If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  My sweaty hands slipped around the large, overfilled cup. As I brought it to my mouth, droplets of tea fell from beneath it onto my chest. I winced as I felt the burn. Quickly wiping away the scalding liquid.

  When I’d finished and my eyes returned to the window, focusing beyond the letter ‘F’, I was faced with you. The back of you. Jumping from foot to foot. Kidding your body that it was warmer than it was. Or perhaps it was nerves. The excitement of meeting your love.

  My fingers weakened. The cup escaped me. Crashing to the table and falling onto its side. Hot, sticky tea penetrated my trousers, through to the flesh of my thighs. You’d think I’d have jumped up. Shouted out. Sworn. But I sat there. Calm and still. Separate from the acute pain on my lap.

  Kate flew over with a wad of blue kitchen roll. Wiped. Dabbed. Asked if I was OK.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what’s . . .’

  ‘I’ll get you another tea . . .’ She spoke more, but I didn’t listen.

  You were running across the road, narrowly avoiding a speeding car.

  ‘No, no, it’s OK, Kate . . . I’ve got to go . . . thank you.’

  Outside, with my scarf draped loosely around my neck and my coat hung over my bag, I took my position at the bus shelter adjacent to the cafe. Perched, among the Normals, against the cold tilted plastic seat that wasn’t a seat at all.

  You were inside the bar then, being shown to a window table by a tall, blonde waitress dressed in black with a white apron longer than my whole body. You probably fancied her too. Would’ve tried to fuck her if it wasn’t for your beloved’s arrival.

  You said something that made her laugh. Then cracked up at your own joke. Even after she left, you continued smiling. How hilarious you were.

  A double-decker bus pulled in, blocking my view.

  Ant-like, the people arranged themselves into single file. Marched aboard. The lucky ones winning a seat. The losers hanging from straps. Bus gallows.

  All the shelter-dwellers got on, apart from a young lad cradling a KFC bucket. The aroma of battered battery chickens made me want to gag. I covered my mouth with my scarf to filter the smell, then removed it again immediately to release heat. I didn’t understand why the paracetamol hadn’t kicked in. I was suffocating. KFC Kid inserted headphones into his ears. The tinny tin-tin permeated my head. Severed my nerves. I was desperate to say something, tell him to shut the fuck up. But thankfully I was distracted by the departure of the heaving bus.

  I rubbed my eyes to refocus. Clarity returned. It wasn’t just you sat in the window.

  It was you and her.

  She was pretty, I’ll give you that. I was too distant to decipher the intricacies of her face, but I could see it better than the first time. It worked perfectly. Long, dark hair. Like mine. But she was a grown-up. Elegant. She placed her expensive bag on the floor. You kissed her. Cheek only. As serious lovers do. No back-alley rendezvous. You were treating her with the utmost respect. You appeared nervous. Running your fingers repeatedly through your hair as the waitress took your order.

  I couldn’t blame you for picking her. She was the polar of me.

  Blame you? No.

  Resent you? Hate you? Absolutely.

  As I watched you both talking, she removed her coat smoothly, like a model on the catwalk, and appeared far removed from the nut-job you’d painted. Then, all women were crazy to you, weren’t they? Just for being women. Having feelings. Wants. Needs. Expectations of you. Crazy fucking bitches. All of us.

  The waitress returned with your drinks. Interrupted you both laughing. Had you churned out the same joke? You instantly cupped the beer you were handed, like you were relieved you finally had a prop to help with your nerves. She remained cool, took a sip from her tall glass of clear liquid.

  After watching you both for a while, attempting to lip-read to no avail, a couple more people arrived at the bus stop. But only KFC Kid leant against the seats. Pst, pst, pst, pst. He nodded in time to the beat. Pst, pst, pst, pst. I pressed my hands against my ears and closed my eyes to shut it out. My hair was soaked, but it wasn’t raining. It seems impossible as I say it, but I think I must have dropped off for a moment. Because when I reopened them, KFC Kid was holding my bag. I thought he was robbing me at first, then realized it had dropped to the floor and he was handing it to me.

