You’d left the bathroom in a mess. I smiled at our similarities. You must have showered in a rush. The cubicle was damp with condensation. The sink spattered with a mix of minute hairs and shaving foam. The smell overwhelming: your soap, aftershave, sweat.
Your swanky toothbrush stood, boasting, on the glass shelf above the sink. I picked it up and pressed the button. It vibrated so hard that I dropped it in the basin with shock. Fingers fumbling, I scooped it out and switched it off again, placing a hand on my chest to calm myself before inspecting it. Still damp, minty like your breath. When not contaminated with booze or sex. I know I shouldn’t have. But the urge was too great. I placed the head in my mouth and gently brushed my teeth. No water, no paste, just you. Transferring you onto me. Me onto you.
It was now ten past. I didn’t want to leave, though knew I had to soon. Before doing so, I needed a few more minutes on your bed, to soak up the last molecules of you. I melted once again into your pillow. Pulled my legs up slowly so as not to disturb the sheets. And lay in the foetal position, remembering what had happened in that very spot. How your skin felt when touching mine. The sensation of you inside me. And I couldn’t help it. I placed my hand down my trousers, inside my pants. Kept it there. Moved it there. Thinking of us.
I woke. Hot, shivering. Sweating in my coat. My chin wet with saliva, my body filled with fear. I sat up, looked over at the clock. Five past ten. My fingers trembled as I scrambled through my bag for my phone. I pressed the home button. Twelve missed calls.
Initially, so panicked about Dale, I didn’t think about the possibility of you coming back. But once I did, I became light-headed. Standing in the middle of the room with my hands clasped at the back of my neck. Seeing if everything was back how it should be. Incapable of clarity, calmness. I thought the pillows looked right but couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember anything. I wasn’t even fully awake and shook my head to bring me round.
Accepting that everything was as good as I could get it in the bedroom, I inspected the bathroom. I wanted to go on checking, checking, but had to get out of there as quickly as possible. I switched off the lights and headed for the door. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow and it felt like I was suffocating. My phone flashed again in my bag. I checked the time – quarter past. Then ran into the kitchen, switched on the light and turned on the tap. Unable to use a glass, I placed my mouth under the gently running stream and lapped like a cat. My hair got wet and I tried not to flick the drips anywhere by carefully tucking it into my collar. Once finished, my hand poised over the light switch, I caught sight of the fridge door. That same milk note. Your calendar. All the entries as before. With a new addition. In red pen. Circled for the extra importance. Friday the 9th: 5.30. Vini Italiani. Laura.
The sweating, the sleepiness, had been the prelude to an illness that had taken hold, and I wondered if it was perhaps payback for Ms Kemple’s mug, even though you’d escaped the effects entirely. Regardless of the cause, by the time I’d made it home, my throat felt skinned and my body emanated a heat that mirrored my fury.
I’d told Dale that I’d fallen asleep at Edward’s. He bought it. At least, at first. Unable not to, as I stood in his room shivering, barely able to speak. But later, after I’d slept, my dreams repetitive, long, stretched like elastic – appearances made by you, Laura, Mum, other people I’d forgotten existed – I woke, dripping wet, my heart trying to escape my chest.
Dale was sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was worried . . . You haven’t shut up the whole time.’
After pulling myself up, I switched on the lamp and checked my phone. It was coming up to 2 a.m. Gulping some much-needed water, I noticed my throat had eased marginally. Excess liquid cascaded down my chin, but I welcomed the cold against my skin. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Just ramblings. Who’s Laura?’ He watched me for an answer and I shrugged. ‘Anyway, you feeling any better?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I swiped my hand across my upper chest and behind my neck, then squeezed the duvet to rid the sweat I’d collected.
Dale offered me a towel he’d picked up from the floor. ‘You should take your pyjamas off too. They’re all wet.’ He gently pulled me forward. ‘Lift your arms.’
I complied as he reached down my back for the fleecy edge and pulled the top up over my head. I felt awkward, exposed, yet happy to be free of clothes. I inched up the duvet to conceal myself.
