by Dawn Goodwin
I steadied myself as my stomach churned and my head carried on with its incessant drum solo. It wouldn’t do to throw up on his carpet before I left. I picked up my top and bra, then wrestled myself into them. I was still missing my handbag, which had everything I needed to take me home: money, keys, phone. My head pivoted as I searched frantically.
To complicate matters even more, I had a sudden urge to pee. In my hungover stupor, I hadn’t gone when I was in the bathroom, but I couldn’t face going back into the bedroom again. I pushed the urge from my consciousness with a quick jig of the hips, mind over matter.
I couldn’t see my handbag anywhere and could feel panic rushing up my throat, hot on the heels of a wave of nausea. I could hear sheets rustling, but couldn’t leave without my bag. How would I get home? Besides, mind over matter wasn’t working and I would have to go to the toilet before I went anywhere.
I was going to have to go back in there.
I pushed open the door, praying he was still snoring. He was lying on his back, one arm draped over his eyes and I couldn’t tell if he was awake or not. I crept past, towards the bathroom door, and thought I was in the clear, but just as I gripped the handle, I heard, ‘Hey.’
I went cold, shoved the door shut behind me and sat down heavily on the toilet, considering my options. I would have to face him, be strong, admit it was all a big mistake, then leave. I sat on the toilet for longer than was necessary, but I knew I couldn’t put off the inevitable. Reaching for the handle, I pulled myself up to my full, unimpressive height and opened the door.
He wasn’t in the bedroom. I could hear sounds emanating from the kitchen. Through the doorway, I watched him pour steaming water into mugs, wearing just a pair of shorts, his impressively naked torso reminding me of my misdemeanours. He turned, saw me and held out a mug. ‘I was about to send out a search party there. You rough?’
I walked towards him and took the mug, considered it, then set it down on the counter as my stomach heaved. ‘Listen, last night…’
‘Hey, look…’
‘No, let me finish. It was a mistake. I’m married, it’s been a fucking awful year and this’ – I gestured between him and I – ‘this is not me. I’m sorry, I have to go.’
‘But you said…’ He actually looked hurt.
I looked away. ‘Yeah, well, I lied…’ I started scrambling around, looking for my bag again, then noticed him pointing to the far end of the room where it was lying on the carpet, its contents strewn across the floor.
I hastily shoved everything back in, noting his silence behind me, but as I headed towards the front door, he said, ‘I’ll call you.’
I froze. Fuck, he has my number? When did that happen?
I legged it, albeit unsteadily, from the flat and found myself standing in a hallway of doors, like a bizarre carnival ride, not knowing what was behind each one but hoping to hell none of them opened at that moment. I must’ve look the worst kind of pathetic: wide-eyed, make-up shadows like bruises, unbrushed hair thick with hairspray, wearing last night’s clothes and clutching a bursting handbag like my life depended on it.
There was a stairwell at the end of the hallway, to which I headed, but I had to stop as nausea engulfed me again. I breathed deeply, wishing I had a bottle of water to take the edge off. I stood at the top of the stairs, white knuckles gripping the handrail, staring down, and for the briefest of moments I could feel my grip loosen and my body tip forward. I could picture in my head the slow-motion tumble, my body turning over and over, the agony as I slammed into the concrete stairs, then blissful peace… I righted myself, the bilious feeling passed and I was able to scramble unsteadily down the stairs in my ludicrously high heels that had seemed such a good idea the night before. At the bottom I was greeted with fresh air through an open glass door and the noise and bustle of people hurrying to work, oblivious to the churning in my head and body. Looking in both directions, I tried to ascertain where I was, but in my panic it was all melding into a fusion of take-away outlets, charity shops and dry-cleaners that could be any high street in England.
