If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  ‘I made them myself,’ she said. ‘Try them on.’

  I appeased her, attempting not to fluff up my hair, on which I’d spent more time than I’d ever remembered doing. ‘I love them, thank you. That’s really lovely of you.’ And it was the first time ever I’d not been sarcastic to Alison.

  Even Linda wished me ‘many happy returns’ when she exited Dr Harris’s room.

  ‘We’ll do something in the staffroom this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Nothing fancy. Some Battenberg, perhaps.’

  Her pleasantness was so shocking that I was uncertain if it was genuine or merely excitement at the opportunity to eat cake.

  As touching as this all was, it was only you I wanted to see. To witness my happier state. Lack of black cloud. As if I’d been wiped clean. Reset at zero.

  Once Mrs Tullings and her boy brat had finished their appointment with you, I took it upon myself to make you a coffee and take it to your room.

  ‘Hey, Constance. Goodness, you look nice. What a difference a day makes, eh?’

  I turned to close the door, concealing the joy in my face at your noticing. That I’d dressed for you. Worn the same silk blouse that had turned your head in the beginning. ‘I’ve made you a coffee. Thought you might need one after Sebastian Tullings.’

  ‘Ah yes . . . Sebastard Tullings.’

  I laughed and placed the mug on your desk. Leant forward.

  ‘You really do look lovely today, Constance. Glowing.’

  We were close to each other. Like that day. The blouse draping open as expected. You looked at me. Nothing furtive this time. Bold. Obvious.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ I said.

  ‘Your birthday? You never mentioned. Well . . . well, we must celebrate . . . We should get a drink or something. Oh, hang on, I can’t tonight . . . poker. Though I could do a quick one? After work? What do you say?’

  Was that all it took? For you to see me differently? Me being less sorrowful, self-hating? I’m often nauseated by those motivational memes people share on Instagram. A picture of some perfect woman performing an impossible yoga pose on top of a mountain. Happiness depends on your positivity of thought, or some other bullshit. But for that moment, as you waited, wide-eyed, for me to agree to go for a drink with you, I must admit I wondered if those morons were right.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I’d like that,’ I said.

  From that point on I surfed the hours on a wave of excitement.

  My elation only momentarily stained at lunch, when on my way to Edward’s, I rang to warn him of my arrival and the phone rang out. It was presumably uncharged, but I endured stabs of fear until I arrived to find him snoring in his chair, oblivious to my presence. Even under the circumstances, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw him dappered up in a pinstriped suit, shirt and tie. On his head, a fancy-dress gold crown encrusted with plastic rubies.

  ‘Edward . . . it’s me . . . Wake up.’

  With a grunt, he jolted awake, his headwear slipping to a jaunty angle. ‘Oh, bloody hell, are you trying to give me a heart attack?’

  ‘Sorry . . . I—’

  ‘No, no . . . it’s me that’s sorry,’ he said, feeling his head, remembering why he was wearing a crown. ‘Happy birthday, darling girl.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve got cake. I’ll make us some tea.’

  ‘Here, put this on first . . . It’s just to wear for lunch, mind. It doesn’t leave the flat.’ He handed me an exquisite glittering tiara. Speechless, I placed it on my head. ‘It was my mother’s. Given to her by an Indian prince. A fan.’ And I heard myself gasp when he said, ‘They’re real diamonds.’

  I returned, feeling half-royalty, half-servant. Jewels in hair, tray in hand. The sponge lit with a lone candle. Edward sang ‘Happy Birthday’, breathless and weak. I joined in, giggling and tuneless. At the end he told me to make a wish, so I closed my eyes, blew and wished for you.

  As I served up, he rose with difficulty. ‘What is it you want, Edward? I’ll get it.’

  ‘You mind your own. And don’t be stingy with the slice . . . What the hell is that? I want a piece not a wafer.’

  He returned from the cabinet carrying a book-shaped item, wrapped in newspaper. ‘Here,’ he said, dropping it to the table.

  ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘No, it’s for bloody Ursula. Of course it’s for you.’

  I handed him his tea and cake. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have got me anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I didn’t.’

