Where the Stars Fall

by Ana Simons

  “I don’t know, we’re already taking next week off. Maybe that’s pushing it too much, don’t you think?”

  “Back to my question now.”

  “Brian, please.” Again, the same note of irritation in her voice.

  “Well, excuse me if I think that’s the biggest nonsense I’ve heard! Why should you have to go through this alone? Why don’t you just say yes and move in with me? Why do we have to wait until the birth? That’s ridiculous!”

  “I’m not alone, my Grandma is there. And besides, that’s a huge step! We agreed we’d take it slow.”

  “Take it slow?” I chuckle, part incredulous and part amused. “Darling, the ‘huge step’ already happened!” I pat her belly.

  “Keep rubbing, please.” She dismisses me.

  “Olivia, think with me.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “You already sleep over most nights, half of your things are already here. Why are we complicating it?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Liv?”

  She takes another sip and leans her head back against my shoulder. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” There’s a little smile on her lips but a sad expression in her eyes, which leaves me unsettled. “But for Christ’s sake, don’t ask me that again when my head’s spinning and hovering over a toilet bowl!”

  “I promise, I won’t do that.”

  Next time it’ll be different. So different.

  “How about Matthew? Can I add it to the list?” she asks in the middle of some breathing exercises.

  It’s Isabella and Emily if we have girls. That was fairly easy to decide. But with the boys, I don’t know why, we haven’t reached an agreement yet. Now we’re trying to come up with a short list and will let Josh and Emma pick out the names.

  “Matthew? Yes, I like it. What about Julian?”

  “Oh God no! It reminds me of the WikiLeaks guy. I hate his hair.”

  And these are the kind of rational arguments she gives me every time I suggest a different name.

  I might as well let her choose whatever she wants.

  “But why not Charles and John?” she asks again, for the fourth or fifth time this week. They’re our fathers’ names.

  “Can’t we really be a little more creative? With so many names out there, why can’t they have their own names? And if it’s a girl and boy, which granddad are you going to ditch, huh?”

  “How about Archie?”

  That one makes me cringe. “That’s the name of that cranky old neighbour that lives down the street, next to my parents. He’s such a wanker.”

  She lets out a short puff of air.

  Oliver, Jack, Harry, Jacob, Will... I can’t recall them all anymore, but I’m pretty sure we have already gone through the top 50 most popular boys’ names in Britain and there always seems to be a problem.

  “Don! How about Donald?” I ask, enthusiastically.

  She turns and looks at me with an expression of horror on her face.

  “What now?”

  “Trump, it reminds me of Donald Trump.”

  “You’ve got problems with his hair too?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s late. We better go to bed.”

  *

  “I can’t believe you’ve done that!” My sister snarls over the phone, the next day, after having lunch with Olivia.

  “What? What have I done now?”

  “Excuse me? In the bathroom? Just like that? While she’s puking her guts out? You and that idiotic plan of yours will end up ruining everything! When you finally pop the question, she’ll be so bitter and disappointed, she’ll make you swallow the goddamn ring!

  “Oh, come on...”

  “Dammit, Brian! First, you can’t ask a woman to move in with you when she’s draped over a toilet! Are you crazy? It’s supposed to be a special thing, not some fucked-up, surreal moment! Secondly, ‘why are we complicating it’? What kind of question is that? Are you inviting her to be your roommate or something? If I were you, I’d move my arse quickly and ask her properly!”

  ‘What kind of question is that?’ But that’s exactly what’s happening: she’s here most of the time already. Why can’t we just be practical and leave the grand gestures for later? Besides, that’s also the question of a desperate man, who cares deeply for her, but hasn’t slept straight for I don’t know how many nights and would do anything to make her feel better.

  “But is this normal? It’s week fourteen already and she’s still feeling miserable; she can barely keep anything down.”

  “Not even those crackers?”

  “Sue, when it hits her, it hits her really bad. She cannot even pass by the food cabinet, let alone eat anything out of it.” I rub the back of my head, half-desperate.

  “Poor thing…”

  “But what was I supposed to say when she informs me she’s staying home this weekend – and by home, she means at Evie’s – because our schedules don’t match, and I need to rest? Thank you for being so generous to me? Yeah, go and stay somewhere else? Works for me just fine?” Frustrated, I rub the bridge of my nose. “What a load of rubbish! For crap’s sake, her home is here, with me.”

  “Then forget about next week. Go tell her that now.”

  “What do you mean? Like, right now? You’re telling me to go to the Clinic?”

  “Yes!”

  My laugh is quick and unamused. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Her life is far from being perfect bliss, I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture. You should go and sweep her off her feet!”

  “And then what? I go down on one knee in front of everyone?”

  Her silence somehow lets me know she’s nodding yes.

  I give another laugh. “You’re crazy! This is real life, not some TV-show or a film!”

  “Screw you, you’re an idiot.”

  I know it wasn’t the most brilliant thing, to ask Olivia to move in with me like that, as if it were not a big deal, because it is. But now it’s done, and I can’t take it back.

  At this point I might as well stick to the initial plan: I’ll wait another week, take her away and ask her to marry me. Properly. Like Sue said.

