by Angela Peach
I still have them in their box. I could sell them and get a few hundred quid but that would feel like I was giving up and I would never give up on Helena. She said I was like a box but she was wrong: a box has six sides and I only have three.
I slammed shut my front door and made my way downstairs, hoping to avoid Freya, the cheerful Norwegian who lived below me but it was not to be. Her door opened as I reached it, her Nordic sixth sense grinning at me.
“Hello! You must come for dinner tonight.”
“I must?”
“Oh, you must,” she smiled, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischievousness. “Tonight, seven, I will cook. You need fattening.”
I need flattering, not fattening, I thought.
“Yes, yes,” I said, skipping away and escaping to the street, where I could walk and feel the cold slap of the wind on my face, while the sun shone tempting me to remain outdoors. I was only trying to sneak out for some ciggies and there was Freya, never one to miss a chance to ambush me.
I thought of her blue eyes and her ice white hair that sloped down her back like a ski piste, over her broad shoulders. Strong, broad shoulders that held up a most luscious pair of pert breasts and a smile that teased with a pair of dimpled cheeks. I could find worse distractions.
She left me alone on my way back in, now that I had agreed to let her feed me but, let’s face it, beggars can’t be choosers and I was practically a beggar. Opening my fridge to a mouldy lump of cheese confirmed that but all was not lost, as I saw the four pack of lager. That would do nicely.
My phone rang. I saw from caller-display that it was my mum.
“What?” I said.
“Hi, Nick, honey, do you want to come over for dinner tonight?”
“Freya’s cooking for me.”
“Freya?” I heard the surprise and hope in her voice.
“Yes. Freya. Her downstairs.”
“You have a lovely time, sweetheart.”
“Humph,” I muttered, hanging up. She would love to see me with someone else, someone who could take my mind off Helena.
I remembered my mum’s gentle words. “It’s been a year now, Nick honey, you need to move on.” I still heard them, years later, whistling around my vacant room.
“You need to move on.” Never!
I lit my cigarette, throwing the wrapping paper into the sink and, as I inhaled, I looked at my canvas waiting to be touched by colours. Every day is an empty canvas, waiting for the lines and colours to lead the way.
I threw off my jumper, back to the corner I had found it and stood in front of my canvas, the sun hitting my face from the windows behind. I saw in my mind the day that Helena had stood in front of my windows, posing, for me to paint her. She wore a red dress, thin straps over her shoulders holding a hugging velvet that draped around her feet like a pool of blood and that held her curves to it, her breasts edging their beginnings.
I swallowed down my heart in my throat as I closed my eyes, overcome by the beauty of her ghostly presence. If I reached out my hand would surely touch her…I would surely feel her under my fingers…I could bring her close to me once more.
I opened my eyes and there was nothing. There is always nothing when I dare myself to look. I grabbed my palette, mixing paints with my brush, dabbing out the water, as my eyes began to see the shapes of emotion that I needed to get out. Only painting would release my tears and my doubts; only throwing the brush across the canvas could calm me and give me hope for my future.
A future that lay with Helena.
Monsoons of colour materialised before me, mirroring the feelings in my mind. When I looked in a mirror, the eyes of a stranger looked back at me. I might die a struggling, penniless artist but I would be true to myself. And being true to myself meant being true to Helena.
I don’t know how long I stood throwing colour on top of colour, swishing and swirling my paint brush, as if that could take the emotions from me and put them out for all to see. I would love to take my pain and paint it away, but then, what would I have left?
I looked over the canvas, to my wall of windows and saw the last light of the day. For a moment I stood, watching how the clouds ran after each other, never catching and thought how love was similar: I have run after love for years now and all I have to show is a sky full of clouds.
Washing my hands, I eyed the new pack of ‘Marlboros’ and lit one as soon as my hands were dry. I felt a calmness and scrolled through the numbers in my phone until I came to what I was looking for, pressing dial.
