The calendar entry for your meeting with Laura was still stuck on the fridge, humiliating me. As I stared at it, I gulped the fiery spirit until it lodged, hot, inside my chest. Sedated, I returned the bottle to the cupboard, lax about exact positioning. When I turned to leave, the room appeared disjointed and I had to blink repeatedly to recalibrate my vision.
On the way to the bedroom, I stepped into the lounge, switched on the light. All was fine. Still. Neat. Inspecting the room, I opened the CD player. Arthur Rubinstein. Chopin. Nocturnes. I pushed it back in and turned to leave. It was then I noticed your phone on the coffee table. Relieved you weren’t ignoring me, I pressed the home button to illuminate the screen. I forgot everything for a fleeting pleasurable moment when it displayed only my missed calls.
As I wandered back through the hall, I was losing the battle. Waves were flooding in from all directions. I needed to be closer to you, to lie on your bed, feel you cocooning me, distracting me. Was that what you’d been all along? A distraction?
In your bedroom, the tidiness both surprised and unsettled me. Clothes away. Shoes army-worthy, against the wall. Your bed made, inviting me.
Sinking onto the mattress, I closed my blurring eyes. The room spun like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz and I was haunted by images of Edward’s lifeless body, interspersed with Mum’s lifeless body. A flickering snuff movie I couldn’t switch off. Which culminated with her blue, blood-freckled face turning to look at me. I jolted upright, clammy, and staggered to the bathroom to splash my face.
Nauseous, yet unable to allow myself any release, leave evidence, I fearfully hung over the sink. Dizzying further by watching the water swirl the basin, I looked up to the mirror. It was her again, staring back at me. I blinked and she was gone.
I needed it all to stop. Distract myself further, immerse my brain with pleasant thoughts. Other thoughts. Which led me to the wardrobe. Inside the forbidden box.
The luxuriousness of the fabric took me elsewhere. Taffeta scraped across the cardboard as I dragged it free. I’d only intended to hold it against me, but as I did, a vision of Edward’s surrendered face intruded my thoughts, so I removed my coat and jumper, and slipped my skirt over my boots. Stepped inside. Allowed the frothing, rustling ocean to envelop my body. Positioning my breasts correctly into the bodice before zipping it as high as I could manage. It fitted me so well. Made to measure. Perhaps somehow it was. That I was destined to wear it.
I clipped in the delicate veil. Brought half up over my dishevelled hair to cover my face. The rest draped my back, pulling me into the correct posture as I closed my eyes, imagined you watching me glide towards you, a bouquet of white roses in hand. Nothing garish – you wouldn’t like that. Understated. The guests would gasp at my elegance. How pretty my dress was. The veil. How radiant I was beneath.
When I lifted it from my face, they were both stood, one either side of me in the mirror’s reflection. Her perfect crooked grin. His watery grey eyes, which I’d remembered for the first time. Planting an unwanted seed of anger as they pierced through me.
They were both alive, there. Proud. Ready to give me away.
My mum and dad.
I raised my hands to reach for theirs, but there was only air. And in the mirror, once again, there was only me.
I stumbled backwards, knocking against the wardrobe and disrupting the perfect line of shoes. This made me hyper aware of where I was, what I was doing, and I had the sudden urge to leave. Straightening myself, I wiped my face with the back of my hand and reached behind for the zip. It was fine at first. Gliding down as required. Then it stopped. Snagged. Presumably on the veil. My initial concern was to not damage the fragile tulle. But my priorities changed as my gentle tugs achieved nothing. The force I applied increased on each attempt. I was hot, suffocating. Sweat seeped as I repeated the action again and again and again. Hindered by the voluminous sleeves that also blocked my vision as I twisted to see if the mirror could help me identify the problem. My biliousness increasing with the panic of each unsuccessful reach and grapple.
I thought I’d imagined it at first.
Froze. Blinked. Hoped that it would disappear in the same way as all the other hallucinations.
The sound of a key in the door.
The step, step, step.
