Fallen Women

by Sue Welfare

  At first there was a big space left by Joe’s irregular absences in her life. Stepping back from the social life surrounding the bands he’d been in had felt very lonely and isolating at first, as if she was edging out and it took no time at all to lose your step and not know who people were or what the latest gossip was. But they could hardly drag the boys around with them and she’d never quite felt comfortable on the girls and wives and lovers’ table at gigs; the band was like a club with an exclusive membership in which she never quite fitted.

  So in lots of ways, over the years her job had grown to fill the gap Joe’s career left in Kate’s life. It offered her some odd kind of comfort too. A sense of doing something worthwhile. But these days it was – more often than not – that she went into her office in the evening to escape from him.

  Kate started at the screen, the realisation stopping her in her tracks; she was deliberating trying to get away from him.

  Used to her working, the boys just got on with it, since he’d stopped playing regularly it was Joe who was at a loose end now, all alone in the sitting room flicking through the channels, picking at his guitar. Maybe that was it, maybe since the last band broke up and he only got the odd gig here and there, she had been neglecting him, hiding behind an unspoken accusation that one of them needed to earn a regular living. Was that the reason he’d slept with Chrissie?

  Caught in the middle distance, waiting for the modem to connect, Kate tried to work out what she could have done differently? The mortgage needed to be paid whether Joe had a gig or not; they had to eat.

  Kate had a vision of Joe – exaggerated by her growing sense of guilt – huddled in the darkened sitting room, glazed over, watching the TV without seeing the pictures, depressed, lost and lonely with just a can of beer for company, while in the office she and the boys roared with laughter, a whole happy family without him. Was it any wonder he had gone next door for comfort? Kate tried to rework her thoughts, trying to fathom out what was right and which way was up, what was true and what was just her brain firing buckshot at any moving target, her conscience finally wrestling itself into exhaustion.

  Meanwhile on the screen a flurry of post appeared in the in-box.

  Glancing back at the computer Kate was astonished to discover that there were thirty-eight new emails. What the hell was going on? Four at the end of the day that weren’t ads or mailshots would have been about average. Kate looked more closely at the addresses and then the penny suddenly dropped. What with work and the phone messages and dinner at Liz’s she’d completely forgotten about Vulnerable Venus and the ad on RomanticSouls.com. It seemed that Venus was a very popular lady.

  As Kate stared at the unfolding list of mail, her first instinct was to ignore them, but then again what the hell, who was it going to hurt if she picked them up? It was certainly better than sitting here all alone with her thoughts.

  She clicked onto the personals site and began to read the replies and the profiles that went with them. It was like another world. Tall, thin, short and plump – some were quite obviously no hopers, emails misspelt, brusque, too brief, too long, too young, too old, too ugly. In fact out of all the ones she read there was only one that really stood out:

  ‘Hi Venus, you sound really nice. I’m certain that you’ve been inundated with hundreds of replies so I won’t be at all offended if you decide to ignore mine. I’m 39, not bad-looking, all my own everything, that is to say nothing comes off, straps on or sits in a glass by my bed at night. I’m solvent and sane with my own home and a good job that I really enjoy. I like all sorts of music, good foods, wine, the cinema, theatre. How about you?

  You sound as if you’ve been through a rough time just recently. I’m a good listener if you need to talk. I know what it feels like to be alone and let down by people who say they love you. Maybe you’re in need of a little bit of tender loving care – a pair of strong arms to hold you tight, or just a shoulder to cry on when the going gets rough, either in real life or just in cyberspace? You never know I might just be that good man you say you’re looking for. So, no pressure, and no rush. It would be nice to hear from you if you’ve got time. But whatever you decide I hope things work out for you – you sound like a good woman. With all best wishes, Sam57.’

  Kate stared at the email. How could this man, lurking behind a pseudonym, possibly know how she felt? And then it occurred to Kate that of course he didn’t know, that he was just fishing with the right bait. Chrissie’s profile had mentioned nursing a broken heart and that she was looking for a good man to help her heal, rather than a record-breaking 100 metres dash down the aisle.

