If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  The relief made me even more unstable, which I disguised by casually leaning against the cabinet. ‘Oh yes . . . of course. It must have been.’

  ‘I mean, the attitude of the police was outrageous. There’re no CCTV cameras anywhere. Can you believe that, Constance? In Kensington. It’s a joke. It’s as if someone who has a nice car should expect something bad to happen to it. Some kind of punishment for success. That’s the world we live in: little twats vandalize my car, but somehow it’s my fault for having worked my bollocks off to buy it.’

  ‘I thought your father gave it to you?’

  Your eyes glazed with fury, yet you remained composed. ‘Jesus, Constance, whose side are you on?’

  ‘Sorry. I—’

  ‘Anyway, I only called you in to request you phone the garage, please. The insurance has prearranged with them, but I need to book in an appointment. I’d do it myself, but I’m busy working hard, you see.’ You handed me a piece of paper with a number on it and smiled, but you didn’t mean it. Your face flushed from the nerve I’d touched.

  But nothing could take away the relief of the second chance I’d been given. Outside your office, I couldn’t contain my tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered towards the ceiling. And so I had no choice but to stick to my word and let you go. Move on.

  Kissing Dale wasn’t as repellent as I’d predicted.

  He was gentle and not as generous as I’d expected with his saliva. Although, the residue from his sweat moustache did carry a saltiness I hadn’t experienced before.

  The problem was, any activity that involves closed eyes enables imaginations to wander elsewhere. I’d tried so hard to lock you away and had almost succeeded, but one day, when Dale was kissing me outside our front door, I dropped back off the step, hurting my foot.

  ‘Oh God, it’s not a hospital job again, is it?’ he said.

  And that was it. You’d invaded my thoughts and remained there as his lips locked back onto mine, making the whole thing more enjoyable.

  From then on I allowed you into my mind only. Thoughts couldn’t harm. Only acting on them. However, even with those musings, sex with Dale was difficult.

  I’d put it off for as long as possible. Initially saying I wanted to take things slowly. Then pretending I had my period. Then when the phoney one was reaching its end, my real one arrived.

  But a couple of weeks in we’d been to Connolly’s. He was drunk, I was relaxed on brandy (to remind me of you, of course), and it seemed as good a time as any to get it out of the way.

  ‘I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted this.’ He lifted my jumper off over my head, then smoothed his hands around my back. Although he stopped kissing, his mouth remained over mine as he concentrated on blindly unhooking the clasp of my bra. His breath hot, tainted with beer and cheese-and-onion crisps. Feeling his impatience, I reluctantly reached up behind and assisted. He searched beneath the bones. My bones.

  ‘What’s wrong? You don’t seem very—’

  ‘Nothing . . . nothing. Let’s move over here.’

  I led him to my bed, then turned and said, ‘Actually, let’s go to your room.’

  ‘We’re here now.’ He lurched towards me.

  ‘But it’s so much nicer in your room.’

  ‘OK . . . OK, sure.’

  ‘You go . . . I’ll see you in there in a minute.’

  Dazed, he gathered up his shirt, which I hadn’t even realized he’d removed. ‘Hurry up, though.’ His face glowed red. I smiled at him till he left.

  Alone, I sat in silence. It’s just sex. That’s all. Reached under the bed for some Dutch courage from Vladimir. Russian courage. Then removed my jeans and knickers. Washed down there. Put on some clean ones, put my bra back on properly and covered everything up with my old towelling robe. Then I grabbed my fags and lighter, and made my way to his room.

  I hope it’s not uncomfortable. Me telling you this. Like it was for me with Fiona. Painful. A knife repeatedly stabbing into my stomach. I’d never want anyone to feel like that. You were the one I loved, remember. That’s why all of this happened.

  He was in bed when I entered. His Star Wars duvet wrapped around his leg, like he was spooning Darth Vader. His naked stomach melted towards the mattress. The sixty-watt bulb of the ceiling light blasted out reality in abundance.

  ‘Can I turn this off?’ I asked, hovering in the doorway.

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Well, can’t we put the lamp on?’

  ‘The bulb’s gone.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I could take the one out of mine.’