Feeling the last embers of fight starting to extinguish, I turned left and dived into an alley between a kebab shop and a letting agent. This time when my stomach heaved, I knew mind over matter wouldn’t work. I dry-retched fumes until I was gasping for air, then slumped into a crouch. I considered having a good cry, but knew it wouldn’t help. I had to get myself home, preferably to crawl into the safety of my bed, but also to face up to what I had done. I hadn’t allowed myself to think beyond escape as yet. What I did know was that this couldn’t go on any more.
Crouched in a grimy alley, with the stench of uncollected garbage bags and urine assaulting my pounding head, I felt filthy, like I would never be clean again, no matter how many showers I took. Part of me wanted to stay in this alley, maybe find an off-licence, buy a bottle of amnesia and disappear. It seemed that Felicity was right after all; I wasn’t fit to be a mother. Things happen for a reason. This was my wake-up call. A tremor of fear that accompanied the relief in this thought forced me back to standing.
Think, Ron, I ordered in my head. What would Scarlet do? I could safely say she wouldn’t be crouched in a dirty alley, weeping and wearing day-old knickers. I could call Tom – he would normally be my go-to knight in shining armour – but I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge last night in my own consciousness, let alone admit to him that I had quite possibly slept with a stranger but couldn’t actually remember it. There was a name for women like me and it wasn’t pretty or endearing.
I needed to get to Scarlet. She would help.
I sat on the hard, cold ground and immediately felt the damp creep into my clothes. Opening my bag, I took stock of what was inside. A packet of tissues, my purse and keys, a few loose mints from a random restaurant and the lipstick that still stained my lips. I immediately unwrapped the plastic from one of the mints and popped it in my mouth, then dug down further in search of my phone. At the very bottom, among the loose raisins and stale biscuit crumbs, I felt something metallic and cold. Thinking it was loose change, I pulled it out, but it was one of Grace’s glittery pink hairclips, complete with a tiny plastic princess tiara. I looked at it as a vice tightened around my chest. The mint tickled my throat and I started to cough. Closing my fist over the clip, I refocused and grabbed my purse. I apparently had £2.23 in loose change – enough for a cup of tea while I considered my next move.
As I emerged from the alley, I could feel eyes judging me in my crumpled party clothes and fuck-me shoes. They didn’t call it the Walk of Shame for nothing. Was I imagining their knowing smirks? I turned left and ducked into a small, inconspicuous coffee shop. Taking a seat at a table at the back, I put my head in my hands. An uninterested waitress strolled over and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Tea, please.’
I knew I had to face the glare of my phone screen and man up to the inevitable missed calls and messages eventually. My left hand still clung tightly to the hairgrip, the metal cutting into my palm. The other dove into my bag again and this time fell on my phone. Three missed calls and two texts – all from Tom. The first text was polite, enquiring whether I needed him to arrange a taxi to collect me; the second was a brief ‘Call me when you get this, I’m worried’, sent at 6a.m. I noted the time now – 7:05 – not as late as I had feared when I woke up, but late enough to be cruel.
With location services making it impossible to be truly lost these days, I established where I was, but my mobile battery was in its dying stages. Without thinking too much about the words, I fired off two texts: the first to Scarlet asking her to meet me; the second to Tom saying I was fine and would be home soon.
I picked at some dirt under my nail, plaited a strand of hair – anything to stop me ruminating on last night before Scarlet arrived. A tiny fleck of skin was sticking up from the corner of my thumbnail, so I picked at it, pulling with my teeth, feeling the sting as it tore and a bead of blood welled in its wake. Not content with s
eeing the blood, I chewed harder, making the raw patch grow.
The waitress returned with a small pot of tea, a mug and a ginger biscuit on a saucer. I muttered my thanks at her retreating back. I wasn’t even remotely hungry, but I nibbled on the biscuit anyway, just to give my restless hands something to do, and sipped on the tea, keeping my head down.
I was onto my second pot when I heard a familiar voice. ‘So do tell. I want all the gory details.’
