The Venus Trap

by Voss, Louise

  I’ve still got six days to convince him. I’m not going to spend all of them fawning over him: I’ll have to work my way up to it, otherwise it definitely won’t be credible.

  The film seems to have been going on forever. I have no idea what’s happening and couldn’t care less—there are a lot of shootings and explosions. I’d rather have Bargain Hunt on. I’d certainly rather not have Claudio polluting what little air there is in my bedroom. I am itching to scream at him to get out, but I can’t. I can’t speak. Maybe he’ll leave when the movie ends, but it’s clearly the world’s longest film.

  Time is a tricky customer. I find it hard to believe I’ve only been here for a day and a half, when I think about the number of times I’ve got angry at being held up by mere seconds: by the tap that you have to turn three times before any water emerges; the traffic light that remains stubbornly red for minutes on end; the call centre that plays you wavery classical music while you’re on hold . . . All of these things, which are utterly out of my control. Shouting at taps or traffic lights never speeds them up.

  I could shout at Claudio, though. I could change this.

  My instinct tells me to do something, anything. But then the old fear comes sweeping back over me—what is the point of trusting my instincts? It’s never made any difference before and I would only do the wrong thing. If I had decent instincts, I’d never have walked down that alley. I’d never have gone on that first date with Sean. I’d never have left Richard. I’d have immediately walked out of Pizza Express when I first set eyes on Gerald. And I’d certainly never have agreed to go out with Claudio.

  Surely it’s better to sit passively and mentally practise how to convince him of my ‘love’, than risk disaster by provoking him? I have to think of Megan. I have to be risk averse, for her sake.

  But I can’t. I can’t just do nothing! My thoughts are whirling around in claustrophobic circles. I will think of something. I have to.

  I look over at Claudio, who is doggedly watching the film whilst trying and failing to look relaxed. He is sweating, even though it is not particularly warm in here with the fan on and the sun blocked out. I almost—almost—wish he would flip out, just so the decision will have been made for me, and something will have happened.

  ‘Are you hot?’ I enquire.

  He looks at me and an expression of pleasure, almost fondness, crosses his face. Does he really think I’m starting to care? He’s deluded. But perhaps this might just be easier than I thought.

  ‘Yes, it’s very warm in here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to go out?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. ‘It must be beautiful outside. Just think of going to sit in a park with a rug and a picnic.’

  It’s not hard to make myself sound wistful. I can see it: families playing ball, a cool breeze on my skin, the prickle of grass stems beneath my bare feet, the sun reddening my face. Birds swooping and calling from the expanse of blue sky above me.

  Of course Claudio is not part of this image, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  ‘It would be lovely. Obviously it can’t happen.’ He wipes sweat off his forehead, then wipes his hand on my empty duvet cover (the duvet itself is at the foot of the bed—far too hot for that). I make a mental note to turn it upside down and the other way round before I sleep under it tonight.

  ‘Not yet, obviously. But soon, maybe?’ I force myself to smile at him.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘If you ever decide to be a bit nicer to me.’

  ‘Give me time, Claudio. It’s a big adjustment. I never was good at falling for people straight away. It took years for me to fall in love with Richard.’

  I’m not sure if it’s a mistake to mention Richard or not. His expression doesn’t change.

  ‘You fell for that Sean bloke pretty fast, didn’t you?’

  I swallow my shock. How the hell does he know about Sean?

  ‘Sean?’ I stall.

  ‘Your ex-boyfriend, I believe?’

  ‘How do you know about him?’ It’s a huge struggle to keep my voice steady, and I’m dreading the answer. What if he’s been stalking me for months?

  He laughs. ‘You look shocked. I found a card in the filing cabinet in the front room. From him to you, dated last year. He mentioned how fast you fell for each other . . . along with a whole load of other slushy stuff.’ Bitter, jealous voice. ‘Mr Lover-Lover Man, by the sound of him.’

