Just Like a Woman

by Madeleine Clark

  Pulling into the car park, a white van burst past her. Stephanie could see there was only one person in the van, but it was too dark to make out any features. Pulling the car to a stop she leant her head on the steering wheel, her breathing heavy. She wiped her hands down her jeans and felt the cashmere stuck to her back. Leaning back she closed her eyes to calm her breathing. She heard her own voice speaking to her, as if she was a client in the office. Take deep breaths, let your shoulders drop, count to ten slowly then open your eyes. She obeyed herself.

  She reached up to turn the interior light on, pulled down the sun visor and checked her face in the mirror. She looked fine, a bit flushed, but it suited her. She practised smiling, then pushed the visor back up, reached for the keys, opened the car door and made for the pub.

  Pushing open the pub door, the noise assailed her. Laughter, chatter, loud men’s voices shouting to be heard over the din of other’s voices; there was even some music in the background but so obscured, the tune was undetectable. Standing at the door she looked around, a sea of faces before her. Cammy’s arm was in the air waving to her, her mouth moving.

  ‘Over here,’ she yelled, loud enough to be heard by everyone, ‘come on Steph, you’ve got some catching up to do.’ Cammy held out her other hand, a large dark drink in it. ‘Got you one in,’ she laughed, as Stephanie approached her, saying excuse me and pushing people aside to get to her.

  ‘My god, when you said it was lively here, you didn’t say heaving!’ she laughed, as Cammy kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘Oh, always like this on a Friday.’

  Stephanie took the drink, and gulped back half of it in one go. This was the kind of evening she had envisioned. She looked around and noticed a young man leaning against the wall. Although he was talking to someone beside him, he was smiling at her with his whole face. She turned back to Cammy, but Cammy was busy talking to some other man at the bar beside her.

  .

  Chapter Eleven

  Looking at the amber liquid in the pot, Sarah felt an emotion in her body she hadn’t felt since she was very young. The sensation took her back to the morning of her fourth birthday. Her father had promised her a beautiful pink bike they had seen in the shop window. His excitement over the bike had passed down his arm to her hand resting in his as they looked through the window. He would buy it for her, he promised. She looked up at him smiling. Nothing mattered as long as he was by her side, holding her hand. She knew nothing could harm her as long as he was there beside her.

  She was so excited on the morning of her birthday, she woke early and ran down the stairs to the lounge, expecting it to be there. They would go outside together and he would show her how to ride, it was going to be a perfect day. He promised. He promised he would stay home all day, he promised he would play with her. And there in the middle of the lounge floor; a deep red ribbon tied around the saddle was the pink bike. Just as he promised. She laughed and danced around it. Then she ran back upstairs and threw herself into her parents’ bedroom. This was not usually allowed, but she was sure today it would be alright.

  ‘How dare you!’ her mother’s voice screeched at her. Sarah stopped.

  He wasn’t in his bed.

  He promised.

  ‘He’s gone.’ The voice continued.

  ‘Where?’ she asked as she backed out of the room, excitement being replaced rapidly by fear.

  ‘You don’t think he’d take the day off work just for you?’ She laughed, but Sarah knew her mother wasn’t smiling as she turned out of the door. ‘I’ll be down in a few moments to deal with you.’

  Looking into the amber liquid Sarah saw her father’s face as he looked down at her outside the shop. It was the last time she remembered seeing him smile.

  He didn’t come home for her birthday. He never came home again.

  She wondered if it really was her fault as her mother instilled in her all these years. She didn’t want the pink bike. It was still in the garage, unused and untouched. She never did learn to ride a bike, her legs had been too sore on her birthday to attempt it.

  Now the same feeling was overflowing inside her. She would soon be safe again. Would he then come home? Once he knew she was gone? Tonight would be the last time she would shout at her, tonight would be the last time they had to watch her favourite programmes. After tonight she could sit in silence if she chose, or watch any channel she wanted. She could even get Sky installed; like the women at work.

