He pulled himself up to stand and felt in his trouser pocket. ‘Here, take this money and get these cut for yourself.’ He handed me some notes and two Yale keys. ‘Save me getting up to let you in if I’m having a kip.’
By now he looked wan and exhausted. After some struggle, I managed to get him into bed. Both of us relieved as he sank into the mattress.
‘Nothing like your own bed, is there?’ His eyes fought to stay open.
I picked up the handset from the side table. ‘This is dead. I’m not leaving you without a phone. Where do I charge it?’
I deciphered the faint word ‘lounge’ as he drifted off to sleep.
In the hall, I called Dale.
‘So who is this guy?’
‘I’ve told you, he’s not a guy – he’s an old man. What’s the matter with you?’ I headed towards the lounge, so Edward couldn’t hear.
‘I know he’s an old man . . . well, so you say—’
‘So I say?’
‘But surely he has family who could . . .’ His words blurred in my ear.
Because there you were.
I walked over to the window, a moth. You, my flame.
You were alone. Selecting a CD and removing it from the case. You lifted your jumper and rubbed your back, then brought that hand up to your head to push away your hair. I wondered what music you’d picked. Was it romantic? ‘At Last’? My guess, by the way you then sat leisurely and closed your eyes, was that it was classical. Shostakovich, perhaps. And I must have been in your thoughts as you sipped your wine, foot swaying. Remembering our drive home that night.
My free hand pressed against the cold, damp pane.
Like an ex-heroin addict, after one small hit I was hooked.
‘Constance? Constance, are you even listening to me?’
‘Sorry, Dale. I’ve . . . I’ve got to go. He’s calling me.’
I placed the handset onto its base, then sat in the chair. Settled back. Slipped off my shoes and fixated on you. And the truth is, it felt right. Honest. Nothing had changed. It had all been a pretence. Wanting to be over someone is not the same as being so.
Nearly an hour had passed when I finally tore myself away and looked at the defunct cuckoo clock. Despite it being ten minutes fast, it was still getting late, so I reluctantly rose and removed Edward’s phone from the charger to take back to his room.
I hadn’t intended to, I swear. I tried to resist but couldn’t help it.
My finger pressed ‘141’, then your number.
‘Hello?’ you said.
I remained silent.
‘Hello?’
I watched your mouth shape the words that transmitted into my ear. It was intimate, sensual.
‘Is anyone there? It’s a bad line. I can’t . . .’
Could you hear my breathing? I was unable to prevent it from fluttering in front of the mouthpiece.
‘It’s me,’ I whispered so low I could barely hear it myself.
And so it was official. My pact with God was broken.
No longer the need for restraint, the following day I wore the silk blouse that had summoned your eyes towards me in the first place. On the Tube platform, free from Dale’s watch, I gently dabbed on a diluted version of Pillar Box Red and applied some mascara. My stress melted away, without the requirement to suppress my thoughts, feelings.
You arrived at work, a little dishevelled as if you’d overslept. I smiled, long and slow. Willed you to look at me properly, see me like you used to. But your sleepy eyes remained glued to the message Linda had placed in your hand and you merely wished us all a generic ‘good morning’. Lumping me in with them. It was most disappointing. Until, just before lunch, you returned to reception carrying a file. ‘Can you make a copy of this for me, please, Constance?’
Me. Not Alison. Me. I took the folder from you, gazing right into your eyes. I understood the unspoken perfectly.
Soon you were leaving for Mrs Carter’s house call. She was so rich she didn’t ever have to lower herself to come into the surgery, even for an in-growing toenail. ‘I’m going straight on to Knightsbridge to see Mrs Johnson after, so I’ll be a couple of hours. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Hopefully not,’ I replied.
You laughed. As did I. And we were connected once more.
I observed as you struggled with your coat. I hadn’t seen it before, and it looked new. Heavy and luxurious. I imagined its woollen arms wrapped around me.
‘I forgot to ask, did you sort your car out, Dr Stevens?’
You turned up your collar and smiled. ‘I did, thank you for asking. She’s all sorted. You’d never have known it had happened.’
And so everything was wiped clean.
