Before I Wake

by C. L. Taylor

  The grandfather clock tick-tick-ticks in the corner of the room.

  Saturday, November 17, 1990

  I went to the Southbank to see the World War II undiscovered photos exhibit with Rupert today.

  We bought the tickets months ago, and seeing as he’s the only person I know who’s as fascinated by the Second World War as I am, I expected him to be as super excited. Instead he seemed a bit off, looking at me strangely when I gave him a kiss on the cheek hello instead of a hug, and he barely said a word as we drifted from photo to photo and I twittered on about the cut of this outfit and the shape of that. When we stopped for coffee, I asked what was wrong.

  “You and Hels haven’t split up, have you?”

  “No.” He smiled tightly. “Nothing like that.”

  “What then? You’ve been weird all afternoon.”

  “I’ve been weird?” He raised a dark eyebrow.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You haven’t spoken to Hels for four weeks.”

  “So?”

  “Your boyfriend ruined her dinner party, and you haven’t phoned once to see how she is.”

  “James didn’t ruin her dinner party!” He’d made a couple of snarky comments maybe, but people had laughed. They weren’t that bad.

  “Really?” He raised an eyebrow again. “Is that why Hels burst into tears the second you both left—halfway through dessert.”

  “James felt sick. He needed to get home.”

  “I’m not surprised, considering how pissed he was.”

  “So we left early? So what? Is there a law that says you have to stay until after coffee, or cheese and crackers, or whatever? I can’t believe you’re giving me a hard time because of that.”

  Rupert shook his head. “I’m not giving you a hard time, Susan. I’m concerned. We both are.”

  “I’m fine. In fact, I’ve never been happier.”

  “Really? You’re honestly happy with someone who refers to your friends as”—he gazed to the left as though recollecting—“Fat Arse and Dull Face?”

  My cheeks grew hot.

  “Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber? Gingerpubes and her Fat Bear?”

  “I…” I pressed my hands to my face. “I don’t know what to—”

  “We heard the whole conversation, Sue. It’s not a big flat, and the walls are paper thin. Helen was incredibly hurt.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I was, really, really sorry. I apologized over and over, saying that James was acting out of character because he’d suffered a bereavement and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have been so rude if he’d actually gotten to know the two of you.”

  Rupert sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. “What about you? While you were still in the loo, James asked if we were all as slutty as you when we were in our twenties. Why would he say that?”

  “To wind you up because he was bored? I don’t know.” James’s remark stung but Rupert’s faux concern and gentle, gentle way of speaking was starting to irritate me. Could he be more condescending? “He was probably having a dig at you because we slept together back then.”

  “But he’s okay with us meeting for coffee, is he?”

  I glanced away. “Actually, he’s not in London this weekend. He’s taken his mother to Cardiff to see family.”

  “Right. And would you still have met up with me if James hadn’t gone away for the weekend?”

  “Of course.”

  It was a lie and we both knew it. I knew how James would react if he could see me sitting with Rupert.

  “Sue.” Rupert reached for my hand. I snatched it away. “Please ring Hels. She’s worried about you.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t be.” I stood up and put on my coat. How dare they act so sanctimonious and holier than thou just because my boyfriend got a bit drunk and mouthy? “I’m fine. In fact, I’m more than fine. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”

  “You know where we are,” Rupert called after me as I stalked out of the Southbank Centre, “if you need us.”

  Chapter

  Twelve

  “Charlotte, it’s Mummy.” I hold my daughter’s slender hand in mine.

  Outside, it’s a glorious day. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and cloudless, and the air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle blossom. But when I woke up this morning, it wasn’t the sunlight streaming through the curtains that I noticed first—it was the empty space beside me in the bed.

  “Charlotte.” I run my thumb over the back of her hand. Her skin is incredibly soft. “I need to talk to you about Daddy.”

  The heart rate monitor in the corner of the room maintains its slow steady pace.

  “Charlotte, the secret you wrote about in your diary…” I crane my neck to the right to check that no one is hovering in the doorway. The corridor is empty, but I lower my voice anyway. “It was to do with your daddy, wasn’t it? He hurt you and I…I wasn’t there to protect you. I didn’t stop it from happening. I didn’t realize and…”

  I reach for my glass of water and take a sip, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “What happened?”

  I spin around. Keisha is standing in the doorway, a wrapped bunch of daffodils in her hand.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Jackson.” Keisha half smiles. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I’d pop in so I could…” Her expression clouds as she looks at Charlotte. She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She slips into the room and sits opposite me, fixing me with her dark eyes. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but what were you saying about Charlotte’s dad?”

  I look away. “Nothing.”

  “Really?” There’s an amused tone to her voice. “Because I could have sworn you were on about the porn.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The porn”—she smiles as she says the word—“that Charlotte saw on her dad’s computer.”

  “What porn?”

  Keisha shrugs. “Charlotte said her laptop crashed when she was messaging a friend so she used her dad’s instead. The porn just kind of popped up and—”

  “On Brian’s computer.”