My head spun like the Waltzers. My body remained a statue. The taffeta desperate to give me away. I listened as you went to the lounge. Closed my eyes and prayed you’d just come back for your phone and would rush off again.
‘Yep, it’s here . . . Sorry, mate. You know what I’m like. I had visions of it being on the pavement in the snow and I’d be screwed . . . Ha . . . Yeah, totally . . . Not to mention five years of totty. Cheers, pal. Sorry again . . . Yeah . . . OK . . . See you next week.’
Then there was music.
I presumed it was the Chopin playing. I must take this opportunity to thank you again for introducing me to classical music. Even then, a trapped animal, it calmed me. I closed my eyes. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Perhaps my calmness was submission. Coming to terms with my fate. Which arrived within the next couple of bars.
From inside my bag, my ringtone joined in with the melody. Inharmonious, displeasing. The discord worsened by the additional step, step, step.
I turned towards the doorway.
And there you were.
Phone at your ear. Until your hand dropped to your side in shock.
I can’t recall which of us spoke first.
Though I remember running towards the bathroom, dress hitched, bustling behind me like Cinderella leaving the ball at midnight. Before tripping, jolting forward and hoisting up an armful of material and pushing it between my legs. You don’t know what’s round the corner in life, good or bad. And finally throwing up in your sink. The veil, a fishing net catching the vile juice. I could see your reflection in the mirror. The stench of sizzling booze triggered another heave, muffling your shouts.
‘Of course, of course you’re being sick . . . You are fucking sick.’
You were uglier than I’d ever seen you before. Mouth contorting, spit accumulating in its corners. It was surprising how much you reminded me of Dale.
Regaining my breath, I managed to talk. ‘I’m sorry, Samuel . . . Please, I’m so sorry.’
You paced behind me. Gripping your hair like you used to do to mine. Fury emanating from your pores, electrocuting me with your sharp words like a stun gun against the head of an animal awaiting slaughter. I sank into my own world, listened to Chopin. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
‘Constance. Are you even fucking listening? How the fuck did you get in? You know what, it doesn’t matter . . . You can tell the police.’
Like all animals, I wanted to survive. ‘Please, Samuel . . . don’t . . . don’t call the police . . . Just let me explain.’ I turned and placed my hand on your arm, gentle proof of how harmless I was, how sorry. You flinched as if I was a leper.
‘Explain? What’s to fucking explain? You’re in my flat . . . You’re wearing my mother’s wedding dress, you absolute lunatic.’
You were right, of course. I don’t blame you for being so angry. But your words stabbed me and I slid down the fascia of the sink unit, onto the floor. Surrounded by taffeta and lace. My face stretched, crying.
Through the blur I noticed you lift the phone, press digits, before almost instantaneously returning it to your pocket and looking at me.
‘Fuck it . . . Go on then, Constance. Explain.’
But when it came to it, I didn’t know what to say. How to articulate myself. How do you explain such a thing?
All I could muster was, ‘I’m sorry,’ as I grabbed on to the slippery-edged sink and pulled myself up, before running past you to the bedroom, where once again I tried so hard to remove the dress.
After a delay you followed me in.
Your calmness was unsettling.
You were still. Arms loose by your sides. I mirrored you. Dropped mine from
behind my back. Then you spoke. Slow, measured. ‘The calls . . . the card . . . It wasn’t Fiona, was it?’ You edged nearer. ‘The car. It was nothing to do with those lads. It was all you, wasn’t it?’
I couldn’t bring myself to plead guilty, but weary of the denial, I confessed with my silence, cowering my head, like the bad child I was.
All was quiet. Aside the hypnotic piano. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I’d hoped it signalled the end of the confrontation, but you grabbed me by my wounded arm, twisted me to look at you, before speaking through tightened teeth.
‘Take the dress off, get the fuck out of my flat and life, then get some help.’
The way you looked at me was not dissimilar to when you were fucking me, and part of me wondered if you’d lean in for a kiss. But you released me with an extra jolt to push me away, then stumbled backwards into your perfect row of shoes, which led you to bend down, pick up a brown brogue and lob it across the room.
