If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  His distorted, quivering hands placed a rose-trimmed cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar lumps and a small matching plate piled with biscuits on the table next to me. I thanked him, though my words fell quiet against the sound of his breathlessness, akin to someone having climbed Everest. The wheezing lessened once he’d dropped into his chair, and I attempted to speak again.

  ‘Thank you, Edward.’

  After sipping the tea, grease coated my lips. I suppressed a gag, imagining the cup languishing in a cupboard since the 1950s.

  ‘It’s still a little hot,’ I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and returning the cup and saucer to the table. ‘So anyway, Edward, how’ve you been?’

  ‘Well, you know. The same as always . . . Don’t forget the custard creams. Come on.’

  I took a biscuit, trying not to look at the state of the plate beneath. ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Good . . . I’m good.’

  I understood his lie.

  He removed his glasses and brought them down towards the paisley handkerchief on his lap. It was obvious he could no longer see as he rubbed them clean. I turned away. You were on the phone. Who were you on the phone to?

  ‘How about you?’ he said.

  I returned to looking at him as he raised his glasses back to his face.

  ‘Me? I’m . . . I’m good too, thanks.’ I smiled. And he stared at me, without saying a word. Making me so uncomfortable that I resorted to taking a sip from the filthy cup.

  ‘You have a lot of interesting things, Edward. A lot of . . . things. How does someone ever get to own a smoking squirrel?’

  ‘Oh, Cyril? I’ve had him since the sixties. He came from a tobacco shop on the King’s Road that was closing down. The bastards were going to throw him away, so I saved him from certain second death.’

  ‘I see . . . Well, there’s so much it’s hard to know where to look.’

  ‘It was my mother’s fault. Well, isn’t everything? She was an actress . . . theatre mainly . . . Collected artefacts from her tours around the world. Always had an eye for the most wonderful things. “The items we own must either be a thing of beauty or tell a story,” she’d say. And so that’s the rule I’ve stuck to. And let me tell you, Constance . . . there’s been a lot of stories. Obviously, sometimes they’re both. Like with dear Ursula.’

  ‘What’s the story with Ursula?’

  ‘Ah, now, not all stories are meant to be told.’ With the hanky, he wiped his magnified eyes underneath his glasses. ‘I’d like to show you something, Constance . . . You help yourself to more biscuits.’

  Seeing his struggle to rise, I went over to help him, to be greeted by his hand tapping me away. ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous . . . What do you think I do when I’m on my own?’

  I apologized and returned to my seat. Turning, so he didn’t feel the pressure of me watching him. You were still on the phone. Laughing. Sipping on your wine. Enjoying the conversation far too much. My stomach curdled, so I refocused on Edward, shuffling towards the huge cabinet and pulling down the back of his risen jumper, which exposed his purple crackled skin. As he rooted in one of the cupboards, I stood and rested my hands against the windowpane, hoping to improve my vision by blocking the sunlight.

  ‘It’s here somewhere. Please bear with me, darling girl . . . and eat as many biscuits as you like.’

  ‘No rush, Edward . . . take your time.’

  I hadn’t seen you move, but you’d disappeared and were no longer on the sofa. Then you reappeared, lifting the sash window of your bedroom, minus your phone, and perched on the sill smoking a cigarette. You’d always told me you didn’t really smoke. Only took puffs on mine. Another lie? Or were you thinking of me as you inhaled?

  ‘What’s so interesting?’ Edward made me jump.

  ‘Sorry . . . I . . . I was just seeing if it looked like it was going to rain.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘No . . . I’m not sure . . . Oh wow, what’s that? Edward, I think someone’s parrot has escaped.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s a feral parakeet. Have you not seen them before?’

  ‘No . . . A what?’

  ‘Feral parakeet. They’re parakeets that escaped and bred and bred and now adorn the trees and skies of London.’

  I pressed my nose to the glass, following the direction of its flight, to see a mass of them perched in the cherry tree next to your flat. ‘That’s so weird . . . They look strange being there.’ Although genuinely fascinated by the tropical birds, you stamping out your cigarette into an ashtray distracted me. ‘They don’t belong here,’ I said.