  ‘You all right, lady?’ Pst, pst, pst.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I’m fine. Thank you.’ I held on to the bag like Blusha. And as I hugged it/her, I had a shot of reality. What I was doing. The pathetic act of watching the person I loved, loving someone else.

  Focusing on you both once more, the atmosphere between you had changed. You were now leaning in. Close to her. Listening intently. She was wiping beneath her eyes. I presumed tears. Which you gently brushed away with your thumb, then in a continuous movement placed some wayward hair behind her ears. A look between you. A look that had never passed between us. Which only ended when you opened your arms and beckoned her for a hug.

  I folded in two with the pain you were causing me. My chest so tight I could hardly breathe. Once I’d straightened, I closed my eyes again. Blocked you out. I couldn’t look. I stayed there. Still. Blind and oblivious to what else was going on. Bracing myself for seeing the kiss. Envisaging it in my head, so it would hurt less when witnessed. Your mouth tenderly touching hers. Fingers entangled in her silky hair.

  With a deep breath I reopened my eyes slowly.

  Nothing was as imagined. You were both back to talking normally. Had stopped the torturous display of love. Whatever had caused that intensity had now made way for a lighter mood. The tears had been replaced with smiles and animated chat.

  Relieved, I pushed back my damp hair. I could smell body odour fermenting under my arms. At least it would deter anyone from sitting next to me. Especially the loud cockernee builder attempting to chat up a girl around my age. She just wants to get home. Leave her alone, you prick. She was trapped between the prick and the stink. It was only the four of us at the stop by then. The worst-ever double date. Thank Christ another bus came and all three of them boarded it. Then with a blast of compressed air, it moved off.

  You were still talking pleasantly. Your glass near empty. She used a straw to stab what was presumably a slice of lemon. Bitter, like me.

  My teeth began to chatter and I reached for my coat, which had slipped to the floor. As I bent down, the ground moved with me and I put my hand on the seat to steady myself. Determined to keep my balance, I slowly slid on the sleeves, then wrapped the sides around me. Blocked out the iced air. And when I looked back up, you were gone.

  I focused beyond the window to see if you’d moved, but realized you were now in front of it. On the pavement right ahead of me. Both enveloped in your luxurious coats. A real-life John Lewis advertisement.

  You hugged again.

  Unable to pull myself away, I waited for the kiss to destroy me. But it was small and placed upon her forehead. Initially I was surprised, then not, as it really was the ultimate show of love, caring. Like Dad did to me that day.

  There was another embrace. Then you walked in opposite directions.

  Squinting with confusion at your parting, I should have been grateful. Thankful of not witnessing the whole show, as I did with Fiona. I know I should have left. But for once it wasn’t you who drew me like a magnet. I didn’t want you that night. I didn’t need to know where you were going or what you were doing. That night it was all about her. The compulsion to view her up close. Her eyes. See what you saw. What you loved.

  Traffic was at peak London insanity. Making it difficult to cross the road, and easy to lose her. A woman in a BMW stopped to let me pass. I remained in the middle. Stood on the broken white line. A skittle buffeted by vehicles in both lanes. When a gap emerged, I bolted. Barely able to breathe when I hit the pavement on the other side. I pressed my fist into my chest to subdue the stabbing. Coughed until I heaved. My wet hair sticking to my face as I doubled over.

/>   I looked up. Luckily, along with her other perfect qualities, her model height meant she was still visible. There she was. Calmly bobbing along. No concept of what she was doing to me. I ran to catch up with her. When a few metres away, I stopped. Heaved again. Covered my mouth with my scarf to muffle the noise. No sick. No time for sick. I carried on.

  Oblivious to my presence, she turned the corner into a residential street. Though we battled the same wind, my hair resembled Medusa’s, whereas hers blew gracefully behind like Diana Ross’s.

  This road was quieter. I crossed to the pavement opposite. Walking as fast as I could to get in front. I planned to return to her side. Pass her. Stare at her.

  As I sped up, I couldn’t maintain a straight line. Blaming my sways on the gusts.