  She let her finger trawl through the liquid, loving it, wanting to taste it, but resisting. She wasn’t going to kill herself.

  ‘Sarah! Are you going to get my dinner?’

  ‘Coming.’ She put the container under the bed again and went back downstairs.

  The daydream had been all wrong. Dr. Pethric’s visit changed all that.

  Her mother argued with the doctor, was rude to her and gave her a hard time. Dr. Pethric had given her mother some pills to calm her down. Relaxants, the doctor had described them. Tranquillisers, she knew. All the smoking and patches made her mother nervy. When Sarah showed the doctor to the door, she told her how her mother was becoming forgetful, smoking and leaving the patches on and asked if the tablets were a good idea. Were they dangerous? Dr. Pethric assured her they weren’t. They would just let her sleep, but perhaps it might be better to keep the bottle out of her reach. Sarah laughed when the doctor suggested that. Exactly how was she going to keep them away from her mother?

  ‘You’ve seen what she’s like! I can’t do anything with her. She does what she wants. Are you sure those pills are safe?’

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor assured her. ‘Just don’t let her have more than two at night and make sure she keeps those patches off. She’ll kill herself if she keeps smoking and wearing those patches.’

  Sarah felt tingly all over, she could hardly concentrate on what she was doing. She sang as she cooked and got everything ready. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat her dinner. She had exactly the same feeling when she went out with Robert, or even just thought about him. She couldn’t wait to see him again. He’d take her away from all this.

  *****

  Slumped on the settee, all his energy dissipated as Robert heard Terry’s key in the door. Thoughts of his bed callED him, too tired and old to be bothered with teenage adoration. He didn’t really want to see her now, it had all been too impulsive. The Bitch had been right, he shouldn’t have called her and asked her over. Now he had to go through the motions of pretending to enjoy her company, whilst eating some crappy vegetarian concoction Terry had invented. Hearing their voices as they approached the lounge he couldn’t be bothered to get up, but leaning forward reached for the ornate cigarette box and helped himself to one. He lit it with the hideous onyx table lighter, for a few seconds he held it wondering where on earth it came from, he couldn’t remember. As he placed it back on the table, Terry stood at the door announcing Becky’s presence.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, you’re not an MC, let the girl in for fucksake, I know who she is.’

  Terry moved aside and Becky walked in. He jumped to his feet. Her tight red dress emphasized the hair falling like liquid tar from her head; round breasts glaringly obvious above the shapely waist all supported by the two streaky tanned legs. Stubbing the cigarette out, he took a large step towards her thinking she would have been better off wearing tights. He grasped her arm and kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

  ‘Come in, don’t just stand there. Here take a seat. Yes, there on the settee,’ still holding on to her arm he manoeuvred her into the middle of the settee, ‘so I can sit next to you. What do you want to drink?’

  He paused, hearing himself, too eager and desperate. He took a breath.

  ‘Terry, fetch Becky a drink, wine, oh sod it, let’s have some champagne,’ he looked towards Becky, she returned his stare with her huge dark eyes not saying a word. ‘Yes, champagne,’ he carried on instructing Terry without taking his eyes of Becky. ‘You look different.’ She smiled
up at him. He positioned himself on the settee.

  He kept his distance so he could look at her, imagining the photograph he could take, not saying anything. He watched as she fiddled her fingers, noticed the bitten finger nails. Have to do something about those, he thought to himself. He would get Terry to arrange a manicure for her, and have some nice nails put on. No she couldn’t bite her nails anymore. He watched as she went to put her fingers in her mouth, and raised his hand to prevent her putting them in her mouth.

  ‘Don’t you smoke?’

  ‘No, I never have. My parents don’t like it and I don’t really like the smell of it.’

  ‘Well maybe you should reconsider. It will save those nails, you know. They’re not very sightly are they?’ She put her hands back in her lap, interlocking them. Her hands were unadorned just as he liked. He couldn’t resist touching her hair any longer, and gently caressed it away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He noticed the tiny hole in her ear lobe. Terry came back in the room carrying a tray with the glasses and an ice bucket containing the champagne bottle.

