If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  ‘Well, then that makes me happy, Constance.’ And I think he meant it. That I’d been mistaken about the glint.

  As soon as I stopped talking, I couldn’t bear what I’d said. I was embarrassed by myself. Wanted to go back in time. Rewrite history. Just like you did about what happened in the alleyway of the Wheatsheaf. I tried to change the subject.

  ‘She didn’t want to live anymore. That’s how I knew she was going to die.’

  He was about to say something when a loud buzzing noise infiltrated the room. ‘That’s my next client, Constance . . . I’m so sorry. But I hope we can continue this?’

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure it’s necessary, Dr Franco. I’m feeling a lot better about things now.’

  His forehead crinkled. ‘Well, that’s your decision to make, but I hope you change your mind. I feel like we’re just getting somewhere.’

  ‘OK . . . I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.’

  But I knew the ‘somewhere we were getting to’ was the one place that I couldn’t go.

  You were on catch-up for the rest of the day and I barely got to see you. But this was a relief rather than a disappointment. Even when I followed you home after work, it was done out of habit rather than desire, and carried a resentment that you’d reduced me to this once again. In the end I hung back and had a fag, let you walk on ahead.

  However, my mood was bolstered when I entered Edward’s and he greeted me in the hallway, a rattling tray between his hands. ‘I’ve made us tea and biscuits. Are you impressed?’

  ‘I am – look at you.’ Blood filled his cheeks and there was a perkiness I hadn’t seen since my first visit. Had he not been so breathless, I would have been delighted.

  I took the tray from him and carried it to the lounge as he walked behind me. ‘What did the nurse say today?’

  Waiting for him to reach his seat, I placed his cup and the plate on his side table and held on to mine as I sat and leant the tray against my chair. He was still making his way across the room, wanting to talk but unable to do both in unison.

  ‘Take your time, Edward.’ I turned to the window. There you were in your bedroom. Freshly showered. Spritzing your scent. Even for poker night. Loving yourself.

  He finally dropped into his chair, making a noise as if the action had winded him, and waited for his breathing to settle. ‘She said I’m doing marvellously . . . Insisting I see the doctor this week, though. Before you start nagging the hell out of me, I’ve agreed. She’s been amazing, Maxine. It’s the least I could do for her. She’s really put herself out for me.’

  ‘Sounds like you won’t need my visits anymore. Not with wonderful-actually-getting-paid-to-do-her-job-yet-apparently-putting-herself-out-so-much Maxine.’ I bit down on a fig roll.

  He picked up the paper that lay folded on the arm of his chair. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. I’ll always need your visits, Constance.’ He put on his glasses. ‘I live for your visits.’

  I turned towards the window, not for you but so as not to expose how much that meant to me. ‘Well, if you want me to still come over, you’ll need to improve on your tea-making. This is the worst brew I’ve ever had.’

  We sat in silence as he scribbled on the crossword grid and I looked out, observed. You were applying product to your hair. You hadn’t done that before. I preferred it soft, natural.

  After a while I stood to gather the cups onto the tray. And when I next glanced, you were leaving the front door hurriedly. Then you got into your car and drove off.

  On the way to the kitchen, carrying both the tray and the empty feeling I always had when watching you came to an end, I felt a period drag in my stomach. After dumping the tray, I returned to the lounge to get my bag. Edward was talking as I entered.

  ‘A deliberate act of betrayal?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Seven down. “Eat cherry pie as a deliberate act of betrayal”?’

  ‘I’m terrible at crosswords.’

  ‘Nine letters. Begins with “T”.’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Treachery?’

  ‘Treachery. No, it’s not . . . Oh, it is right. An anagram of “eat cherry”. Well, you’re clearly better at them than you think.’

  I headed to the toilet. Another room scrubbed and disinfected by my own hands. As suspected, my knickers were stained, though thankfully nothing had seeped through my trousers. I unzipped the inside pocket of the bag to retrieve my emergency tampon. I couldn’t find it at first. My fingers were circling something cold and hard.

  Your keys.

