots dividing up his life. Today he has a personal trainer session at twelve. I didn’t even know he had a personal trainer. What kind of partner does that make me? I think back to the washing, one of my many chores as a stay-at-home-wife. I can’t remember washing a single piece of gym kit, not for ages. But Jack is fastidiously clean.
I scan the rest of the day. Nothing of interest. I feel disappointed. All this snooping, and I’ve found nothing.
Before I close his iPad I click on one last app. Facebook. I don’t want to do it, because I know that if I am going to find anything, I am going to find it here. But I’m committed now, I’ve done something terrible, and so I might as well go the whole hog. I know Jack hardly ever uses Facebook – it just isn’t his kind of thing, getting in touch with people from his past. But I know that his only communication with her has been through it, and so I have to look.
I click on Messenger. Unsurprisingly, there she is, all doe eyes and pouty lips, second from bottom. I open the last message she sent him, feeling sick but perversely excited.
Keep the faith, my love. It must be so difficult for you – for you both. Let me know if there’s anything I can do – you know where I am. Love always xx
It’s dated 3rd February. More than ten months ago. And he hasn’t replied to it, from what I can tell. I scroll down the rest of the thread and read her first message.
Hi darling, Antonia just filled me in on your news. We are all heartbroken. I can’t even imagine what you are going through right now, what unimaginable pain. I hope Helena recovers soon. My heart is breaking for you, for what should have been. Here if you need me – ALWAYS here if you need me, remember that. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Dxx
He had replied, three days after the message was sent.
Hi D, thanks for getting in touch, kind of you to think of us. We are taking it one day at a time. It’s been tough. I’m hopeful we will come out the other side eventually. Congratulations on all your success, it’s wonderful to see you achieving your dreams. J x
What success? What dreams? Typical Jack – deflecting attention away from his problems and serving her ego instead. I should be cross, but I’m not. I’m too tired. I move my finger to close Messenger, but then my eyes spot something unexpected in among the messages. One from Joel. Joel Haydon.
I click on it. It’s also dated February earlier this year. As far as I know, Joel has only met Jack once, at the launch party of the pop-up.
Hi mate, sorry it’s taken me a while to get in touch, it’s been a busy time – as I am sure it has been for you, too. Thanks for the flowers. It’s a shame that Helena couldn’t have been there – Ash would have liked that. Hope you are doing all right. Joel.
I scroll upwards and down again but it doesn’t seem as though Jack has replied to this message. I frown at the words, wondering what I am missing. Flowers? Why would Jack send Joel flowers? The only explanation is that Joel and Ash have got married. I snort to myself at the irony of it. I remember her insisting once that she’d never get married, that it was a mug’s game.
I hadn’t imagined that Ash was the sort of woman to put on a big white dress and float down an aisle, but I was wrong. I was wrong about everything.
And now, it seems, I was wrong about Jack. Why would Jack send them anything? He holds her responsible for the stress, for my skyrocketing blood pressure, for it all . . . It doesn’t make any sense. He’s all for being polite, he often preaches to me about water under the bridge, but when I mention her (which I rarely do, these days) he changes the subject immediately.
The humming begins in my ears again, familiar and unwanted all at once. It grows louder, until I have to put my hands against the sides of my head and press, trying to dull the sound. But it doesn’t work. It never works. I know what’s coming next.
I stand, walking shakily to the kitchen, my eyes roaming, wondering where my drugs are. And then, as I stand propped against the kitchen counter, leaning my forehead on the cool stone, I hear it. The unmistakable screech of brakes, the sound of metal hitting stone, glass breaking, a scream. Another one.
NOW
Helena
Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Three times a week, for two weeks. And it’s over. I thought I might be able to get out of seeing my therapist on Tuesday afterwards, but apparently it would be unwise to make too many other drastic changes.
I eat my breakfast while watching a soap opera on catch-up, a new daily ritual, to help with my recovery. Something about the continuing storylines is meant to fuse connections in my newly fried brain, helping me to get it working properly again.
Jack comes into the living room, dressed smartly for a change. He smiles at me.
‘You look well,’ he says.
‘Really?’ He’s not one for compliments – not during a normal day, anyway. Not just randomly.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘There’s more colour in your cheeks.’
‘My appetite’s got better,’ I reply. ‘They didn’t mention that before . . . but I definitely feel hungrier.’
‘That’s great, darling.’ His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out. The message makes him smile, and I want to ask him who it’s from and what they’ve said, but I don’t dare. Perhaps it’s from Ashley, his new best friend.
‘Would you like me to cook dinner tonight?’ I say instead, because I used to be a good cook, and last night I had the most sleep I’ve had in weeks, and I suddenly feel a rush of motivation and inspiration. ‘I could do a Thai red curry?’