  ‘D’you want me to open it?’

  ‘Fuck off, we’ll have our dinner in about half an hour,’ dismissing Terry as he leant forward reaching for the bottle. He expertly opened it, all the time watching Becky’s face. As it popped, she smiled showing her uneven, unwhite teeth. God she was going to be expensive if he was going to keep her, but she may have her uses yet.

  ‘You hungry?’ He asked as he handed her the champagne flute.

  ‘Nah, not yet.’ Reaching for the glass he watched as her dress tightened, accentuating her hips. He pulled back slightly so she had to lean even further, the dress rising up her legs.

  ‘Good, let’s move into the conservatory.’ He let her take the glass, then picking up his own he stood and walked away sure she would follow.

  ‘What’s that?’ She asked as she came in and saw the picture he had been painting. It was a seascape, something he threw together when he couldn’t concentrate on a portrait.

  ‘That my dear is a fuck picture,’ he took the paint brush to show her. ‘First of all I do the painting of whatever it is, this one just happens to be a seascape, but see over there are some country scenes,’ he indicated to all the canvases pushed up against the wall. These were the pictures he didn’t really care for; strange dark paintings. He was never quite sure where they came from and always felt faintly surprised by them when he had finished. His wife had liked them, in fact she had taken a couple when she left. And he gave others away. Maybe he would give one to Becky eventually.

  He continued to explain, ‘Once I have a vague impression of what it is I am painting, I take the paint brush like so,’ he lifted a clean paintbrush, ‘don’t stand too close, we don’t want to ruin that beautiful dress, now do we,’ he waited until she was sitting on the chaise longUe, then dipped the paintbrush in the grey paint before flicking it all over the sea.

  ‘Oh, you’re ruining it. Stop,’ she cried.

  He laughed, ‘I’m not ruining it at all, it makes it far better, it’s more aesthetic, wait and see.’ He continued splashing the paint in globules and let them run down the scene. ‘There, that’s much better.’

  ‘I don’t think so at all. I liked the sea and the boats,’

  ‘Well that’s why I call them my fuck paintings,’ he turned and smiled at her, ‘because I don’t give a fuck.’ He took the picture off the easel and placed it carelessly on the floor then taking a swig of his champagne emptied the glass. Perhaps she wouldn’t be getting one after all, he decided. ‘Go fetch the bottle,’ he told her as he reached for another canvas, one with its picture to the wall. This one he handled with care, gently placing it on the empty easel. ‘Now this one, this is different,’ he said quietly when she came back and handed him the bottle. He filled his glass before handing it back to her. Turning he looked intently at the painting; nearly there, but still not quite right.

  ‘Wow that’s great, that’s really good. Is it a self portrait?’ she filled her own glass and sat back down, the bottle still clasped in her hand.

  He held his breath, not sure if he was fuming or incredibly flattered, but the anger spilled up his legs to his chest. She was so incredible stupid.

  ‘Of course it’s not a fucking self portrait! How the hell can it be a self-portrait?’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you recognise him at all? You come to all my fucking gigs!’ Hearing his voice he turned from the painting to look at her and saw his mistake. He stilled himself, all the time thinking, God you stupid bitch! Taking a deep breath he smiled at her. He leant down, gently taking hold of the arm he wanted so badly to yank from its socket. He pulled her to her feet.

  Champagne spilled from her glass to the carpet. She tried to steady herself, to stop more spilling, the glass and bottle clanging together. His grip still tight, he stood patiently whilst she steadied herself.

  ‘Come on you, out. Let’s go back into the lounge.’

  She couldn’t stay in here. She didn’t deserve to be in here. Not with all this work. Seeing the fear in her eyes, he wanted her. ‘It’s alright, come on dinner’ll be served soon. You go and pour yourself some more champers.’ He was glad to hear the calmness in his voice now.