Scarlet stood next to me, wearing what looked to be a long coat made out of 1960s fabric cut-offs. The loud swirls and bright flashes of colour assaulted my eyes. She shrugged the coat from her shoulders to reveal a simply styled blouse with a big bow at the neck in vibrant red chiffon. She was all about contradictions. Her ability to hold herself ransom to a fashion colour chart was limitless.
She slid into the chair facing me, then said, ‘You look like shit.’
‘I’ve fucked up this time,’ I said simply.
‘Okay,’ she replied with her trademark sardonic eyebrow lift.
I procrastinated by pouring more tea, adding milk. ‘I think I slept with him,’ I said eventually. The admission was like a cold slap in the face.
‘You think or you know?’
‘I can’t remember, but I saw a condom wrapper.’ I put my head in my hands.
‘Maybe you changed your mind. Anything could’ve happened – you could’ve just talked all night for all you know.’
I looked up at her. ‘Come on, let’s be serious. We both know what I did. And if I didn’t, I cheated just by putting myself in that situation.’
‘Fuck, I should never have left you.’ She paused, then said, ‘Hang on, if you were that drunk, what the hell is wrong with that guy? Who takes advantage of a drunk woman? Isn’t that ra—’
‘Don’t say it. Please.’
I stared into the cup, but drew no comfort from it, my thoughts swirling, at times forgiving and berating, absolving and blaming, but not settling. Until now I had been very good at shutting out the things I didn’t want to face, but an inevitability loomed over me, like a tsunami of truth.
I swallowed to try and rid some of the bitterness on my tongue. ‘I did this. No one else.’ I stirred the cooling tea. ‘Tom doesn’t deserve this. He never has, but now, with the trial – I mean, he is single-handedly dealing with all of that because I can’t – or won’t.’
Scarlet said nothing, just listened.
I laughed, a hollow, empty sound. ‘I even tried drugs for the first time last night. Talk about having a mid-life crisis, if this is what it is.’
I looked around. The place was near empty.
I started to speak again, then stopped, not sure what I wanted to say and whether I was justifying my behaviour to myself or Scarlet.
I fiddled with the biscuit wrapper, twisting it this way and that. ‘Last night… I went too far.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Her eyes were hard. ‘I warned you. But you said you knew what you were doing. I knew he was trouble, but you knew better – or didn’t want to hear it.’
I wasn’t expecting her to berate me. ‘But you said live more, have fun!’
‘I didn’t say sleep with a total stranger, take drugs, put yourself in danger. It’s bad enough, but he could’ve done much worse. You must realise how reckless you’ve been. I’m all about living, but not if it means putting myself in physical danger.’
Mortification brought on a wave of anger. ‘Why didn’t you stay and keep an eye on me then?’
‘Don’t make this my fault. You’re a grown woman, not a child.’
‘I know that, a grown woman with a child.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘What?’ My voice dripped ice.
‘You don’t have a child anymore.’
I stared at her with venom. ‘How dare you.’
‘It’s time someone made you see sense. I love you, Ron, but you’ve brought this on yourself.’
She was right, of course, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. I wasn’t ready to hear it. ‘Was it you?’
‘What?’
‘The presents, flowers, the Facebook page, all of it. Was it you? Just tell me – some sort of weird way of making me face up to it? Some twisted sense of duty as my friend? Please, just be honest with me.’
‘You really think I would do that to you?’ Her face was twisted in shock and I knew I was way off the mark.
‘No. No, I don’t think it was you. I have never really thought it was you. I don’t know what I’m saying any more.’ I slumped back in my chair and closed my eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the hurt shaping her features. ‘So where do I go from here, Scarlet?’
‘Well, it seems to me you know exactly what you need to do.’
I could feel my throat constricting, panic building.
‘You need to be talking to Tom, not me. It’s time to tell him everything.’ She was now the voice of reason amongst the whisperings of discord. When did that happen?
‘It may be too late. This could finish us.’
