Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  When I get upstairs, the flat is a tip again. All evidence of the tidying up I did that morning, so long ago now, is vanished. Oli is standing in the centre of the room, his hands in his hair. He is swaying slightly. As I shut the door, he turns round. He’s been crying. His eyes are full of tears.

  ‘Natasha –’ he says, and he pads over towards me. ‘Natasha. It’s so good to see you, babe.’

  ‘Hi, Oli,’ I say wearily, putting my bag down on the hall table. Suddenly I wish he wasn’t here, that I was alone. ‘What do you want? It’s late.’

  He stands in the doorway to the sitting room, hands on either side of the door frame, pushing himself backwards and forwards. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he says.

  ‘Has Jason kicked you out?’ I ask. ‘Why are you here now? I – I don’t want to see you,’ I say brutally. I think of Ben, walking through the wet, icy night, back home, alone. Instantly guilt rushes over me.

  ‘Just miss you,’ Oli mumbles. He holds out a hand. ‘C’m’ere.’

  I take his hand, and he pulls me towards him. And I still want him. Oh, the smell of him: yeasty, beery, sweaty, but spicy too, something to do with his aftershave. His hair, so soft and floppy. His scratchy stubble on my cheek. He’s my husband, he’s the man I thought I was going to be with for the rest of my life. I know it’s fucked-up, I know he’s drunk, but so am I, and hey, isn’t that what we should have done a while ago? Get drunk and just say what we think? With a mighty effort, I pull away.

  ‘You seeing Chloe again then?’ I ask. ‘What’s going on?’ Oli doesn’t say anything, he turns and goes into the bedroom. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Sort of – yeah. No.’

  I don’t know whether to be pleased by this news or not, or even whether to believe it. I don’t know what I think. I am really tired, drunk, my hair is wet from the rain, my feet are hurting, and I just feel sad, sad about Ben, sad about this. I should press him on it, but I don’t want to hear what he says.

  Oli flops down on the bed. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Honestly just came t’get some more shirts and stuff. I know it’s late, I know I’ve had too much to drink. I was out with the boys from work, and they all went off early, and I suddenly . . .’ He looks up at me, I am standing against the chest of drawers looking at him. ‘I just really wanted to see you. To hold you. Sleep in our bed just once more. You know? No, you don’t know.’ He struggles to stand up again and he mutters under his breath. ‘’S’Natasha, remember?’ Then he says, ‘You hate me and you want me to go. It’s fine.’

  Cold-hearted Natasha. I push him back down on the bed, just as I pushed Ben away, the same hand, the same gesture. ‘You can stay,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. But nothing’s going to happen. I’m tired.’

  ‘So am I,’ he says. He smiles. ‘I miss you. I saw Mad Men the other night, with – with Jason and Lucy, and they didn’t understand what was going on. Kept wishing you were there.’

  As romantic scenarios go, it’s not exactly up there with Casablanca. But it’s Oli. He’s my husband. And it’s late, and we’re both tired. I brush my teeth and hastily wash my face, and when I crawl into bed next to him, he’s practically asleep anyway. He snuggles against me, holding me in his arms and I look at the alarm clock, blinking on the bedside table. 11:02. His hand is heavy on my ribcage. My eyelids are heavy too. In seconds, we are both asleep.

  I have been dreaming a lot lately, vivid dreams about Summercove, something I haven’t done since I was a little girl. When I was younger, at least once a week I would dream I was there. Perhaps Jay and I would be crouched on the beach, picking out shells, our bottoms wet from the sand as the sea crashed around us. Or we’d be on the lawn, chatting with Granny as she deadheaded the roses or picked the lavender. Or playing backgammon with Arvind, at the old table on the stone patio. Sometimes the sound of the sea would rush through my head so loudly I would rise into consciousness, a powerful sense of disappointment coursing through me, as I realised I was back in the flat in Bryant Court, dark and smelling of damp and fish, the dull light of a cold West London morning creeping in through the curtains.

  I felt safe in Cornwall. I felt safe with my grandmother. She wasn’t afraid of anything, and I think, more importantly, she understood her daughter. One summer, when Mum eventually joined us in Cornwall, Granny had found out – I don’t know how – from Jay about the week in Lisbon, and more stuff, like the parties she’d have, how she used to leave me alone in the evenings, and she slapped her. Actually slapped her.