  It’s all settled already. I’m taking her to Surrey, to spend a few days at the family cottage. And hopefully, there’ll be some snow and I’ll take her to the exact place where it all started before. And this time I won’t ask if I can kiss her, I’ll ask if I can marry her.

  What’s wrong with my plan? Not grand enough? I’ve already got her the ring, over a month ago now, so why would I rush and make it seem like some sort of damage control scheme?

  “Hey, if she’s on the graveyard shift this weekend, want to come over and grab a beer?” Sue asks, her tone calmer now.

  Looking outside through the window at the street below, I consider the invitation.

  It’s dark already and there are Christmas lights twinkling and glowing all around. It looks nice, really nice. It reminds me of how much I’ve always loved Christmas, probably because my parents always made sure it was indeed one of the most special times of the year. Being my birthday on the 24th, my father convinced me that I was a very special kid – everyone has a birth-day, I had an entire birth-season, how cool was that?

  This year Christmas feels a whole lot different, I acknowledge as I look back inside. There’s a tree by the fireplace. I’d never put one up before. And there are some Christmas decorations too and even a few presents under the tree. For the babies.

  “You know I have a Christmas tree?” I smile.

  “Hey, congratulations!” she says with a faint ironic cheer. “Are you coming over or not?”

  “Remember when you used to be mad at me? Because I always managed to drag Dad outside to hang the lights earlier than everyone else? That I was rushing Christmas, you used to say.”

  “Yeah, you were already a prick back then! You’re not coming, are you?”

  No, I wasn’t. I thought Olivia might not feel well and might need me. Besides, I still had some work to do. I had
to catch up with some emails from work and check on the status of two ongoing projects before I could call it a week.

  And I still wanted to return to my special project.

  *

  Saturday, December 12 | 1:05

  Feeling ok? Still working on my special mission here. Luv U.

  Liv | Saturday, December 12 | 1:10

  It’s dragons spitting fire, isn’t? Oh God ;-) Luv U too.

  Saturday, December 12 | 1:11

  Nope.

  Liv | Saturday, December 12 | 1:12

  Drunken chickens?

  I just can’t stop laughing. It’s been two weeks now since I’ve started drawing this huge elephant sitting on a rope tree swing on one of the nursery walls. Her curiosity is nearly killing her, it’s so funny! But she can’t see it until it’s finished. I’m almost done anyway, she won’t have to suffer much longer.

  Before I can reply, another text comes in. With a smile of anticipation spread across my face, I quickly rush to check what her wild guess is this time.

  Mary | Saturday, December 12 | 1:17

  U up?

  39 THIN LINES

  BEFORE I CAN EVEN blink twice, my mind is already spinning off in a thousand directions. What the hell?

  Mary | Saturday, December 12 | 1:20

  Your lights on. U up for a drink?

  Mary | Saturday, December 12 | 1:21

  Pls. Have nowhre else to go

  Granted, I’d rather sit and chat with a seven-foot neo-Nazi skinhead crack dealer than with this woman, but this is all very strange, to say the least. This is not like her. Something isn’t adding up here and that’s why I decide to grab a jacket and go downstairs, just to check what the hell is going on.

  I find her sitting in the driver’s seat of a grey Volvo parked right across the street. Her head and arms are draped over the steering wheel, her hand holding a mobile, which she’s tapping against her forehead in a repetitive movement.

  I gaze at her for a moment, trying to make some sense of this, still pondering if I shouldn’t just walk away.

  After a while, Mary raises her head to check the mobile display and our eyes meet through the dim light and the heavy rain that’s pouring down.

  She stumbles out of the car clumsily, slamming the door shut with a loud clang, and then stops right there, on the pavement, staring at me.

  What-the-hell-is-happening, I ask her without actual words, just with a movement of my hands from under the building portico.

  She shrugs, looking helpless, and only then crosses the street, with staggering steps, sort of zigzagging towards the entrance door.

  Her clothes are completely soaked, her long blond hair flat, with a few wet strands straggling around her face, which is blurred by the rivulets of water sliding down her skin and smudged with black makeup.

  When she comes closer, I get to see her eyes. They’re bloodshot and swollen from crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, completely dumbfounded at the miserable state she’s in.

  “J-just came to say hi.” Her breath hitches with a strangled sob.

  With her hand trembling, she shuffles through her handbag before she manages to take a pack of cigarettes out. She fumbles a cigarette from the pack, puts it in her mouth, nervously, and begins a furious search for a lighter.

  “You smoke now?”

  “I-I can smoke if I waant to,” she grits out in a cocky fashion, her speech slurred.

  A few seconds later a thin cloud of cigarette smoke rises above her and she takes another couple of uncoordinated steps towards me. There’s a strong stench of alcohol emanating from her.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “And?”

  “And?! You fucking crazy? How can you be driving like this? I’m putting you in a taxi and sending you home.”

  As I’m taking the mobile out of the jacket, she puts her hand on my shoulder to balance herself. “Don’t bother. That f-fucking prick kicked me out.”

  “And that’s my problem because?” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Where do you want to go then?”

  Her gaze is so vacant I don’t think she heard me at all.

