‘A book? Which book? I’ve never known you to read.’
‘No . . . well, I don’t, but he said I should start and that I’d like it . . . It’s an old copy of Wuthering Heights.’
He gently rested his fork against the edge of his plate. ‘That’s nice,’ he said, looking directly at me. Latching on to my eyes. ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’
Time pulsed. I dared not look away. Swallowed the rice at the back of my throat.
‘It’s a famous quote from the book. Sorry, Constance – I thought you’d recognize it . . . which is silly, as you’ve obviously not read it yet, so why would you?’
‘No . . . no, I . . . I probably won’t ever read it . . . It was just nice . . . I—’
‘You should. Edward chose well for you. I’m sure you’ll like it. Lots of themes I think you’ll find interesting: intense love, betrayal, revenge . . . You’ve gone very red, Constance . . . Here . . . have some of this cucumber raita I made.’
Our plates were empty; the bottle Mr Papadopoulos brought us was drunk dry. My mouth was numb. So was I. The table looked like mice had been to dinner. Crumbs everywhere, splashes of luminous chutneys against the crisp white of the cloth.
‘That was the best birthday present, Dale. Thank you.’
‘Oh, I haven’t given you your present yet.’ He stood and gathered the dishes.
The food churned inside me, terrified he meant sex. ‘Well, I don’t deserve another present. That was perfect.’ I yawned. ‘I’m so tired – I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . I’m sure I’ll be spark out soon.’
I stood to help clear up.
‘Leave that,’ he said. ‘In fact, go away for ten minutes. Go in mine and pick a DVD to watch. There’s a few new ones I bought from the charity shop the other day. They’re next to the telly.’
I knew he wanted me out of the way to prepare my birthday cake, but I was worried how I’d manage to eat any of it.
I went to my room first. Exchanged my blouse for a sweatshirt. Removing the silk released such a strong cloud of your aftershave I was amazed Dale hadn’t noticed. I kept on my skirt and pants, which were damp from us both. I wasn’t prepared to let go of you quite yet. Closing my eyes, without the shame of Dale staring back at me, I relived it all. Feeling you again. A wave ran from my stomach to my knickers. Were you doing the same? Smiling at your poker hand, fingers tainted with me? My scent seeping through the wool of your trousers, making you want me again?
I took Wuthering Heights from my bag and sat on the floor next to the bed. Bent into the dark dust, reached blindly for the case and slid it out. Once in front of me, I stared at it. Not because it seemed filthier than ever. Not because I couldn’t face her diaries on my birthday, even though that thought crucified me. But because the metal clasp, the left metal clasp, which I’d so strongly pressed to lock the previous time, was up, unattached. Open.
The curry curdled in my stomach. I wiped the layer of sweat that had formed on the back of my neck and unclicked the right. Lifted the lid. They were there as usual. The worst one on top. Your allocated corner the saviour. I took our card, still refusing to believe what I knew, and inserted it inside the book as I’d looked forward to doing all day. Ignoring the tiny bulge due to the pearl I’d kept safe inside the envelope. Then I placed it neatly next to your pen, comb and T-shirt. Before lifting them all out again to find our photograph, which must have slipped underneath one of the diaries. I extracted, disturbed. Moved everything around, rummaged. It wasn’t there.
‘Have you found one you fancy yet?’ His voice carried through the hall into my room, into my skull.
‘Sorry . . . I was just having a quick ciggie. I’m going now,’ I shouted back.
The wine and realization turned my legs to jelly as I negotiated the hallway to his room. Inside, I shut the door behind me. The anorak swung from the peg on the back with the motion. I didn’t know where to look, but began opening his drawers as quietly as possible, my head flicking constantly towards the door, aware he could come in at any second. In the first drawer, there was nothing of note, except a pair of my knickers among his boxers. The second held his T-shirts, nothing else. The third contained tangled wires, old remotes, defunct mobile phones, packs of cheap bulbs. I went to close it, thinking where else to try when I caught sight of a small black box right at the back. I lifted it out. Removed the lid. And it was like my suitcase. Filled with souvenirs. But different. I don’t know how, it just was.