  After shoving cake in my mouth and slurping tea, I tore off the makeshift wrapping to reveal a faded blue hardback copy of Wuthering Heights. I hugged it to my chest. ‘That’s brilliant. Thank you, Edward.’

  ‘Look inside . . . I haven’t got you a card but look inside.’

  I flipped the front cover open.

  Happy birthday to my best friend. Thank you for saving me, Constance. Love, Edward.

  ‘Thank you, Edward. It’s . . . I love it.’ I looked at him, freeing his chin of jam and suppressing a cough with a sip of tea, and I had the overwhelming feeling that I’d wished for the wrong thing.

  I stood and relit the candle, but as the air left my lips, extinguishing the flame, I heard Edward say, ‘You shouldn’t do that – it’s bad luck.’

  The rest of the day flew by.

  At nearly five Linda called everyone into the kitchen for my birthday fodder. Except Dr Short, who was still at home looking after his daughter, the Ratcheds, who’d already left, and Dr Franco, who was with a client. I feigned exuberance, but as well as being all caked out, I was preoccupied by our pending rendezvous.

  Alison made the teas, while you and Dr Harris hovered awkwardly in the servants’ quarters.

  ‘We need to do this room up, don’t we?’ said Harris, after spending a whole five minutes with the strip lights and shabby chairs.

  After another ten minutes of phoney frivolity and comments about how I was ‘still a baby’ and that they’d ‘kill to be twenty-seven’, Linda presented me with a card that everyone had signed. I scanned the messages and thanked you all earnestly. Although, it was only yours I really cared about. Happy birthday to the best coffee-maker in West London. Love, Dr Stevens x

  Love.

  I wish I could end it there.

  The rest is difficult for me to write. I’m sorry. But I need to get it out, you understand. Tragedy by tragedy.

  As the mini-celebrations wound down, I noticed Dr Franco’s client leaving so took him up some cake. He was all ready to head off but still happy to accept the offering.

  ‘Oh, Battenberg, my favourite. How very kind. And happy birthday.’ He bit into the sponge, then with a full mouth said, ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Much better . . . thank you.’ And I realized it was the first time I’d said such a thing in so long without it being a lie.

  ‘Well, that pleases me even more than this cake.’

  By this time I was almost bursting with anticipation. I headed to the toilet to reapply my lipstick, which I also dotted slightly on my cheeks. Not that I needed to: they were already flushed pink. You were right. I was different to the day before. I looked so much like her. When she was well and happy. Or maybe it was her who stared back at me. Visiting.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I whispered to my reflection. Imagining it was her saying it.

  You entered reception, turning up the collar of your coat, as I was buttoning mine. When Linda bent down to collect her bag, you mouthed that you had the car and for me to meet you in the car park.

  ‘Goodbye, Dr Stevens. See you tomorrow,’ I said.

  Alison and Linda echoed my words as you left. We followed on. But once outside, I hung back and lit a fag.

  ‘Constance, that should be your birthday resolution,’ said Alison.

  ‘I know . . . I know.’ I smiled, attempting to maintain my goodwill towards her. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks again for the present and cake.’

  While smoking, I watched them disappear into the dis
tance, before texting Dale that I was nipping in to see Edward first.

  Don’t be late. I’ve got dinner on, Birthday Girl.

  Then I called Edward to check on him, immediately wishing I hadn’t, as it rang out. Running down the steps, I tried him again. Wrestles tigers, deep-sea diver, can’t charge a bloody phone.

  I turned the corner, entering the car park. Away from the street, its only source of light was the glow from surrounding buildings. There were three cars still there: yours, the surgery Smart Car and a Mercedes, which I presumed belonged to Dr Harris.

  My shoes crunched across the gravel as I nervously pulled so hard on my cigarette the ash crackled, then cascaded to the floor. Light-headed, I threw the rest away. You popped open the door from the inside for me to get in.

  ‘Sorry I was a while. I had to wait for Linda and Alison to go,’ I said.

  It had been a long time since I’d sat in there with you. The potent scent of leather stirred memories.

  You rubbed your palms together as if starting a friction fire. You were, of sorts, weren’t you? You smiled at me. At least, I think that’s what you did. It was dark and hard to tell as my eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.