  It was late at night, on the terrace; I was trying to sleep in my bedroom high above the house, but their voices woke me. I could hear them, whispering at first, then gradually louder.

  ‘She’s terrified, don’t you ever leave her again,’ Granny hissed. ‘You selfish little—’ I think she called her a bitch.

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own business,’ my mother spat back at her, and I could hear it in her voice, that she was drunk, her words slurring slightly. Mum didn’t often drink much; she couldn’t hold her alcohol, still can’t. ‘Why don’t you leave me to bring up my daughter my own way.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ My grandmother’s voice was silky. ‘Believe me, I would love to.’

  ‘Listen. I don’t need your help – you’re the last person I’d go to for help on how to bring up – up . . . bring up their children.’ There was a pause. ‘I mean, we both know that. Don’t we?’

  The only answer was my grandmother laughing, low, heavy. ‘You’re drunk, Miranda.’

  ‘I’m still better than you. Even after everything I’ve done. I’m still better. And I know it, and it kills you, Mummy.’

  Slap. A slicing sound, like the crack of a whip, in the dark. I lay there, completely still, terrified they would notice the open window above them, know I could hear them . . .

  When I open my eyes again, it’s morning, or so I think, and I realise I’ve been in the middle of a dream about Summercove again, listening to Mum and Granny argue. I am instantly wide awake, clutching the sheets, rigid, as I remember where I am and who’s with me. I give a little moan.

  Oli stirs in his sleep, rolling towards me and scooping me up so he is curled against me and we are like two prawns. I can feel his morning erection through his boxers, poking against my thighs. He clutches me to him, and I turn my head to see his eyelashes fluttering. He makes a sound, like ‘Mmm?’ but I slide gently away from him.

  ‘Hey, hon,’ Oli murmurs. ‘You OK?’ He’s still half-asleep. ‘Good,’ I whisper softly. ‘Just a dream.’ I kiss his ruffled hair, and curl into his chest, and close my eyes again, my hangover from last night kicking in. Just a dream, a false memory of something that you misremembered, you don’t need to worry about it.

  ‘Tha’s all right then,’ he says croakily. He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers, kissing them gently, and then kisses my neck, my ear, as I lie against him, my head on his shoulder.

  Oli moves my hand down his torso, so my fingers bump against his erection. It’s done so seamlessly I’m almost surprised. He smiles, his eyes closed, pushing his thumb against my fingers, opening them up and guiding them so they curl onto his hard cock. ‘Good morning,’ he says again.

  His other hand slides over my vest and then under, and he squeezes one of my breasts, his hands clutching my flesh, warm and sweaty. He sighs. ‘Oh, Natasha . . . babe . . .’ He arches his back against my hand, trying to rouse himself even further. ‘Mmm,’ he murmurs again.

  I am still half-asleep, can still hear the voices of my mother and grandmother shouting at each other. My brain is not fully in gear, not questioning everything, and so I don’t think, I just carry on stroking him, loving the feel of him again, the warmth of the bed, of his body next to mine. It just feels good.

  He stops and pulls the duvet over us, and at the same time he takes off his boxers and pulls my pyjama bottoms down, sliding them off seamlessly, curling himself against me afterwards, so I can stroke him, and he can kiss my skin, rub me with his fingers. He pulls
my vest aside again, nibbling on my nipple, and then he stops, and I stop, and he looks at me, panting, under the duvet. I want him. I know I want him.

  ‘Come inside me,’ I whisper, and he grins, boyishly, and nods. ‘Lie back, babe,’ he says. With barely any preamble he’s between my legs, rubbing his cock against me. He does this for a minute, and then wraps his hand round himself.

  ‘Oh, Natasha,’ he says, his slight frame shuddering as he pushes inside me. ‘Oh. Oh.’ He buries his head over my shoulder, and I can’t see his face.