There were cinema tickets of films we’d seen, another pair of my knickers that I didn’t even recognize, the lipstick I’d lost, other receipts for things I didn’t remember going to. And there it was. Our picture. Except you’d been cut off. And there were other photographs. Of me sleeping in my room. They were dark, grainy. Feeling nauseous, I lifted them out. Looked through them. And as I did, I noticed the tinge of a pink feather in the corner. And I realized that the person asleep wasn’t me.
‘You can come in now,’ he shouted. ‘Constance . . . you have to close your eyes until you get here.’
With shaking hands, I returned the box, shut the drawer and grabbed one of the DVDs next to the TV.
Walking through the hall, I kept my eyes open, my eyes that were now wide open, until I neared the kitchen. Then complied. Screwed them tight. Like my insides. Feeling my way through the door frame, sensing the change from light to dark.
‘OK . . . you can open them.’
I did. Looking towards the table. There was no cake. Only the two candles now flickering within the unlit room.
I couldn’t see him at first. Then I could. He was next to the table. On the floor. Not collapsed. Worse. Kneeling.
He opened the tiny box that balanced within his cupped palms, like an oversized Oliver, asking for more. More of me.
‘Jesus, this is harder than I . . . Constance . . .’ He pulled out the ring. It was too dark to see properly and I prayed it was a Hula Hoop. That at any second, he’d point and say, ‘Argghhh, your face. Gotcha.’ Then I’d pretend it was a cruel thing to do to a woman. But as he held it between his fingers, I could see it glisten.
‘Constance, for the past week I thought I . . . Oh God . . .’ He placed the box on the floor and wiped his lip with his freed-up hand. ‘I know I don’t see my life without you . . . and . . . I want to look after you and make you feel safe . . . I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. For you to be Mrs Constance Cox.’
Constance Cox.
If only the ridiculous porn-star name was the sole reason I wanted to crumble into dust.
I don’t know how I reacted. I’m not sure I did or said anything, as he added, his voice and hands tremoring in equal measure, ‘I mean, you’ll probably want to keep your dad’s name too . . . so Constance Little-Cox.’
An eternity passed.
He returned the ring to the box. Stood and placed it on the table. ‘I’ve asked you to marry me and you haven’t said a thing.’
I remained in the doorway. Head down, a child about to be chastised. Gripped the DVD as if it was Blusha. ‘I know you have . . . I’m sorry.’
I felt him move closer. Waited for him to push past me, go to his room. But instead he flicked the light switch and brought all the embarrassment into brightness.
‘Well, I’ll take that as a no, then.’
He moved further into the kitchen. Placed his hands upon the worktop, bending forward, then stood upright again and collected up the dirty dishes.
I flinched at the noise of a pan dropping heavily into the sink, followed by the scraping of plates.
‘Dale . . . I didn’t say that . . . I . . .’
He turned with a bowl held between his fingers. ‘So you’re saying yes?’
‘I . . . No, but . . .’
He turned his back to me again. ‘Do you want to wash or dry?’ The noise of water flowing from the tap and the squirt of washing-up liquid filled the silence. Until he said, ‘I think you should wash. I mean, I did
make the fucking dinner after all.’ The ceramic slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor. Smash. White, sticky shards everywhere. He looked down. Didn’t move. Until he reached for the unopened bottle of Sauvignon, unscrewed the lid, poured a huge glass and downed it like water on a hot summer’s day.
I placed the DVD on the table, then knelt next to him. Collecting the smaller fragments of the crockery within the largest curved piece. He poured another glass, gesturing to ask if I wanted some. I shook my head and continued collecting the shards. Aware he was watching me, sipping. I couldn’t look at him. Perturbed at what I knew. What he knew.
‘Can’t we talk about this, Dale? It’s . . . It just took me by surprise, that’s all.’
‘Why? Why would you be surprised?’
I stood and walked over to the bin. The pieces rattled as they fell inside. ‘Because I—’
‘Is it because I tell you how much I love you and need you all the time? Because I do tell you that, don’t I? You not so much, though, hey? Is it because all I do is care for you and look after you? Is that why you’re so fucking surprised?’
