by Jade Winters
"There's no need for you to leave," she said, trying her hardest not to show the desperation she felt.
"Yes, there is; I think you made your feelings quite clear last night."
"Be fair, Nancy, it did come as quite a shock."
"I know, and I'm sorry for that, but you did insist I tell you."
"I know.... Look, stop packing." Elsie went over and shut the suitcase lid. "I'm sorry," she said, smiling at Nancy. "I really am. Can we start again?"
"You didn't do anything wrong, Elsie. I know that homosexuality doesn't sit well with your religious beliefs; that's why I didn't want to tell you. I don't want to change you — in the same way that I don't want you to change me."
Nancy stood up. "Anyway, I have to go, I'm meeting my friends. I'll see you later." As Nancy got to the door, Elsie had jumped to her feet.
"Can I come?" she asked. Nancy looked puzzled. "If you want to...." she said slowly.
"Great!" Elsie grabbed her coat out of the wardrobe and followed Nancy from the room. If this was the price she had to pay for her friendship, then she would pay it.
When Elsie had met Nancy's friends, she was shocked at how normal they all seemed. They were nothing like the people her parents had portrayed as "disgusting sinners." They were intelligent, humorous and very outspoken about life in general. Each of them was so sure of themselves, so confident, that Elsie could quite understand why Nancy was drawn to them. The revolution of the sixties had spawned a new society that encouraged tolerance for almost everything. Within this group of women, lesbianism was portrayed as an acceptable lifestyle, and those who believed it was a sin were "homophobic hate-mongers."
Although it went against her Christian background, Elsie was soon indoctrinated enough to believe that this kind of lifestyle was acceptable, and that her parents were both ignorant and wrong.
As time went on, Elsie started to develop feelings for Nancy that went beyond friendship. Rather than thinking about her studies, she began obsessing and examining her friend's body language for signs of affection directed at her. The fleeting glance, the physical proximity, it all counted for something in Elsie's mind. It drew her in completely, and for the very first time in her life she found herself actually falling for someone — a woman. There were rumours going around the university that they were a "couple of lesbos," but Nancy didn't care what others thought; whereas Elsie was horrified. She tried her hardest to ignore the laughter that followed them wherever they went on campus and the rude literature that would slide under their door when they were sleeping. It was always the young men who taunted them; the girls just looked the other way, scared that if they spoke to them they would be labelled the same.
How both women actually felt about each other remained unspoken until the night that Elsie had lain in bed and felt Nancy get in beside her. Without saying a word, she'd planted a kiss on Elsie's lips and had just wrapped her arms around her to hold her closer when the bedroom door opened and a group of students had stood in the doorway mocking them, having caught them at their most vulnerable.
Nancy had jumped up and slammed the door in their faces and then tried to comfort Elsie, but Elsie had been inconsolable and hadn't wanted Nancy to touch her. Nancy had finally gone back to her own bed and eventually fallen asleep against the backdrop of Elsie's muffled sobs.
When Nancy had woken the next morning, she could barely open her eyes she was so tired. A blurred vision of Elsie came into view and she tried to figure out what Elsie was doing standing on a chair. As she'd opened her eyes wider a scream caught in her throat. Elsie had a dressing gown belt in a loop and was attempting to hang herself from the back of the coat hook.
Nancy had leapt out of bed and grabbed Elsie around the waist. After several seconds of struggling, she'd managed to get Elsie down onto the floor unharmed. Elsie was inconsolable, calling Nancy "the devil" and blaming her for enticing her into a web of deceit.
In the aftermath of her suicide attempt, Elsie had a nervous breakdown. She was taken back to her parents' home where they'd used every opportunity to denounce "the devil" in her. They called her a sinner so many times that in the end she began to believe it herself.
Her young, fragile mind would have accepted any reasoning as to why she had nearly fallen into the trap of homosexuality. She'd tried to make sense of the senseless, but she couldn't — she just wasn't strong enough. She'd finally simply accepted that people needed the "Good Lord" to survive, and now, three decades later, she would make sure her daughter would not go down the same route that she nearly had.
CHAPTER 10
FROM GIBBET HILL, the second highest hill in Surrey, Genevieve stood looking down at the spectacular Devil's Punchbowl, a large hollow of dry, sandy heath. The tranquillity and views the place afforded were just what she needed — a place to think and breathe. She had just wanted to get away from it all: her parents, the doctors, everyone and everything. She felt so alone.
How could this have happened to me? How could my life just disappear? Will it ever come back? She kept asking herself the same questions but the answers always remained the same: nobody knew. She felt like she was living in a freak show, and was actually surprised people weren't prodding her, although family and friends did gather around to gawp at her.
Each day she had to sit there with a false smile, trying so hard to have conversations she didn't feel like having. She wondered how well she had really got on with these people in her previous life. If they bore me now, what effect must they have had on me before, she thought wryly.
The only time she felt at ease was when she was with Paul. She enjoyed being with him — they seemed to have a common bond in their love of art and she could well imagine why she had agreed to marry him. He'd been to see her every day since she had moved back to her parents' house. He had taken her to visit their old haunts and never got frustrated by the fact that they were his memories alone and not hers.
