If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  I gripped the wooden banister that perched on top of the ornate black wrought-iron balustrade, my clammy hands leaving prints which disappeared like invisible ink. The climb seemed never-ending. Especially as my foot had fully returned to its previous sore state. When I finally reached the landing, I held on to the rail to catch my breath, leaning over to view the spiral below, testing my vertigo, touching distance from the chandelier, until the rail inched forward and I stepped away, unsteady, my heart feeling as if it had slipped over the edge.

  ‘Be careful, Constance.’ I turned and moved towards you. The smell of your cleanliness hit me. ‘The residents’ committee needs to get it fixed, but often as it is with rich people, no one wants to pay . . . Come here, you.’ You pulled my head towards your chest and hugged me.

  It was so unexpected that every one of my muscles tensed. My rigor mortis arms longed to slide around your waist and under your T-shirt. When I finally gained the courage to return the gesture, you released me and held the door open for me to enter.

  ‘I can’t believe it, Constance . . . I feel so bad.’

  I suppose you wanted me to tell you not to. That there was nothing to feel bad about. But I didn’t. We should all get to endure the guilt we deserve.

  The pale parquet of the landing continued through your hall, which was the polar opposite of Edward’s, with its gallery-white walls and strategically placed black-and-white framed photographs. As you guided me past the metal console table, displaying the lamp that looked like twisted white paper, I was showered in shame. Remembering you’d seen where I lived.

  Even with the stylish lead-up, my eyes widened when we reached your lounge. You hadn’t mentioned it was akin to a music video. You know the ones. A white grand piano in the corner and muslin curtains billowing into the room. ‘Ebony and Ivory’ meets ‘Imagine’. Except there was neither a piano nor curtains. Just two vast windows that stood almost floor to ceiling, dramatic and bare. It was, however, as empty as you’d described, with only your sofa – grey, of course – the beaten-up leather club chair, TV and shelves filled with books and CDs. Other framed arty photographs and prints, which hadn’t made it onto the wall, rested against the perimeter. It wasn’t like a home. Not a home I’d lived in. I’d walked into the pages of a lifestyle magazine.

  ‘I did tell you it looks as if I’ve just moved in. I’m a man – what can I say?’ You gestured me further into the room. ‘Come on, sit down. You’ll be in shock.’

  Limping towards the sofa, I noticed your eyes squinted, scrutinizing me. ‘You’ve got blood on you. Are you hurt?’

  Your words triggered the urgent need to get it off me. ‘It’s . . . it’s not mine.’

  ‘Oh God, it’s not the old guy’s?’

  ‘No. I . . . It was the boy . . . One of them fell and smashed his nose on the pavement.’

  ‘Well, karma or what? I swear to God if I had the chance . . .’

  I’m glad you stopped. It would have been embarrassing, you lying to us both.

  ‘Why don’t you borrow a T-shirt or something? You don’t want some toerag’s blood all over you, especially with your phobia . . . Oh, actually, come through here.’

  I followed you back through the hall, unsure of where you were taking me.

  You turned to check I was in tow. ‘Is your foot hurting?’

  ‘Yes, I . . . I was running on it. I don’t know how.’

  ‘Adrenaline. I’ll have a look in a minute.’

  You opened a door. It was your bedroom. Your oversized bed, staring at me. Where you slept, dreamt, touched yourself. Air heavy with citrus and, I believe, sandalwood. Your checked boxers strewn on the floor. Intimate. Any mask of formality between us evaporated.

  A little like when as a teen, round at my friend Claire’s, the daughter of our geography teacher Mr Reynolds, I’d crept into his bedroom on the way to the toilet and seen a DVD I shouldn’t. Though it wasn’t really the same, because I didn’t yearn for Mr Reynolds. He was disgusting. As I’m sure was Missionary Impossible 2.

  You opened a door of the fitted wardrobes that clad the wall. ‘Here, have a scan and take anything you want, anything. It’s Laura’s, the ex’s – stuff she still won’t bloody collect.’

  You thought you were being nice. But you weren’t. It was a cupboard filled with clothes of someone you once loved. And you’d given her a name.