  ‘So where do you want to go?’ you asked.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. I’ve not got long. I’ve got to be back by six thirty at the latest.’

  ‘No worries. Me neither.’

  Part of me hoped you’d object. Ask me to stay out longer. Say you’d change your plans.

  ‘I don’t mind, then,’ I said. ‘You pick.’

  A window of one of the houses sprang into lightness, enabling me to see you more clearly. Your head dropped, deep in thought. A dog howled from the same home, making me jump.

  You looked up at me. ‘Are you nervous?’ you said.

  ‘No . . . no. It was just the dog.’

  The house plunged back into darkness. As did we.

  ‘I am,’ you said.

  ‘In case Dr Harris sees us?’

  ‘Harris? No . . . No, he’s catching up on paperwork. He’ll be stuck in there till gone eight. It’s you. You’ve made me feel nervous all day.’

  I was glad of the anonymity within the blackness. Hiding my flushed face. ‘Why would I make you nervous?’

  ‘I don’t know. I . . . I guess I forgot how much chemistry we have. How much I fancy you.’

  I didn’t want it to be a joke, but my mind could only presume it was. Until you said, ‘Do I not get a birthday kiss?’

  I can’t express how unexpected the whole thing was. You spoke the words so naturally. Like I was yours. You were mine.

  ‘What . . . what about Harris?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Fuck Harris.’

  You tugged at my arm to twist me towards you. I grabbed on to the cold metal gearstick to steady myself. And then, as you know, it was as it always was. More than just a kiss. Although the air was biting, your mouth was warm, soothing. Your hands weaved my hair. Hurting, pulling. Then you separated from me, your breaths heavy, white with cold.

  ‘We could just stay here,’ you said.

  If I’d known that would be the last time we’d have sex, I would have treasured it more. It made me high, feeling how much you wanted me. How urgently you needed to be inside my body. But it was somewhat hindered by logistics. The awkwardness as you shuffled across to my seat and manoeuvred me on top. My head repeatedly knocking against the car roof. How when it was over, and you’d pushed me up and pulled out, you came all over my coat. I was conscious throughout it all. Of the light going on and off in the house, the dog’s barks, Dr Harris.

  Once we were untangled and back in our respective seats, you leant over – I presumed for the cuddle I craved, but your arm carried on past me and flicked open the glove compartment.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ you said. ‘I’ve got tissues in there somewhere.’

  Hampered by lack of vision, I removed as many sheets as I could from the soft plastic packet and passed some of the collection to you. I could hear you wiping yourself down, zipping yourself up. Once finished, you shoved the tissues into the door pocket and I could then just make out both your hands on the steering wheel.

  ‘So, what are you doing tonight?’ Your fingers drummed against the leather.

  ‘Nothing . . . I was just going to go home. Have some dinner.’

  ‘With your fella?’

  I nodded, furiously and blindly scrubbing the wet patch on my coat. Wanting you to make a fuss. Tell me how you didn’t like it. Show your jealousy once more.

  ‘Well, that’ll be nice.’ You reached for your coat, which had been thrown into the back, and retrieved your wallet. ‘Look, I . . . I feel awful doing this again, but here . . .’ You pulled out some notes and handed them to me. ‘You make it so difficult for me to stop once we start . . . but we can’t risk it, can we? I’m so sorry . . . If I could take the pill for you, I would.’

  I took the money, scrunched it in my hand and pushed it into my bag. ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose we’d better head off.’

  Another house lit up. I could see from the clock that only twenty minutes had passed since I got in the car.

  ‘I’ll drop you at the station . . .’ Your words seemed to trail off, distracted, as you looked in your rear-view mirror. ‘Shit. Harris.’

  You pushed my head down hard, causing me to knock it on the open glove compartment. I remained down in the uncomfortable position, rubbing my temple as you revved the engine and waved to Dr Harris as you drove away.

  Snow fell.

  You switched on your wipers as the large, delicate flakes transformed to slush on contact with the window.

  We were silent for most of the journey. You didn’t even bother with music. But as the flurry multiplied, I said, ‘Do you feel your mum is around you when it snows? That it’s saying she’s with you?’