  “Yeah.” She tries to hide her smile with her hand.

  “Keisha.”

  “Yeah?”

  I fight to suppress the nausea rising in my stomach. “Keisha, did Charlotte call you K-Dog?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “Charlotte texted you,” I say slowly as the room tilts and I struggle to maintain eye contact with the young woman sitting opposite me. This can’t be real. This conversation can’t be happening. “She sent you a text saying her dad was a pervert?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because she found porn on his laptop?”

  “Yeah, she really freaked out, totally overreacted.” She laughs and my blood turns to ice. “She said she wanted to leave home and everything. It was only a bit of porn, for Christ’s sake, not—”

  “And she never confided in you that her dad was abusing her or being inappropriate, sexually speaking, with her in any way?”

  “God no.” She looks horrified. “Of course not. Charlotte adored her daddy. She was always going on about how he was going to save the world from global warming or something. She would have told me if he’d touched her.”

  I stare at her, too stunned to respond. I’m relieved and horrified in equal measures. Relieved that there’s such an innocuous explanation behind Charlotte’s text and horrified at the accusations I leveled at my husband. An image of Brian’s hurt expression flashes before my eyes, and I jolt back in my chair. What was I thinking? What have I done?

  “Mrs. Jackson? Mrs. Jackson, are you okay? Would you like me to call a nurse?”

  Keisha is still talking to me, but I can’t get my mouth
to form words.

  “Water then?” I hear the creak of a chair, the glug of water as it leaves the jug, then a sploshing sound as it’s poured into a glass.

  “I’m sorry,” she says as she presses it into my hand. “I shouldn’t have told you about the porn. You’re shocked. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No.” I take a sip of water. Swallow. “I’m glad you told me. Really. It’s cleared something up.” I search her dark eyes. “But you didn’t drop Charlotte’s phone through our letter box, did you?”

  “Charlotte’s mobile?” She shakes her head. “No. Wasn’t me. I don’t even know where you live. Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. Jackson? I don’t mind going to get a nurse if you’re feeling a bit faint or something.”

  “No, thank you.” I hand her the glass of water and force a smile. “I’m fine, honestly. I just realized I made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.”

  ***

  I cry all the way home. I cry when I stand outside the hospital and dial Brian’s mobile. I cry when I get his voice mail and I cry when I try the office number and Mark tells me he’s in a meeting. And when I start the engine, tears roll down my cheeks without stopping as I drive down Edward Street, past the Pavilion, up North Road, down Western Road, and up to our house. I’m still sobbing as I unlock our front door. Then I spot a snow globe showing Prague’s Charles Bridge on the doorstep and I stop crying.

  And scream.

  Sunday, December 16, 1990

  The last month or so with James has been hideous. We’ve had more ups and downs than a roller coaster, and I’ve seriously considered leaving him more than once. I’m starting to feel like he can’t bear feeling happy, and that whenever things are going well between us, he has to sabotage it by saying or doing something really hurtful.

  For example, after we’d been to see Shakespeare in the Park (I actually squealed when he gave me the tickets; I’ve always wanted to go), we were walking through Regent’s Park, hand in hand, laughing about the size of Benvolio’s codpiece, when James saw me glance at a man who was jogging past us. I barely registered him, but he shot me a smile and then he was gone.

  “Fucked him, have you?” James said.

  Just like that. Out of nowhere. I told him he was being ridiculous, and then we got into an argument where James claimed that I was flirtatious. Apparently I was making puppy-dog eyes at the actor playing Mercutio when they took their final bow. I told him he was being stupid. He got really defensive then, said it was just like me to lord it over him that I had a university degree while he didn’t, and if I was so up myself, maybe we should just split up so I could go out with someone more educated. He was sick of saying sorry to me and felt like he was walking on eggshells around me, having to worry what he said, and maybe we should just split up. That was it—I burst into tears. I couldn’t believe we’d gone from laughing and holding hands to being on the verge of splitting up over nothing.

  I sat on the nearest bench and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed while James just hovered nearby. For a while, he said nothing, then, when I thought my heart was actually breaking, he gathered me up in his arms and said he was tired of us fighting and that he loved me more than life and he couldn’t bear to see me cry. We weren’t going to split up, he said; he could never let me go.

  That scenario played itself out several times in the last month—a couple of lovely days, then an argument swelling out of nowhere, me crying, James comforting me, a period of calm, and then the cycle would begin all over again. I found it so exhausting, I started to wonder whether splitting up might not be such a terrible idea after all—and then he sprang a surprise trip on me.

  He rang me last Thursday, told me to cancel all my plans and pack a weekend suitcase and a passport and meet him at Gatwick Airport. I was gobsmacked. That kind of thing only happens in Meg Ryan films, not in real life. I tried to be sensible, insisted he couldn’t afford it, but he said that he knew what he could afford and I should just shut up and pack my bag like a good girl or I’d spoil the surprise.

  I didn’t need asking twice, and when I got to the airport, James was bouncing on his heels he was so excited.