  ‘I’ve just remembered I got a load of bulbs ages ago that were on offer at Poundstretcher . . . there in that bottom drawer.’ As I went to open it, he said, ‘Actually, no . . . no, don’t do that. Let’s put the lava lamp on. That works.’ He nodded his head towards the sofa. At its side, on the floor, was a lava lamp with the wire wrapped around it.

  ‘Isn’t it just easier to—’

  ‘No . . . Let’s use that.’

  When I picked it up, my hands became coated in sticky dust. He took it from me, unravelled the wire with great concentration, unplugged the existing lamp and replaced it with the rocket.

  ‘It takes a bit of time for the blobs to start moving,’ he said, his belly wobbling as he settled himself back on the bed.

  When I turned off the main light, the turquoise glow was a stark shock.

  He patted the mattress. ‘Are you not going to take that off?’

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘I’ll warm you up.’

  I slipped under the covers, but he pushed me away. ‘You’ll have to climb over . . . This is my side.’

  Once I’d reached my designated spot, I winced as the cold wall pressed against my back.

  I removed my robe underneath the duvet as if changing clothes on a beach, then slithered further down the bed. He followed me. Faced me. Kissed me. The damp skin of his chest touched mine. Then his stomach. Then his thighs. I could tell it was all going well for him as he pressed himself against me.

  ‘What’s this doing back on?’ He attempted to unhook my bra once again but was on his own this time. I refused to assist with the embarrassment.

  When he finally defeated it, he held it up, arm straight like he’d pulled Excalibur from the stone, before flinging it to the floor. Then, without warning, he threw off the covers. Exposed me. My nakedness. I couldn’t stand it as he stared. You’d do that sometimes, wouldn’t you? But it felt so different with him. Awful. To make it stop, I pulled him towards me, and with him, the covers, lifting his chin to force his eyes onto my face. Then I felt uncomfortable him even doing that, so I kissed him to force his eyes to shut.

  He was soon lying on top of me. This was it. The big one. Except it wasn’t big at all. After some condom-fumbling, he was in me. We moved out of sync. I closed my eyes. Imagined you through the heavy breathing and ‘Oh, Constance . . . I’m fucking you.’ But it wasn’t you. It was Dale. I prayed he’d come prematurely. I’d comfort him. Say it was fine but with a slight edge to my tone like it wasn’t really fine and feign disappointment. It wasn’t happening quickly enough, though, so I had no choice but to fake it. I’d barely begun my performance when, thank God, he bolted and distorted and shuddered before saying, ‘Oh fuck.’ Then slid away from me.

  We lay there. Staring at the ceiling. His arm blindly sought my head and clumsily stroked my hair. I sat up and searched for my robe to get the pack of fags from the pocket and put one in my mouth.

  ‘You can’t smoke that in here, remember,’ he said.

  I removed it and popped it back in the packet.

  He rolled over to face me. ‘Hey . . . that was amazing . . . How about you? Did you—’

  ‘Yeah, course. Couldn’t you tell? Sorry – I’m just going to have a few puffs of this in my room.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ he said, turning over.

  Once out of the bed and within the comfort of the robe once again, I stood for a few
moments, still, quiet. Listening to his breathing grow deeper and deeper until it morphed into a snore.

  So that’s how it went. My new life. My new boyfriend.

  At work, I remained distant from you, professional. Your ego resisted the change initially.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Constance. Are we not friends anymore?’

  ‘What? No . . . everything’s fine.’

  Though you knew it wasn’t. And I couldn’t help but relish the pull I’d created towards me. My increased power. Until you’d learnt to accept our new way of being. Stopped asking me. Trying. And the tables had turned once again.

  After work, to maintain my pact with God, I’d either go home immediately or if I stopped for a fag, I’d make myself visible. Say goodbye to you in a manner so casual it was as if you worked on the checkout at Costcutter. On those occasions, to avoid temptation, I’d wait until you were out of sight before setting off. Always walking through the cemetery, no matter how dark it had become, even if there was thunder and lightning.

  I lived like that for a month. The season changed. It was cold and harsh. Darkness came earlier each day and lightness arrived later each morning. But I was proud of myself. I’d broken the spell. Your spell. Like Johnny Cash, I walked the line.