  She slowed. I crossed the road. Changed direction. Flowed against her. Towards her. Talking on my phone to an imaginary person. Laughing. Playing the part. Supposedly unaware of her coming towards me. Of our nearing each other. Within an instant I altered the plan. I’d knock her. Just enough to make her stop, look at me. I’d apologize. And in true British style she’d apologize back.

  The moment came. My shoulder was in line with her chest. I did it.

  But it went wrong. It was too hard. I’d gone too far.

  She was on the floor.

  I dropped the phone into my bag and held out my slippery hand for her to grab on to. ‘Sorry . . . I . . . I didn’t see you . . . I was on the phone . . . I’m so sorry.’

  If she was angry, she didn’t show it. I’d say she was more upset, fearful.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ I said. I was. I am. For the monsters you created inside me. The things they made me do.

  She didn’t respond. I no longer expected the quintessential Brit apology, of course. She attempted to stand. Making it hard for herself by only using one hand. The other remained on her abdomen as her coat flew open. I pulled her up off the ground.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, once upright. But then she folded. Winced. Her palm made circular motions over her stomach. Her stomach that didn’t match her elongated, lithe body. Her stomach that protruded slightly.

  Her pregnant stomach.

  ‘You should watch where you’re going.’ Her eyes were heavy with tears. She bent forward again, pain-faced.

  I was disgusted at what I’d done, what you’d made me do. It became impossible to suppress. I was crying.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . Are you OK . . .? Please tell me you’re OK.’

  She appeared taken aback by my anguish.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sure I’m fine . . . Please don’t get upset.’ It was then she looked at me with those huge brown eyes and I realized what you must have fallen in love with. The same eyes you would have stared lovingly into when you came inside her, made this baby, this thing I instantly hated, this thing I was terrified I’d hurt.

  ‘How . . . how far gone are you?’ I tried to appear normal. Conversational. But she was perturbed by me, I could tell. Humouring me.

  ‘Nearly four months,’ she said.

  Four months. I stepped back. Dizzy. More lies.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she continued. ‘It was a shock, that’s all. Please . . . you really don’t have to worry.’

  Did she have to be so bloody nice? Perfect and nice and pregnant.

  ‘Have . . . have you got far to go?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not really, but I should probably get a lift, I think.’ She reached in her Mulberry bag for her phone.

  I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Merely stood, wide-eyed as she made the call.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart . . . Look, I’m on Tilbury Terrace. Are you far? You couldn’t come and get me, could you? I had a bit of a fall . . . No, no, I’m fine . . . A little shaken, that’s all.’

  I couldn’t hear your voice, but I imagined it. Loving. Caring. Like I’d experienced once. Almost.

  ‘It was an accident . . . I wasn’t looking where I was going . . . I’m with a lady . . . What’s your name, sorry?’

  ‘Angie,’ I said.

  ‘OK . . . OK . . . Thank you . . . Love you too.’ She returned the phone to her bag. ‘He’s only round the corner. He’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘I have to go. I’m . . . I’m sorry. You will be OK, won’t you?’

  She nodded. Utterly confused.

  A bead of sweat fell from my nose.

  ‘Are you OK, yourself?’ she said.

  ‘Yes . . . I . . . I have to go, though. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ I turned and walked away, jelly-legged, spinning with vertigo.

  I stopped at the main road. People everywhere. But I was in a different world to the one they inhabited. In and out of focus, they scurried past. My scarf hung loose to the floor, asymmetric. I swayed on the edge of the pavement. Looked across the road.

  It was then I saw her.

  Beautiful and smiling.

  Just as I remembered, in real life, not photographs. She looked just like me. I waved. She beckoned me across with her hand. I didn’t question it. I couldn’t wait. To see her. To hold her. I missed her. Oh God, I missed her.

  My foot dropped from the kerb. My other joined it. A car sped by. I stood in the road. Horns beeped. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if they hit me, because I just wanted to be with her. I glided across. Vehicles sliced around me. I was so near. Almost on the other side. A man shouted from his van window, but he didn’t understand that I didn’t care. I stepped up onto the pavement. Carried on until I was right in front of her. I lifted my hand to touch her face, her warm face, which had already faded from my mind. I was crying. Happy tears. She cried too. Smiling.

  Then everything turned cold.