  ‘Seriously, I don’t give a shit – take anything you want. She’s lucky I’ve not binned it all after two months. My theory is, she still wants it here . . . Why can’t women ever let go, eh? Anyway, have a rummage . . . apart from in the big box.’

  ‘What’s in the box? Sorry. I shouldn’t—’

  ‘It’s my mother’s . . . Anyway, I’ll leave you to change into whatever you decide.’ You pointed towards another doorway at the back of the room. ‘Use the bathroom to clean yourself up. I’ll make us some tea.’

  Once you’d left, I inspected her clothes, which included a Lanvin sequinned dress, a velvet Chloé jacket and a black silk Dolce & Gabbana skirt. Things I could never afford without robbing a bank and she couldn’t be arsed to pick them up. It’s a different world, isn’t it? One I’d foolishly thought I could be part of.

  I pushed back the hangers in irritation, exposing the box. The forbidden is always so tempting. Like Mum’s diaries used to be. Yet now, locked in their case, a ghost beneath me as I slept, her words begging to be read – I couldn’t even contemplate.

  I closed the cupboard and returned to the lounge. ‘It’s really kind of you, but I feel a bit strange taking her things. Would you mind if I borrowed an old T-shirt of yours instead?’

  Alone, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the old faded black T-shirt you’d given me. I lifted the bottom half against my face and sniffed. Disappointingly, it was freshly washed. But I thought of all the times it would have been next to your skin, and now it was next to mine. As it often still is. I’m wearing it right now, as it happens.

  I used the time alone in there to properly take in the room. Switched one of the trendy copper side lamps on and off and opened the copy of Great Expectations where your bookmark was inserted. Not far in.

  ‘Do you know what I touch here?’ she said, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ (It made me think of the young man.)

  ‘What do I touch?’

  ‘Your heart.’

  ‘Broken!’

  I closed the book and went to wash myself.

  Now accustomed to the poshness of your flat, I was unsurprised by the fancy mosaic-tiled bathroom and huge sink which sat like a bowl, in a way I’d never seen before, on top of a wooden cupboard. I immediately removed lids from your potions, sniffing them one by one like a sommelier. Inspected your heavy silver razer. Ran my nail across the teeth of your comb. But once I’d stared into the mirrored wall, I was distracted by the speckles of blood on my face, of which I’d been unaware. I blinked. To make the image disappear. Then scrubbed away the traces, so the next time I dared look, my face shone with rawness as I patted myself dry with your towel, still damp and full of you.

  When I returned to the lounge, you were sat on the sofa. Loose-limbed, relaxed. Two mugs of tea rested on a magazine to protect the floor.

  ‘Better?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  I did as I was told. Kept a polite distance. Wanting to be closer.

  ‘Sorry – it’s probably cold now.’

  You lifted your mug, which was white with a large black letter ‘S’ on the front. As I turned mine to take a sip, I noticed it had the letter ‘L’. I swivelled it back around.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ve got some biscuits.’ You placed the tea back down and stood. Carried on talking as you left the room. ‘Oh, and get prepared so I can look at that foot on my return.’ Then from the hall you shouted, ‘You like chocolate, right?’

  ‘Yes . . . if it’s milk?’ I bent to undo my laces. ‘Trousers as
well?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Removing my shoes, I was thankful Dale had ‘sorted me out’ when I was laid up, as this time my socks were without holes. But I still suffered the same discomfort about removing my trousers. Against my nature, I folded them neatly next to me, then pulled at your T-shirt, bringing it over my knees and distracting myself by eyeing your wall of CDs. No one used CDs anymore. I stood to have a proper look; then I heard you returning and dropped back onto the sofa.

  ‘I’ve even put them on a plate. Are you impressed?’

  I smiled.

  ‘I’ll let you have first pick— Oh . . . sorry, Constance. I didn’t mean . . . You only needed to take off your shoe.’

  I froze, apart from my eyes, which moved side to side, helping me compute the shame. Once registered, I grappled to put my trousers back on. ‘I . . . I’m sorry . . . I did ask you, and you said—’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’ You were laughing.