At lunchtime I refused Alison’s offer to share her heated-up moussaka that good old Kevin had made the night before using his grandmother’s recipe. Aside from not eating meat, I had to get Edward’s keys cut and pick up his shopping, which included tinned prunes and Bovril. Why are other people’s shopping lists so bizarre?
I fastened up my coat. Except for the missing middle button, strands of cotton in its place, shaming me with every outing. All morning the icy air had forced itself in with each opening of the door. Bringing with it windswept, ruby-cheeked patients sighing with relief at finding themselves in the warmth of our reception. In preparation, I searched for Edward’s keys in my black hole of a bag, and when I finally found them, I put them in my pocket to prevent any faffing in the cutter’s. Then I took the copied papers to your room, in case you returned before I did.
Nervous, excited at the thought of entering alone, my hand gripped the handle of the door. I took a deep breath before opening it but was stopped by the sensation of fingers tapping on my back. I whipped around.
‘Dr Franco . . . You gave me a heart attack.’ My hand reached for my chest to calm myself.
‘Sorry. Sorry, Constance. I presumed you’d heard me bounding down the corridor.’
‘No . . . sorry. I—’
‘It’s been a while. I was thinking about you today. We haven’t had one of our chats for quite some time.’
‘No . . . no. I suppose not. But you’re busy – you mustn’t worry about me.’
‘Oh . . . Do you not want to?’ The way he looked at me denoted that this was a serious question and I needed to answer accordingly.
‘Yes . . . yes, I really do,’ I replied.
‘Oh good, good. I’ll have a nosey in my diary. Let you know when I’m free.’ Then to use his own term, he bounded up the stairs.
I hadn’t been alone in there since I’d cleared Dr Williams’s stuff. It was dark, unsettling. Still carried his ghost. Aside from dead bosses, there was something so satisfying about being inside your life without your knowledge. I scanned the area. Nothing unusual, just your regular doctor things. I stroked your navy suit jacket, which you’d left behind, hung on the back of the door. Sniffed the sleeve. Remembering the scent you’d once left on me. On your desk was a mug of half-drunk tea which you hadn’t asked me to make. I touched the outside. It was still warm, and I slowly weaved my fingers through the handle and brought it to my lips. Covering exactly where I imagined yours to have been. It was nowhere near as nice as the ones I made you. Because no one else cared about getting it right, like I did.
Catching sight of the clock, I became conscious of the time, so quickly replaced the mug, rubbing off the lipstick I’d forgotten I was wearing, and dropped the file onto your desk before turning to leave.
Then I remembered I needed to attach a note as, once photocopied, the colourful pie chart had transformed into a dark grey circle. I allowed my bag to fall to the floor and grabbed the stack of Post-its next to your open diary.
It was then I did the first of two things. Both of which were bad. I tried so hard not to, but before I knew it, I was flicking through your diary. Mrs Carter . . . Mrs Johnson . . . I turned the page. There was an entry that just said, Sarah, and a phone number. I found myself scribbling
it down onto one of the Post-its, tearing it off the block and placing it in my pocket. My heart quickened as I then wrote the note I’d intended. Page four. Pie chart didn’t . . . The pen died on me halfway through the sentence. Frustrated, I grabbed the only other biro in the holder. As you had your fancy pen, you were probably oblivious to the fact none of them worked. This one was even worse, making only an inscription. I rolled it angrily in my hands. Scrubbed it across a page to encourage ink, but nothing. So I opened the drawer. Scrambled around the elastic bands and medical gadgets. Then I saw it. The bright red of the plastic fob. The spare keys that had brought us together that day. I put it out of my mind and continued my search.
Eventually I found a chewed-up 5B pencil near the back. I shut the drawer and completed the message, the words thick and shiny. When finished, I opened the drawer once more. Just to drop the pencil back in. Nothing more. But there it was again. The fob. Bright and goading. And no sooner had the pencil dropped back in than the keys were clinking in my pocket next to Edward’s.