  ‘Well, they do now . . . Anyway, enough about the birds. I want to show you something.’

  I was back in the room. Edward was standing in front of me holding a photograph. His shakes more pronounced than previously. Appearing to be nerves rather than age. He extracted his hanky again from his pocket, dabbed his face. ‘Come round this way . . . Have a look.’

  I did as I was told. It was a black-and-white picture of a girl, laughing, on a beach, ice cream in hand, breeze through her hair. A perfect example of captured joy.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘So, there’s nothing familiar?’ His voice was raised, excited as he stabbed at it with his finger.

  I went to take the picture from his hand for a closer look. He let go, reluctantly.

  ‘You mean the beach? I’m afraid I’ve only ever been to Llandudno.’

  ‘No . . . no, not the beach, the face.’ His eyes widened, like a charades player growing frustrated at rubbish guessers.

  The girl was pretty with plaited hair. Broad smile. Her dress could have been floral, although it was hard to tell because the print was so small. But there was nothing remarkable about any of it. Nothing familiar at all.

  ‘Sorry, Edward. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. She’s lovely, though. Who is it?’

  He took the photograph back off me, returned to his chair and dropped. ‘There was so much going on the day we met. I didn’t realize it at first.’

  I sat too and had a biscuit. Allowed his befuddled ramblings to emerge. Trying to appear interested and not look over to you.

  ‘It was when I woke the next morning that you were my first thought on opening my eyes. I saw your face but realized it was her face.’

  I coughed as a crumb flew down my windpipe. ‘Sorry. I . . . I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s my daughter . . . in the picture . . . Amy.’

  ‘Oh right, I see. Do you see her often?’

  He shook his head. ‘She died four weeks after that picture was taken.’

  I replaced the half-eaten biscuit onto the plate. ‘Oh, Edward, that’s . . . I’m so sorry . . . How? She was so young.’

  ‘A stomach infection. Can you believe it? A stupid stomach infection. It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all. And here am I, alive all this time, old and useless.’

  ‘You mustn’t say that . . . What about your wife?’

  ‘We weren’t . . . We divorced not long after. She wanted to carry on as before . . . How can you carry on as before?’ He wiped his eyes with his hanky. ‘See . . . decades later it’s still the same. Riding so near the surface that a picture can take you back to day one.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Edward . . . I really am.’

  He threw the photo onto the table next to him and it skidded on the floor. I picked it up.

  ‘And now look at you, Constance. Here, in my room. I thought you’d be able to see it . . . how much she looks like you.’

  The hairs on my arms prickled. I scrutinized the picture. Her dimpled smile, freckles. Other than long, dark hair, she bore no resemblance to me at all, but I said, ‘Oh yes . . . I can see it now . . . I can see what you mean.’

  His face lit up; his eyes moistened. ‘It’s uncanny, isn’t it? I know it takes a bit of looking, but once I saw it . . . and the way we met. It was as if it was meant to be. A sign.’

  I smiled but suddenly felt quite strange. Cla
ustrophobic. He was looking at me with such misplaced affection. Like I was an angel. The answer to his pain.

  I nodded towards the cuckoo clock hanging next to the window. ‘He’ll be springing out any second,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize the time . . . I’d better be going . . . I’m meeting a friend on the other side of town in an hour.’

  ‘Oh, Colin never springs . . . He died in there many years ago . . . and he’s ten minutes fast. Constance, I do hope I haven’t—’

  ‘No, no . . . you haven’t anything. It’s been lovely.’

  He attempted to push himself up.

  ‘No . . . no . . . Please. I can see myself out. You stay put.’

  I collected my bag from the paw of the poor tiger.

  ‘You will come again, though, won’t you? When you’ve got more time?’

  I looked towards the window. You were back on the sofa, the television flashing light onto your face. ‘Yes. I will. I promise.’

  It was the evening of the party.

  Dr Harris wasn’t just a wanker; he was a rich wanker.