  And I’d like to think it would have remained that way. If that Tuesday, when having my after-work cigarette next to the steps, I hadn’t answered a call from a withheld number.

  ‘Is that Constance?’

  ‘Yes . . . hello. Speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Constance. This is . . . It’s your father.’

  My vision hazed, legs weakened. The sound of a finger circling the rim of a crystal glass rang in my ears as I slid down the wall, ending with a jolt on the brutal pavement.

  ‘Constance? Constance . . . are you there?’

  ‘Dad . . . I . . . I can’t . . .’ A laugh morphed into tears. My joy too much to articulate. I hugged my knees against my chest. ‘Daddy . . . I knew you’d find me.’

  ‘Constance? Constance, can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes . . . sorry. I just . . . Yes, I can hear.’

  Voices mumbled in the background. He told someone to leave him in peace.

  ‘Dad, are you there? So, you . . . you got my card? I can’t believe it . . . Where are you? Are you—’

  ‘Constance . . . sorry, Constance,’ he whispered. ‘This is Edward.’

  I’m uncertain I remained conscious. I heard his words, but they were abstract, meaningless.

  ‘I’m in hospital, and they won’t let me out unless someone is looking after me . . . and I found your number in my trousers and so I told them I’d call my daughter . . . and . . . I wondered if you could be so kind as to just go along with it. Only to get me out of here. Then you can leave me be. I’ll be fine once I’m home . . . Constance? Constance? Can you hear me? I’m at St Mary’s, Lewis Lloyd ward . . .’

  I dropped my hand. The faint call of ‘Constance? Constance?’ skidded across the ground. After pulling myself up to a standing position, I stumbled to pick up the phone. When I returned to the wall, I pressed my cheek against the freezing brick, my mouth forming a silent scream.

  ‘Are you there? Constance?’

  I lifted the handset to my ear. ‘I hope you die in there, you stupid old fuck.’

  The Lewis Lloyd ward was on the other side of the hospital to where we’d spent our special night. When passing the entrance to A&E, I stopped and smoked a fag in one of the abandoned wheelchairs while reminiscing about us. Avoiding other hospital memories. The dread. The day they operated on her, and the four hours I couldn’t breathe after she’d kissed me and walked down to surgery. I didn’t even know patients could walk down to surgery. That’s not what happens in films.

  Disinfectant fumes stung my cried-out eyes. I pressed the buzzer outside the double doors of the ward. It took so long to get a response I jumped when the loud noise unlocked them. I had no idea if Edward was still there, or even if my vileness had killed him. A lanky nurse stood behind the reception desk, unwrapping a Quality Street, which she’d plucked with angular fingers from the tin next to a grubby fan. She chewed while watching me dispense the antiseptic gel onto my hands. I did it twice, to prove my thoroughness. No germs. Must avoid the germs.

  ‘I’m here to collect Edward Seymour.’

  ‘It’s visiting time. You can go through anyway.’

  I thanked her and walked down the corridor, only to turn back once I realized I didn’t know where I was going.

  ‘He’s got a side room. Room four,’ she said, sensing my ignorance. ‘Second on the right.’

  He was asleep when I entered. Mouth dropped open. A pale blue knitted blanket pulled up under his chin, which had sprouted a beard. Even with the additional cladding, his face appeared thinner. A copy of the Guardian lay folded across his belly. I picked up his pen from the floor, as quietly as possible, uncertain whether to sit and wait or wake him. I wasn’t even sure why I was there. Other than guilt. The fear of another death on my conscience.

  I chose the waiting option. But as soon as the back of my legs touched the uncomfortable plastic of the chair, he snorted and opened his eyes, which widened with surprise when he saw me.

  ‘Hi. How you feeling? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘A bout of pneumonia.’

  ‘Oh God . . . I’m sorry, that’s awful.’

  ‘Awful? I contracted malaria when I was posted in Africa. This is nothing.’

  He attempted to push himself up and I rushed over to help him. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Come to finish me off?’

  I expelled my last remnants of anger by forcefully plumping his pillows. ‘No . . . no . . . I’m sorry about that . . . I should explain.’

