If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  The murky sky and rain meant I hadn’t noticed your car was metallic pale blue the first time, or, more importantly, that it was a convertible. The top was down, exposing the beautiful navy leather interior to the people who stared in awe as we crawled through the rush-hour traffic. Yet you were so blasé about it.

  ‘I’ve never really seen a car like this before. What is it?’

  ‘A 1966 Austin-Healey 3000.’

  ‘It must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘My father gave it to me.’

  ‘I love it.’ I mentally compared it to Blusha. The most precious gift my father gave to me.

  ‘So do I.’

  After that interaction, you remained quiet for the entire journey. Appeared nervous. And I wondered why. In contrast, the novelty of riding in such a car calmed me, distracted me from the foot pain and the anxiety associated with our destination. I daydreamed we were heading to the seaside for a picnic. That in the boot was a huge hamper filled with champagne and posh titbits like strawberries, olives, fancy bread and my mum’s favourite Gouda. You’d lay before us a woollen checked blanket, which would bellow as it caught on the soft breeze. Then we’d eat and laugh, and tell each other our deepest secrets before we’d kiss.

  Arriving at St Mary’s, the dream evaporated and my anxiety returned with force.

  I hadn’t been inside a hospital since Manchester. And I’d vowed never to enter one again.

  You pulled the car into a forbidden area and went to collect a wheelchair. After chivalrously seeing me into it, you instructed me to stay put while you parked up.

  I tried to remember the list of negatives I’d conjured up about you, but I couldn’t. It was a pointless exercise, anyway. You can lie to other people easily, but it’s impossible to lie to yourself.

  After lighting a much-needed fag, I took in the building’s vastness. Forced my mind to accept that inside, as babies were being born, people were also dying. Some already dead.

  I took out my phone. Six missed calls. All from Dale. I called him back.

  ‘Hey. It’s me. Sorry.’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘I had a fall . . . but don’t go crazy – I’m fine, but I may have broken my foot.’

  ‘Oh, you’re joking. Well, where are you? I’ll come now—’

  ‘No, no . . . I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘But you can’t be on your own.’

  ‘I’m not . . . I’m not on my own. Dr Harris is with me. Look, I’ve . . . I’ve got to go – they’re calling me in.’ I pressed the red circle and blew the guilt into the air with my smoke.

  An ambulance pulled up nearby. Paramedics opened its doors and wheeled some poor bastard out on a stretcher as they urgently babbled medical terms, most of which were foreign to me, except the word ‘stabbing’. I turned away, my heartbeat rapid. But, thank God, I saw you coming to rescue me.

  Inside, I gave my details at reception. Citing Dale as my next of kin. They asked for my GP, but I hadn’t even signed up with one yet.

  ‘I’m her GP,’ you interjected, and gave them your full name. Dr Samuel Stevens.

  Sam-u-el.

  You’d gone to fetch us some tea. Alone, I scanned the waiting room. It was a typical line-up of London all-sorts. Bearded hipster with an ice pack on his arm. Farrow & Ball couple constantly checking the forehead of their little girl, who was clearly well enough to keep running around. I prayed she’d stay away, so I didn’t catch whatever it was she had. Then a man in a football kit sat in the row of chairs right opposite. The white towel he held against his head was gradually turning red. I tried to look away, but he was too near to avoid, and as the scarlet blot grew, I felt my own blood drain towards my feet.

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’ You were standing next to me holding two flimsy plastic cups. ‘Machine only, I’m afraid.’

  I extended my tense hand out to retrieve mine, noticing you clock the bleeding man.

  ‘Are you cold? Let’s move away from the door,’ you said, and wheeled me to the other side of the waiting room.

  With the man out of sight, I sipped on my tea to raise my blood sugar, as you advised.

  ‘You know, a fear of blood is common. It’s physiological.’

  ‘Yes . . . I’ve always been like this. Since a kid.’

  But I hadn’t. I hadn’t at all.