‘Lie down.’
Again I did as I was told. He threw the covers off me and I stiffened as he tucked his fingers into the waistband of the bottoms, pulling them down, removing my knickers at the same time. I lifted myself to help. But didn’t want to. I sensed him watching my body. On full display. Sticky and rancid.
‘Where were you really last night?’ he said.
I tensed further. My eyes fixating on the swirled Artex above. ‘What do you mean? I’ve told you.’
‘You fell asleep at Edward’s?’
‘Yes.’
He screwed the bottoms into a ball and threw them onto the pile of dirty clothes spilling out of my washing basket in the corner. ‘OK.’ He held up the towel. ‘I’ll go and wet this.’
Once he’d left, my limbs relaxed, but it wasn’t long before he was back, the towel now heavy with water. Drips falling to the carpet.
‘Here.’ Beginning with my neck, he smoothed the freezing cloth over me.
‘It’s too cold, Dale.’
‘It’ll reduce your fever.’ He wiped it over my chest, under each breast.
I was a statue. A ceiling-gazer.
‘It doesn’t make sense, Constance . . . doesn’t add up.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Last night . . . you were about to make him a sandwich, then – what, you suddenly just fell asleep?’
‘Yes . . . I really don’t feel well, Dale—’
‘So how? How do you go from buttering bread to sleeping for hours?’
‘Please, Dale.’ The towel slapped my stomach. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘But how can that even be? It doesn’t make sense to—’
‘Because I’m fucking ill.’ I pushed his hand away and pulled the duvet up to my face. ‘I made him a sandwich. He was in bed. I sat in the lounge while he ate it and I was overcome with tiredness. And now I know why.’ My voice cracked towards the end. The last few words barely audible and punctuated with a raw cough.
Dale dropped the towel to the floor as he sat on the bed. ‘Where does he live?’
I rolled to face the wall. ‘Edward?’
‘Yes. Who else could I possibly mean, Constance?’
An icy fear washed over my burning skin. ‘In Kensington. I’ve told you—’
‘Where in Kensington?’
‘You want his address?’
‘Yes.’
The peeking rainbow of wallpaper gone by stared at me. ‘Flat six, 25 Gregory Place.’
‘So if I went there tomorrow . . . instead of you, I’d find poor old man Edward, would I? And he’d tell me you visit him almost every day, would he?’
I sat up. My head throbbed. ‘No . . . you can’t do that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’d hate it, that’s why.’
‘That’s not why.’
His red-rimmed eyes bulged. A raised vein on his shiny temple. The worm that had burrowed into his head.
‘Fine. I’ll call him in the morning. Tell him you’re dropping off some food because I’m ill.’ I winced at the pain of creating so many words.
He covered his face with his hands and with a broken voice mumbled, ‘Thank you.’
Neither of us moved for some time. We were a tableau. Until he stood and pressed two paracetamols from the blister pack and handed them to me.
‘You’re due these. I’ll leave you to sleep. I need to get some myself or I’ll feel like shit tomorrow.’
He turned off the lamp, stroked my head. Then became a vague form within the black as he walked towar
ds the door. The sound of the handle turning brought with it a wedge of light from the hall.
‘I love you, Constance. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.’
As I was thinking of a reply, the door shut and I was once again in darkness.
In the morning, after I’d rung twattish Linda (‘Not again? You’ve been most unfortunate with your health, haven’t you, Constance?’), I reluctantly called Edward, as agreed.
‘I’m not having some bloody stranger in my flat.’
‘He’s not a stranger, and he’s only dropping off shopping, then he’ll go. Think of him as the man from Sainsbury’s.’
A coughing fit erupted, and I was unable to speak through the beeping of his dying handset.
‘I wouldn’t permit the bloody man from Sainsbury’s to be in my flat either. And for goodness’ sake, just get off the phone and get better.’
The rattle in his voice perturbed me, but before I could say anything or request that he cover for me should Dale ask about me falling asleep, I was halted by the dialling tone. I rang again. No answer. I imagined him presuming I’d taken his advice, oblivious to the defunct phone perched on his chair.