  Stupid, stupid, fucking, fucking bitch. Why had he shown it to her? It had taken him months to work up the courage to re-do the painting. And now she had ruined it. What was wrong with these fucking women? Why couldn’t they recognize talent when they saw it? Instead of helping and being useful she was destructive and useless. He’d make her pay later. Yes she would pay for it later.

  He smiled, looking down at her, reassuring her everything was fine, as he directed her to the settee.

  ‘That’s it, sit, just sit there and wait for your dinner,’ he spoke calmly. Looking at her face he saw the fear almost gone from her face. He took the bottle from her hand. God, he wanted to take her there, make her pay now, with those sheep eyes. Her legs crumpled under her, her thin arms crossed around herself, crooked teeth biting her lip. ‘Hold your glass out,’ hearing the hardness in his tone, he smiled again pouring more champagne into her glass. ‘Go on drink it.’

  With deliberation he walked away, returning to the conservatory alone to look at the picture. All the pleasure it had given him, gone. Taking the paintbrush covered in grey paint he flicked it violently at Bob Dylan’s face. Flicked and flicked. Finding this unsatisfactory, he plunged the brush at the painting, scribbling over it, demolishing all the work, obscuring every stroke it had taken him until there was nothing left to be seen. Terry’s sarcasm interrupted him,

  ‘Dinner is served, my Lord.’

  .

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting at the kitchen table Sarah’s stomach turned as she dialled the number. Would she see her again? After all she had just not turned up for the last appointment. She heard the phone ringing at the other end, the bile rising in her chest, what should she say?

  ‘Stephanie Powell’s Clinic, can I help you?’

  ‘Um, uh, I, I want to make an appointment.’

  ‘Can I take your name, please?’

  ‘Um, yes, it’s Sarah, Sarah Colwyn-Smythe’

  ‘You’ve seen Ms. Powell previously?’

  ‘Yes, I have. I’m sorry but I missed my last appointment. About three, no it must have been four, weeks ago,’ she blurted it out as quickly as she could. Would Stephanie see her again?

  ‘One minute, I’ll get the diary.’ Sarah heard her put the phone on the desk. ‘When did you want to come?’

  ‘As soon as possible, please. I’m not working, so time’s not a problem.’

  ‘The first available time would be on Thursday. Yes, I’m afraid that would be the first one, Ms. Powell is extremely busy at the moment. Just a moment,’ Sarah could hear pages being turned, ‘there’s actually been a cancellation for this afternoon. Would that be too soon?’

  ‘Um, yes ah, no, I can’t make that, I have my… well, my mother’s just died. And I can’t really leave to
day. Um, Thurs….’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear. Did you say your mother’s died?’

  ‘Yes. This morning. Early this morning. The doctor just left. I’m just waiting for the funeral director to come and take her body. Would Thursday be any good?’

  There was silence for a minute, then the receptionist spoke,

  ‘Um, yes there’s an 11 o’clock appointment, or one at 3.30, which would you prefer?’

  ‘I’ll take the morning one, please. Can I ask? Stephanie won’t mind seeing me again? After I didn’t arrive for my last appointment? I couldn’t let her know.’

  ‘Of course not dear. It happens all the time, dear. And it sounds like you obviously had a reason. I am sorry for your loss, dear. Are you sure you want to make this appointment now?’ Sarah liked the sympathy in her voice.

  ‘Oh yes. Quite sure.’

  Replacing the phone, Sarah could hear the receptionist saying goodbye. She wrote the time on her piece of paper. A diary would be a good idea. She needed to do some shopping. Some new clothes as well. But she would leave that until she had seen Stephanie. Stephanie would tell her the best places to go for her clothes. Stephanie would help.

  She drank her cup of tea back in one go and immediately washed the cup setting it on the spotless draining board before starting on the list of phone calls for workmen she wanted quotes from. Yes, she really would need a diary to write in all the dates they were coming.