The woman’s voice was loud and harsh. She spoke an unidentifiable language from which only one thing was for certain: she was not remotely oppressed. Emma listened in wonder and slight envy of this woman’s confidence and unselfconsciousness, how little she cared about the impression she was making on her fellow travellers, what freedom she felt to be herself. The irony was not lost on her. She listened to Mo’s tinny protests. She wondered vaguely where they were from, whether they were refugees or immigrants. She had felt ashamed to be British recently. She pretended to look around the bus, letting what she hoped was a friendly smile rest on her lips, itself an apology to the woman, an attempt to signify that she personally welcomed immigrants and refugees, all people in plight. But the woman took absolutely no notice of Emma at all. Perhaps she despised this country with its shameful binge-drinking city centres, its Magaluf youth, its lack of morals, its greedy landlords; its petty, vain concerns while children still drowned in the Mediterranean Sea.
A wave of sadness washed over her.
Emma turned her face away and looked out into the street again.
It had been a deeply unsettling day. Her head ached and she felt claustrophobic with this woman pressed up against her with her harsh language, the dank smells of wet human beings assaulting her nostrils, the roar of the engine beneath her vibrating seat, the heater blowing stinking used air on to her legs, the soles of her shoes sticking to the filthy floor, the man in the seat in front with dandruff speckled on his rain-splattered shoulders – she was repulsed by humanity, and she wanted to climb out of her own body and escape.
Off the bus, she put her brolly up and crossed the road, huddled up like everybody else. The rain had stopped by the time she got to her street and she hurriedly folded her brolly away, feeling faintly foolish for not having noticed sooner. She spotted old Clarence coming down the street towards her. She really hadn’t got the energy for a conversation about recycling or the state of Royal Mail so got out her phone and pretended to chat, sternly admonishing an imaginary errant colleague. A black-and-white cat, taking refuge from the weather under a parked car, seemed unconvinced and stared accusingly at her as she passed by.
Once Clarence had passed her with a nod of his head, she was forced to continue the absurd charade all the way to her front door until she could see that he’d rounded the corner. She looked back at the cat guiltily, putting her phone away and shaking her brolly, fumbling for her keys, feeling ashamed of herself. She peered through the white slatted blinds; there was a light on in the sitting room.
‘Si?’ she called, but the house was quiet. She couldn’t help but feel relieved. Of course, he’d texted earlier – that text that had given her away. He was going out with the boys. She took off her coat and hung it up. It slipped off the hook and brought several other coats down with it. She paused as she picked them up, noticing for the first time in a long time the small hole in the wall where once had hung the stair-gate. She promptly hung up the fallen coats and neatly slipped out of her shoes, lining them up with the other pairs against the wall. How small they seemed next to Si’s. She glanced at the post: only one interesting-looking envelope, addressed to Dr and Mrs Robinson. The usual gender assumption riled her; she headed down the hall to the kitchen, placing the post on the kitchen island. She opened the fridge door and pulled out an opened bottle of Sancerre. She poured herself an unjustifiably large glass. She opened the sliding doors to the garden and stood there looking out on to the drenched lawn. She patted her pockets for her cigarettes and lit up. She took a deep, yogic breath full of menthol and relief. She knew exactly why she was feeling so ill at ease.
She could resist it no longer. She stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette, closed the door, sat down at the table and turned on her MacBook Air. She was eager to see if Mrs Ibrahim had sent any documents of Connie’s.
When Emma saw that she had a new document in her work inbox she felt strangely excited, as if she were opening a love letter. Connie had called the file ‘The Beginning of It All’. Emma’s heart skipped a beat or two as she nervously clicked on it. She read it fast the first time and carefully the second.