She had hoped to try and make sense of the situation, but she was still none the wiser and she still didn't know what to do. Paul had suggested that she get back into her work and had asked her mother to contact her flat mate, Rebecca, and ask her to forward her belongings, but she was still waiting for them to arrive.
Genevieve wondered why she hadn't seen Rebecca again since she had left the hospital. She had enjoyed spending time with her and had been looking forward to seeing her again, but she hadn't returned. She had asked her parents about her but met with such a frosty reception that she hadn't broached the subject again. She did secretly wonder what the cause of such animosity could be — even Paul had been evasive when she'd asked him about her.
In a strange way she had felt more on a level with Rebecca than she had with all the people that came to visit her at her parents' house. Also, Rebecca had seemed genuinely concerned about her welfare. It could have been due to the fact they had been flat mates and she was just being polite, but it had felt more than that — she just couldn't put her finger on it.
She was in such a daydream that she didn't hear the footsteps coming toward her until the figure was standing beside her. She looked up, startled.
"Paul!"
"I hope you don't think I'm stalking you. Your mum said you had come up here and she wanted me to make sure you were alright."
"I'm fine."
"Do you mind if I rest my weary legs?" he asked.
"Feel free." Paul sat down beside her.
"It's amazing, isn't it?" he said, referring to the enormous, bowl-shaped landscape.
"Yes, it is." They fell silent for a few moments. "Did you read the information board about this place?"
"Yes, but I prefer to think of the mystical explanation rather than the boring one about water erosion." He laughed, continuing, "I take it you've come here to escape the asylum?" She nodded.
"Yes. I feel as though I'll suffocate if one more person tells me what a lovely person I was! Tell me something," she said, turning towards him. "If we were engaged, you would have known me
better than anybody, so what was I really like, warts and all?"
He moved closer and put his arm around her, encouraging her to lay her head on his shoulder.
"Warts and all, eh?" he said, smiling. She nodded.
"Well, you were — sorry are — one of the best artists I have ever met in my life. You've seen your work; it speaks for itself. You were also impulsive, and often did things before you really had time to think about them —" She interrupted him.
"Was that an annoying habit of mine? I mean, did it cause arguments between us?" She felt him stiffen. "I take it that's a yes?" she asked, lifting her head from his shoulder to look at him.
"You've got to understand, Gen... When your work went mainstream, a lot of people became interested in you, and you may have done things on the spur of the moment that weren't the real you — more like your alter-ego, if you like."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, Gen... Just things," he said, looking uncomfortable.
"Paul, did I do something really bad? Did I hurt someone?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes.
"No, of course not," he said reassuringly. "What makes you think that?"
"I don't know, but something just doesn't feel right." She saw a flicker of fear cross his face, but it happened so quickly she thought she might have imagined it.
"Are you remembering something?" he asked, straightening up on the bench.
"Not so much remembering; they're just feelings. I don't know, I can't explain it," she said, feeling frustrated that she couldn't express herself.
"Don't force it, darling," he said, holding her hand. "If you are going to remember, then you will. You know what the doctor said: Just relax." She turned around to look in front of her.
"I'm thinking of visiting a hypnotist to see if that will help me."
"No!" Paul barked and jumped up from the bench, startling Genevieve.
"I'm sorry," he said, desperately trying to sound calmer. "I'm sorry, but I just don't trust those people. They could put anything into your mind. Please Gen; promise me you won't go to one of those quacks." She looked unconvinced but nodded. Paul decided not to push the issue any further.
"Look," he said, sitting back down and holding both her hands in his. "I will be here for you through this. I will help you; you don't need anyone else. We'll get through this together, Gen." He said it with such sincerity, Genevieve couldn't help but feel moved.
"Thank you, Paul," she said, cuddling him. "You're a good man and a good friend."
"I hope I'm more than just a friend," he said, drawing her away from him so he could look into her eyes. "I tell you what," he said, quickly changing the subject. "Why don't you come round to mine tonight? I will cook you an amazing meal and you will be the first to see my new work." He could tell that she was turning the idea over in her mind. "I promise I'll be on my best behaviour — no pressure, just dinner," he said with a boyish grin. She smiled back at him.
"Okay, just dinner."
"That's my girl." He stood up and pulled her up off the bench.
* * *
Paul lived in Surrey, minutes away from Guildford's town centre. They drove along a tree-lined street before stopping in front of a large steel gate. Paul took a remote control from the glove compartment and the gate began to slowly open with a loud creak, revealing a large, mansion-style building. Its architectural design bestowed graciousness on the surrounding houses, its immaculate communal gardens, which rolled on for acres, added to its grace. They pulled up in front of the building and got out, walking the short distance to the very large oak door. Seeing Genevieve's shocked impression, Paul laughed.
"Don't get too excited, I don't own the whole place," he said, pushing the door open into a large formal reception area. "The house was split up into apartments when the landlord couldn't afford the upkeep of it — I'm just over here." He led her across the hall to a white door.