  Kate grinned. This guy was a natural, he should be working in PR, and then she laughed aloud; maybe he did. On the bottom left-hand corner of the message, underlined in red, was an on-screen button, a link, that if she pressed it, would take her straight to Sam57’s personal profile. It was impossible not to and anyway, reading it wouldn’t hurt anybody, would it?

  Kate leant back and scanned what he’d written about himself. God, this man was good; he sounded perfect.

  Tall, blond, late 30s, businessman, solvent sane and sensitive seeks a good woman to share good times with. I’m not bad-looking in a craggy, lived-in sort of way. I’m not looking to rush you into something you’re not ready for, just wine, dine and woo you with low lights, soft music, good company and long walks in the park with a bottle of wine and a picnic. Are you equally at home on a deserted beach as on a plane to New York? I’m not looking for a commitment for life, just a commitment to live. Maybe you’d like to talk … Why don’t you mail me?’

  Kate, still smiling, looked at the ad and then clicked back to the email Sam57 had sent her, and then back to the ad. In the box asking what he expected to get from a relationship the only one he had ticked was ‘friendship first and then let’s see what happens’ which was pretty restrained out of a list that began with casual sex and ran all the way through to marriage and happy ever after.

  He certainly had an easy way with words; Kate found it impossible not to let her mind wander. Wouldn’t it be wonderful once in a while to be with a man who knew exactly what to say and when to say it? A man who didn’t lean, who led? A man who knew what he was doing, who planned, organised and then took responsibility for his own actions and decisions? A man who would whisk Kate away to wonderful places? Who surprised her? Who took her out to dinner or away for the weekend? A man who – Kate stopped dead in her tracks and blushed scarlet, looking over her shoulder to check that Maggie hadn’t come in when she wasn’t looking.

  This was total and utter madness. What the hell was she thinking about? This was ridiculous.

  Kate knew nothing at all about Sam57 other than that he was very good when it came to self-promotion. Although even so, said a mischievous little voice in her head, it would be such a shame and maybe even downright rude not to thank him for his interest, for his concern.

  Kate re-read his email. She didn’t owe him anything but what harm would it do to drop him a few words of thanks, say that he had cheered her up, made her feel better? Her reply would be as anonymous as his was. And so, after a moment’s hesitation Kate began to type:

  ‘Dear Sam57, thanks for your email. What a perceptive man you are … although I’ve got to come clean, I didn’t write the Venus ad for myself. I have this very good friend, or maybe it would be better to say I had this very good friend until this weekend. Let me explain – I’m married and my friend Venus was so lonely after this guy did the dirty on her, so we decided to advertise …’

  Head down, mind fixed on the screen, Kate continued to type.

  It all came out, every last word of it. Chrissie and Joe, the whole thing. It felt a bit like putting a message in a bottle or one of those time capsules buried under a public building, something that wouldn’t be seen or read or discovered except by accident. Somehow, by laying it all out, the weight on Kate’s chest shifted and left her feeling lighter and clearer.

  When she was finished she
glanced down at the keyboard, wondering if there was some extra keystroke, some extra letter or symbol she could add to the end of the final sentence that would indicate her pain or somehow reflect or record the terrible sense of world-weary exhaustion that she felt about it all.

  ‘Kate?’

  Instinctively she swung round. Maggie was standing in the doorway behind her, resting heavily on her crutches; she looked pale and pained.

  ‘I thought you were in bed,’ Kate said, turning so that her body hid the computer screen.

  ‘I was on my way to the loo, I thought I’d come in to see if you were still working. It’s late, sweetheart. You should be in bed. Do I have to say that I’m worried about you?’

  Kate laughed, ‘No, and it’s supposed to be the other way round. You should be snuggled up sound asleep not gallivanting about the place. Is there anything you need? More coffee, more painkillers, someone to tell you a story and tuck you in tight?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the very same thing.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘No, I’m more or less finished here.’ And with that she turned and pressed send, watching as the email to Sam57 vanished off into the ether.