  I extracted them. Remained on the toilet for some time, clutching them so hard their teeth dug into my palm.

  ‘Are you putting the kettle on?’ shouted Edward.

  ‘Yes,’ I yelled back.

  I didn’t return them to the bag. I dropped them into my trouser pocket.

  As I made Edward a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and an acceptable cup of tea, I deliberated about what to do with the keys. Reminded myself how wrong it was to have them. Concluded I should return them to the bag forever or throw them away. Yet I did neither.

  ‘Is that going to be enough for you?’ I said as I placed the sarnie on the arm of his chair.

  ‘I don’t even want this.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat, Edward.’

  After trying to prise out of him when he was planning to go to bed so I could get him settled, tuck him in, he finally said, ‘I’m not a child. And besides, Maxine said I’m able to sort myself out.’

  Trying not to feel hurt, mumbling under my breath about Maxine, I settled for filling a hot water bottle and secretly placing it between his covers, then left him to it.

  Outside, at the top of the steps, I lit a cigarette and watched the white swirls evaporate into the freezing air. I checked my phone. It was coming up to seven, so I dialled Dale.

  I’d planned to say I’d be home soon. Honestly I did. But it was as if the keys had taken possession of my brain, willing me to use them, and the actual words I spoke were, ‘He’s not good at all today, sorry. I won’t be too long, but I’ve got to see him into bed . . . I will, yeah . . . He’s seeing one this week . . . Well, I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do?’ While talking, I’d crossed the road. Gravitated towards your flat. And by the time I’d hung up, I was standing on your top step.

  I flicked away the fag and crushed its corpse with my foot. Checked I was alone. Forgetting to breathe as I lifted the keys from my pocket with an unsteady hand. Then consciously inhaling, exhaling, before inserting one into the lock and twisting.

  The door creaked open, inviting me to step over the threshold into your world, then clunked shut behind me like a locked prison cell.

  I stood, taking in the hall. Now tinged with trespass, it was grander, foreboding.

  My shoes squeaked against the polished tiles as I nervously walked over to the stairs, taking care not to slip as I ascended the curved stone. Reliving the last time. How you’d grabbed my hand when I’d misstepped, almost toppled backwards. Pulled me towards you, whispered sweet lies into my ear.

  At the top, I bent forward with smoker’s lungs and guilty heart, before gathering myself to follow the trail of parquet floor. Stopping once to glance over the handrail. Checking for witnesses. That there was no one hanging around the flat opposite. Until nauseating vertigo forced me to step away.

  I was outside your flat.

  The polished brass ‘4’ stared at me. Familiar, encouraging. And I did it. I slid in the second key. It opened oh so easily and I pushed into the darkness.

  The door slammed behind me. Announcing my presence throughout the building and plunging me into black.

  There was no reason for me to know where the light switch was. You’d always led me in. Led me astray.

  I stroked the wall with the flat of my hand until flick. The addition of light enabled me to breathe once more.

  The silence was unsettling. The sheer strangeness of being there. I half expected you to be sitting in the lounge with a glass
of wine. You’d call out my name any minute. Tell me to listen to our song. But of course you didn’t. Because you weren’t there. It was just me. Alone. In your flat.

  As I followed the path of the hallway, your scent intensified. The aroma of shampoo and body wash filled the air. Spiced and warm. I inhaled deeply to take you in.

  I don’t want you to think I didn’t know it was wrong. I did. But my desires outweighed that. I told myself I was doing no harm. And I wasn’t really. It was a building. Bricks and mortar. Things. That’s what I was violating. Whereas you had violated me.

  Switching on the lounge light revealed nothing spectacular at first glance, other than an open CD case on the floor and the ‘S’ cup on the new coffee table. Angular metal and glass. Highlighting how I didn’t even make it into the lounge the previous time.

  I surveyed the room like a detective at a crime scene. Not touching, contaminating. On closer inspection, the cup was half filled with tea; the CD, Tom Waits, Closing Time. An album that makes you think of people, regrets.