  I learnt a lot about you during that hour. Some of which I hadn’t already found out from the internet. The fact you’d moved into your flat a year ago. Another family heirloom. Your father wanted to sell it, but you convinced him to keep it because you loved the Georgian architecture and huge windows. It still looked like you’d just moved in – bare walls, no curtains (though you hated curtains). It still didn’t feel like home. Nowhere had felt like home for a long time. You missed your brother, who had emigrated to New Zealand, you believed to escape your father, whom you both hated.

  ‘Why would you hate your father?’

  ‘Oh . . . it’s complicated.’

  You tried to read a classic novel every month. Currently Great Expectations. You watched too much TV and played poker every Tuesday night at your friend Paul’s house. It was the only time Tanya, his controlling wife, was out of the way, as she visited her parents Monday through to Wednesday because they were old and losing it, but you wished it happened on Fridays because you don’t get in until well gone eleven, which wasn’t ideal for school nights.

  ‘Every Tuesday? You must be a good player by now. Show me your poker face.’

  You did and I laughed. Then employed my own to disguise how appealing I found it.

  You loved to travel and detailed some places you’d been. Thailand was your favourite destination. Followed by Peru. I told you I hadn’t been anywhere apart from Benidorm and London. Unless you count Llandudno.

  ‘You should come out to Thailand with me. You’d love it, I swear.’

  You know, Samuel, you really shouldn’t say things like that to people. Not if you don’t mean them.

  ‘Can I let you into a secret, Constance?’

  I nodded. Unable to look you in the eye.

  ‘I don’t like hospitals either.’

  I laughed. ‘What do you mean, you don’t like hospitals? You’re a doctor.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. I was just trying to make you feel better . . . Anyway, enough about me. What about you? What about your folks?’

  A nurse shouted my name.

  As you know, it wasn’t broken. Just badly torn ligaments and bruising. I was gushing words of relief as you wheeled me down the corridor, my crutches in hand. But as we approached the exit, a tall, blonde female doctor was walking towards us and you hurriedly turned off down a side corridor and stopped.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Your breathing was heavy above my head. ‘Sorry . . . sorry. That was a friend of my ex and I didn’t want to deal with her, sorry. We split a couple of months ago, but I swear she’s gone crazy, Constance . . . Won’t let it go. We keep going round in circles. God knows what bullshit she’s said about me.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sorry. Well, maybe you’ll get back together?’

  ‘God, no. I just want her stuff out. I think the only thing we agree on now is that we hate each other.’

  I was glad you were behind me, unable to see the delight overtake my face.

  The drive back was quiet. But unlike before, we were both swathed in calm. The tiny clock inserted into the walnut dash said it was nearly ten. The motion lulled me into a hazy tiredness and so I rested my head against the back of the seat.

  You turned on the radio. ‘Do you mind? It relaxes me. I’ll keep it low.’

  It was classical music. I had no idea what. I thought I hated classical music, but it turned out it relaxed me too. We listened in silence. I was so comforted, being with you, that I almost nodded off, until you said, ‘I was lying when I said it was to make you feel better. I really don’t like hospitals.’

  I pushed myself up straight, opened my eyes but didn’
t look at you. Sensing allowing you to talk was the right thing.

  ‘My mother . . . she died . . . in a psychiatric hospital . . . when I was fifteen. She was there for just over a year. The constant visiting, the walks down the corridors . . . Now the smell of those places makes me . . . I don’t know. She wasn’t mad, though. My father . . . she . . . she’d react to his womanizing. He deserved it. But she loved him, you see. And was, I don’t know . . . inconvenient.’

  ‘So he put her there?’

  ‘He’s a top neurosurgeon. All the Stevens men are doctors. Whether we hate hospitals or not. Obviously, though, as a GP, I’m a terrible disappointment.’ Your laugh that followed was tinged with hysteria. ‘Anyway, he followed the procedures, but . . .’

  ‘That’s horrible.’ In that moment everything made sense. Why our souls were magnets. ‘Did she kill herself?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. She just died. They didn’t know why. Sudden adult death syndrome, the coroner concluded. But everyone knew why, really.’

  ‘That’s . . . I’m so sorry, Dr Stevens.’

  ‘Hey, I think “Samuel” now. Especially after telling you that. I’m not sure what made me blurt it out in that way.’

