Valentina

by S. E. Lynes

  Mikey appeared at the bedroom door, Isla on his hip. Not a delusion, he was real, really there. He was dressed for work.

  “Morning, boozer.” He grinned widely, leant against the doorjamb.

  “Stop smiling, it’s offensive.” I moved my hand over my eyes, peered out between the pink foggy edges of my fingers. “What time is it?”

  “Half past eight.”

  “Oh God, is that all? Why can’t I sleep in any more?”

  “Your body clock’s set for fascist baby o’clock, that’s why. And some of us have got to go to work. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  I smiled at him. “That would be great.”

  He padded out of the room. I pushed myself down under the covers. A second later, the creak of the top stair, his footsteps receding. An urge to pee. I sat up, threw back the covers and stood. But my vision swarmed, a blackish kaleidoscope, spinning. I had to stop and put my hands to my knees until the dizziness cleared before moving again but stayed hunched as I walked, stepping carefully over the tangle of my clothes on the bedroom floor. In the bathroom I kept my eyes away from the mirror – the last thing I wanted to see was myself.

  I peed: the short, strong stream of the seriously dehydrated. I shuffled back to the bedroom, pulled on one of Mikey’s t-shirts from the back of the chair and crawled back into bed. Downstairs, Mikey was talking to Isla. The childlike rise and fall of his words reached me. My eyes were sore, even when closed. Oh, why had I drunk so much? What had I been thinking? Beyond nine or so, the night was a blur. A memory came, of Mikey lying me down on the bed. Me getting up, protesting, him pushing me back. “Shona, sleep it off. You’re wasted.”

  The irresistible softness of the pillow beneath my head.

  He must have returned downstairs. To her. At dinner, they had been flirtatious with each other, nothing outrageous, nothing I could complain out loud about without sounding like a jealous witch. And then I had left them alone together in front of a log fire, mellow, woozy and warm. I should have stuck it out, waited for her to leave. But no, I was being paranoid. Mikey was just being Mikey: charming, cheeky, full of mischief. He was like that with everyone – women, men, old, young – it was his way. And as for Valentina, didn’t I already know she was an incorrigible flirt? Hadn’t she drawn me in with her drawling, wicked humour, her intense green eyes? She had escaped a parking fine by promising to let a policeman take her out, for goodness sake.

  I sat up, clutching my head. The policeman. He had given her his number. I had found it in the footwell. Had she called him for that drink after all?

  Last night, Mikey had said he’d put her in a taxi. I thought I remembered him muttering something about Valentina being too drunk to drive, his voice all smoky and late night.

  I threw my legs over the side of the bed, stood carefully this time, rolled my head slowly up. I shuffled over to the window and looked out onto the driveway.

  Her car was gone. A creak on the stairs.

  “Room service.”

  I turned to see Mikey carrying a breakfast tray into the bedroom.

  “I’ve put sugar in your tea,” he said. “And extra marmalade on the toast.”

  “Oh, you wee darlin’. Thanks.” I climbed into bed and propped myself up with pillows, took the tray from him and set it on my knee. The toast smelled good: sugary, restorative. “Where’s Isla?”

  “In her high chair, talking to a marmite soldier called Steven.” He kissed me on the head, sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at me intently. I wished he would reduce his energy levels. He was too bright. I had to screw my eyes up to look at him. “Sore head?”

  “I feel like ten pounds of shite in a five pound bag.” I took a sip of tea. It was too hot. I put it back on the tray and nibbled the toast instead, closing my eyes for a moment at the vivid sweetness.

  “Valentina’s car isn’t on the drive.”

  “So?”

  “You said she got a taxi.”

  “Did I? When?”

  “Last night. You said you’d put her in a taxi.”

  He frowned. “Did I?” His face cleared. “Yes! I did. That’s right. I did put her in a taxi.” He made a silly face. “God, how much did we have to drink?”

  “Too much. We’re debauched.” I took another small bite of toast. “I can’t believe you said that thing about the oil rig – about the masturbating. For Christ’s sake, Mikey, you barely know her.”

  He laughed, threw back his head. “Give over. She loved it.”

  “I know, but she might have been offended.” My head pulsed – a shot of pain at my temples. “Oh God, I need a painkiller.”

  “I’ll get it.” He left the room, came back with a glass of water and a foil wrap of pills. “Your wish is my command.”

  I wished he’d stop smiling – he looked smug, as if he’d won a bet.

  “How come her car’s gone?” I asked him.

  “What d’you mean?” He sat again on the side of the bed, his weight causing me to lean awkwardly towards him.

  “If she got a taxi,” I insisted, straightening myself up, “how come her car’s not there?”

  He shrugged. “She must have come back for it early this morning.”

  “In what?” I said. “They’ve only got one car, I think.”

  “Maybe she got another cab or got a lift.” He stuck out his bottom lip – non-plussed. “Listen, I’m really late for work.” He kissed me again on the head. “Anyway, I think you might have taken advantage of me last night.” He kissed my cheek. “I’m feeling violated, frankly.” My neck. “You are very ...” My mouth. “Sexy.”