  As I sucked in my stomach to zip them up, I also sucked in tears. I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing because I couldn’t bear to look at you.

  ‘Oh, come on – don’t get upset. I don’t care . . . I’m still a bloody doctor. It’s funny, that’s all.’

  I reached for my socks, tucked inside my shoes. ‘I should go anyway, Dr Stevens. I promised my friend I’d—’

  ‘Samuel . . . But you can’t go . . . Constance, chill, please. You need to calm down first, after what’s happened . . . and I don’t mean you stripping for me.’ You laughed again.

  I pulled my shoes nearer. ‘No, I’ve got to go—’

  ‘Constance . . . Constance, it was a joke. Sorry . . . I’m not funny. Please. Seriously now . . . I need to check your foot before you go anywhere.’ Your tone changed, and you placed your hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me down towards the sofa. ‘It was my fault. I thought you only asked about the chocolate. I didn’t hear you ask about the trousers. And it really doesn’t matter.’

  You were already kneeling in front of me. My foot held within your soft hands. They weren’t cold like the first time. No warm heart. And I hated how your touch soothed me as you manipulated, evaluated.

  ‘Is that hurting?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re shaking.’ You pressed my sole/soul, then with both hands began rubbing, gently, in opposite directions. ‘Your foot’s freezing. It’s fine, though. You were running on the bruising, so it’s going to hurt, but no actual damage has been done.’ You released it and placed it down on the floor. It pulsated with new warmth. ‘I’ll get you another tea,’ you said, collecting both our cups.

  Once you’d left, I sat for a moment, awkward. Then to distract myself, I crossed the room to investigate your CDs. Ella Fitzgerald, Jeff Buckley, Johnny Cash, Aretha Franklin, Chopin . . . The list was endless, the collection enormous. Aside from the latter, I smiled at our common ground.

  ‘Choose something if you want.’

  I jumped.

  ‘Sorry. I always seem to be scaring you . . . Only if you want to, of course.’

  ‘No, I . . . I was just surprised, that’s all . . . You’ve got a lot of CDs.’ I limped back over to the sofa and picked up my shoes.

  ‘Why don’t you leave them off? Relax, sit down. I think you’re still in shock. Here, I thought this might help more than tea.’

  I sank into the sofa as you handed me a wine glass and poured into it a burnt-amber liqueur from the bottle you carried. I sniffed the contents. The potency snatched my breath and made me cough.

  ‘It’s a good brandy, that. It’ll relax you, warm you up. Sorry, I’m a heathen and don’t have the correct glassware.’ You smiled, as if you remembered that the person who lived in a house with a sink in the garden wouldn’t care about such things.

  I allowed it to wash across my lips, then licked them. ‘It’s very strong,’ I said through a wheeze.

  ‘Have a few sips. It works, I promise . . . Look.’ You swirled the heavy liquid, which clung to each part of the glass it touched, then took a large gulp before blowing imaginary fire from your mouth. ‘See . . . relaxed.’ You pulled a silly face like you were entertaining a child.

  I copied, feeling you watch me. ‘It’s still so strong.’ It almost stole my voice, but I enjoyed the burn as its warmth enveloped me.

  ‘It’s just normal brandy. I promise. Keep taking tiny amounts . . . You’ll feel better soon. Shall I pick something, then?’ You were at the shelves, glass in hand, your finger tracing a line along the CD spines. ‘I bought the majority before the whole download thing . . . but there’s nothing like having something physical, don’t you think . . . something to hold?’

  Your fingers stopped. You turned to me and smiled, then faced the shelves once more, removing a disk that I couldn’t see, then placing it in the player. ‘I reckon you’re a Blondie girl, hey?’

  Before I could say anything, I’d identified the intro to ‘Heart of Glass’.

  You turned back towards me. Your smile dropped. ‘Constance, what’s wrong?’

  I’m not sure how I’d appeared to you, but I suspect I’d whitened to the colour of your porcelain sink.

  I somehow summoned the words ‘Do you mind if we put on something else? This reminds me of my mum.’

  You mumbled apologies as you fumbled with the buttons, until, thank God, it stopped and my heart functioned once again.

  ‘Dr Stevens, I should maybe go.’