  His address turned out to be a huge town house in a nook of Chelsea where the likes of me were suspected burglars. Though, today I was more ‘hooker’. I was her again. In her black stretch dress this time. Same crippling shoes. The heels so worn that raw metal scraped against the pavement. Hair bigger. Make-up stronger. I couldn’t find my lipstick anywhere, so in a brave moment bought a Barry M one called Pillar Box Red. All the entrapments that had worked previously. But extra. Except I was more self-conscious this time, because there would be people who knew the other Constance, and my confidence dwindled with each pinching step. And as I clung to the iron railings that caged the immaculate pansy-lined private square, the centrepiece to the white mini palaces, greyed by twilight, clutching the bottle of some French Red le Plonk I’d bought from Costcutter, I lacked conviction in my choices.

  I surveyed the street for your car, thinking how even in such an exclusive area, it would stand out for its rarity and beauty against the boring Audis and Mercedes. Then it dawned on me that you’d be drinking and I wouldn’t get the prior confirmation I’d hoped for that you were inside. If I’d known for certain you weren’t, I would have bailed. Gone home and downed the wine myself. But there was no way of knowing without entering the unknown.

  I viewed the film of elegant people through the bow-windowed cinema screen. Each elegantly holding elegant cut glasses, under a stupendously elegant chandelier. Laughing elegantly at what were undoubtedly elegant jokes.

  I practised a titter of my own. Unaware of the Dalmatian-walking man coming towards me. I smiled. It wasn’t reciprocated.

  After crossing the quiet road with as much grace as the shoes would allow, I walked under the pillared entrance and ascended the steps. The security light came on as if I was an actor on stage, under a spotlight. I was. I stood for a moment staring at the oversized glossy black door. Then once my breathing levelled, I pressed the bell.

  A woman dressed like a breakfast-television presenter opened the door. Though smiling, she viewed me with wonderment as to why such a person would be on her doorstep.

  ‘I’m Constance . . . I work with Dr Harris.’

  ‘Oh, of course . . . Hello. I’m Cecelia . . . Bill’s wife. I think we may have met at poor Peter’s funeral.’ She looked me up and down like I was shit on her shoe. Yet I still had nothing but admiration for her. She did live with, and, even worse, shag her husband.

  She took the bottle from my hands. ‘Oh, how lovely, thank you.’ Though we both knew it would end up in a stew. ‘Would you like some champagne?’

  I’d barely nodded before I was being handed a glass by a young waitress who was way more refined than me.

  Mrs Harris escaped me with an insincere ‘Sorry, Constance, would you excuse me a moment? Do go in and make yourself at home.’

  Yes. Of course. Because this was so like my home.

  I necked the champagne faster than was acceptable. My glass was near empty by the time I’d reached the lounge.

  Alison’s desperate wave greeted me from across the room and I weaved through the overpriced saccharine colognes and perfumes to reach her.

  ‘Oh my God, Constance, I hardly recognized you. Then I said to Kevin, “Kevin, I think that’s Constance over there” . . . and it was you. Didn’t I, Kevin?’

  Kevin was so nondescript I can’t even recall his face. He nodded and raised his glass.

  ‘Sip it slowly, Kevin . . . He’s driving,’ she said, looking at me. ‘You’ve not met Kevin, have you, Constance?’

  ‘No . . . but I’ve heard so, so much about you.’

  He nodded and raised his glass again. And I, at last, understood why Alison never shut the fuck up. She was used to having to be both sides of the conversation.

  ‘So, who’s here?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Dr Harris is around somewhere. I’ve already wished him a very happy birthday . . . and he said, “Alison, you are so sweet.” And Dr Short was here a moment ago chatting to Dr Franco, and Linda is around too. Her husband, Graham, well, he . . .’

  My mind drifted for some time until I heard ‘. . . and Dr Stevens was in the hall when I arrived . . .’

  I continued listening as if those words had no impact. Hadn’t caused my heart to double-beat. Kevin had unfortunately found his voice and I pretended to be interested in his story of how they almost ran out of petrol on the way there because he wouldn’t stop at the Esso garage that had once refused a ‘perfectly genuine’ twenty-pound note. It must have been a great comfort to Alison. Knowing there was someone in the world more boring than her.

  I excused myself. Tilting my glass for them to see its emptiness.