  “That’s what they say.” I picked up my mug, my face mirrored on the surface of the tea, no more than an odd light and shadow pattern, unstable fragments: an eye, a nostril. “If only I could remember.”

  He left. I sipped my tea, puzzling over the empty driveway. A cab both ways would cost a fortune but she did spend money like water. Those flowers too. A lot of dosh for a yoga teacher. A lift, then. In a police car?

  Later that morning I texted Valentina:

  Too much to drink! Sorry I caved.

  Hope Mikey didn’t keep you up too late. C U soon. x

  She replied:

  I k r? Thanks for having me over, babe.

  Food great.

  Michael so nice! Sore head today.

  Hope I didn’t stay too late? V

  I read the text two, three times, deliberating. Then I thought: fuck it.

  You didn’t drive home, did you?

  I’d barely put down the phone when it bleeped:

  Christ, no! Grabbed a cab back over at 7.

  Surprised you didn’t hear – it was a diesel lol.

  I smiled, impressed. Here was me, a shambles in my dressing gown, barely functioning. She meanwhile was up at dawn, saluting the sun as if she’d hit the hay at ten with a cup of camomile tea and a good book. The woman was made of steel.

  Is Red any better?

  I wrote.

  Red mad as hell. Am officially in doghouse (Crazy, fuming devil emoticon, gritted teeth face and a pile of steaming shite.)

  I laughed. She had won the last word – with a picture.

  ***

  People who play with fire end up getting burnt. Only now, with the smell of freshly combusted phosphorous clinging to her frozen fingers, does the cliché form itself in her mind. People who play with fire ... she wonders why, given the circumstances, she hasn’t thought of it until now ... end up getting burnt. But isn’t that what boring people say to keep their kids from having fun? Play safe, risk nothing, shrink back, be good. Hasn’t she always yearned for more than that? Hasn’t she always dreamed? How else did she get here?

  People who play with fire ... These leaden-faced alarmists wouldn’t know a good time if it came up and smacked them in the mouth. They have never risked, never thrown themselves in with their eyes closed and their hearts tight with heady thrill.

  Or maybe they have. Once, long ago. Maybe, if pushed, some
thing in their memory would kindle and they would be able to recall a time when blood ran high in their veins and love and sex were one and the same thing and life was raw and every bit as all-consuming as the flames they try to keep you from today. Maybe their fires have simply gone out, maybe they are used to their own diminished states by now. Not her. She is still glowing among the coals, no more than a charred remnant who once lived and loved without fear, who played as near to the flames as she damn well felt and, of course, got burnt.

  ***

  FIFTEEN

  During those months, I felt sometimes that if I blinked, Mikey would be here, that if I blinked again, he would not, that all I had to do was this: open my eyes – he was here, close my eyes, not here. Here. Not. Here.

  Not. I woke up and this time I really was alone. Monday. Mikey had left as usual on Saturday but here I was, two days later, still waking and expecting him to be there, still feeling the soft punch of dismay when he wasn’t. It was 6:30am, Isla for once still asleep. Too tired, too lazy to go and get myself a cup of tea, I lay in bed and ran through the day ahead. Valentina had said she would come over as usual for lunch, so that was something to look forward to – although I looked forward to our time together less than I had a month ago. On Friday I had seen her but only briefly. She’d had a private client, had dropped Zac over for a couple of hours but had not come in for a chat.

  She had less time to chat these days, I thought then, and more private classes. Were they private classes? Or was she seeing him, leaving me holding the baby? The thought was horrible. I knew I shouldn’t even be thinking that way about her but now I’d had the thought, I couldn’t get it out of my head. No matter how many times I told myself there would be a completely reasonable, even boring explanation, the man in the car was lodged in my psyche. He had by then taken the borderline comic form of a policeman in uniform, a domed helmet, a whistle. Let’s be ’avin’ you. Was it possible she was lying to me? I knew people functioned fine on lies: their own, other people’s, it didn’t matter – they could glide around like swans on a lake, shaking untruths like water from their oily feathers. God knows, I’d met enough of these people in my time at The Tribune – politicians, white-collar criminals, a church minister once – big lies, big secrets. You’d think the smaller lies of love or friendship might matter less in the greater context of the world. But they don’t. They matter more.

  Isla cried out from her cot. I threw back the covers and went to her, found her flushed, irritable, her brow singeing and damp against my hand. I ran and fetched the Calpol, injected it with the medicine syringe into her wailing mouth. I carried her around, shushing, soothing, singing to her. She refused milk. Clamped her lips at the sight of Weetabix, cried at it, turned her head away. I carried her around the cottage, trying to comfort her but by ten o’clock, she was sicker than I’d ever seen her, her eyelids swollen, her forehead hot as lava. She would not stop crying, even in my arms. I added baby ibuprofen to the cocktail, stripped off her clothes and bathed her with cool water. Still she raged, despairing, wailing. I tried to take her temperature but she was thrashing about so much I couldn’t hold the thermometer steady for long enough without dropping her. And then gurgling, a foul smell. I took off her nappy to find it covered in inhuman, greenish, liquid shit.

  “Oh, my wee girl,” I said over her howling cries. Nothing, nothing strikes into your heart more than that sound, that plaintive look in your own baby’s eyes: help me, Mummy. Help me.