  I did. I knew.

  ‘Oh, this is beautiful.’ You turned up the volume. ‘Shostakovich. Symphony No. 5.’

  I nestled back, closed my eyes. Thinking about what you’d told me. Confided in me. And you were right – the music was beautiful. Fitting. I’ve since bought an old vinyl record of that piece. And others. I play them when I can’t sleep or am stressed. Which is often. Along with our song, of course.

  Everything was perfect in that moment. It made me want to share about myself. Though I kept my eyes shut to say it.

  ‘Mine died in April.’

  ‘Sorry?’ You turned the volume down.

  ‘My mum . . . She died in April.’

  ‘Constance, that’s so recent . . . I didn’t . . . I’m so sorry. But you’ve only been here since April? Is that why you—’

  ‘She had cancer.’ It wasn’t a lie.

  The car stopped. I presumed at lights, but I still couldn’t look.

  You searched for my hand. Squeezed it. ‘What about your dad?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Brothers or sisters?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Oh, Constance. Well, you’ve got me. We’re friends now, don’t you think?’

  I dared to open my eyes and moved my finger to touch yours. The lights turned green. You placed your hand back onto the wheel and we drove again.

  ‘Does anyone know about your mum?’

  ‘My housemate knows.’

  ‘No, I mean like Harris or Franco. You should speak to Dr Franco.’

  ‘No. Why? No . . . I’m fine.’

  Before you could talk about it anymore, ask me questions, I leant forward and turned the volume up again, then sat back and closed my eyes. This time, so you couldn’t see me, I faced the passenger window.

  Shame washed over me when we arrived at mine. I’d grown used to the sink and car parts in the garden, but I saw it through your eyes. Sat in your expensive car. Knowing about your grand flat. And I was pissed off with Mr Papadopoulos and his lazy-landlord ways.

  You parked in the nearest spot and switched off the engine. We sat for a moment in darkness before turning our heads towards each other.

  ‘Well, thank you, Dr Stevens.’

  ‘Samuel.’

  ‘Samuel.’

  The leather creaked beneath us. Time stopped. Only starting again when you said, ‘Oh God, I need to get you out, don’t I?’

  I looked through the window, back towards the house, for signs of Dale. ‘No, I’m . . . I’m fine from here.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll walk you to the door.’

  ‘No, honestly . . . I need the practice.’

  ‘Well, I must help you get out at least. Even the able-bodied can’t get out of this bloody thing.’

  Before I could argue, you were already outside, opening my door, lifting me up. I fumbled with my bag, which you took from me and placed across my body like a pageant-queen sash. ‘Well, at least let me watch you. Make sure you get in.’

  It felt like an eternity as I clumsily made my way down the front path on the crutches. When I finally reached the door, I scrambled in my bag for the key. Before I’d located it, Dale was standing in the light of the open doorway. I turned towards you, but you were back in the car.

  ‘You poor sod. Here, let me help you.’ He fussed around me, making everything more difficult. ‘Don’t you worry – I shall be your nurse slave. Hey, I’ve bought the new Call of Duty for us, so you won’t be bored being laid up.’ As he shut the door, I felt our severance. ‘That wasn’t Dr Harris. You said Dr Harris was with you.’ He lifted my bag over my head.

  ‘Did I? I don’t think I . . . I was in agony, Dale. Sorry . . . I meant Dr Stevens.’

  ‘Well, it’s easily done,’ he said, smiling, but as he turned away, I noticed his grin drop in the hall mirror.

  My weekend consisted mainly of killing.

  Dale’s mandatory Call of Duty marathon was only made bearable by the serene haze produced by codeine and paracetamol, plus the constant stream of tea and snacks he brought me.

  But by Sunday afternoon I’d had enough. Putting down my metaphorical foot by pretending I had a migraine, which I’d timed for the start of a Marple I hadn’t yet seen.

  He did turn off the PlayStation, but he also insisted I needed to lie down in dark quietness, meaning I never got to watch the Marple after all. But that wasn’t the worst thing. That came once I’d settled in bed with the lights out.