  In Windsor Street, Chrissie was still awake too, sitting hunched on the ottoman in the bay window of her bedroom, draped in a blanket, staring out at the corona of street lamps outside her window. When she first moved in the lights had been a real comfort, like some sort of celestial nightlight that kept away the darkness and the monsters, both in reality and in an emotional sense.

  Dressed in a faded baggy tee-shirt, Chrissie looked down at the familiar lines of the street, painted in half tones, the trees, the sepia-coloured pavements, the deep folds of inky black shadow draped under the hedges and around the bins.

  The house seemed horribly quiet and still. She craned to pick out some noise to get some sense that she wasn’t alone, although of course she was.

  Robbie had rung to say he was crashing at a mate’s house and might not be home till the weekend. Simon hadn’t even bothered to ring. It was nearly two in the morning and Chrissie was caught in that hellish place where she was tired but couldn’t find the pathway that led to sleep and wasn’t awake enough to read or watch TV. Her mind had raced and run and twisted itself into knots since Bill left. She had had a mug of tea, a glass of warm milk and a couple of shots of Scotch – not that any of it seemed to have taken her any closer to unconsciousness.

  This was the third night in a row that she had sat here in the window watching the night turn into day. On Saturday and Sunday night, exhausted, too tired to cry, too tired to fight, she had finally drifted off to sleep, curled up under the rug and woken up a few minutes before the alarm, cold and stiff and full of pains.

  Oddly enough, despite it being so late, she wasn’t altogether surprised to hear the doorbell ring again. Climbing stiffly off her perch, Chrissie crept downstairs and padded barefoot across the hall. She didn’t even hesitate or call out before undoing the lock.

  Joe was standing on the doorstep, dressed in tee-shirt and shorts, a towelling bathrobe pulled over his shoulders. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  He shook his head and for a few moments they stood there, him on the doorstep, her on the mat, in the gloom not quite able to look at each other, not quite able to speak and then all of a sudden Joe said, ‘So what did Bill want then?’

  If Chrissie was expecting a few words of comfort or concern she was out of luck.

  ‘Spying on me now as well, are you?’ she snapped.

  ‘No,’ Joe protested, ‘I just asked. He came round to see me too. Have you spoken to Kate?’

  Chrissie flinched. ‘No, I tried earlier to ring but her machine was on. I assumed that she didn’t want to speak to me – to any of us. Look, are you coming in or staying out there only I’m getting cold and I’m so knackered I can’t think straight.’

  ‘So what did Bill want?’ Joe’s tone was slightly more aggressive.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Joe, what’s this? The little green monster surfacing at long last? He came round to offer me a shoulder to cry on, to talk. Which is a lot more than some people did.’ Joe didn’t catch on to the rope being thrown to him. Chrissie started to shiver. ‘He said Kate rang him earlier. Anyway what is this, Joe? It’s two o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.’

  He sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although Chrissie wasn’t altogether sure what he was apologising for, but before she could ask, he stepped inside and grabbed hold of her.

  ‘Joe!’ she protested. ‘What the –’ but it was pointless. He held her close and, catching hold of her head with both of his hands, kissed her hard. He was cold and she could sense how hungry. Without a word he kicked the door shut and then practically dragged her upstairs; they barely made it to the bedroom. His kisses were insistent and ferocious, though Chrissie knew even as he was dragging her tee-shirt off over her head that what Joe really wanted was reassurance and comfort. Not that it worried Chrissie all that much, because at that moment she needed exactly the same thing.

  She wondered fleetingly, as he guided her down amongst the tangle of sheets, whether this was the last bite of the cherry. As his hands worked eagerly up over her breasts, his lips just a fraction behind, she considered whether this was one final fling before Joe waved goodbye forever? A farewell fuck. Or was it that he saw this as the first time in a real, out in the open relationship that would change shape and grow and become … become what?