  Suddenly, everything’s changed. I feel nothing. I am wide awake now, and it’s different. Oli leans down to kiss me. His breath is stale, rank, his mouth is open, his eyes are half-closed. I can’t do it, I can’t kiss him, I pretend to arch my back and tilt my head. He puts his hands on my hair, pulling it, and I cry out.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You’re pulling my hair, darling,’ I say. I look down, and see I’m still wearing my thick green bedsocks, as he moves inside me. He hasn’t noticed.

  ‘It’s so good, you’re so good,’ he tells me. ‘I’m so close . . . how about you?’

  I want to shout with laughter at the idea that I too am on the verge of orgasming wildly after thirty seconds of sex, but instead I pull his fingers away from my hair. I just want it to be over. He puts his hands either side of my head and pumps away. I count in my head. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

  ‘Ooooh!’ Oli comes, crying out, his voice high, rising at the end of his shout. He always shouts, incredibly loudly, I’d forgotten because it’s been a while; in fact, it’s been over two months since we had sex. He lies on top of me, panting. I can’t feel him inside me. He’s squashing me. I am thinking about this, and then I suddenly realise that the last time he had sex was with someone else. He has done this with someone else more recently than with me. Been inside another woman. Kissed her, stroked her, fucked her.

  He pats my back, his hands moving gently across my skin, as his penis slides out of me, and his fingers are warm and soft on my spine.

  ‘That was good,’ he says, elongating the last word. He blinks, smiling. ‘Thanks, darling. Thanks a lot.’

  He is so sincere, and his fingers are lovely, knobbling the bones in my back. I am going to be sick. I roll away as he’s stroking my breast with his other hand, and I stand. Oli looks up at me, surprised. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ I say. I walk out as he flops back onto the bed, his slimy cock like a slug against his pubic hair as if crawling away in disgust. I go into the bathroom and shut the door, and then I throw up.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘So – what have you got on today then?’

  Oli stands in front of me, decked out in a new change of clothes, showered and shaved. I pull my knees up so they’re under my chin, hugging myself. I desperately want him to go, but I say politely, as if we’re old friends catching up, ‘I’m seeing someone about doing my stall again, and I’m meeting Cathy for lunch. Working on the new collection.’ I remember the photos Ben took last night, the girls in the bar with the lovely necklace. My stomach swoops, my head pounds. What have I done? On both counts, what the hell have I done?

  We both pause, and neither of us says anything for about five seconds, which is a terrifyingly long time when it’s a silence like this. Eventually, Oli says, ‘I’d better go—’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and I nod eagerly. ‘So—’

  ‘Yes,’ Oli says. ‘Look, Natasha, about last night—’

  ‘This morning, I think you mean,’ I say. ‘Well, both,’ he says. ‘I was drunk when I rang you. I’m sorry. I know you were angry, and I know you didn’t want me to come round, and I should have understood that.’

  God, he’s clever, apologising for it like this. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have done it. But—’ I hold out my hands. ‘Oli, you know what? It was really good to see you.’

  Oli shuffles on his feet, as though he doesn’t quite know what I’m getting at, what my move is, but I’m just telling the truth. The truth is, I’m lonely. I still miss him, it’s surprising to me that I do. But then, if it was up to me this wouldn’t ever have happened, and then I realise we’re back to where we were, two weeks ago, and nothing’s changed. Except . . .

  A jolt of memory passes through me.

  Except I kissed Ben last night, and I don’t know if that was an even bigger mistake. I rub my forehead, wishing . . . wishing I hadn’t done it. Is that what I wish? Because Ben was one of the few good things in my life, a friend, someone who I could talk to about anything, who made me laugh, who got my family, my situation, my life. And now he’ll probably never speak to me again, and I don’t blame him. I blink and screw my eyes up, remembering what he said to me last night. I can’t go over it again in my head, it’s too – it’s too painful.

  ‘You OK?’ Oli says. ‘I’m fine.’ I clap my hands together gently. ‘I’m just a bit hungover, that’s all.’

  He doesn’t ask how my evening was, or what’s going on with my family, or anything else, and I’m not sad about this, I’m glad. He walks towards the door, takes out his phone and starts texting. I follow him, and he stops and says, ‘I’ll see you soon, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. I reach out to pat his back. But I don’t. I stop. ‘Bye,’ I say. ‘And Oli – I think it’s best if you arrange when you’re coming round in advance next time,’ I add.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, turning round in the doorway, his satchel over his shoulder. He puts the phone away. ‘Well, I might need some stuff next week, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just – call. Let me know.’