This was progress. She gave herself a metaphorical pat on the back. She was intrigued at this glimpse of the woman before the crime – the mother fresh from the hairdresser who picked her child up late from nursery and took her to the park. She was just the same as any other working mother: distracted but indulgent, doing her best. Emma could only see her as she was right now in that psychiatric wing, sitting in that chair covered in burns, bruises and wounds; her bald head, the fuzzy red clumps, her bloodshot eyes with no whites at all, only pinks and reds; every blood vessel on her face burst open, and those dreadful marks around her neck – purple, black and blue streaked across her throat like some ghastly necklace. Everything she said was delivered in that awful rasping voice like something from a horror movie. The police report said she’d wrapped the seatbelt around her neck, doubly determined in her search for oblivion. And in some way she had succeeded in her mission: was it surprising that she remembered nothing? Or was it the magic of the human brain, protecting her to the last with one sole objective: survival.
Emma went upstairs and began to run a bath; her attention was caught by the remnants of a bottle of Jo Malone bath oil, an old present from Simon’s sister a few Christmases ago. She opened it, sniffed it and got a whiff of that other Connie Mortensen with her glossy red hair, nothing to do with that small, fierce figure sitting there in that desolate room with the harsh fluorescent light, staring out of the window.
Emma filled the Jo Malone bottle with water and shook it up and down before pouring it slowly underneath the tap. It smelt so good. She popped it into the bin, catching her body unawares in the mirror, before she had time to kid herself with the tummy-suck. It was depressing. She looked down. Gravity had taken its toll, the snail-slither stretch marks shining in stripes under the overhead light. Mercifully the steam began to obscure her reflection. She turned off the tap. She could hear the rain lashing against the windowpane.
She stepped into the bath and slowly let the water consume her, grateful for such simple pleasures, the fact that she was able to wash away the day, unlike … well, unlike many of the people she saw. She hated that place. She always left with a headache. It was too warm; they didn’t open any of the windows. She closed her eyes and slowly dropped deeper into the water, leaving just her face exposed, blocking out the rest of the world, letting her body float up to the surface, cross-legged. She took some deep breaths. She must start those classes again on Saturday morning; she could really feel her back tensing up. She opened her eyes. She stared at the crack across the ceiling. It was no good; she couldn’t escape it. She could still feel those unblinking, bloodshot eyes watching her every move; the way they followed her across the room, taking everything in, assessing her, continually silently commenting. This was ridiculous. Emma was the assessor, the commentator, the evaluator. But if Connie wanted to play these games, so be it: Emma would be forced to play them too.
Later, downstairs, soft-skinned and perfumed, Emma ate her Charlie Bigham lasagne slowly and methodically while she knocked back the rest of the Sancerre. She spent the evening looking over various court reports and papers for an upcoming mental health tribunal. Every now and then she’d change the Spotify playlist, alternating between Babybird and Joy Division. When she’d finished, she couldn’t help herself. Just one more time, she said to herself, and clicked on Connie’s document.
‘Hi, darling, you’re still up?’
Emma jumped. She hadn’t even heard the latch. She looked at the clock on her computer. It was nearly midnight. Si was soaking wet and dishevelled.
‘Good evening?’ she asked, closing her computer, turning her chair. There was something loose and attractive about him like this. He kissed her on the forehead, like one might a child. He reeked of beer.
‘Yeah, I’m starving,’ he said, putting his bag down and opening the fridge. ‘You smell g
ood,’ he added, but she could tell he meant nothing by it.
‘Who was there? You can have the rest of the lasagne. Put it in the microwave.’
‘Usual crowd. Oh, and Adrian brought his new girlfriend along.’
‘I thought it was just the boys,’ she said. ‘What was she like?’
‘Really nice girl … too nice for him. What have you been up to?’
‘Oh, just work. What was her name?’
‘Samantha? Something like that. Susanna, maybe.’ Emma watched him rooting around in the fridge looking for the lasagne. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. I am attracted to him, she thought with some detachment. He used to have a good body but in the last few years his belly had bulged (good Lord, who was she to complain?). He was tall though, and still wore his clothes well. Like everyone, she took the positives for granted.