  The TV remote lay on the sofa. I stared at it, memorizing its exact position. When satisfied, I picked it up and turned it on, activating the booming commentary of a football match. I was pleased it wasn’t porn.

  I turned it off again to reinstate the silence. Then with utmost precision replaced the remote on the exact same spot. Except, it wasn’t as easy as I’d anticipated, so I made a mental note to take pictures in the future, like the continuity person on a film set.

  I almost forgot myself and went to sit. Then remembered how soft the feather cushions were. How they’d mould into our bodies. Do you remember? That time on the sofa? I do. Often. I thought about it at that moment too. I’m thinking about it again now.

  Next was the kitchen. Were you perhaps depressed? There was a build-up of washing-up. No pans. Only bowls and cups. Remnants of the cereal I’d often see you shovelling into your mouth. I was concerned you weren’t eating properly.

  Magnets attached various papers and to-do notes to the front of the fridge. Your calendar was marked with several entries. You’d already turned it to December. The 12th: Get MOT. The 14th: Dentist. Other boring chores. Secured under a separate heavy grey pyramid-shaped magnet was the back of an envelope with Milk. For God’s sake, remember the milk! I opened the fridge. Your note had worked. Inside was a small organic full-fat milk, a bottle of Peroni and a wooden circular packet of Camembert, which stank, making me retch. It was pleasing you had no imminent plans for entertaining.

  I moved on to the room I’d saved till last. Your bedroom.

  Standing in the doorway, I took in the scene. It was almost the same as when I’d last been there. Lying in the rumpled bed. You next to me. Consumed by each other.

  The ghost of you was everywhere. The sheets, ruched, carrying your sweat and skin. Your imprint. A glass of water on the bedside table. Dirty boxers abandoned on the floor.

  I perched on the edge of the bed. Gently. Mustn’t disturb. Dropped my bag on the floor and slowly, deliberately lowered myself onto my side, my head gravitating to the pillow until it rested there. Breathing in. Breathing you in. Closing my eyes. Then jolting them back open as my phone rang loud against the silence and wrongdoing.

  I pulled myself up to sitting. The pillow moved with me and I panicked that once again I’d failed to remember the exact positioning. Already forgetting my own new photograph rule. The ringing wouldn’t stop. I dug into my bag, located it and picked up the call.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. I’ve just run from the other room, that’s all . . . I’m not whispering . . . I don’t want to disturb Edward . . . Yes, I’m leaving now.’

  Once the call had ended, I frantically repositioned the pillows and smoothed away my existence from the covers. Thankfully noticing a rogue hair that had detached from my head and lay weightless on the cotton pillowcase. I held it up between the tips of my fingers, then dropped it into my bag.

  As I retraced my steps, checking, turning off lights, checking, I noticed the silver of your pen peeking from beneath the bed. I bent to retrieve it. It was heavier than I’d thought, solid. Felt expensive. You didn’t even know what you’d done with it. Were as careless as if it had been a Bic biro. So I dropped it into my bag too.

  Funnily enough, I’m using it to write this. It’s lovely and smooth, though sometimes its weight makes it hard to grip and I have to shake back the circulation in my hand. Especially as it’s so cold in here.

  Light grew through the crack as I slowly opened the door. Eventually I felt brave enough to check for life. All was clear.

  The hallway seemed starker than usual. Or perhaps I felt more exposed. I hung over the dodgy handrail. Vertigo again. I was safe to go, so ran down the stairs, concentrating on not missing a step yet remaining focused on my escape. Not stopping until I was running, running, down the road.

  You’re probably shocked.

  Disgusted with me.

  I don’t blame you. So was I, at first.

  But by the time I was on the Tube, sat among the Normals, who probably hadn’t just committed a crime, the guilt evaporated.

  I didn’t feel bad. More . . . exhilarated. Like when people skydive for the first time. Terrified, on the verge of tears, unable to take the leap until they’re pushed into the clouds. Then at the bottom, as they breathlessly gather themselves from the tangled silk and string, the first words that come from their mouths are ‘I want to do it again.’

  I found myself willing the week to rush by. For Tuesday to be here once again.