Linda tapped an invisible watch when I arrived back. I was late due to Edward’s complex and annoying list. I had no idea where any of the items were in the supermarket as I flustered down each wrong aisle, growing ever more conscious of the now duplicated keys in my pocket and the wrongdoing that the overly chipper Timpson man had helped me commit.
Alison was still stuffing her face in the staffroom. Unfairly unreprimanded. Quizzing me about Edward’s shopping.
‘You know, once when I was about nine, I ate too many prunes and—’
‘Sorry, Alison, I really want to hear this, but I’ve got to do something for Dr Stevens.’
‘Oh, that’s OK . . . I think you can guess how it ends, anyway.’
As I rushed back towards your office, vaguely aware of Linda’s voice calling my name, I noticed that I must have forgotten to switch the light off in your room as the bright line shone beneath the door.
‘Constance? Constance, hang on a second.’ Dr Franco was coming down the stairs. I stopped, though my heart continued at speed. ‘I’m afraid my diary is rather full at the moment, but how about the 29th of this month? Shall we say at one?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s great. Thank you. I’ll put it in my phone.’
My clammy fingers circled the keys in my pocket.
‘You look stressed. Are you OK?’
‘Yes . . . yes. I’m just a bit late back from lunch.’
He tapped his nose like it was our little secret. ‘I shall look forward to our chat,’ he said, and carried on down the corridor as I entered your room.
‘You didn’t knock. You really should knock, Constance.’ You were standing over your desk patting paperwork, picking items up only to put them straight back down again.
‘Sorry. I—’
‘Did Linda send you in to help look for my phone?’
‘Yes. Yes, she . . . No joy, then?’
‘What’s wrong with me, Constance? On one hand, I’m a doctor who can literally save people’s lives, and on the other, I’m a moron who constantly leaves things behind . . . It’s the second time this week.’
The keys scratched against my thigh as if possessed. You sighed before throwing a heavy medical journal down on the desk. Then you opened the drawer.
‘Do you ever put it in there, though?’ My voice cracked.
‘No . . . no, I don’t . . . but where the fuck is it?’ You slammed it shut again and I let out a loud breath.
‘I presume you’ve called it?’
‘I’m not fucking stupid. It’s on silent . . . I’m supposed to be at Mrs Johnson’s in ten minutes.’ You looked down. Scratched the back of your neck. Embarrassed, I presumed, hoped, by the way you’d spoken to me.
As you’ll remember, I joined in the search. Down on the floor, crawling on my hands and knees, looking in every cranny, while you watched.
With no sign of it anywhere, I stood again and went over to your jacket on the back of the door. ‘Have you checked these pockets?’ I patted the material, unleashing your aftershave. ‘It’s in here, I think . . . Shall I?’
You stomped over and fished out the phone. ‘Oh my God. I love you, Constance.’
I. Love. You.
Joy burst from my heart and spread through me. I wanted to say something back, but you carried on talking. ‘I was wearing my coat, wasn’t I? Of course. Jesus, I’m such an idiot. Anyway, I’ve got to dash. I’m late.’ You searched in your trouser pocket. ‘For Christ’s sake, now what have I done with the surgery car key?’ I pointed to it on the desk. ‘Thank you, Constance. You’re the best,’ you said, grabbing it. Then you pushed past me and rushed down the corridor, unbothered whether I was following or not.
I put my head out of the door to check you’d gone, shut myself back in the room and with great relief returned the keys.
Carrying Edward’s shopping made shadowing you after work a bit trickier.
So as not to lose sight of you, I refused to stop and adjust the plastic-bag handles now embedded into my hands. Instead I continued through the slicing pain. Kept the same distance throughout.
Until you picked up your phone.
It was clear you weren’t searching for songs as usual. You’d removed your earphones and were talking to someone on the handset.
I sped up to gain more information. Conscious of the bags rustling as they knocked against my legs. Your free hand gesticulated, and the rare glimpses of your face showed you didn’t look happy at all. Your features, screwed-up, tense.
The call lasted around ten minutes. Almost the duration of our walk. My mind searched for who could be on the line. Initially fixating on Fiona. Then I remembered your diary entry. Sarah. You hung up with such fury that the phone slipped from your hand onto the pavement. I froze as you stopped to retrieve it.
