I tried to compute what you’d said. Thinking I must have been confused, misheard. But you continued talking while removing files from the open bag lying at your feet.
‘I do remember you looking very sexy, though. So it wouldn’t be entirely my fault if we did kiss.’ You smiled again, as transparent as an insect’s wing. ‘But we’re in such a good place now, I’d hate to fuck up our friendship in any way.’
I latched on to the door handle behind my back for stability and finally sourced words. ‘So . . . you . . . you really don’t remember?’
Your head hung over the files that now lay on the desk. Your fingers pushed through your hair. ‘Oh God, we did, didn’t we?’
You swivelled to face me fully. Looked right at me. I attempted to search inside you, extract the truth from your concerned face. But I couldn’t.
‘Yes. Yes, we kissed.’
You blinked, long, drawn out. ‘Well, we can’t blame ourselves, I suppose . . . We were drunk . . . These things happen. But I am sorry for potentially jeopardizing our friendship like that.’ You held out your hand. ‘Still friends?’
There was a knock at the door.
I wanted to take my palm and slap you across your smiling face, but instead I placed it softly into yours.
‘Come in,’ you shouted.
The door opened to expose an uppity face.
‘Mrs Rose. Good to see you. Please take a seat.’
As she moved across to the chair, placed her beautiful tan Birkin bag on the floor, you picked up the coffee. ‘Constance, actually, you couldn’t remake this, could you? I didn’t like to say, but it’s a tad bitter.’
Back at my desk, after taking in the improved coffee, I appeared calm as I quietly inputted the notes that lay before me.
Inside, I was feral.
An alternative-reality film rushed my mind in which I burst into your office, threw the coffee over your head, told you what we really did, you did, smashed things, and before I left, stole Mrs Rose’s bag.
I remained in this state for the rest of the morning. So consumed that I’d forgotten about my meeting with Dr Franco at lunch.
The chair felt comfier this time, but I refused to allow myself to sink completely into the soft leather and tried to ignore the small box of tissues he’d positioned on the table next to me.
Once back in his seat, he shuffled papers, hitched up his trousers and crossed his legs to expose the small Superman emblem on his royal-blue sock.
‘So, how are we doing, Constance?’
‘Good. How are you?’
I’d hoped I’d keep him talking, use up the time, but he said, ‘I’m very well, thank you . . . So, you were telling me about your dad when you had to go last time.’
The fury I felt at my not remembering and cancelling the appointment escaped through my tapping foot. ‘You’ve definitely got the best room in the building, you know, Dr Franco.’
‘Thank you. It is indeed lovely when the sun streams in.’
I focused on the wall of floating dust particles, illuminated by the slice of light beaming through the window. That’s what happens in a room like that. Hidden dirt is exposed.
‘So, you were going to tell me about your father?’
‘I already did.’
‘You mentioned you didn’t know what happened to him?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why don’t you tell me about the last time you saw him?’
‘I was only six.’
He eased back into his chair and placed his pen on his pad.
‘I mean, I was only six, so . . .’
‘So you don’t remember it?’
‘Well, I . . . I suppose I do . . . I . . .’
He paused again. This time removing his glasses, expressing his willingness to wait.
So I told him. As I’m about to tell you. To help you understand.
She was cooking. Real food, like she did back then. A Sunday roast. Beef and Yorkshire pudding. My favourite. I salivated as the smells floated into the lounge, where I lay on the floor watching cartoons. Our dog, Alfie, pawed my back as I repeatedly swatted him away, scolded him. It wasn’t Alfie’s fault. I was already sulking because I’d not long asked if I could have a packet of crisps.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Connie. Dinner will be ready soon.’ She was having none of it, didn’t understand how hungry I was, how much I liked beef and Yorkshire pudding, and would still eat it no matter what.
Dad was upstairs playing his guitar. He’d practise for hours on Sundays. I heard him tell Mum once it was the only thing he had left of himself. She said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Patrick, that ship’s sailed.’