  ‘Sure,’ Oli says. He steps forward to kiss me, but I step back. ‘So I’ll see you then, then.’

  Another week of waiting for him to call, wishing he’d come round, wondering if we should sleep together or not. I know he won’t think about it like that. I know he’ll just pitch up and try it on if it’s possible, not if it isn’t. I say, ‘Wednesday’s good for me. Come then. We should talk some more about what to do. About the flat. We should get an estate agent in, to value it.’ I want to mention the solicitor I’ve emailed about the divorce, but it doesn’t seem right, not when I can see the bed over his shoulder where we just had sex. But I will, next week. I’ll make a list, and put that on it.

  1. Estate agent to value flat for rental/sales too.

  2. Email lawyer about setting divorce in motion.

  3. Tell Oli about it next Wednesday.

  ‘You think we should? Start doing that now?’

  ‘Yes, Oli,’ I say simply. ‘I need to sort out the money side of things, otherwise I’ll be declared bankrupt. You’re best off out of it.’ I roll my eyes mock-seriously.

  ‘OK, fine.’ He takes my hand. ‘Bye, Natasha. Have a great day. I’m sorry for being a shit.’

  The door shuts and I stare at it, listening to his footsteps on the stairs, blinking with surprise and looking round the flat, as though it was all just another dream, something I invented. But it wasn’t.

  Cathy and I are meeting at the place with the thin pizzas on Dray Walk. I leave the flat a little early, at twelve, and pop into Eastside Books to buy myself a new Barbara Pym, after which I walk up the lane past the Truman Brewery. It’s quiet round here in contrast to Sunday when all the markets are out, the vintage clothes, food stalls and the stalls selling cheap cotton plimsolls and huge packs of batteries. (It’s a sign that Brick Lane is going too far upmarket, in my opinion, that you can take your pick of stalls to buy beautifully branded Brazilian churros doughnuts, organic apple and pear juices and hugely expensive chai teas, but you can’t get hold of a simple onion.)

  As I am about to turn into the studenty chaos of Dray Walk my phone rings. It is a number I don’t recognise, and I am just debating whether to answer or not when I touch my screen by mistake and a tinny, vaguely familiar voice says, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ I say slowly.

  ‘Natasha? Hello. It’s Guy.’

 
‘Guy?’ I struggle for a moment. ‘Guy – oh, hello,’ I say. My hand is on the door of the bookshop. ‘The Bowler Hat’s brother.’

  ‘Yes, that I am,’ he says, sounding faintly amused. ‘Listen, did you get the invitation?’

  ‘The invitation?’ My mind is blank. ‘To the launch of your grandmother’s foundation.’

  ‘Oh, of course . . .’ I’m embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t done anything about it – I’ve been – busy,’ I say. ‘It’s been—’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’ He sounds unruffled, as ever. ‘I know you’ve been having a rough time of it.’ His voice is kind. ‘Look, I almost called again to say don’t worry about the foundation if things are hectic for you. I know they are. In fact, I even tried to text you. But I’m not much cop at texting, so that rather fell by the wayside.’

  ‘It’s a skill, texting,’ I say. ‘One I don’t have. Like so many things these days. I despair, when I think what a forward-thinking young man I prided myself on being, and how I despised the older generation for being so complacent. Now I’m the old duffer who got an iPod for Christmas and can’t work out where the on button is, let alone the rest of it. The iTunes, and so on.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Can’t someone help you with it?’

  ‘Well, my daughter would, but she’s gone back to university. That’s my youngest daughter.’

  ‘Right.’ I didn’t know you had any daughters, I want to say. And, Why are you calling?

  There’s a silence, and Guy suddenly stops, as if he’s remembering himself. ‘Anyway, Natasha, look, I wasn’t ringing to get you to explain my mobile phone to me. I was ringing to find out where you are this afternoon? I have something I’d like to talk to you about, and I’m not far from East London – I seem to remember that’s where you live.’