  ‘Sean was full of shit,’ I reply.

  He’s been going through my stuff again. I know the card he means, and he must have dug very deep to find that, because I hid it from Megan. I couldn’t bear to part with it so I put it in the hanging file with my bloody utilities bills. Claudio’s even been through my household finances? My life is in that filing cabinet: bank statements, IVF correspondence, divorce papers. He must know every little thing about me.

  ‘You loved him, though, didn’t you?’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Personal trainer.’

  Claudio snorts derisively and I can’t bear to talk about it any more. ‘We’re missing the film—what just happened?’ Fortunately there is a big explosion on screen and Claudio’s attention drifts back to the television.

  ‘I don’t know. Shhh.’

  I’m only too happy to shhh. I sit there seething. I feel as though he’s undressed me and is examining my naked body with a magnifying glass. I wrap my arms around myself and try not to rock.

  What will I do if he gets fed up with my coldness and forces himself on me? I try to remember some of the moves from a long-distant self-defence class but find I’ve forgotten everything about that class apart from the fact that the instructor wore skin-tight Lycra that left nothing to the imagination, like he was using his lunchbox as a weapon.

  I don’t ever want to see Claudio’s lunchbox.

  Keep calm, Jo. You have to keep calm. There was that flicker of pleasure when I asked him if he was too hot—maybe I should start trying to flirt outright with him? I can’t. Can I? Oh, I don’t know! I need advice. I wish I could talk to Donna.

  I think back to my dating experiences to see if I can extract anything valuable from them. Other men have acted as though they were in love with me after just a few dates, when they couldn’t possibly have been. They just wanted to be in love with someone, and I vaguely fitted the bill. All those lonely, desperate men. And I have managed to find the loneliest and most desperate without him even needing to write an online dating profile!

  Ironic, really—the most over-used line in men’s profiles on the websites is ‘I’m happy going out, but equally happy staying in, curled up on the couch with a bottle of red wine and a DVD.’ (Apparently the women over-use the exact same line, only they still say ‘video’ instead of ‘DVD’. Go figure.) I always immediately discount anybody who says this, on the grounds that they clearly have no imagination. Yes, it is a lovely thing to do with someone you care about. But why do so many people have to cite it as the ultimate example of social interaction? Or is it merely a euphemism for having sex on the sofa with the telly on in the background? And now here we are, not exactly curled up on the sofa, but watching a film in (reluctant) close proximity, Claudio’s warped facsimile of a night in.

  ‘Claudio, I’m hungry,’ I say, and he looks sharply at me. I’m not at all hungry: I just want him out of my bedroom.

  ‘Again? I’m going to cook later. It’s too early for dinner now,’ he says sulkily.

  ‘Why don’t we phone for a takeaway, save you the bother?’

  Unsurprisingly, Claudio greets this suggestion with derision. ‘I think not.’

  ‘Would you like me to cook instead? I could rustle something up. A risotto or something. Or use what you bought.’

  He hesitates and on cue I actually hear his stomach rumbling. Yes, I think, that was a good idea.
After all, it seems that part of the genesis of this ludicrous situation is that he wants a girlfriend. He wants someone who’ll stay, voluntarily. Having a woman cook for him would make him feel normal. Ha. What a sodding nutter. Was he this mad when we were at school, or has it happened since he grew up? I rack my brains to try to remember if he had girlfriends when I first knew him. I never saw him with anybody.

  ‘Let me look in the fridge?’

  He hesitates again.

  ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘I told you, I went out earlier and got some stuff for a curry. I’m going to cook us dinner. You need to rest. You’re still not well. And I want us to talk more tonight, about the old days, when we were still at school.’

  ‘You will let me have my diary again, then? I’ve got such an awful memory; I’ll need it to remind myself of what was going on.’