He was my pop star. I’d always request the song ‘In the Gateau’: As the cream dries . . . where the chocolate and cherries are . . . a chubby little baby falls . . . In the gateau. It’d make me giggle beyond my control. The image of a baby falling into a giant cake was too much. It wasn’t until I was seventeen, listening to the radio in my room, and the DJ introduced a song by Elvis called ‘In the Ghetto’ that I realized he’d just changed the words. That our song never really existed.
Mum was in a strange mood. I think she’d been crying. I’d heard her in the bathroom earlier. And the night before. And the night before that.
They hadn’t argued for a long time. Not since we came back from holidaying at the caravan in Llandudno with the Parkers and their daughter, Marsha. I liked Marsha. She was seven and taller than me. We collected hundreds of pebbles and shells in a bucket together on the beach. Counted them in the evenings. But after the holiday Mum said I couldn’t see Marsha again because Mrs Parker was a whore.
A religious programme followed the cartoons. I wanted to turn over but was worried God would be angry with me. So I rested my head on Alfie’s tummy and drifted off to sleep with him, until I was woken by Dad stroking my hair.
Rubbing my tired, prickly eyes, I pulled myself up from the floor. Alfie had woken too and was jumping all over Dad.
‘Good boy. Good boy, Alfie,’ he said, until it got too much and changed to ‘Get down. Get down, Alfie.’ He obeyed, like the good dog he was, and dropped to the floor, flat, his eyes the only part of him moving. Doing his Princess Di look, Mum called it.
Dad dropped to my level and pulled me in for a hug. The softness of his suede jacket tickled my cheek. I could see his guitar behind him, perched against his chair. I hung from his neck like a monkey, giggling, ‘Stop it . . . stop it,’ as he kissed my head all over. ‘Will you help me colour in?’
The kisses ended and he released me. ‘I’ve got to go, Connie.’
‘But I want to do colouring.’
‘I can’t, baby. I can’t.’
As he stood, I played our game. Where I’d latch on to his leg, refusing to let go, and he’d walk around with me clinging to his ankle. I’d laugh until I’d nearly wet myself, and he’d pretend he couldn’t find me. ‘Where’s Connie?’ he’d say. ‘Has anyone seen Connie?’
But he didn’t say it this time. Didn’t play along.
Mum emerged from the kitchen, wiping her brow with a manky tea towel. Mascara smudged beneath her dimmed eyes. ‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour.’
‘Right. Thanks,’ said Dad.
‘Oh, and we’ve run out of Bisto. Could you pick some up while you’re out?’
‘Sure.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a walk.’
‘Right . . . Well, dinner will be ready in half an hour.’
He dragged me over to her. I looked up between them. ‘Angie . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.’ He lifted her chin and kissed her lips.
‘Me too, Patrick . . . I really am.’ She swiped across her eyelids with a twisted corner of the towel. ‘Let go of your dad, Connie.’
‘No,’ I snapped.
A loud sizzling sound filled the room. She took a moment to realize what that meant, then said, ‘Shit,’ and ran into the kitchen.
‘Come on, Connie, get off now. I�
�ve got to go.’ He looked down. A looming giant.
‘No.’
Bending his knees, he crouched in front of me. ‘Connie . . . I’ve really got to go.’
‘No.’
Then something strange happened. He dropped his head and cried. The same way Mum would. Pushing his fingers through his thick, oily hair as he sobbed.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen him cry before. So I just watched him.
‘Please, sweetheart.’ He looked at me with such a sad expression that I released my tiny arms and let go of his leg.
Once free, he kissed me on the forehead and rose. He wasn’t crying anymore. Said nothing. Didn’t look at me again. Merely picked up his guitar and left.
We ate our roast in silence. Without gravy.
Mum placed her knife and fork down every few minutes and phoned him. Growing angrier each time there was no answer.
Once we’d finished eating, she called other people. Each conversation ending with the words ‘Thanks anyway.’