I jumped as it thudded against the abstract black-and-white print that I never really understood.
This seemed to calm you enough to walk over to the bed, drop onto the edge and lower your head. Your hair cascading over your face in that way it did. Enticing me to run through it with my fingers.
‘Why, Constance? I’ve only ever been nice to you . . . I thought you were my friend?’
You truly believed that, didn’t you? Within your little bubble of self and wants. I wonder, do any of us grasp our effects on others, as we float through life in these bubbles, fuelled by our own desires? You looked so hurt. I was distressed I’d disappointed you, just like I’d disappointed Dad. So I spoke the words I’d regretted not saying when he went for his walk that day.
‘Because I . . . I love you.’
You looked up at me. Your face lifted as if you’d waited all this time to hear me say it. You smiled. As did I. And the relief I felt after so desperately wanting to express it all that time was instantaneous. But your smile switched to a laugh. A nasty, mocking laugh. Only breaking to mimic me.
‘I love you . . . I love you.’
I tried not to cry as your cackle bounced around the room. Humiliating me. And I realized that’s what it had all been. Just one long humiliation.
‘It’s true, Samuel.’ I turned to the mirror. Tugged at the zip again, trying to see in the reflection what the problem was, but it remained my trap. My frustrations grew. At you, the dress, myself. Then the scream came from me.
‘Please . . . please stop it, Samuel.’
It worked.
You looked ashamed. As if you’d finally understood how hurtful you were being. You’d been. Grasped everything you’d done.
You stood, paced the room.
I used the silence to help you understand. ‘Dale . . . he . . . well, he hit me tonight . . . and my dear friend died, and I . . . I just wanted to be close to you.’
You stopped and glanced at me, before closing your lids for a moment as if to show how sorry you were. The pacing began again.
I waited, watched you ruminate. ‘Do you . . . Did you love me too?’
You stopped mid-movement, like in a game of musical statues, despite Chopin continuing in the background. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Slowly you turned towards me. Your face a twisted version to the one I knew.
‘No. No, Constance . . . I don’t. And I didn’t. And I’m stunned that you’d have thought I might.’
The words echoed before infiltrating my ears, my mind, my heart.
Was it the way my stomach contracted as if you’d punched me or my tears I could no longer control that fuelled you into grabbing the tops of my arms, causing the dress sleeves to deflate like burst balloons. Shaking me.
‘What’s wrong with you lot? We had sex. That’s all. For fuck’s sake, since when does sex down an alleyway indicate love?’ Blood flooded your face as you let go, walked away, then turned back, pointing your finger. ‘No, you don’t . . . I got my memory back of that night way afterwards . . . Don’t you dare think you have any moral high ground here . . . Don’t you fucking dare.’
You went to the bedside table and retrieved the pack of cigarettes from the drawer. Lit one as you walked over to the window, hoisted it up, then held your smoking hand outside the room. The influx of cold air was a welcome sensation.
‘Did I make you a promise, Constance? Any promises at all? Tell me.’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘No . . . exactly. I mean . . . what are you, a teenager? You think because we have sex we must be in love? That I’d want something more from you?’ You blew smoke towards the outside world before removing a particle of tobacco from your tongue.
‘I was in love, though, Samuel.’
You laughed as you flicked ash onto the outside ledge. ‘Well, Constance, that’s because you’re fucking nuts.’
I raised my head, stood up straight. ‘You said you’d only sleep with someone if you had feelings for them.’
You took a hard drag, your words entwined with the exhaled smoke. ‘You know what? I’m done . . . This is insane . . . You’re insane—’
‘And you knew I had feelings for you . . . yet you kept on doing it.’
‘Oh, so this is all my fault now?’ You stubbed the cigarette out on the ledge, dropped the window with a thud and turned. ‘I should have you fucking sectioned.’
All went silent.
We looked right at each other. Your cheeks turned puce. Knowing what we were both thinking. How like your father you really were. How those apples don’t fall far.