‘It could, but honesty can be a great healer. He deserves the opportunity to make that decision, especially after last night. Unless you don’t want to fix things.’
Did I? I realised the hairclip was still clutched in my hand, now warm, but still cutting into my palm. I unfurled my fingers and considered the pink tiara.
‘You have to ask yourself whether he is worth fighting for. I know you think the two of you are strangers, but in your head, you’ve known all along that he would be there for you if you asked for help. You’ve just never asked. Now imagine going through all of this if he hadn’t been there in the background, ready to catch you. Can you honestly say you would be better off alone? Because if you don’t fight for him, that’s what will happen.’
‘And if it is too late?’ I looked up, pleading with my eyes for her to tell me everything would be okay. Of course, nothing would ever be okay again, but an improvement would be nice, if I could accept that.
She merely shrugged. ‘You won’t know until you try.’
I stirred the now cold tea obsessively, getting faster and faster. Scarlet reached out her hand and stilled the spoon. Last night’s red talons had gone and her naked nails were startling in contrast. I looked back up at her face and noticed the garish make-up and loud lipstick had gone too. She was barefaced in front of me, but she was still beautiful.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know. Now drink your tea, then we’ll get a cab home.’ She smiled at me and let go of my hand. ‘It’s time.’
I lifted the teacup and noticed the tremor as I did so. The liquid quenched my parched mouth. All I wanted was a hot shower to scrub away the physical and mental evidence of last night, and then to crawl into a tiny, dark place and close my eyes, but I couldn’t. It would’ve been easy to do that at the beginning, but now the discovered hairclips and fading handprints were propelling me forward a tiny bit more every day rather than pushing me down. It had all been building to this.
One more look at the pink tiara, then I tossed it back into my bag and made a deal with myself: I would talk to Tom, lay it all out for him, try to get him to understand what had happened and why. By the end of it, if he walked away, then I would start planning an exit strategy. Scraping back the chair, I got to my feet. The loose change clattered onto the plastic table-top. I watched one of the coins spin on its side a few times in defiance before settling on its back, heads up.
‘Scarlet? Are we okay?’
‘Yeah, we’re okay. Besides, what would you do without me?’
I followed her out of the door.
*
I didn’t know where to start. I stood facing my own front door like a salesman with a tale to tell, all nervous energy and fidgeting digits. I considered the pavement for a moment, the weeds pushing through the bricks, a shimmering snail trail, all so normal, procrastinating as long as possible. A plane flew low overhead, rattling my skull.
Before I could put the key in the l
ock, Tom opened the door, his hair on end and his feet bare beneath his jeans. I forced myself to meet his searching eyes.
‘I need help.’
His face betrayed that this wasn’t what he was expecting to hear, but he didn’t say anything in return, just stepped aside. Scarlet’s hand in the small of my back pushed me forward and I brushed past him. Once inside, I hesitated, unsure where to go next. The house smelled of coffee, with a faint undertone of cloying air freshener supposedly evoking freshly mowed grass. It was familiar and safe, but at the same time I felt as though I was in someone else’s orderly hallway, like a dirty fly twitching on the wall. Everything and nothing had changed. The sunlight in the hallway dimmed and I heard the door click shut behind me.
I perched myself on the edge of the couch, feeling absurd in my party clothes, my ridiculous shoes clasped in one hand. I could feel the heaviness of Tom’s eyes on me and I looked up.
‘I’ll put the kettle on. Why don’t you go and get changed, then we can talk,’ he said, as though to a small child. He turned and walked away.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding.
Tom
He had spent another sleepless night trying to track down his errant wife. He hadn’t expected to pass his evenings like this until his daughter was a teenager, but it turns out his wife could be a bigger rebel than them all. He had made the first phone call at about 2 a.m., then each subsequent call had grown more frantic. What was initially anger had morphed into fear somewhere near 4 a.m. When Tom had heard the cab just after 8 a.m., he knew who it would be.