I remained in bed. Sore, lifeless, as the virus radiated through my body. Concentrating in my chest. So much so that for the first time since I was fifteen, I couldn’t inhale the cigarette I’d foolishly lit.
I slipped, feverishly, fluidly, in and out of sleep. A carousel of thoughts. You and Laura. Dale meeting Edward. You and Laura. Dale meeting Edward. Round and round and round.
‘How are you feeling?’
Confused, I pushed myself up. It was dark outside. My lamp was switched on and Dale was standing next to the bed, bags of shopping in his hands.
‘Sorry. I should’ve let you sleep.’
‘What time is it?’ I said, my hand scrambling around the bed in search of my phone.
‘Nearly six thirty. You were fast asleep. Anyway, I dropped the stuff at Edward’s.’
To prevent him detecting the fear in my face, I continued looking for the phone even though I could see where it was. ‘Oh . . . oh good. How was he?’
‘He seemed OK . . . but, Constance, his flat is off the scale. That diving helmet is fucking awesome.’ As he excitedly talked about how Edward had worn it when he’d supposedly been a deep-sea diver, my body relaxed.
My sins were still my own.
I was back in work on the Friday. I had to, you see.
Phlegm-throated, husky-voiced, weak on standing, yet determined.
Dale was too busy with his morning routine to notice my waxen complexion and ice-pick breaths. I must admit his lack of caring was disappointing.
I was so monstrous in appearance that even Linda was uncharacteristically pleasant to me. Not for my benefit but because she’d been so embarrassingly unsympathetic when I’d called in sick.
‘You shouldn’t have come in, Constance.’
‘Well, I wasn’t sure if you believed me, Linda, and I didn’t want to let you down.’ I coughed until I heaved behind the reception desk and she ran to the kitchen for water.
Admittedly, I enjoyed her squirming. Thinking it was her doing. My suffering. When really it was yours.
To compensate, throughout the day she topped up my fluids with a constant stream of hot lemon and honey after sending Alison out for the ingredients, and also got me some more paracetamol from the on-duty Ratched. Alison seemed oblivious to my state, prattling on about the yoghurt-making kit she’d bought the night before on QVC. Perhaps she was being kind, thinking death by boredom would put me out of my misery.
As for you, I expected you not to notice either. Not with your approaching date and rekindled love to keep you occupied. I hadn’t seen you all morning, as you were with patients and Alison took in your coffee to save me getting up. I was desperate to know if you’d asked after me, but she never said, so I presumed not. But in the afternoon, when you entered reception with a file to copy, you appeared taken aback.
‘You look terrible. Why did you come in?’
Linda reddened. Sipped her coffee.
‘Alison, can you copy that, please, while I check on Constance.’
Once again we were alone in your room.
‘Take a seat.’ You spoke as Dr Stevens. Not Samuel. Didn’t you realize it was too late for professionalism?
As you felt around my neck, for once I wasn’t concentrating on your scent. Or your heated breath fluttering across my face. Or our lips, kissing distance apart. Instead, I imagined how soon your soft hands would be touching her. Your mouth on hers. Your heart, which visibly pumped under your shirt, would be beating for her.
You pressed my tongue with a lolly stick, then shone a light down my throat.
‘It’s inflamed, but there’s no infection.’
The thermometer double-beeped in my ear.
‘It’s a nasty virus. Possibly flu. When people say they’ve got the flu, they usually haven’t got the real deal, but it’s fairly prevalent at the moment. Ms Kemple came in with it. You really should get a flu jab next year, like I do. I’m surprised Dr Harris didn’t mention. The nurse would have done it. If you’ll just remove your top, I’ll check your chest.’ I didn’t respond. You thought I was quiet because I was ill. You were wrong.
It amuses me to remember what happened next. You were over at the cupboard getting your stethoscope, and I undressed, as you’d asked. Removed my jumper then blouse. But as I’d been unable to bear anything tight against my battered body that morning, I hadn’t worn a bra. And once you’d turned around, stethoscope in hand, you were faced with my nakedness.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I thought you were listening to my chest?’