She got up, poured herself a little more wine and settled herself on the kitchen island, slowly swinging her legs. As he moved from the fridge to the microwave, she stuck out her foot and rubbed it up and down his thigh. In their relationship, a gesture like this could not just be what it was; it had to be loaded with meaning. She knew that; she was feeling reckless. He turned to catch her eye.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘What’s all this?’
It was so easy. He moved a step in towards her. She put her hand on his crotch and rubbed his cock a little. He stiffened almost immediately. ‘Is it my birthday?’ he said.
That annoyed her. She let it slide; she was surprising herself with her own forwardness. He had lost all interest in his supper. She opened her legs a little. This unusual location for proceedings made her feel risqué and adventurous, like someone else. She pushed her breasts against his chest. She had good breasts; everyone had always told her that, even her mother. She was enjoying her own daring and yet, as she took off his jacket and damp shirt for him, she was aware that she was playing this role of seductress rather than being it. It was all a show, it wasn’t her. It was almost as if she had an audience and several critics in.
Fortunately, Si needed little encouragement and he took over. He undid his trousers, pulled off her knickers and was trying to get inside her, his hands up under her T-shirt. It hurt a little – she wasn’t wet enough – but they both knew what the protocol was: he spat on his fingers to ease things along, then he bent down to take her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard. She let her head fall back and sighed, as was the appropriate response. She was determined to stop judging herself, to stop being part of the audience, and told herself to just feel his mouth on her breast. As she did so, somewhere, deep down beneath the veneer of pleasure, a peculiar sorrow had been triggered. She was glad that the position was uncomfortable for him, that his mouth had to move up her body. She should kiss him now, she really should, but he was not expecting it and to her relief it was not on his agenda, so they made love intensely in the way they knew how, only this time she was trying to be someone else.
This is good, she thought, hearing her own gasps – she was making all the right noises. This is spontaneous. She didn’t mind the smell of beer because it created a distance, almost like a third person was present, something ‘other’ than just the two of them. It was less exposing. But I ought to kiss him. Bravely, her lips sought out his. The thinness of his lips was something she had never got used to; their tongues met and explored but it felt cold and wrong – reptilian. Instead, she tried to concentrate on him inside her and managed to discreetly pull her lips away from his, burying her face in the safety of his neck as they moved together to the rhythm. She looked past his shoulder out into the garden beyond while the rain gusted against the windowpane. She cried out, partly because he was deep inside her now, and partly because it felt like the right thing to do. She was almost convinced by her own performance, but not entirely. And the audience wasn’t either. She could feel them shifting in their seats, a few low titters and then, quite distinctly, someone began to laugh. She recognized that laugh. Yes, Connie Mortensen was laughing her head off.
Emma wanted the sex over with now, she’d had enough. She wanted it all finished and to be in bed reading Hotel du Lac. But she and Si were always courteous with each other in that way; she knew he was going to wait for her to come. She’d better get on with it. She leant back, pushing him away a little so that she could slip her hand down between them and attempt to speed things along a bit on her own behalf. But it wasn’t working; her orgasm was proving elusive. Faster and faster she went, for God’s sake, come on, but now she knew for a fact that she was not going to come. And she certainly didn’t want to go through soothing explanations and new efforts so she had to do what was most expedient: her gasps crescendoed, she cried out, she froze, twitched and shuddered appropriately. She had as good as come; no observer would know the difference. That was her bit over with. Then, as she knew he would, Si climaxed almost immediately, crying out, pulling that strange expression with his mouth.
It was all done now. The end. She was quite keen to get off the kitchen island but that would be rude; she let his judders draw to a close while holding him close in a suitable fashion until it was permissible to show discomfort. Finito. They needn’t do that again for a while. Yes, that was great. They had a good sex life, one that anyone would be jealous of: after fifteen years they were still indulging in impulsive lovemaking on the kitchen island. Si and she were good.