  ‘I had no right to call on you – you’re right. You don’t even know me. I am merely . . . What was it? A “stupid old idiot”.’

  ‘“Fuck” . . . It was “fuck” . . . But anyway, I didn’t mind you calling on me. It’s just—’

  A petite mousey-haired nurse wheeled in a machine. ‘Hello, Teddy. How you doing? How was the beef stew?’

  ‘Well, Nina, it was like a boiled tramp’s boot, marinated in Bovril.’

  ‘Oh, Teddy, you crack me up.’ She laughed and looked at me with a what’s-he-like? face. ‘Right, let’s get you checked.’

  ‘Should I leave?’

  ‘No, no, you’re all right, love. So, you’re Teddy’s daughter?’

  ‘No . . . I’m . . . I’m like his daughter, but no.’

  ‘I was going to say . . . you look a bit young. No offence, Teddy.’ She inserted a gun-like thermometer in his ear and waited for a beep. ‘Gone right down. Reckon you’re on the mend, fella. Now, let’s do your blood pressure.’

  He volunteered his arm. ‘Again? Jesus Christ.’

  Nina talked over the sound of compressed air as the cuff tightened. ‘Though saying that, Mick Jagger’s still at it, isn’t he?’

  A long beep emitted from the machine as it released his limb. Edward glanced at the figures, which I personally have never understood.

  ‘Perfect, see. Constance here has come to take me home.’ He looked at me with pleading eyes.

  I nodded and smiled at the nurse. ‘Yes . . . hopefully.’

  ‘And that’s been OK-ed, Teddy, has it?’

  ‘It has indeed, Nina. By the decision-maker. Me.’

  She gave a friendly but disapproving look, gathered the wires attached to the machine and walked out while addressing me. ‘You’ll need to get the go-ahead from Mr Wolf, the consultant, when he does his rounds.’

  After a short, sharp disagreement between Edward and Mr Wolf, which climaxed with ‘Get back to me when you’ve reached puberty, Doctor’, he was given the green light to go home. I made it very clear to both Edward and Mr Wolf that I’d only be able to check on him after work, and I couldn’t keep it up for long. But Edward had decided, and that was that.

  ‘For the record, I honestly didn’t mind you calling me,’ I said
in the cab on the way home.

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘Oh my God, I’m here, aren’t I?’ I stared towards the Magic Tree dangling from the driver’s rear-view mirror, checking if he was the nosey type, but he was insultingly disinterested in our conversation. ‘It . . . it was because you pretended to be my father.’

  ‘But I only said that to shut them up—’

  ‘I know . . . I know you did, but . . . he’s . . . he’s been missing since I was six. I’ve been searching for him ever since . . . and I thought I’d found him, that’s all. But I’m sorry . . . for what I said.’

  ‘Well, no . . . my goodness, no. I’m the sorry one . . . Missing in what way? On purpose or—’

  ‘You know . . . vanished. Fucked off. Went to get gravy for the Sunday dinner and never returned. That kind of missing.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say.’ And he didn’t say anything for a while. We rode in silence, until he turned to me, furious. ‘I don’t understand how anyone could leave their daughter behind like that.’ He sniffed and looked out of the window. Placed his fragile hand on top of mine. ‘Well, firstly, you know you still should never wish anyone dead. If only to protect oneself from the guilt, should they take your advice. And secondly, sometimes I really am a stupid old fuck.’

  His flat smelt damp and was freezing. He’d only been in hospital ten days, but it already felt unlived in.

  I put the heating and kettle on, then quickly tried to cosy up his bedroom by placing a water bottle inside the faded covers of his bed. Edward perched himself on what must once have been beautiful, but was now a shabby, sage velvet chair, grumbling about the hospital food. ‘I’m telling you . . . even if you were well when you went in, you’d be dead after that shepherd’s pie.’

  ‘You haven’t tasted my cooking yet. You’ll be booking yourself back in.’

  It was strange that moment. Oddly comforting, looking after him.

  ‘So, I’ll pop in each day after work. Check on you . . . get your shopping. I can’t keep doing it, though.’

  ‘You’re a good soul, Constance.’

  I smoothed the ripples in his blanket. ‘No . . . no, I’m really not.’