“Hello, George Chan speaking.”
“Mr Chan, it’s Nick.”
“Ah, Nick. How are you?”
“Never mind how I am. Do you have any news for me?” For weeks I had been paying this Mr Chan to trace Helena for me and so far, he had come up with nothing but promises and fresh air.
“Two minutes,” he said and I heard some shuffling of papers. “You want Helena X? I find. Have address.”
I gasped. I never truly believed he would actually find her. It was just one more road for me to wander down with my dreams until I hit the usual dead-end. “You found her?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Where is she?”
“You pay bill first.”
I clenched my teeth. “I’ll come in tomorrow and square up. It might be the day after. As soon as I can anyway.” I hung up. I lit another cigarette, my heart battering my rib-cage, desperate to be close to its mate again.
“Be still,” I whispered.
I went to my fridge, finding the lager and quickly opened a can, gulping down half. My heart was finding its regular beat but my mind still raced.
Oh, glorious Helena, once more within reach. I would savour this and lock myself into my daydreams for hours, seeing our meeting, the embrace, the kiss, the love-making. I could go over and over it, a million times, getting perfect my words of delight.
But first, I had a dinner with Freya.
An hour later, I trotted downstairs, freshly showered in a clean vest but the same jeans, holding my remaining two cans of lager. She opened her door quickly, likely having heard my footsteps above her, and she smiled.
“Vakker kjaerlighet,” I heard but I was staring into her smiling blue eyes, lagoons to drown in. Her hair lay in one simple, white braid, curling around her neck over her left shoulder, resting on her breast. She wore a white dress, peppered with bluebells, snug at the waist.
“Beautiful love,” I whispered under my breath, with feelings that had been stolen from some other place. Another mind was finding mine.
“Come in, please. Our food is ready.” In the face of such beauty, I felt worthless and almost turned on my heels like the coward I am, but her arm was softly on mine, leading me in and I had to obey.
We ate and chatted, drinking chilled white wine, with quiet music filling the gaps. When she laughed, she was the prettiest girl in the world.
After the umpteenth refill, Freya sat next to me on her settee, so close that I could smell the soap on her skin. It had been years since I looked into the eyes of a woman and felt an emotion akin to passion.
“I know you desire me, Nick,” she breathed, closing in on me.
I did desire her.
I took her chin in my hand and pulled her to me, parting my lips in anticipation. I saw her eyes flutter shut as her lips met mine and my heart did that old familiar dance behind my breast.
And then Time stood still. For one singular second. There was no hammering in my head, or thudding in my temple, no sadness crawling over me and no dark cloud ready to rain.
Because she kissed me.
I put my hand to her breast, squeezing hard and I felt her tremble. We looked into each others eyes, centimetres apart, and then we kissed again, as I pushed myself closer to her. I felt her tug at my vest to get me nearer her, as our tongues felt shyly around the others.
And then I remembered Helena.
I pulled back, looking away guiltily.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to turn
my face back to hers.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t.”
“Nick, your broken heart can heal. I am your medicine.”
I gulped down a rising panic and let myself be embraced by Freya, her small frame surprisingly strong as she held me hard.
If I forgot Helena, she would be lost and if Helena was lost, then I would be lost. I would have lost myself then.
CHAPTER THREE
I woke up next to a warm body, a different warm body to that which I'd gone to bed with, and instantly groaned as the memory came rushing back. Typical. Trust Nick to make every effort to continue making a mess of her life. I always wondered if it was her way of saying 'Fuck you and your perfect world — deal with your own problems.' As if it was my fault her life was so fucked up.
Malena opened her eyes and I saw them focus on me in confusion as she processed the events of last night. Then, in an almost comical fashion, she recoiled away from me and jumped to her feet, taking the bed-sheet with her and holding it in belated modesty. I knew this routine so well that I believed I could say her lines for her before she got there herself, so I decided to save her the trouble.
“Look, we were both very drunk and very emotional so let's say we just forget this ever happened, ok?”