  “Come on, come on.” He grabbed my suitcase and my hand and sped me toward the British Airways ticket desk. I gasped when I saw the destination details above the heads of the check-in staff.

  “Prague?” I stared at James in astonishment. “We’re going to Prague?”

  “Yep.” He squeezed me tightly. “I thought we could celebrate Christmas early in one of the most romantic cities in the world.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and squeezed him tightly. Prague! How had he known? I’d always wanted to go there, but I’d never mentioned it. It was like he knew me better than I knew myself.

  We spent our first day in Prague happily sightseeing, and when I asked James what he had planned for the evening, he kept telling me it was a surprise but I should put on my glad rags and do my hair and makeup.

  I was relieved when James asked our hotel reception to call us a taxi (my heels were far too high to navigate the tram system), but I was still no closer to knowing where we were going. I thought perhaps we might be on our way to a jazz club as James is a huge fan, but he shook his head and told me to stop guessing. I spotted a barge on the river. My heart leapt. I’d never been on a riverboat cruise and here we were, about to embark on one at night with Prague at its most beautiful, lights twinkling on the water, the sky a beautiful mix of royal blue and black.

  Despite the boat’s glamorous appearance, the evening didn’t start off too well. James was disappointed by the hot and cold buffet (the tour operator he’d booked the trip from had assured him it was three-course silver service) and the fact that there were at least two tables of rowdy bachelorette parties on board. When the barman said the champagne wasn’t chilled because of a problem with the ice machine, James thumped the bar with his fist, but I managed to dissipate the situation by suggesting we have beer instead as Prague was famous for it. As we sailed under Charles Bridge and past the National Theatre, James started to relax. After half an hour, he took my hand and suggested we go and sit on the top deck. I was worried one of the bachelorette parties would already be up there, but luckily we had the entire deck to ourselves.

  “This is more like it,” he said, wrapping his coat around me and cuddling in. “All this beauty and just the two of us to share it.”

  I relaxed into his shoulder. The view was stunning. It was like something out of a dream. London looked positively grimy in comparison. As I took my camera out and started snapping away at the Royal Palace, glittering above us as we sailed past, I felt James lean away from me. I assumed he was getting his camera out too and thought nothing of it. A couple of minutes later, satisfied with my shots, I turned to talk to him and he’d gone. Well, he’d disappeared from the seat next to me anyway. He was kneeling on the decking, looking up at me, a nervous expression on his face, a small, black velvet box clasped between his hands.

  I could barely breathe.

  “Susan Anne Maslin, you are the most beautiful, most warm-hearted, caring, genuine woman I’ve ever met. You are a precious angel and I don’t deserve you but…” He opened the box. A beautiful diamond and sapphire ring glinted up at me. “Will you marry me and make me the happiest man in the world?”

  My hands flew to my mouth and I burst into tears.

  James looked shocked. “That’s not a no, is it?”

  “No, it’s a yes. Yes! Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.”

  I can’t remember what happened next—whether we hugged or we kissed or James slid the ring onto the ring finger of my right hand—but I do remember him saying that it was his grandmother’s ring and he thought he’d never find a woman he loved enough to give it to and how he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with me.

  The rest of the weekend went by in a blur. It was magical moment after mag
ical moment. I felt like the happiest woman in the world.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  I throw the snow globe out of the door. It smashes into a thousand pieces against the side of the garage.

  “Come on, girl. Quick!” With my hand on Milly’s collar, I stumble across the driveway to the car and open the driver’s door. “In!”

  Milly clambers across the car and into the passenger seat and I hop in after her, lock all the doors, and start the engine. The radio explodes with sound as “Monkey Gone to Heaven” by the Pixies blares from the speakers, and I glance at the house, convinced someone is watching me from the window.

  “Come on.” I wrestle with the gear stick as I try to get from reverse to first. “Come ON.”

  Milly whines with excitement beside me.

  “Yes!” With the car in gear, I glance at the rearview window. A black shape leaps at the kitchen window. Milly scrambles onto my lap, her claws scratching at the window as she barks furiously.

  I pull on her collar and push her back across to her seat. “It’s okay. It’s just a cat. It’s just Jess from next door.”

  I pull away, lurching into Western Road and a cacophony of car horns, and then I’m away, onto King’s Road, speeding along the seafront, past the marina and on toward Rottingdean. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t care.

  I hold it together until I pull into the parking lot of the Downs Hotel in Woodingdean, then, as I turn off the engine, I convulse so violently that I’m jolted back and forth in my seat. Milly whines in distress as my teeth start to chatter, but there’s nothing I can do but stare fixedly out to sea and wait for it to stop. After five minutes, maybe ten, the convulsions fade to shakes, then shivers, and then disappear. I slump backward in my seat.

  James knows where I live.

  The postcard, the slippers. They could be explained away as silly mistakes—someone too distracted to put a name and message on the card and a typing mistake that meant the slippers arrived at our house, not someone further down the road. But the snow globe? That was no mistake. He wants me to know he’s found me. And if he’s been watching us, he knows Brian’s moved out and I’m all alone.