  ‘Already? You are funny.’ Alison laughed and slapped Kevin’s arm.

  As I made my way through the Tories, I was faced with Dr Harris’s fat back. Out of politeness, I tapped his jacket. ‘Hi, Dr Harris. Happy birthday.’

  He turned, performed a cartoon double-take, then thanked my tits. I escaped him by asking directions to the toilet.

  Legs crossed, I tried the handle of the door in a hallway off a hallway, but it was locked, and I could hear more than one voice laughing inside.

  I noticed Mrs Harris walking in my direction, carrying what looked like joss sticks, but in hindsight would have been unlit sparklers. ‘Oh, Catherine dear, why don’t you use one of the upstairs loos? Second door on the right . . . We don’t want any accidents.’ I wondered for a moment if my gold-digger theory was incorrect and it had actually just been a case of wanker meets wanker.

  The chattering of silver spoons quietened as I climbed the lush cream-carpeted staircase. I stopped halfway to check each shoe in case I’d stood in some dog shit or something on the way there. No faeces. Only the ghost of the Primark sticker.

  I imagined for a moment it was our house. That the Farrow & Ball-coated hallway was where you’d greet me when you’d return from work and I’d be coming down the stairs after getting our baby off to sleep. You’d be carrying beautiful flowers – tea roses, tipped pink, to show how much you loved us and would never leave.

  At the top, temptation surrounded me. Door after door willing me to open them. See how this kind lived. I knew which one the toilet was. But what if I accidentally went to the second on the left instead? An innocent mistake. No harm. My fingers rested on an incorrect heavy brass handle and I pressed down slowly, pushed. It betrayed me with a squeak as it opened into a pastel bedroom cut directly from one of the Country Living magazines in reception. As perfect as the rest of the house. Untouched. Sterile and unlived in. I pushed the door wider and with tiny, quiet steps entered the forbidden space.

  ‘Are you being naughty, Constance?’

  I unavoidably squealed. ‘Sorry. I was just looking for . . .’ I turned.

  It was you. Laughing at me.

  ‘Now, we both know you were having a nosey.’

  ‘I . . . I wasn’t. I couldn’t remember which room she said the toilet was in, that�
�s all.’

  You tapped your nose. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you follow me?’

  ‘Now, why would I follow you? I was in the coatroom. Thought I’d lost my phone, surprise, surprise. Thankfully, it was in my jacket pocket.’ You held it up. ‘Did you not bring a coat, Constance? You’ll catch your death wearing that.’

  ‘It’s got sleeves.’

  Perhaps you were drunk? The way you came so close that our bodies almost touched. How with one finger you stroked the flesh that spilt shamelessly over the top of the dress.

  ‘Why do you keep making me want to kiss you?’ you whispered in my ear.

  I snatched a breath and closed my eyes. Awaited your lips to touch mine. But the sound of a toilet’s flush made me reopen them, and when I did, you were much further away and leaning against a section of wall between two doors.

  A sturdy blonde emerged. A younger Mrs Harris clone. Not quite breakfast-TV presenter. A weather girl, perhaps. She smoothed the fabric of her cerise tailored dress. I noticed how she sucked in her bulging belly. ‘Oh, you waited for me,’ she said, more plummy than royalty. I didn’t connect the jigsaw at first. Then I realized she was talking to you. And for some strange reason touching your arm.

  ‘This is Constance, one of the receptionists at the surgery. Constance, this is Fiona.’

  ‘Constance, I bet you’ve got lots of stories about this one.’ She placed her manicured hand on your shoulder.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, so many . . . Excuse me . . .’ I pushed past you both and went in the toilet, slamming the door. Threw my head back against the wood, shut my eyes and tried to regulate my breathing. Reason with my mind. She could have been anyone. I was fucking paranoid. But the effects on my body had already happened, and I’d barely got my knickers down before I’d emptied myself.

  Downstairs, I grabbed another glass of champagne from a wandering tray and headed to the buffet area at the back of the lounge. It was no ‘paper plates, cheese and pineapple on toothpicks’ affair. It was an M&S advert. Not just a buffet. A wanker’s buffet.