“You...you seduced me...you...”
“Whoa, hold up a second, you kissed me first in the toilets. Hell, you followed me in and locked the door behind us, so don't go pulling that crap on me,” I interrupted, jumping out of the other side of the bed. She stared at me, obviously remembering how she'd thrown me into the cubicle back at the seedy bar, begging me to fuck her. I felt so sorry for her then that I nearly moved forward to placate the situation, but I inched backward instead.
“Now I'm gonna go take a shower which will give you enough time to get dressed and make your hasty exit. This will go no further than the two of us and we don't ever have to see each other again, ok? So just relax, give me a second, then you can go.” Realising I was stark naked, I blushed and went quickly into the tiny bathroom, locking the door behind me (very unnecessary, but old habits and all that) before turning on the water. I cursed myself for behaving like a guy and not just saying no when a hot girl threw herself at me. It's not like I was so desperate for sex that I couldn't afford to turn her down gently. I felt a certain amount of smug satisfaction that I wasn't the only one making mistakes like that today — Nick was going to have to deal with Freya when she woke up.
The pitiful trickle of water did nothing for the hangover that was starting to seep through, but was enough to refresh me awake. It was only a short walk back to the bar to retrieve my bike and I decided I was ok to ride home, so long as I took it steady.
I gave myself a quick basic wash, but I was really only staying in the shower long enough to give Malena time to dress and disappear as fast as her straight, scared little legs could carry her. Ten minutes should definitely do it, I thought.
However, on exiting the bathroom I stopped in shock. Malena was stood in almost exactly the same position as when I'd left her, although she was now dressed and staring at me with uncertainty.
“I know it wasn't you. You know, last night. I can remember what happened, and it was...I just didn't want you to think...ah heck, Nikki, I don't know.” Her bottom lip started to tremble, and I hesitated. I was wearing a scratchy small towel, but let's face it — she'd already seen everything I had in very intimate detail. I slowly moved across the short distance to her, wary in case she backed away. She didn't, and ended up kind of dissolving in my arms, burying her face in my neck as her tears finally fell. I held her, soothing her as best I could before guiding her to sit next to me on the bed. I wished I could summon up some tears of my own, but my eyes remained dry. Finally, she spoke in a husky, hushed voice.
“I had a strange dream last night. I was in this huge dark house and I went up to the attic to look for Poppy, but she wasn't there. And when I came back down the stairs, all the doors that had been open on the way up were now closed, and I could hear whispering behind them all, so I ran. But then there was this cold breeze behind me, like a hand, so I ran faster. When I made it downstairs, I had this thought that she was behind one of those doors and I went to go back in to look for her, but I was too scared. So I left her. I left her!”
“You didn't leave her, Malena. It was just a dream.” I was a fine one to talk — I'd never had a single dream my whole life! I'd never experienced that terror of being chased, or the elation from flying that others got so excited about when re-telling the next day. Whereas most people took on a bored expression at the mere words 'I had the strangest dream last night...' I couldn't get enough of hearing about them! When I told them it was because I myself had never dreamed a dream, they usually said things like 'Oh, maybe you just don't remember them?' and I ended up agreeing with them simply because it was easier than offering up the real reason.
“Where do you think she is? Daddy thinks she's gone to hell for being a dyke...oh! I'm sorry, I didn't even think!” She looked horrified at her slip and I rushed to reassure her.
“It's ok, I've been called a lot worse! You didn't offend me.”
“I just...what am I gonna do? I don't understand how I'm supposed to get through to the end of each day with this pain!” She squeezed her eyes shut and sagged, her fingers clutching painfully into my side. I stroked her hair, knowing there was nothing I could say.
Eventually, she managed to stem the flow of tears long enough to tug her mobile phone out of her pocket to call a cab. I didn't offer to give her a ride and she didn't ask for one.
As she left, she stopped by the door and turned to me.