‘I just didn’t think we were there.’ I bent down again for the dustpan and brush. Remained on the floor, moving on my knees over to the residue and dust.
He was now sitting at the table, shuffling the box around his hand like a stress ball. ‘Where are we, Constance?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if we’re not there, where are we?’
I swept the debris into the pan, then dared to stand, resting my back against the worktop. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘It was my grandmother’s. I told Mum and Dad I was going to ask you. They were so happy that I was doing something right for once. They were actually proud of me. Then she went upstairs and returned with it . . . said she wanted you to have it.’ Eyes glazed, he downed the remainder of the wine left in the glass. The mottled deep pink of his cheeks spread down his neck.
‘Dale . . . don’t drink more. Please . . . let’s just talk about it.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my fucking wife, you know.’ He laughed. ‘Do you get it? You’re not my wife?’
I emptied the pan into the bin and remained facing the wall. ‘I think I should go to Edward’s. It’s best if I leave you be tonight.’
‘No . . . No. What are you talking about? It’s your birthday. We’re having fun. I just made you dinner, so you can’t leave – you’ve got to do the washing-up.’ He came over to me and pulled me by the arm. ‘Come here . . . Come and sit with me. Have some wine.’
His fingers gripped harder as he led me over to the chair and pressed me down. Before sitting himself, he poured us both a glass.
‘Happy birthday.’ He lifted his glass and brought it towards me to clink.
I tentatively raised mine to meet his. After a huge gulp he caught site of the DVD. ‘Extreme Fishing? Interesting choice.’
‘I . . . I must have picked—’
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ He was opening the velvet box. Removed the ring. Pinched it between his fingertips before holding it up to the candle’s flame.
‘Yes.’
‘You should put it on.’
‘I don’t want to, Dale.’
‘Please.’ His voice flattened. My heart accelerated.
He took hold of my hand, pushed up my sleeve. ‘What did you do to your arm?’
‘I burned it, at work.’
‘On what?’
‘Coffee . . . I’d made a coffee and it spilt on my arm.’
‘You didn’t tell me. You don’t tell me anything, do you?’
Heat overwhelmed me and I tugged the neck of my sweatshirt to allow air to flow down my chest. ‘I . . . I do. I tell you everything.’
He smiled and encased his fingers around my wrist. ‘Who bandaged it for you?’
I didn’t move. I knew how much it would hurt.
‘I did.’
‘Not a doctor?’ The candle sparked and I turned instinctively, causing his fingers to press against my wound.
‘No . . . No one did it. I did it myself. I can show you the stuff.’
‘OK.’ He took hold of my hand, stroked my finger before slipping on the ring.
‘Please don’t,’ I said, but he continued. Pushing it, hard, over my knuckle. Snagging my skin. Eventually it sat at the base, tight like a tourniquet.
‘It looks pretty on you. Fits as well. Hold it up . . . Have a look.’
My hand protested. White skin bulged beyond the band. ‘It’s too tight. It’s hurting,’ I said, trying to pull it off.
‘Leave it . . . Just sit with it for a while.’
‘I can’t.’ The chair screeched as I stood and headed to the sink. Ran my hand under the cold tap. Hoping to reduce the swelling, the throb.
‘Nothing I do is right, is it?’
I splashed water on the back of my neck to control the burn spreading over me.
‘Is it, Constance? I’m just a joke to you. To you, Anna . . . all of you.’
‘Anna . . . Is Anna the girl who lived here before? Did you . . . Were you together?’
‘No, Constance . . . not together. No, you lot don’t want the nice guys, do you? It’s all about looks and money. Men like me never have a chance.’
‘What are you talking about?’ The diamond indented my other fingers as I yanked at the gold. I reached for the washing-up liquid.
‘Constance, don’t . . . Please don’t. Try it for a bit . . . See how you feel.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Dale, it’s killing me.’ As I massaged the green gel around the metal, I sensed him behind me. The curry rose in my gullet.