After feeding his dinner to Alfie, she cleared the table as normal and did the washing-up.
Knowing she needed company, I fetched my colouring book and worked on my blue rabbit. After sitting opposite me, she reached into her apron, pulled out her packet of cigarettes and lit one up, while I squeaked the felt-tip, back and forth. She didn’t cry. Or talk. Or tell me how good my bunny was. Just smoked and smoked and smoked until I felt nauseous from the thick, stale air.
She put me to bed early that evening.
When tucking me in, she didn’t mention him, yet we both knew he wasn’t coming back. My heart pushed against my chest. Stuffed with things it would carry forever. But I didn’t cry. Didn’t want to make her sad.
Once she’d left, I grabbed on to Blusha, who looked at me like the dumb elephant she was, and I took one of her eyes between my fingers and twisted and twisted until it was in my hand and cotton bled through the hole. And then, then I cried.
Dr Franco put on his glasses and scribbled in his notepad. ‘That’s difficult for you to talk about, isn’t it, Constance? It felt like you’d become that little girl again.’ He gestured towards the box of tissues, which I refused to use. ‘How does it make you feel? Talking about that day?’
My hands were crossed over my chest, pushing. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘It must have been hard for you. A little girl losing her father like that and never knowing why. Then your mother so tragically.’
I looked up at him, smiled. He was supposed to know things but was clueless.
‘So tell me. What have you taken away from what happened? What beliefs did young Constance create from this?’
I didn’t need to be in that stupid room to think about that. I’d always known the answer. But I humoured him. ‘Well, I suppose . . . everyone I love leaves me.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘That’s fact. And it’s my fault.’
‘Constance, you’re not to blame for any of that. Not your father leaving . . . not your mother’s death.’
I laughed again and swiped a tissue from the box. Twisted it around my index finger.
‘You were a young child—’
‘But it was my fault, Dr Franco . . . It all was.’ The tissue seemed to have magicked into confetti, which I let fall upon my knees.
‘Why do you say that? What would make you think it was your fault?’
‘Did you not listen to what happened?’
‘I did. I listened to everything. And there was nothing that showed me it could be your fault in any way.’
‘Can I go, please? I need to get a sandwich.’
‘Of course.’ He sat back, closed his book.
I didn’t move. Aside gripping on to my ponytail with both hands.
‘Constance . . . I want to help. If there’s something you think you did as a young child that made your father leave, it might be good to say.’
‘For Christ’s sake . . . I let go, OK. I let him go.’
I stood. The tissue fragments floated to the floor. ‘I’m very sorry for shouting, Dr Franco, but I really do need to be going now. It’s bad for me not to eat anything.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
I didn’t look at him as I retrieved my bag, collected the tissue pieces, but I could feel his gaze upon me right until I reached the door.
‘Constance . . . I hope we can talk again, and that you have taken something from today?’
Poor Dr Franco. I envisaged him being quite worried about me when I left his room. Though he needn’t have been. As I strode down the corridor, through reception, into the freedom of the cool air, I felt so much clearer. Not because my guilt had been alleviated but because it cemented what I already knew.
If you love someone, never let them go.
From that point on, you acted as though nothing had happened.
When asking for a coffee or requesting a file, you behaved as though we’d not recently kissed each other’s lips, that you hadn’t been inside me, squeezed my half-naked body as it beat against the jagged brickwork of an alley wall. Hadn’t looked me in the eye and told me you missed me. So I had no choice but to accept you really didn’t know.
I never disclosed the truth. Fluctuating between thankfulness for you not remembering me in that humiliating way and uncertainty it even happened at all.
I performed my role with aplomb. You would never have known that when my eyes opened each morning, you were my first thought. That accompanying that thought was an agitation which increased throughout the day. How every non-intimate conversation you led cut me, diced me.
And you had no idea that after we’d say goodbye at the end of each day, I’d follow you home.