“I don't regret what happened, Nikki. I'm grateful for last night, crazy as that sounds.”
“No, I get it.” And I did, in a weird sort of way. I'd been a distraction from being around a family suffering in pain, from distant relatives and friends giving her their pity and the ridiculous phrase 'Things will get better in time' when they knew nothing of the inner turmoil inevitably tearing her insides to shreds. I'd helped her escape her pain for a short while.
“Thank you. Would...would it be ok to call you sometime? Unless you don't...”
“No, I don't mind,” I interrupted, surprised to find I meant it. She stared at me, as if she hadn't expected me to say yes, but then she nodded gently. Without another word, she turned and exited the room, shutting the door softly behind her. I fell back on the bed and covered my face with the pillow, which is how I stayed for the next hour until I dragged myself up and out of the motel.
It was already ridiculously hot outside and the ride home was refreshingly cool, if not longer than it should have been, but I didn't want to push things in my delicate state. I hoped mom wasn't in a quizzical mood – I just wanted to relax and try to put things out of my mind for a while. When I parked up, I could see mom in the window and I waved curiously before going inside.
“You know that big ole house 'cross the road? There's been removal trucks parked outside all morning. Not just one, but three!” Mom was stood unashamedly peering out of our front window and I could tell from her excited tone she'd been there for a while waiting for someone to talk to about this turn of events. The house across the road had been empty for nearly two years after the previous occupant had killed his brother and father before turning the shotgun on himself. To this day, no one knew what had caused the tragedy, although there'd been a lot of speculation that the boys had been suffering abuse at the hands of their father since their mom died when they were very young. (Died in suspicious circumstances, as everyone round here was very quick to point out.)
I rolled my eyes and went to the kitchen to make some coffee and breakfast but stopped in the doorway. Or rather, the vile aroma surrounding the kitchen like a nuclear cloud stopped me. I recoiled, wrinkling my nose in an effort to reject the smell as my hangover threatened to empty my stomach.
“Er, mom, what happened in the kitchen?”
Sheepishly, mom cast a
quick glance in the general direction, as if even looking at it was too much for her eyes to bear.
“Oh that? That was your dinner honey.”
“Mm. I had no idea you hated me that much?” I mumbled, frowning. “What was it? Y'know, just so I can make sure I don't come home next time you cook it for me?”
“It was a beef stew but I thought I'd experiment a little. Who woulda thought brandy doesn't mix well with beef?”
“You...you put brandy in the beef stew?” I asked incredulously. “And what other crazy capers did ya get up to while you were possessed last night? A little naked dancing on the front porch?”
“Quickly! A car's just pulled up! I just bet it's the new owner,” Mom near enough screeched, beckoning me wildly with one arm. Despite myself, I hurried across the room to see who was going to step out of the car, and had a strange image in my head of all our neighbours doing the same thing. This part of Siloam Springs was very much like that — everyone wanted to know everyone else's business without having to actually ask them about it. According to mom, gossiping and spying through curtains was the best way to get accurate information because, let's face it — no one was going to voluntarily tell you anything if it was juicy or sensitive. When I'd argued that maybe those sort of things were meant to be private, she'd raised her eyebrows and said, “Nothing's private round here, sweetheart. Remember the time your father tried to have you committed - everybody and their mother came out to watch the ambulance take you away.” Even though it reinforced my argument, she looked like she'd delivered the winning shot to the discussion we'd been having. I let her have it, but only because it wasn't worth taking it further.
We both watched eagerly as the car doors opened and four people emerged. The elder two, parents I assumed, stretched their limbs while looking up at their new home. The younger kids from the back, a cute guy in his early twenties and a girl of about seven years old decided to study the street instead, seeming curious but pleased with what they saw. But it was the mom that caught my eye as she jogged excitedly up to the front door, beckoning the others enthusiastically. She had dark hair that fell just short of her shoulders and was wearing a skimpy vest and shorts. Short shorts.