  I’m trying, baby, I’m trying.

  “Shh, now,” I cooed. “Mummy’s here. Dear, dear, dear, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Her cries escalated, as urgent and frightening as ambulance sirens in the dead of night. Somehow I managed to put a clean nappy on her, to pull on a fresh romper suit. I picked her up, rocked and bounced her on my hip, trying all the while to soothe her into quiet.

  I had to call Valentina. There was no way she could come today. I searched for my phone but Isla gave another howl and exploded again. I cleaned her a second time, ran cold water into the bath and dumped the soiled baby clothes in there before pacing up and down the landing, singing as softly and as calmly as I could.

  “Ally bally, ally bally bee,

  Sittin on yer mammy’s knee,

  Greetin’ for a wee bawbee,

  Tae buy some Coulter’s Candy.”

  She calmed down a little but still each one of her cries pierced the skin and bones of me. She was still so hot, her head lolled back against my arm. Was she simply sleepy or was she becoming listless? Feeling terribly alone, I dialled Valentina’s number.

  As always these days, she answered straight away.

  “Val,” I said, halfway to crying. “Isla’s sick. She’s really sick. She’s shitting green, it’s like soup and I can’t get her temperature to go down. I’m going to have to cancel. I won’t get out for food, I won’t get out I don’t think all day, I ... I think I need to take her to hospital.”

  “Shona. Shona?”

  I made myself shut up.

  “Shona, listen. You’re right, you do need to take her in. It’s going to be OK, but she might need a saline drip, maybe antibiotics, and you need to get her checked out. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now keep listening. I’m in my car, do you hear me? I’m already in my car. I’m driving over right now and I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

  “I’ve got the car. I can take her.”

  “You can’t drive. You’re hysterical. Shona, stay there, I’m on my way.”

  “Oh God!”

  “Shona, listen, babe. Listen to me. You don’t need to panic, it’s going to be fine. Are you listening to me, Shona? I’m coming over. I’m going to drive you to the hospital. Stay where you are.”

  Isla fell asleep before we reached Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, exhausted by her own crying, by pain. When I told them it was the baby I was there for, they put me to the front of the line, told me I’d go straight through.

  “You should go,” I told Valentina, who was sitting on one of the red vinyl seats flicking through an ancient copy of Saga magazine. “I’ll get a cab home.”

  “I’m staying right here,” she said. “At least until I’ve finished this mag. It’s gripping.”

  I smiled. Now that we were in the hands of the hospital, I had calmed down at least enough to do that. “Has Zac shown any sign of illness?”

  “Nah.”

  “Where is he by the way?” I hadn’t thought. It was her day off – she should have him.

  “I dumped him with Red at the shop. I was in town when you called.”

  It occurred to me the illness could have come from Red – via Valentina. But Valentina had showed no sign of even the merest sniffle.

  “Is Red better?”

  “Hmm?”

  “He was ill,” I prompted. “Must be better if he’s back at work, eh?”

  She shook her head, waved her hand. “Oh, you know what men are like, it’s kiss-me-Hardy as soon as they have to blow their frickin’ nose. Then the game comes on and suddenly they’ve recovered.”

  “Isla McGilvery Quinn?”

  I turned to see a stout nurse in heavy-framed glasses smiling benignly at us. I raised my hand to her and bent to kiss Valentina on the cheek.

  “I’ll be right here,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

  The doctor diagnosed a nasty strain of gastric flu, common in babies. It came with this specific type of diarrhoea, he told us. At eight months old, well fed, she would have been able to fight it off but we’d been right to bring her in. He wrote down the name of an electrolyte drink to help her recover her salts. Valentina stopped in town, hovered on the double yellows outside the chemist while I ran inside.

  “Lemonade,” I said when I got back in the car. “Flat lemonade. Or ice pops. That’s what we always had after a bug. Electrolyte drinks are a wee bit over the top if you ask me.”r />
  She didn’t reply. Her eyes flicked to the rear view and she pulled out onto Union Street.

  “What about you?” I went on, a little wired after the stress, wanting to chat about anything, nothing, whatever. “Did you have flat lemonade or is it a Scottish thing?”

  Again, she said nothing. I looked at her, her face set, her eyes still fixed on the road.

  We stopped at the traffic lights.

  “Val?”

  She blinked and turned to me. “Oh, sorry, what?” She seemed to have come out of her daydream, back to the present. “What did we have after the shits, is that what you’re asking?” Her eyes drifted to the lights as they changed from red to amber. She engaged first, accelerated through amber to green. “I really can’t remember.” Her tone was cross or bored or both, as if I was getting on her nerves. “My father left when I was two,” she continued, “so I have no idea what he did, shit-wise or otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Why hadn’t she told me this, I wondered. The information felt too big, in a friendship like ours, not to have been mentioned before.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said, eyes fixed on the road. “I’m not. There’s nothing to say.”

  “And your mother was a teacher, you said?” I couldn’t remember her telling me this either, but I knew it so she must have at some point.

  “Comprehensive school. Pretty thrilling all round, I think you’ll agree.”

  “What did she teach again?”