  “Hey? Listen to me! Where do you want to go?”

  “Here?”

  Fuck no. I’m not your plan B, your safety net, or your fucking ‘welcome’ rug at the front door! Forget about it.

  “I’m calling Rogers and sending you to his place. You’re his problem, not mine.”

  “He doesn’t waant me there, I told you.”

  “What the hell happened anyway?” I ask absentmindedly, only focused on scrolling down my contacts list and trying to figure where I could send her to at nearly two in the morning. Because of the miserable state she is in, I can’t put her in a taxi to a hotel. To make matters worse, Sue is off to spend the weekend with her in-laws.

  “I don’t know. He came home s-screaming like a demented maniac. That he w-was being a victim of defamation, that s-someone was trying to besmirch his good name.” She lets out a loud, hysterical laugh. “Fuckwit. Like he had an unblemished record, the hypocrite.”

  Good, his mask is about to fall off and he’s already losing his cool.

  “Oh my God, who would want to spread such falsehoods?” Mary brings her hand to her chest as if offended. Then another uncontrolled chuckle. “You know h-he’s been hiding his assets in tax havens? Just got himself a fucking yacht.” She covers her mouth, then whispers, “Ooops, he hasn’t. Actually, he doesn’t own anything. His entire wealth is owned by several… ‘s-structures’. She makes air quotes with her hands. “Totally legal.”

  I know. It’s like coming up against a fucking brick wall. Registry records never include the owner’s real identification, all you find is the name of some anonymous fund and a maze of shell companies.

  “Are you involved in any of this?” I fix my gaze on her face.

  “No. But I may have accessed some… sensitive documents.” She stifles a giggle. “Just because some stupid journalist p-pops out of nowhere asking trappy questions, he thinks it was me, who tipped him off? But I don’t know anything, do I?” Another stifled giggle.

  “I wonder why Rogers would think that…” Maybe because you can never expect loyalty from those who’re only interested in protecting their own interests?

  “I-I don’t know...” She shrugs, seemingly lost in her drunken haze.

  I hit pause and look at her, contemplating what to do and say next.

  “Brian?” She staggers to the side, reaching her hand out to support herself against the wall. “I’m not f-feeling very well.”

  Shit. She’s throwing up.

  Half in a flower pot, half all over herself.

  I hold her arm to prevent her from falling. That’s when I take a closer look at her face. There’s a cut on her forehead.

  “How did you get that?”

  “I hit my head. I tripped and fell.”

  “Where?” I inspect her face for further injuries.

  She twists, raising her hands defensively, her eyes glimmering with tears.

  “And how did you get these bruises on your neck?” Definitely finger marks.

  I search for Olivia’s number and press the call button. I need to tell her about this whole fucking mess.

  No one answers.

  I call again and let it ring until the voice mail comes on. Then, “Hey, it’s me. Please, call me when you get this.”

  *

  “Would you keep quiet?” I finish unbuttoning her soiled fur coat and toss it to the ground with boiling fury.

  Mary ignores me and sings even louder, in a high-pitched thin voice, snapping her fingers and twisting her body to the rhythm of Joe Cocker’s ‘You Can Leave your Hat On’.

  “Will you please shut up? Kick off your shoes and just get in there!” I point at the shower. The tepid water is running.

  She ignores me again. Instead, she continues to sing the chorus lines into Olivia’s hairbrush in front of the mirror.

  “NOW dammit!�
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  “But are you s-sloshed or what? Still got my clothes on!”

  “Yeah, it’s a brand-new washing programme.” I jump in the shower myself, dragging her with me.

  She complies, giggling in a childish fashion.

  I hold her steady in position, under the running water, desperately hoping it helps to sober her up.

  Even if Mary has only herself to blame for her predicament, I still feel somehow guilty. I can’t wrap my head around the fact the arrogant arsehole hurt her. That’s low, even coming from him.

  “Come and join me. Don’t be a party pooper,” she shouts, trying to pull me.

  “Oh, Christ. Please.” I drag in a long breath to steady my nerves. This is exasperating.

  She continues her hysterical singing and dancing, jumping up and down giddily, and I reach my limit. I reach to the tab, turn the cold water on and let it run over her head.

  “Ouch!” She squirms, trying to release herself from my grip, but I force her down. It should jolt her awake and sober her up fast.

  Five minutes later she’s gone from hysteria to a near catatonic state. She’s standing perfectly still and has her eyes directed into the void as I turn her around, to unzip her dress and let it fall to the ground, unhook her bra and take off her underwear.

  Afterwards, her eyes flutter shut, and she begins to shiver, so violently her teeth chatter, and I yank a towel from the rack, and wrap it around her. She’s shuddering from the cold but also from whatever happened to her before as well. She’s just burst into tears and is sobbing uncontrollably.

  I run the towel over her wet body and dry it vigorously, as fast as I can, and pull Olivia’s robe off the back of the door to cover her up.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, burying her head in my chest as I tie the robe belt around her waist.

  And it feels strange, inexplicable, to watch the woman who once busted my heart standing before me, a woman who’s always been so strong and determined and now is here, torn into shreds, so vulnerable.