  ‘You mean, do I think the natural process of cold clouds turning water vapours into snow is actually a message from my dead mother? No, I don’t . . . You’re so funny, Constance.’

  As we approached the station, you pulled up on the double yellow line. ‘Sorry, Constance. I don’t mean to rush you . . . I just don’t want to get a ticket . . . but you have a nice birthday . . . And thank you.’

  The hall was filled with the aroma of spices. My salivary glands pulsed, hunger triggered. Then they were shot dead by guilt.

  ‘Hi . . . I’m back. I’m just dropping off my coat and stuff in my room,’ I shouted.

  When I’d stood by the lights of High Street Kensington, watching you speed away, the contrast between the crusted white residue and the black wool of my coat was glaring. I’d purchased a bottle of water, a pack of baby wipes and the morning-after pill from Boots, then facing into a corner in the arcade, set about erasing the stain. Once home, however, I was still aware of the faint ghost that lingered.

  Free of evidence, I followed the smells to the kitchen. Took a deep breath and prepared to play my role.

  ‘Wow, this all looks amazing.’ A white cloth covered the table, restaurant-like. Two unlit candles in glass candlesticks I’d never seen before were surrounded by poppadoms and ramekins filled with various coloured dips. A bottle of white wine. Matching glasses.

  ‘Take a seat, Birthday Girl. Just on time.’ He dropped a sauce-coated spoon onto the kitchen side before flicking a tea towel onto his shoulder, in that clichéd way men do.

  He struck a match near the candles, then blew it out. ‘Actually, shall we have the big light on? I like to see when I’m eating, don’t you?’

  I nodded in vague agreement. ‘What is all this?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’ve made dinner. My first curry from scratch, no less. Now, tell me’ – he picked up the spoon and extracted some of the bubbling liquid – ‘is it hot enough?’ He pressed the metal to my mouth until I sipped.

  ‘Yes . . . plenty,’ I said, an octave higher than my usual voice.

  I filled a glass of water, becoming fearful at the thought of
eating a whole plate of the stuff. Not just because of the kick, or the layers of saccharine cake that lay heavy on my stomach, but because I had to sit opposite him, make conversation, enjoy the food he’d laboured over, after what I’d just done.

  He removed two plates from the oven and spooned rice from a pan onto them. Then the curry.

  ‘So how was Edward?’

  I delayed my response by taking a swig of the water, some of which dribbled down my chin and neck. ‘Yeah, good.’

  He smiled.

  I took my seat. ‘It looks amazing, Dale. I’m really impressed. Thank you.’

  He placed a plate in front of me and sat down with his.

  ‘I . . . I thought we were just going to get a pizza or something. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.’

  ‘On your birthday? A pizza isn’t enough for the woman I love on her birthday. But if you don’t like it—’

  ‘No . . . no, I do. It’s delicious.’ As I took a proper mouthful, I realized it really was, and I at least didn’t have to lie about that.

  He poured us both a glass of wine. ‘Believe it or not, this is courtesy of Mr Papadopoulos. I bumped into him on his way out, and when I mentioned it was your birthday, he went back up and returned with this. It’s Greek. Not sure what it’ll be like. But we’ve got this other bottle of Sauvignon Blanc if it’s rank.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t deserve all this. Everyone’s been so nice.’ The image of you pushing up my skirt, pulling my knickers to the side trespassed my mind.

  He paused, his fork suspended. Waiting, proud, for me to have more. And only when I said, ‘Honestly, it’s delicious. Hot . . . but really tasty,’ did he begin to eat.

  I dropped my head as I ate. Stared at my plate. Avoided his eyes.

  ‘Are you OK? Is something up?’ he said.

  ‘Yes . . . No . . . I’m fine. It’s just really lovely of you, that’s all. I think I’m in shock at how kind everyone’s been.’ I told him about the cake at work and how Linda and Dr Harris weren’t massive arseholes for once.

  ‘Sounds like a good birthday.’

  ‘Yes, it was . . . is . . . and Edward let me wear a real diamond tiara and gave me a book.’