  ‘Samuel . . . No, no, I’m sorry.’ You pulled another CD from the wall and quickly inserted it. ‘This is nice and soothing.’

  It was Nina Simone.

  ‘I recognize the voice, but I don’t know this song,’ I said, as you sat back down next to me. Sipped more brandy and nodded for me to do the same.

  ‘I thought people your age preferred R&B. You know, someone featuring someone else.’

  ‘How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Younger than me.’

  ‘I’m twenty-six.’

  You smiled, raised your eyebrows. ‘As I say, younger than me.’

  You didn’t disclose your age, but I already knew. You were thirty-seven. Your birthday, 12 February.

  Time flowed as freely as the brandy.

  We’d talked nonstop after that. Do you remember the ease? Discussing Nina Simone and music in general. How your mum was a fan and was lucky enough to have seen her live in Paris. ‘She was something unworldly, Samuel – she’d say.’ I told you how I’d always wanted to go to Paris. Imagined myself flouncing around the Champs-Elysées in clothes I wouldn’t dream of wearing here.

  ‘Well, maybe you will,’ you said. ‘Though I can’t imagine you flouncing anywhere.’

  Aretha Franklin was singing, and I was immune to the brandy burn. I may have been slurring. Was I? My glass seemed to be frequently empty, frequently filled. We giggled at unfunny things. I smoked a fag, but you’d made me hang out of the window. It was dark. I searched for Edward’s flat. I’d forgotten about him already, what happened. I imagined him sat waiting for me with an unopened packet of Garibaldis. A moment of sober worry, guilt, which left as quickly as it arrived.

  I was back on the sofa. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s too cold there – I’ll have to have the next one right here.’ I popped a fresh fag into my wonky drunken lips.

  You looked at me disapprovingly, then sang along with Aretha. ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T.’

  ‘Fine. I won’t, then,’ I said, and went through the motions of smoking it unlit.

  Then you said, ‘You know, you remind me of someone, Constance.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Someone I used to know. Isabella . . . my first love . . . Whoa, this brandy is really strong, isn’t it?’ You emptied the dregs into your mouth. ‘I noticed that first day at the surgery how much you were like her, and I felt compelled to blurt it out . . . but then I thought it was inappropriate. And you were vomiting, of course. It’s probably still inappropriate, isn’t it? Is it?’

  ‘No . . . no . . . I don’t th
ink so.’ My face burned. ‘The brandy,’ I said, touching my cheek.

  You took my hand in yours. ‘See, it’s made the shaking stop . . . I feel a bit drunk now, you know,’ you said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘A bit.’

  My hand slipped from yours, and you poured more brandy into your glass, then mine, then rested your head on the back of the sofa.

  ‘We get on well, don’t we? It’s funny, isn’t it? How some people just . . .’ You clicked your fingers. ‘You don’t know why . . . but it’s there . . . like a knowing. Do you think it’s because of our dead mothers?’ Your hand returned to mine. The sensation carried through my body.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t think it’s that.’ You turned your head, looked at me. ‘It’s just there . . . because that’s what happens with certain people. Connection. And it’s a rare and wonderful thing.’

  I wondered if I was so drunk I was imagining it all. If it was one of those frequent dreams I’d have about you, when I’d wake, stomach flipping. Or if it was happening, perhaps I was misunderstanding all you said.

  Etta James was singing ‘At Last’. In that moment I knew it had now become our song. You looked at my eyes, my mouth, my eyes. I remained silent. Silent, as you removed the glass from my hand and placed it on the floor. Silent, as you brought your face so close the alcohol on your lips took my breath away. Silent, as you placed your hands either side of my head.

  Silent, as we kissed.

  Did it feel different to you? Than with anyone else? When you were inside me. When your eyes bored into mine. My hair wrapped around the hand you pulled it with, causing pain, beautiful pain. Did you feel it? Our bond. I never told you this, but when I came, when I dragged your salt mouth to mine as I came, that was the first time it had happened with anyone but myself.

  Did you feel it too? When we lay on our backs, fingertips touching. Breeze from the open window cooling our stomachs. You did. I know you did.