‘That sounds great. If you think you’re up to it.’
I’m fizzing now, and I realize I need to start breathing slowly or I’ll make myself dizzy. But I feel so alive. I slept well last night for the first time in ages! My memory directly after each treatment is still pretty patchy, but at least I remember the treatments actually happening, which apparently some people don’t. And best of all, there haven’t been any more accidents.
‘I think I’ll go to the farmer’s market in the village, get some proper chicken. How does that sound? Do you think they’ll have coconut milk? Or will I have to go to Waitrose for that? Probably . . . I’m not sure, though . . . they used to have that herb stall, remember,
coriander and stuff, maybe they’ll do coconut milk . . .’
‘Calm down,’ Jack says, and he shoves his phone back in his pocket and comes closer to me. ‘You’re talking too fast. Don’t worry, I am sure we have most of the ingredients in the cupboard, anyway – I did a huge shop at the weekend. But if you fancy getting out and getting the chicken, then that’d be great. Just drive carefully. Now listen, I have to go or I’ll miss my appointment with the letting agent.’
He kisses me on the cheek and leaves the room. It’s only when he’s left that I realize he’s left me a cup of tea on the coffee table, along with my pills. I stare at them, angry that I still need medication, despite all the sessions at the hospital. I think of today, the way I’ve woken up, full of hope and excitement, and yet I know that at the back of my mind I’m scared I’m starting to lose control, that my excitement will soon escalate into something else entirely. Something beyond my understanding, something that scares me. It can’t be that easy to fix me surely? Just a few zaps with an electrical current and all my issues disappear? Slowly, steadily. That’s what they all keep telling me. One thing at a time. I grab the pills, tiptoe through to the bathroom, stick my head under the tap in the basin and swallow them in one go.
Perhaps that will level me out.
*
After I’ve had a shower and got dressed, it’s half past nine. The farmers’ market opens at ten, and I want to be there early, to make sure I get the good stuff before it goes. I impress myself by going through the cupboards before I leave, checking what we have and don’t have – we’re out of rice – and making a list. A real list, on paper, not on my phone or my hand or in an unreliable crevice of my brain.
Pulling out of our driveway is always a challenge. I hate the noise my tyres make as they bulldoze through the gravel outside our house, stones flying up at all angles as they do so. One hit the back window once and scared me half to death. I’ve told Jack several times that I want to get rid of the gravel and replace it with paving slabs. Anything would be better than this resistance under the wheels, the feeling that I’m trying to drive through quicksand, constantly shifting from under me.
Eventually, I emerge, after creeping forwards and making sure there’s nothing coming in either direction. And then I’m off, down the hill and round to where the lane narrows to a single track, with euphemistically described ‘passing places’, which are really just banks of earth, beaten and worn by their pummelling from 4x4s. It’s only as I pull up at a set of traffic lights that I realize my hands are shaking, adrenalin rushing through my veins, the enormity of what I’ve just done gradually sinking in.
Parking isn’t easy in the village. I thought that, coming from London, it would be a breeze, but it’s often worse. There are no pavements, and people don’t seem to do ‘walking’ in the same way they do in the city.
I find a spot in a bay along the high street, and say a silent prayer of thanks that I left early. Some of the stallholders are still setting up, lining up their chutneys and wheels of cheese and artisan loaves. I smile as I walk along the rows, recognizing a few of the stalls from the previous month. I find the butcher and ask him for two chicken breasts and some thighs, too.
‘Ten pound ninety, please, love,’ the butcher tells me, handing me a bag with the meat.
I pass over a £20 note, apologizing for not having any change. Such a mundane exchange, but it feels like a real achievement.
As I walk back to the car, I realize I am feeling the most normal I have felt in as long as I can remember. I want to phone my consultant, to thank him profusely. To tell him he’s saved my life.
The market is filling up now, and I have to weave my way through the crowds of people to get back to the car. I pass the florist’s stall, and stop. It’s been so long since I bought myself flowers. Before KAMU B, before Ash, before everything . . . it had been a thing of mine, to stop off at the florist’s right by West Hampstead Tube, and treat myself to a bunch every Friday. A celebration of the weekend, a celebration of myself. Something seasonal, I would say, asking the florist to choose for me. The only criterion was that the flowers had to smell. I couldn’t be doing with non-fragrant flowers. What was the point?
It’s November, and the flowers on offer seem incongruous, somehow – all bright pinks and mauves and yellows. Too many gerberas. I wrinkle my nose, searching for something more wintry in among the offerings. I wonder if it’s too early to go for Christmas foliage, holly and ferns. My train of thought is interrupted by the sensation of someone tugging on my arm. I move aside, assuming they are desperate to get to the flowers, in a hurry, about to miss a train. These feelings are ingrained from years of living in London, where everyone is in a rush and everyone is more important than you. But then there’s a voice behind me, and it’s calling my name.