  He narrows his eyes at me, but he does go and get it, which gets him off my bed. That at least is a huge relief. When he brings it back to me and leaves again and I hear the bolt shooting home behind him, I leap off the bed, switch off the movie, and sit cross-legged in the middle of my mattress. He’s left his stink behind, a miasma of BO that I can’t get rid of. I don’t even have any perfume to spray around the place.

  Time to regroup. Why didn’t I go for him? Throw the TV at him, take him by surprise by jabbing my fingers in his eyes? I had so many opportunities.

  Because I’m scared of what he’ll do to me in retaliation. I have a horrible realisation: that my excuse about faulty instincts is merely a way of kidding myself that I’m brave, when all along the truth is that I’m an absolute coward.

  I can’t help wondering what sort of a cook Claudio is. Under these circumstances, anything he cooks for me will taste like ashes in my mouth, so it’s not like I care or anything, unless it involves anything I can use as a weapon. I wonder if he’ll serve it up on Megan’s plastic plates. I’ve got some wasabi paste in the fridge—if I can distract him long enough to get it, perhaps I could rub it into his eyes.

  I’m just relieved he’s left me in peace, and that I have my diary back, even if only temporarily. Every cloud.

  Thinking those words makes me shudder. That’s what John used to call Claudio—Cloud. One cloud is quite enough.

  I do think it’s important that a man is a good cook. It’s such an attractive trait—apart from in psycho kidnappers, obviously. Longingly, I make a mental list of some of Richard’s past repertoire of dinners, until my mouth actually starts to water:

  – Skate wing on a bed of puy lentils

  – Tuna steak with water chestnut and chilli sauce

  – Garlic-stuffed lamb with celeriac mash

  – Grilled halloumi cheese with fresh mint and baked sweet potatoes

  – Roasted duck with a pomegranate salad and toasted garlic croutons.

  Sean, on the other hand, was a rubbish cook. His idea of a good lunch was a packet of Nice ‘n’ Spicy Monster Munch with a warm Greggs sausage roll. I amuse myself briefly by compiling another list, of his top meals:

  – Delivery pizza the size of a dustbin lid (regular toppings, unless being particularly adventurous, in which case, shredded chicken and BBQ sauce)

  – Chicken in Quick Sauce, if trying to impress

  – Large fry-up

  – If in a restaurant: chicken, in any form

  – No fish whatsoever, unless battered and from a chip shop

  – Kebab

  – McDonald’s or Burger King burger.

  I wonder how I’m even able to amuse myself in this situation. I’d have thought I would still be panicking. But what would be the point of that? I’ve tried to pull the wood off the windows but there’s no way of extracting those screws without tools. I’ve tried screaming. I have no other way of contacting anybody.

  It does help being in my own room, with Lester, and I know Megan is safe. I am also optimistically assuming that I won’t be in here for longer than another day or two. I’m sure I can talk sense into Claudio. I’m going to do it at dinner tonight.

  I don’t want to think about Claudio, Sean, or Richard any more. I pick up the diary instead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Day 2

  20th December 1986

  I didn’t get out of bed all day. Mum let me pretend I was ill. She even made me a sandwich with boiled egg chopped up and mixed with Bovril, my favourite. But I couldn’t eat it. I was too embarrassed. I decided I was never going to get up again, ever. It was because the police had come over—Mum had insisted on calling them.

  ‘I wish to report an assault on my daughter.’ She sounded so haughty, and I knew it was because she was as embarrassed as I was.

  Shortly afterwards two officers, a woman and a man, turned up at our house and sat like stereotypes drinking tea in the sitting room, their black uniforms taking up too much space and making me feel claustrophobic.

  ‘Just tell us what happened in your own words, if you can, love,’ said the woman PC, the hand holding her mug hovering indecisively over the coffee table, as she tried to think where she could put it without damaging the table’s polished surface. I picked one of my English books off the floor—To Kill A Mockingbird—and gestured for the WPC to leave her tea on it in lieu of a coaster.