She was just as impressed with Paul's apartment as she was with the exterior. A large, open-plan living space housed the living room and kitchen. The furniture and fittings in both spaces looked like they had literally been dropped out of a designer magazine and had magically fallen into place. It was a contemporary, minimalist dream home. The apartment was painted in white throughout with tasteful art adorning the walls. Genevieve whistled, taking it all in.
"Some place you have here... and tidy." He smiled, leading her to a room adjacent to the hallway. It was in his work studio where she noticed that chaos ensued as he swung open the door for her. Large canvases covered most of the wall space, all of which would be shown at the exhibit later that week. An old, battered brown table that could house at least ten guests stood in the middle of the room covered with paint tins, brushes in jars and old rags stained with paint. It was a manic scene.
"And this," he said proudly, opening his arms to take in all of his paintings, "is the theme of my exhibit: 'Man and his Consciousness,'" he said dramatically.
He explained to her his intention to depict the continual struggle of man and his emotions, "To look behind the veil of man." Paul had visited many people in mental institutions to get a feel of their inner demons and had expressed this in his art.
"I'll leave you to look around while I get supper started," he said, leaving the room. She walked over to the largest painting, which she assumed was the showpiece of the collection. Standing in the forefront of the image was a young man dressed in casual attire. To his left was an image of the same handsome face contorted with rage. The same theme followed throughout the collection — different images of one's state of mind: fear; love; confusion; madness... Paul's art was vividly authentic.
The sweet aroma of Thai food drifted into the studio.
"Wine, darling?" Paul asked, handing her a glass.
"Thank you," she said, taking it from his hand. "Paul, I have got to say these paintings are truly amazing. My God, they're unbelievable!"
"I'm glad you like them, seeing as you were the inspiration behind them."
"Me?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes, you. With every stroke of the paintbrush I felt as though I was caressing you."
He moved closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. The effect of the alcohol and the softness of his lips sent shivers down her spine. She leaned back into him and let him envelop her with his arms. She felt safe and wanted... and something else.
Something was niggling at the back of her mind, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Was it guilt? But what could she feel guilty about? Paul was her fiancé. To let someone other than her partner kiss her would have been an act of infidelity, but this wasn't the case. Was it because she didn't really know him? Obviously they must have been intimate before, but she couldn't remember those times. Were her parents and their religious rants perhaps playing on her mind? Surely in the grand scheme of things just kissing wouldn't cast her down into the fiery depths of hell? She quickly disentangled herself on the pretence of wanting to see more of his work.
"I'd better get back to the kitchen before I burn supper, anyway." He blew her a kiss and left the room.
Back on her own, Genevieve gulped her wine to steady her nerves. What was wrong with her? Why was she feeling so nervous, so deceitful? She wondered if there had been more damage done to her brain than just memory loss. She couldn't stand in Paul's studio all night — he would think she was crazy. Perhaps the best policy would be to explain her feelings to him; she owed him that much after all he had done for her.
She made her way to the kitchen. He had set the table beautifully with a white linen tablecloth, candles, and fresh red rose petals sprinkled around, perfectly setting the scene for a romantic meal for two. He refilled her glass and they made small talk while he finished preparing dinner. She was impressed with how he worked in the kitchen. No fuss or drama, he oozed confidence in everything he did.
He laid the plates out on the table and served the piping hot food. Genevieve took a mouthful of the yellow curry.
"This
is delicious," she said, and she meant it. He smiled at her, very pleased with himself.
"I thought my cooking would jolt some memories for you," he said playfully.
"Now be honest with me, did I ever cook?"
"You sure did," he said, bursting out laughing. She joined in his laughter.
"Oh, it was like that, was it?"
"I'm afraid so. On the odd occasion you did something right, like making a boiled egg," he teased.
"Well it's good to know I could do something." Their laughter died down and he looked intently into Genevieve's eyes.
"I really have missed you; this is just like old times." In her tipsy haze she could quite believe him. The atmosphere and his company had worked wonders for her. The episode of guilt she'd had earlier was beginning to wash away.
"I'm so sorry I can't remember," she said sadly, and she meant it. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for him, having a partner who didn't remember him or their life together, and who felt guilty for being intimate with him.
"Don't worry; I have enough memories for the two of us. They'll just have to do for now," he said kindly. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you, Paul." As she went to lean back into her chair he stopped her and took her face in his hands, then gently, almost paternally, kissed her softly on the lips. She liked the sensation of feeling his soft lips on hers. She kept her eyes open, watching him angle his head to kiss her more deeply. When she didn't move back he put a little more pressure into the kiss. Her mouth was dry with anticipation and fear.
She could feel his stubble rubbing the top of her lip and she immediately winced, fighting the temptation to pull away from him. He used his tongue to part her lips and at that stage something jolted in her. She immediately withdrew. Something was definitely up. Something just wasn't right. There was something about him that was bothering her. Whether it was to do with him physically or emotionally she didn't know.
"I'm sorry," she said, standing up.