However, in the sticky aftermath of intercourse, in that post-coital black hole, Emma didn’t get off the island. She sat there, bottom cheeks glued to the flint worktop, while Si went through to the hall to charge his phone. Everything was quiet; it was barely even raining any more, just a few taps on the roof, like feeble applause after a particularly poor production. And there she was, standing on an empty stage, alone, while the last members of the audience filed out with mumbles of disappointment. They could spot a fraud. Turns out we’re all avoiding something, aren’t we, Dr Robinson?
Chapter 3
The Weasel has come to see me. The Weasel is my husband, my ex-husband. His given name is Karl. This is his second visit and, so far, it has been just like his first. He has been standing very still by the window, silently weeping. He’s always been a cry-baby so it’s not as bad as it sounds. Today he looks old and sad. He smells nice though. He’s always smelt nice. He lets me hold him and smell him for a bit, although I know that he is uncomfortable and is exchanging looks with the Squeak behind my back. The Squeak is such a phoney. She behaves very differently in front of civvies. She’s all shark teeth and consideration. She brings him a cup of tea and his reaction is so over-the-top grateful you’d have thought she’d wrapped those gnashers around his overused member.
‘Tell Mental Sita I’ll see her at six!’ I say, dismissing her like a waitress. I can be a knob but she deserves it.
‘Don’t call her that, Connie,’ she says. It’s for the Weasel’s benefit. She doesn’t give a toss about Mental Sita.
She gives me a look and leaves the room and I turn my chair to face the Weasel. He says nothing, takes a sip of the tea. He’s looking out at the tree, but not at my leaf, even though it’s having an epileptic fit to get his attention.
‘How’s my mum?’ I ask. His lips are at the edge of his cup; I notice a tiny pause before he takes another sip.
He ignores me. He barely said a single word last visit. I observe him. He is incredibly tall and has a fine lean body like a long-distance runner. He is fit, black-haired and easy on the eye. But his skin is deathly pale and mottled, like some oddity a trawler might drag up from the deep.
‘What about Josh?’ I ask. ‘Is he going to come and see me? I miss the kids.’
He holds the cup in its saucer and squares up to the window like he’s going to have a fight with it and tea it to death or something. Then he turns around and looks at me. It’s me he wants to kill.
‘Josh doesn’t want to see you.’
I am taken aback every time I hear this. But I try not to let it show. ‘And Annie?’ I ask, a litt
le desperation in my voice.
The Weasel is staring at me. His eyes are very blue and winter cold. ‘Annie?’ he says. He is about to say something else but stops himself. He is looking at my neck, at my throat. He shakes his head at me, or at himself, I can’t tell.
‘Right,’ I say, not wanting to upset him. He can be very volatile. I am the adult where the children are concerned, obviously. And I must behave like the adult and take their anger on the chin. I know I’ve been an embarrassment to them. It’s the most horrible thing in the world hearing how your own kids hate you; it’s like trying to digest razor blades.
‘I don’t know if I’m going to come again either,’ he says. I am very surprised to hear him say this. Despite everything, he is fiercely loyal. I worry that something is seriously wrong, something that he isn’t telling me. I get up and cross the room to join him. His eyes flick from my hair to my throat to my eyes. He looks at my eyes, not in them.
I stop just in front of him. He’s welled up. ‘Why?’ he says. His voice is so weak, his energy so drained, I feel for him, although I am deeply bored by the crying. He has never understood how his own self-pity shrivels mine. I don’t really know what to do, how to help him, but I make an effort. I put my arms around him. He flinches a little, and then slumps a touch. He lets me hold him. He really does smell good.
‘I wish I’d never met you,’ he says. ‘I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.’
I’m aware that this doesn’t sound romantic but in its own way, it is. He is telling me how entirely we know each other. You only ever get to really know your partner when you’re splitting up from them. Rage is good; it’s necessary for the wrenching apart and there can be no separation without blood spilt, without pain – we both know this. Only then do you see the person in their entirety. Desperation, fear: they make us strange and ugly. We have seen each other’s ugliness but look! He is still here with me! You know, if you’re even remotely kind, you can end up right back where you started: liking this person a lot.
Too Close Page 3