  Never wish your life away is what Mum would shout when we’d had one of our rows and I’d spit out my desperation to be eighteen, to get out of there, be free of her. In hindsight, it was an ironic thing for her to say. And when I woke the day after my eighteenth birthday, I got up, ate the stale crisps left over from our little party and continued my life exactly as before. It turned out I didn’t want to be free of her after all.

  On the Thursday, you still hadn’t arrived by nine and I became worried that you’d called in sick with the flu and Linda hadn’t told me. But at ten past you rocked up, fit and well, pulling an eek face about Mrs Lloyd, who was waiting for you, then asking me for ‘one of those special northern teas’.

  This time I took it in good humour. I was newly content, less angry. Being inside your home had connected me to you once again. Given me back some control. As did my growing little collection of items in the case. It all made me part of your life. Albeit you were unaware.

  In the afternoon I brought you another perfect sweet tea. You were at the sink, washing your hands, and I’d barely placed the mug on your desk when your phone vibrated next to your printer. My eyes strained to view the caller, but you were already drying yourself with paper towels and throwing them from a distance into the bin as you made your way over.

  ‘Thank you, Constance,’ you said. Dismissing me. You picked up the handset looking flustered. Your Adam’s apple moving prominently, indicative of a gulp.

  I know I should have left. But the way you blushed when you said, ‘Oh . . . well, this is a surprise.’ The way you swung side to side in your chair nervously. I had no choice but to knock over the tea.

  The hot liquid formed a lake on the desk before waterfalling onto the floor. You frowned. Were furious. Tried to remain calm to your special caller, only uttering response words such as ‘OK’, ‘Sure’, until you finally said, ‘I can’t really talk now, though.’ I pretended to be oblivious. Act like my only concern was to sort out the mess.

  You picked up an old biro you’d been resorting to. Not to write with but to chew playfully as you swivelled the chair away from me.

  Like that first time in your office, I knew. It was more than personal. It was a woman.

  I ripped paper towels from the dispenser, then walked back, squeezing the stiff blue sheets within my fist, and mopped up the spillage. Witnessing the flush of your cheeks. The pink cotton of your shirt pulsing with your quickened heartbeat.

  Yet to you
I was invisible. The maid in a period drama.

  ‘OK . . . Well, as you know, I like good news.’ You produced a series of idiotic self-conscious laughs.

  I swallowed hard. Mouthed, ‘I’m so sorry,’ as I pointed towards the mess. You didn’t engage. Merely fake-smiled at me and waved your hand, in a way that said, ‘Don’t worry, Constance – leave it.’ Or more accurately, ‘Please just fuck off.’ I returned the smile. Played the fool you took me for. Your stupid laughs continued.

  ‘Oh my God, do you remember . . .? Oh Jesus. Yeah . . . Yeah . . . OK. Sure . . . How about next Friday, then? Just a quick one, hey? Sorry, sorry . . . I couldn’t resist.’ Stupid laugh.

  And so you arranged to meet a woman. In front of me.

  For the remainder of the day I could concentrate on nothing else. My insides were a tumble-dryer of varied emotions. None of them good. My mind full of questions. Who was she? What did she want to talk to you about?

  I couldn’t even face following you home after work. Knowing I’d despise being behind you, jaunty and upbeat. So I left dead on five without even a pause for a fag and strode determinedly to see Edward.

  He was in bed when I arrived. Pale. His lips tinged lilac. ‘You look awful. I thought the doctor was coming today?’

  ‘Charming. You don’t look so marvellous yourself.’ He smoothed the blanket, unable to look me in the eye.

  ‘Edward, the doctor?’

  ‘He said I was fine.’

  He leant over for his Shackleton biography, which perched on the old brass carriage clock on the bedside table, and as he spent all his energy dragging it over to his chest, his reading glasses fell to the floor. I picked them up.

  ‘You didn’t let him in, did you?’

  ‘Shackleton was going to be a doctor – did you know that? But he joined the navy instead.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about Shackleton.’

  ‘Well, you should . . . That’s the trouble with your generation—’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Edward, the doctor?’