  The hairy-eyebrowed constable pulled a small spiral-bound notepad out of his breast pocket. ‘Wouldn’t you like your dad to be here too?’ he asked me kindly, glancing round the room as if Dad was hiding under the sofa or behind the TV, waiting for an invitation to join us. I didn’t mean to make anyone feel even more uncomfortable but I couldn’t help it. I said, ‘Yes. But he’s dead.’

  The constable and Mum both looked pained.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ The WPC patted my knee and glared at her colleague. ‘Rightyho, let’s crack on, if you feel up to it.’

  I relayed the story, about the man’s cold pouncing hands, balaclava, and cheap jacket, but when I got to the part where he touched me, I was stumped. What was the right way to say where he touched me? ‘Bottom’ was too far west. ‘Front bottom’ too embarrassing for words. Surely not ‘on my vagina’, even though that was anatomically correct. But other than ‘vagina’ I could only think of ‘pussy’, and one could never say that to a police officer. It was so humiliating.

  ‘ —on my . . . in my . . . he touched my . . .’ I bloody struggled with the words every bit as hard as I struggled last night until, after what seemed like hours, the WPC came to my rescue. ‘In between your legs?’ she supplied.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that? Discreet, accurate, painless . . . Mum was scrutinising her fingernails with great interest, but I saw the tear roll down her face when I said yes.

  When I got to the bit about Mac Boy coming to my rescue, I realised for the first time that I hadn’t stopped to thank him.

  ‘And what did he look like, this young man?’

  The WPC sounded impressed and slightly wistful, as though she was wishing that a nice young man would swoop in and rescue her from something too.

  ‘Um . . . he was short, about five foot four I think,’ —at this point the WPC seemed to lose interest again—‘Brown straight hair, a macintoshy-type coat, you know, one of those beige ones with a checked lining. I think he goes to St Edmund’s actually. He looked sort of familiar.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him. We’ll have a word at the school, ask him to come forward.’

  The thought of a headmaster standing up in assembly at the boys’ school and booming, ‘Will the boy who stopped someone from sexually assaulting Jo Singer in an alley please come forward now?’ is too horrific to contemplate. It must have shown on my face because she added, ‘Discreetly, of course, and mentioning no names.’ Thank God for that.

  The PC snapped shut his notepad and tried to slide it back into his breast pocket, but its spirals snagged in the thick black serge, and he ended up jabbing it in, creasi
ng the cardboard cover. ‘Thank you very much, Miss Singer. It’s very brave of you to come forward. And brave of the lad who chased him off too. We don’t recommend the public getting involved as a rule, but in this case, it seemed to do the trick. You’re a lucky lass. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  I don’t feel particularly lucky. I feel completely drained, as if someone’s pulled out a plug in my heel. I miss Dad so much, more than ever, even worse than at the funeral. It is intolerable that he isn’t here to make it all better.

  The WPC stood up and congratulated me, like I’d just won something. ‘Well done,’ she said as she put her hat on and smoothed her black skirt over her thighs. That was when the doorbell went. I guessed it was probably Donna, wondering why I hadn’t gone to training that night.

  For one brief second I had this fantasy that it would be Dad standing there, his arms open wide to comfort me. But of course it was Donna on the doorstep, shivering but pink-cheeked, her sports bag in one hand and a Smiths carrier bag in the other. Her short wet hair had clumped into frosty spikes above the collar of her Barbour, and I could smell the chlorine on her from the hallway.

  ‘Crikey, Jo, let me in, it’s freezing out here. Where were you, you skiver? Loads of people didn’t turn up tonight, and Slug had a right nark about it. You’re down for the fifty-yard backstroke in the B team on Saturday . . . Hey, look what I found in the alley! I don’t want it, of course, but it’s the sort of crap that you probably like.’

  She thrust the Final Countdown single at me, and then noticed the big scrapes down the side of my face, and my swollen lip. ‘Oh my God, Jo, what happened? Did you fall off your bike?’