  He appeared, a silhouette in the doorway. ‘I’ve got something for your foot – some arnica. It’s great for bruising.’ Before I could object, he’d walked in. The light folded away as the door closed. I could feel him sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’ll bring it out quicker.’ He pulled the duvet aside and took hold of my ankle.

  I reached up to put the lamp on.

  ‘No, don’t do that. It’s not good for your head.’

  I slid back down.

  ‘I wasn’t told to put anything on it, though, Dale.’

  ‘Just relax and close your eyes. It really works. Mum used it on us all the time as kids when we fell over.’

  I did close my eyes, but I wasn’t relaxed at all. I heard the ointment spurt from the tube. His cold, gel-coated hands slowly caressed my foot.

  ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Sore. It’s sore to touch, Dale . . . I think it’s best if you leave it.’

  ‘But it’ll help all the—’

  ‘Please.’

  He stopped. Nothing happened for some time. Black silence, broken eventually by the sound of the top being screwed back on.

  ‘Thank you, though.’

  ‘Sure . . . I’ll leave you be,’ he said, and left.

  An hour later I woke with a genuine headache.

  Groggy, I pushed myself up and switched on the lamp. I was desperate for the loo, so forced myself out of bed and took hold of the crutches resting against the wall. On standing, I allowed my foot to take a little weight, like you told me to. Thank goodness the swelling had reduced and it no longer felt impossible.

  On my way back, hearing the familiar shooting and explosions coming from Dale’s room, I shuffled over there and knocked. No answer. Presuming he couldn’t hear, I opened the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘How’s the head?’ He didn’t look at me. His top teeth bit down on his bottom lip as he straightened his arms, and pressed, pressed, pressed.

  ‘It’s still there . . . I fell asleep.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed.’

  ‘Oh . . . Oh right. What are you having for dinner?’ An explosion made me jump.

  ‘Had it.’

  ‘Oh . . . Is there anything I could have?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Right. Well, I guess I’ll order a p
izza, then, or something.’

  ‘OK.’

  I pulled the door to, then stopped halfway and said, ‘You know, I think the arnica’s really helped. Thank you.’

  He paused the game, turned to me. ‘Actually . . . I think I may have a pizza left in the freezer. You go back to bed and I’ll bring it in to you.’

  Once in my room, I took more painkillers, smoked a cigarette and turned on the TV. Flicked through the wasteland of shite. An old Nigella, a soft-focus shot of her sucking her finger free of kumquat jam. A penguin documentary that prompted an emergency channel change because of the impending death of a chick. People already humiliated by having the bailiffs round enduring further humiliation by having it filmed. Flick, flick, flick.

  Then my heart was stabbed.

  Though near the end, I instantly recognized it: Brief Encounter.

  I was fifteen.

  Mum had begged me to bunk off school to keep her company. Insisted we stayed in our nightwear, had a pyjama party. Me in my faded Winnie the Pooh nightie. Her in an old dressing gown adorned with a mismatched belt and fag-burnt lapel. She flitted to and from the kitchen, carrying a variety of bowls and plates filled with crisps, biscuits and lumps of cheese. Each time she left, I watched the small section of matted hair on the back of her head. With each entrance, her breath smelt stronger and stronger of vermouth.

  ‘Brief Encounter’s on, Connie. Please, Connie . . . watch it with me. I won’t enjoy it without you.’

  Reading its summary in the TV guide she’d thrust in front of me, I didn’t fancy it at all, despite its five stars. But I humoured her and watched.

  As always, she felt compelled to commentate. Telling me how the film reminded her of a married woman she once knew called Norma who met a man at Knutsford Service Station every Sunday while she was on the way to visit her mother. Norma was rumbled when her neighbour filled up with petrol at precisely the wrong moment. The boring story made me want to watch it even less. I fixed my vision directly on the TV. Engaging with her was lethal, or else the chattering would never stop.

  She kicked off her slippers, lay on the sofa. I was on the floor at her feet. These were our usual positions. I could have used the armchair, but it was Dad’s, so I never did. No one did. It remained pristine as the sofa grew threadbare.