‘Get out, Constance. Go on . . . get out. Or I really will call the police.’
I took you at your word. Gathered my clothes and bag, and ran out the room as best I could, hindered by the cumbersome material.
‘You can’t take the dress, for fuck’s sake.’
As I opened the front door, you came behind, attempting to press it shut, which led to a brief pushing-and-pulling sequence, until you let go and the edge ricocheted back, smacking me in the face, knocking the already-damaged tooth.
Pain shot through me like a bullet. The metallic taste of blood burst into my mouth. I couldn’t see what you were doing, or your reaction, because I’d broken free and was about to run, when I stopped at the top of the stairs, swathed in the chandelier’s glow.
‘Come on, Constance . . . just give me the dress. It’s my mother’s.’
I turned to you. Earnest. ‘It won’t undo, though.’
The atmosphere changed as if we’d called a truce. You came to me. Gently. As though we may kiss. Then yanked me around and tugged, hard, at the zip. Strands of my hair entwined your fingers, though it lacked the pleasure it used to, and the combined agony of my now bruised scalp and broken tooth caused me to yelp.
A droplet of red fell from my lips to the bodice. Then another. And another. I surrendered to the music once more. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Waiting for it all to end.
The door of the opposite flat opened.
Tippi Hedren emerged, her excited dog circling her legs as she stared at us, phone in hand. You were oblivious to our audience. Shouting, swearing, shoving me around like a doll.
I looked directly at her. ‘Samuel, you’re hurting me.’
I don’t think I’ll ever truly know what happened next.
I frequently attempt to fill in the blanks. But each time it’s different, like a game of Chinese whispers.
I had my back to you, so I’ll never know for sure. But Tippi Hedren, or Mrs Jennifer Prowse, as I now know her to be called, gave the best account. The account the police believed.
‘Leave her alone,’ she shouted, ‘or I’m calling the police.’
The Labrador barked its support.
Perhaps it was the veil that slipped down my head with every jerking movement. Mrs Prowse insisted it was. That your shoe caught in the net, causing you to step back once, twice . . . We both know what happened the third time.
For
ced to shift with you, I swirled beneath the tulle, as if we were dancers transported to a ballroom. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Teetering on the top of the stairs, arms reaching for mine, your torso leant backwards over the sweeping marble steps. I grabbed your wrist, tight, knuckles whitening. My other hand gripped the rail, which moved, unstable, back and forth. I was your counterbalance, and we were engaged in the most intimate split-second dance.
It’s funny, they say when you die your life flashes before you. But I too saw a film rush running backwards, catching moments. The day I first saw you, the drip, drip, drip of the tap, dancing to Blondie, searching the pubs of Salford for her, Dad kissing me goodbye.
And as we locked eyes, the familiarity of yours dawned on me. The creases at the corner; long, silky lashes; watery grey. They were just like his. And there it was again. Our beautiful connection. Everything I knew we were.
Then I let you go.
So there it is. My explanation. My explanation of love.
Dr Franco was right. It has been cathartic to write it all down. Get it off my soul. Make peace with it. I hope when we meet again that you’ll find it within you to forgive me. As I have forgiven you.
I’m sorry I didn’t make the funeral. You know how I don’t like funerals, especially ones that . . . you know . . . But I knew you’d understand. You hate them too.
A few days afterwards Dr Franco visited me, said the crematorium was packed out with people singing your praises. So that’s nice.
We lit a candle for you here instead. Said a prayer. Our own little ceremony. I light one for you every night in my room. Next to the funeral booklet Alison sent me. But you probably already know that.
I don’t see anyone anymore, though, apart from Dr Franco. I still have sessions with him. Not at the surgery but at his home in Ealing. Except I pay now. Not full whack, because he still likes to think he’s helping me. But he fills me in on the goings-on.
There’s a new doctor apparently, a woman. Linda hasn’t taken to her and keeps threatening to leave. And Alison got engaged to Kevin. I promise I’m not being facetious when I say they really are made for each other.
If I Can't Have You Page 30