  Chrissie looked up into his lust-glazed eyes; however it might appear Joe Harvey hadn’t changed his spots. He was still the man that he had always been. He had leant on Kate and he would lean on Chrissie too if she let him, even if it was just long enough to fish him out of his current dilemma. She knew all this and more and yet didn’t, couldn’t resist him.

  ‘I love you,’ he purred, coming up for air, nuzzling her neck and shoulders with warm hungry kisses.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she said, but he didn’t hear her.

  Kate lay alone under the duvet staring up into the darkness feeling more alone than she could ever remember. Maggie had Guy. Liz had Peter. And Joe? Well, part of her assumed that, left to his own devices, that Joe probably had Chrissie. For an instant, reading Sam 57’s profile, she had had a clear uninterrupted view of all those things she had chosen not to see about Joe. Those things that were missing, those things she longed for but had convinced herself didn’t matter. It would be naive to assume that it wasn’t the same for him. Familiarity breeds resignation.

  Somewhere on the edge of her consciousness Kate heard the phone ringing downstairs and without thinking leapt out of bed to answer it. Out on the landing, cold and feeling even more alone, it took her a minute or two to realise that the call wasn’t for her at all. From the sitting room she could hear the subdued giggling and low warm tones of late night welcome and then intimate eager conversation; Guy was obviously missing her mum.

  Close to tears, Kate sloped off back to bed. Curling up into a foetal huddle she remembered how her dad used to make Maggie laugh like that too. Even when she was quite little Kate had always had some sense of the gentle secure intimacy between her parents, and now that she had the vocabulary to express it, she realised that their closeness made her feel excluded and yes, okay, maybe even a little jealous.

  She remembered her mum standing in the kitchen washing up, her dad coming home from work and snuggling up to her, slipping his arms around her waist, kissing her on the neck, her craning round to kiss him back.

  How had they managed to do that for so many years? If there was one thing Kate remembered about her parents, it was the unselfconscious, unforced way that they had genuinely loved each other. There was passion and fun and sometimes huge rows and door slamming, but on balance as a child Kate had always had the sense that they were on the same side, fighting the same battles, and that the bad things, the monsters and the hurt, and all the really bad stuff, was outside beyond the wa
lls. Despite her being an adult her dad’s death had somehow seemed like a violation of that magic safe space.

  Maybe that was why she felt so bad about Joe. And now there was Guy, giggling and talking.

  How was it that one woman could have two men who so patently adored her? What was it that endeared them to her? What was it Maggie had that she didn’t? For an instant Kate was furious and full of envy; it simply wasn’t fair. Why didn’t she have a man who rang up and comforted her, who supported and loved her in real ways?

  Kate pulled the blankets up over her head. As she closed her eyes for a moment Kate imagined Sam57 sitting at his computer composing an email to her. He had his back towards her but Kate sensed that he was smiling.

  Chapter 9

  Unless aliens had stolen Joe, he had to have left Chrissie’s house while she was still asleep. In fact, for a few moments on waking, Chrissie wondered if perhaps Joe’s late night visit had been a dream. But in a Cinderella-like gesture, Joe had left a single navy sock in the middle of her sheepskin rug. There was a large hole in the toe.

  Although Chrissie and Joe had talked for a while in the warm intimate period between making love and falling asleep, she was none the wiser about whether it was an end or a beginning and any sense of comfort Chrissie had found lying in Joe’s arms had evaporated on waking.

  Kate was glad when morning came too; at least she didn’t have to pretend to be trying to sleep any more. Tuesday’s schedule appeared to involve getting Maggie up, washed, dressed and then … and then after making them both breakfast, staring idly out of the kitchen window into the garden. There used to be a swing and a climbing frame, just over there. Her dad had built a shed under the hedge as a playhouse for her and Liz – it had a little veranda edged with fretwork to match the main house. They had camped out there on summer evenings under makeshift tents, and had had bonfires and barbecues and birthday parties under the watchful eye of the big old house.