When you turned the corner into your road, I didn’t follow. I held back, dropped the bags on the ground, releasing my white-striped numb hands, which I shook to bring back the circulation. Despite pins and needles, I lit a cigarette and smoked, giving you time to get inside.
Once I’d inserted the key into the main door to Edward’s, it barely moved a millimetre side to side. After cursing the man from Timpson, I realized I’d been using yours by mistake. Guilt triggered, I unzipped the rarely used inside pocket of my bag and dropped them into the darkness, out of sight. Out of my mind.
‘Hello, darling girl.’ Edward was reading in bed when I entered. His room was depressing and carried illness in the air. He removed his reading glasses before placing the American Civil War book across his chest.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.
‘Well, I think my dream of being an Olympic triathlete is over.’
‘Hey, don’t be so negative.’
‘You made me laugh. You’re a miracle worker. Though it was an internal chuckle, so there’s work to do yet.’
I lifted the shopping bags. ‘I’ll just sort this out and get your soup.’
Considering my room was a perpetual slobbish embarrassment, it was strange that Edward’s grimy kitchen upset me so much. There was little difference between the dirty pots piled next to the stagnant sink water and the supposedly clean ones sat on open shelves or hanging from hooks. Filth dulled the orange of the Sixties flowered tiles to a tan. I didn’t understand why I cared. Why I couldn’t bear that he lived that way. But I had a once-in-a-lifetime urge to clean, to make it nicer for him. So, once Edward was all set up with his food, I pushed up my sleeves, put on some ancient rubber gloves that I found under the sink and got stuck in.
Don’t think that I wasn’t continuously aware of your proximity. Imagining what I was missing. I was every bit the addict waiting for a hit. Yet there was enjoyment in the anticipation and so I remained focused on what I needed to do.
As I saw the change, colours coming to life, I wondered why I didn’t do it more often. Cleaning. There was something therapeutic in the monotony. Genuine joy from witnessing results. I pressed my hand hard against
the tiles. Scrubbing with the sponge, left, right, left, right . . . dipped the sponge back in the bowl. Left, right, left, right. The repetitious hypnotic action glazed my eyes. I fixated on a tile. A stubborn stain. But as I stared, the tile changed shape and colour. Turned white. And suddenly I was scrubbing away at bloodstained grout.
The sound of a plate smashing to the floor propelled me back into the room.
‘Is everything OK in there?’ Edward shouted.
I tried to sound normal. ‘Yes, fine . . . How’s the soup?’
‘A little like diarrhoea.’
I bent down and collected the pieces of brown-rimmed ceramic into my useless fumbling hands and winced at the noise as it tumbled into the bin.
‘I’m ready for my prunes now.’ Edward was dabbing the corners of his mouth with a spotted silk handkerchief as I entered the room. Compared to the newly spruced kitchen, his bedroom seemed even more cluttered and dusty.
‘So, Edward, what’s the story with that car battery on top of the wardrobe? I presume it’s not in the beautiful category.’
‘Ah . . . well, dear Constance, I never said the system wasn’t flawed.’
‘It’s ridiculous – you need to get rid of some stuff . . . Anyway, I’ve cleaned the kitchen a bit,’ I said, picking up the empty soup bowl.
‘What? Well, you shouldn’t have.’
‘I had to. It was rank.’
‘I like it like that.’
‘No, you don’t. You’ll like it now.’
When I brought him the prunes and custard, I enjoyed how his eyes lit up. Though I watched nervously as he crammed them into his mouth.
‘For Christ’s sake, be careful of the stones. I’m not going back to hospital.’
‘Thank you for the advice. Yet I’ve managed to eat prunes for over eighty years without dying yet.’
‘Right, well, I can’t watch. I’m going outside for a cigarette.’
‘Outside?’ He wiped a globule of custard hanging from his beard. ‘Just hang out of the window, dear girl.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll not inhale it from here. I can barely breathe in at all – do you think I can suck it up from the lounge? Though I thoroughly disapprove. You should bloody well pack them in.’ The spoon dropped back into the custard.
If I Can't Have You Page 17