He moved my hair to the side. His breath tickling my neck. ‘Please just leave it.’ He lowered his lips to kiss my crawling skin.
I turned to make it stop. His chest met my face, the thick wool of his jumper suffocating me. Within the free inch of space between our bodies, I twisted and twisted until I managed to prise off the ring. My hand squeezed up in front of us.
‘Here,’ I said.
He lifted my chin with the crook of his finger. Forced me to look at his clouded eyes. At his face, now wet with tears, to which I’d been oblivious.
‘Do you have any idea what it’s like? To love someone so much and for them to not love you back?’ His voice was calm, low, tempered. Yet the hairs on my arms rose.
He released my chin, snatched the ring and sat back at the table. Rubbed it clean with his ribbed cuff before returning it with care to the slot inside the box. Closed it.
‘I do everything for you,’ he said.
‘I know. I know you do.’
I wiped my wet detergent hands down my skirt, while watching him pour the dregs from the wine glass into his mouth, then start on mine, until he paused and said, ‘Is there someone else?’
‘No . . . No, of course not.’
He let out a short, sharp laugh. ‘So there’s no one else?’
‘I’ve told you, no.’ I turned to finish drying my hands on the tea towel. Not pausing, not outwardly showing how my heart had almost stopped and the majority of blood had left my head. I’d masked it successfully.
Until he said, ‘The thing is, Constance . . . when you’re so consumed in watching someone else, you don’t notice eyes on you.’
My legs weakened. Spices burned the back of my throat.
‘What about the doctor?’
We looked at each other. I knew from his stare there was no point denying it. That it would make it worse. I lowered my head, barely able to make a noise from my constricted throat, and surrendered. ‘It . . . it was over before us. I swear.’
Nothing. I dared to raise my eyes to view him. He was tapping the box on the table, one, two, three, then flung it across the room like a cricket ball. It hit the wall, fell to the ground, lid splayed. Our silence highlighted by the sound of the ring tinkling against the terracotta tiles.
‘Please, Dale. You’re my friend. I don’t want to h
urt you.’ As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they were a poor choice.
‘Friend?’ He got up and went to the fridge. ‘I’m your friend, am I?’
‘I . . . I don’t mean just my friend.’ It was then I had a clear sense I should have run. But it was Dale. Only Dale.
He reached in for a beer, then came and stood right in front of me. With his eyes glued to mine, he slowly opened the cutlery drawer adjacent to my hip. I could hear my heart. He removed the bottle opener and popped off the top. Let it fall to the floor.
‘Then lift your skirt,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘If I’m not just a friend, then lift up your skirt.’ His body swayed as he gulped the beer. Not stopping until I could see half the liquid had disappeared. Then he started to cry.
I leant heavier against the counter. ‘Dale . . . you’re upset . . . I understand—’
‘I’m not upset. I’m just awake, Connie.’
His attempt to reach around me and put the bottle on the work surface failed and it toppled into the sink. Glass shattered against the pan. Beer sizzled into the water.
‘If you don’t just see me as a friend, then lift up your skirt and let’s fuck.’ His pained eyes leaked tears over his flaming cheeks, and white stringy froth connected his top and bottom lips as he pressed against me. My hands slipped back on the worktop and I could feel leftovers smearing my flesh. Plates clanked. My fingertip scraped the chopping-knife blade.
‘Dale . . . listen, you have to get off me. You’re upset, drunk.’
His face buried into my neck, while his hand reached for the hem of my skirt. The material rose between his fingers like a Roman blind, and he tried to kiss me. Our lips opposing magnets. Hot mucus and saliva slipped over my face. His free hand pulled at my hair. As I liked it. But I didn’t like it. I wanted to tell him, scream, though I couldn’t make words form, only pig-like squeals as his mouth overcame mine. Intruding tongue. A prelude to his hand weaving into my knickers, pulling them down and inserting his fingers inside me with force. It hurt. I cried.
Fury travelled from my toes up through the parts he was abusing and reached my head, until finally I managed to pull my mouth away long enough to shout, ‘Stop. Dale, you have to stop.’
If I Can't Have You Page 28