  My hand was touching the glass of a shop window. She was nowhere. There was only me, staring back at myself.

  According to Dale, a kindly cab driver named Mohammed walked me, ghost-like and clutching my prescription, to the door.

  Though I have no recollection, Dale saw me into bed and went off in search of a late-night chemist. After taking an antibiotic, I slipped into a delirious slumber, in which I apparently stayed, aside from being woken for sips of water and additional tablets, until the Saturday evening.

  With my fever broken, I found the energy to sit up and gaze blankly at an old episode of Lewis on TV. I had no idea what was going on, who’d been murdered or why. It was just nice to feel relatively normal.

  But with consciousness came memories. The baby. The fall. The kiss. Imagining the family photograph that I’d soon endure every time I’d bring you coffee.

  Dale didn’t leave my room. It stank of illness, but was at least tidier, as he’d picked stuff off the floor while tutting and saying things like ‘Why don’t you hang your clothes up when you take them off?’ and ‘When we get our own flat, you can’t be like this, you know.’

  Though thankful for his care, I found his presence claustrophobic. I craved solitude. To cry. Scream. Hurt. But I couldn’t do anything except pretend I was fully there. Listening to him. Watching Lewis.

  There was at least some respite on the Sunday. Dale had to go to his parents’ anniversary dinner. Thirty years. Imagine that. I wonder how I’ll feel about you in thirty years.

  I’d been invited along, but he insisted I was too ill and should rest. As Mum would say, Silver linings. Always silver linings.

  He’d convinced me to have a shower, rinse away the disease that oozed from every pore. As I scrubbed at my greasy hair and sticky body, thoughts of you swilled down the plughole with the grubby froth.

  Afterwards he sat next to me on the bed as I dried my hair. ‘Mum’s disappointed you’re not coming . . . Here, make sure you dry it properly.’ He leant down to the floor and stretched the hairdryer and cord towards me, smirking in an unfamiliar way.

  ‘Yeah . . . I’m disappointed too.’ The dryer felt heavy in my weak hands.

  ‘Anyway, it may be for the best. I can kill two birds with one stone, Birthday Girl.’ Wink.

  ‘What do you mean?’

 
; He tapped his nose, then left. I didn’t know what he was referring to. He was happy: it was obviously something nice. Yet it perturbed me, and my insides twisted.

  Before settling down, I called Edward. ‘Well, when are you going to be better? I’ve run out of prunes, and Maxine is horrendous. She’s arranged for a doctor to come out on Wednesday. Says she’s staying to make sure I let him in.’

  ‘Well, thank fuck for Maxine, I say.’

  Calmed by this news, I temporarily avoided thoughts about you and her by watching Vertigo, which had just started on TV. The ending had always made me sad. I wonder if it would make me more or less so now. The way he watches her fall to her death. Knowing it was his fault. I’ve always imagined my dad as James Stewart. Not only because I can’t remember him properly, but what better father to invent than Jimmy Stewart?

  Is there a syndrome, Doctor? Where the stricken obsessively loves a person they despise? And if it exists, what’s the cure? Was your mother cursed with the same illness? Was I inconvenient to you in the same way she was to your father?

  On the Monday, thankfully feeling well again, I sat in reception, which was now adorned with silver and blue Christmas decorations. Desperately hoping your presence would somehow ease my internal agony. That being near you would calm me as it had done in the past. But I was mistaken.

  You arrived, carefree, smiling at us ‘girls’, saying, ‘So glad you’re feeling better, Constance. I’d love a coffee,’ and an entity formed inside my belly. Again created by you. But not a perfect baby. An eroding, acidic rage.

  In your room, we talked about the forecast of snow. You said it turned you into a big kid and that being able to go sledging was a valid reason to have children. I smiled and agreed. How did you not sense? A doctor. An intelligent man afflicted with such fucking stupidity.

  When my fake-laughing at your accidentally-throwing-a-snowball-at-a-policeman story had stopped, I turned to leave.

  Then you said, ‘Oh, before you go – my friend’s coming in for a consultation at about one. It’s during lunch, so she’s not on the appointments. Tall, pregnant. Can you send her straight through?’