‘Yes . . . but . . . you should have kept your bra on.’
‘I didn’t put one on this morning. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.’
‘No . . . no, I know . . . but it’s inappropriate.’ You marched back towards me and grabbed my blouse from the chair before gesturing for me to put it on. Turning around until I was less embarrassing to you. As if you could rewrite history. Wipe me away.
I pulled my hair from beneath the neckline. ‘More inappropriate than fucking me on your desk?’
You spun back around. Furrowed-faced. Cheeks bruised. Could you not believe I’d dared say such a thing? To speak the truth.
‘That’s . . . Don’t say it like that, Constance . . . You know that was different.’
We remained suspended in time. Until finally, you pressed the cold metal disc against my furious heart. Both of us knowing that for that moment I’d won. Disclosed you for what you were.
‘There’s a definite crackle – a chest infection.’ You appeared relieved that there’d been a valid reason for you to have seen me topless and wrapped up the appointment like I was one of your patients. Prescribed me antibiotics. Told me that I mustn’t stay in work. That I needed to go home and rest.
Back in reception, Linda called me a cab and within half an hour I’d left the surgery.
But I had no intention of going home.
The small hipster cafe was directly opposite your chosen wine bar.
I grabbed a window seat and prepared to hunker down. Tell me, was it somewhere special to you? Vini Italiani? Somewhere significant for you both? Did it hold romantic memories? It’s a shame we never had a place like that. I’m not sure the alley behind the Wheatsheaf counts.
The frosted lettering that spelt out the word Cafe across the window hampered my view a little, but your lovers’ venue was ideal. Glass. Ceiling to floor. Ensuring its rich-prick punters could be clearly seen by the poor and miserable rough sleepers.
I ordered tea rather than coffee. It was more soothing. Although in hindsight perhaps additional caffeine would have been helpful. And a plain muffin to pick fluff from, to line my stomach for the paracetamol that I hoped I’d keep down.
A young waitress with a Spanish accent and Kate Bush hair served me.
‘It’s so c
old,’ she said coincidentally, then placed down the pot and cup.
‘It is,’ I said.
The truth was, I couldn’t wait to rid myself of my coat, unravel the scarf from my neck. I felt nothing but burning heat.
When paying Kate, I noticed the prescription folded in my purse. But I assured myself that a couple of hours wouldn’t make much difference and I’d go to the chemist on the way home.
After taking the painkillers and eating crumbs, I rolled my scarf into a ball to use as a pillow and draped myself with my coat. A blanket to counteract the intense cold I now felt. The battered leather club chair creaked with each attempt at comfort, but I eventually managed to find a good position and surrendered.
‘Are you OK, miss?’
‘Samuel?’ I opened my eyes.
‘Is everything all right?’ Kate was standing over me, her face strained with concern.
I wiped the dribble from my chin. ‘Yes . . . Sorry . . . I just . . .’
She retrieved the cup of cold tea and put it on a tray. ‘Would you like me to order you a cab or something?’
It was now dark outside. For a moment I was confused. Unsure where I was. Then I glimpsed the red-and-green neon of the Vini Italiani sign through the window. ‘No . . . thank you. I’m waiting for someone. Can I get another tea, please?’
When she left to make my order, I looked up at the giant clock on the wall. No matter how hard I stared, I couldn’t work out the time. Blinking over and over before finally registering it was five twenty. Somehow an hour had passed since I’d arrived. You’d be here soon. I massaged my temples. Then remembered it wasn’t me you were meeting.
Kate placed a fresh steaming pot and clean cup on the table. When paying, I missed her hand and one of the pound coins fell to the floor. She retrieved it, once again mentioning a cab.
‘No . . . I’ve told you I’m waiting for someone. I just want to drink my tea.’ She’d pissed me off at that point. I didn’t understand why she kept asking. She didn’t seem to be asking anyone else. But at last she got the message and left me alone.
If I Can't Have You Page 23