Initially I’d convinced myself it was accidental. That I was merely having a cigarette in the corner by the steps. That you happened to be leaving and I was too slow to catch you up. After all, I was only walking home, taking the same route. It was perfectly acceptable. If you’d turned around, I would’ve smiled, explained how you hadn’t heard me shouting due to your headphones. But after a few times I didn’t need to convince myself of anything. Because I didn’t care.
I needed it.
In the same way I needed nicotine.
I often question what I gained from seeing you perpetually walk away from me.
There was of course the ability to be close to you. The comfort your proximity provided. The luxury of being able to concentrate, analyse your every movement, every stroke of your hair, tilt of your head. Wondering what music you were listening to. If it was our song.
And there was something else. Something I hadn’t accounted for. Unlike when you were rejecting me – requesting coffees, files, fucking me in alleyways then forgetting – it was me, not you, who was in control.
But how quickly we develop tolerance to our drugs.
Initially I was content with hiding against the pillar of the opposite flats, watching as you’d disappear through your door. The exercise completed, finished, like a stamped-out cigarette. But soon it became harder to leave. Staring up at your window, I’d wonder what you were doing, where you were doing it. Desperate to see. Frustrated I couldn’t.
It was then I realized that I needed to increase my dose.
Edward’s flat was even more eccentric than I recalled.
I hadn’t absorbed it in its entirety the first time. Smoking squirrel, the diving helmet and Ursula were as I’d remembered, although dulled by an additional layer of dust. But somehow, previously, I hadn’t noticed the terrifying shark’s skeleton jaw that hung above the mantelpiece, where you’d expect the elderly to house a fake Constable. And even more disconcertingly, I realized I was standing upon a real tiger-skin rug.
Sensing my disapproval, he said, ‘Don’t you worry – I killed it with my bare hands when it attacked me.’ I laughed politely, but his straight face left me unsure if he was joking.
He was so delighted at my visit that I resented the guilt it created. His
crinkled face was warmer, friendlier than on our first encounter. Though to be fair he hadn’t just been attacked by a youth.
‘I’d got biscuits in just for you, Constance, you know, and not eaten them for all this time because I knew you’d come.’
‘Garibaldis?’
‘No . . . no . . . sorry. They’re custard creams. Would you have preferred Garibaldis?’
‘No, no, not at all. Custard creams are perfect.’
He gestured for me to sit. ‘I’d just boiled the kettle as well. I must have known.’
I remained standing, feeling the need to justify myself. ‘I’m really sorry for not coming sooner. I’ve had lots on, and, well, time goes so quickly.’
‘You mustn’t apologize. I was a young man only but yesterday, so am all too aware of how time can slip away . . . Anyway, I knew you’d come eventually.’
The air was claggy with the stench of fried bacon. He must have noticed my nostrils twitching because he picked up a canister of air freshener from the table next to his chair and squirted fake flowers into the room. ‘Just had my dinner. Anyway, dear girl, you sit and I’ll get the tea.’
Instinctually I began to offer to make it, then stopped myself and sat as requested. Exactly where I wanted to be. Planned to be. In the chair next to the window.
To my annoyance, Edward remained in the lounge, small-talking about a turn in the weather and how he’d wanted to get Jaffa Cakes, but they only had these weird strawberry ones. ‘There’s nothing Jaffa about a strawberry, is there? Terrible idea . . . terrible.’
I smiled, nodded as he wittered on. But all I could think about was you.
Finally, after the obligatory ‘Is a Jaffa Cake a cake or a biscuit?’ discussion, he left the room and I was able to turn to the window.
Tranquillizer injected into my veins.
There you were. Sitting on the sofa, staring at the television. Wine glass in hand, filled with red. Changed into your old David Bowie T-shirt. I recalled its touch, velvety and worn. Watching you intently, I analysed every laugh, every movement, until the percussion of tinkling spoons against crockery broke my trance.
If I Can't Have You Page 13