‘Helena? It is you, isn’t it?’
I turn and it takes a few seconds before I can place the girl standing in front of me. She’s not a girl, of course, she’s a woman, but she’s younger than me and there’s something else that makes me think of her as a child rather than an adult. A vision flashes through my brain, the sound of her laughter, thin and reedy, her mouth wide open. But she’s not laughing now. She’s staring at me, her mouth downturned a little, her eyes wide with affection.
‘Jess,’ I say, because I’m sure that’s her name and I can’t think of anything else.
‘Oh my goodness! I thought it was you! Of all the places . . . what a coincidence! What are you doing here?’
‘I live here. In the next village,’ I say, and a middle-aged woman with a red face and a wax jacket steps in front of me, as if to persuade me to move back from the flowers. Jess grabs my arm and pulls me to the side.
‘Oh yes!’ she says. ‘That’s right. I remember now.’ But I know she’s lying, because no one from that life knows where we moved to.
‘And you?’ I say, and she frowns. ‘I mean, er, how come you’re here?’ I glance back at the flowers, wishing I could escape into them. The bag with the chicken breasts is sweaty in my hand. I rest it on an upturned box to the side of the flower stall.
‘My parents live here! Got a week off . . . always end up coming home. You know how it is. No boyfriend. Week off. What am I going to do in London? Sit around in my poxy room in my flat-share all week? Better to come up here and get waited on hand and foot. Plus, I get to see my cat, which is always a winner. She’s nineteen now, on her last legs, but she’s still feisty for a cat.’ She holds up her hand, pulling back her glove to show me an angry red scratch. ‘I got that for daring to stop stroking her last night! Little minx.’
I remember now why Ash didn’t get on with her. She never stopped talking. The incessant chatter. She was well meaning enough, but she wasn’t great at her job, either. And to get on in life, you really need to know when to shut the hell up.
‘Well,’ I say, desperate to get back to my car and to get home. The longer the chicken can marinate the better the curry will taste. ‘I hope you have a great week off.’
‘Thanks!’ she says. ‘And listen . . . between you and me, I saw what Ashley was doing . . . You know how she treated Toby. And then, well, the way she muscled in on your job, used your pregnancy to get to where she wanted. David might have been too dumb to notice what she was doing, but I wasn’t. Even so, I just wanted to say . . . I was so upset to hear about what happened to her. We all couldn’t believe it when David told us.’
I stare at her then, and her edges start to look indistinct all of a sudden, as though she might vaporize, or fade into space.
‘If I’m honest,’ she is saying, and I find myself screwing up my eyes, trying to focus on her words and not the way she looks, ‘we never got on. She didn’t like me much. And she was so pleased when she found out I was being made redundant, too. But even so, no one deserves to die like that, do they?’
There is a moment of clarity, like a thunderbolt crashing through my brain, and then I remember. Ashley is dead. I knew this. I know this. But
Jess is still speaking and I can’t explain that I knew this already, that I knew it but that somehow I had forgotten it. That of course it didn’t make sense; it didn’t make sense to me, either.
‘She only passed her test about a month before. Just after you left,’ Jess says. ‘Bought the car with her Christmas bonus. But those lanes round here . . . my mum always told me to be careful. You must know how lethal they can be, and especially in the ice. I heard . . .’ and she lowers her voice, as though what she’s about to say is somehow sensational, ‘that she didn’t die immediately. That she bled to death. That it was ages before anyone found her.’
She’s wrong about that, but I am nodding now because, deep down, despite it all, despite my shattered mental state, I have an inbuilt mechanism to protect myself, as everyone does.
‘There are accidents around here all the time,’ I say, and my voice comes out robotic, like an artificial intelligence app on my phone, answering a question about road safety in the area. ‘There were three outside my house last month.’
She is frowning at me, waiting for me to continue, wanting the details, but I find I can’t speak any longer. I find that I am walking back to my car, without saying goodbye, that I have left the chicken by the florist’s stall. I open the car door, climb into the passenger seat and stare at the road ahead. And I think of that night, of what I had blanked out for so long. I have blanked out for so long. Her face looking at me for help. My nightdress, the material waterlogged and translucent.
And finally, the memory unbearable, I think of the moment that I watched her die.
THEN
Helena
I am trying to make scrambled eggs, a simple enough procedure, something I’ve done hundreds of times before, yet my hands are shaking, fingertips still numb from all the squeezing they did while I was in labour, and even though I try to break the eggshell carefully I misjudge the pressure, and a large chunk of shell falls into the pan, sliding further and further away from me when I try to fish it out with my deadened fingers.
The Rival Page 23